It is not a shame. Even were she not wed, she moves in a very different world to you. You know she would never give you a second glance had circumstances not thrown you together.
Matthew’s modest fortune had been built from his own hard work, a touch of luck at the tables—he had won his curricle and pair in a game just the night before—and from trade, that term that was despised by the idle aristocracy. No, the likes of Lady Ashby would never look at the likes of him.
He waited until the servants withdrew before raising the subject on his mind. ‘Will you tell me about the fire your aunt spoke of, my lady?’
After some initial reluctance, Eleanor recounted the night of the fire—the smell of the smoke that woke her; the terror of her escape through her window; the mystery of Fretwell’s injury and his shadowy assailant. Through it all, her anguish at the damage to her beloved home shone through.
Matthew’s fascination with Eleanor marched in step with his mounting concern. Her eyes, framed by thick lashes and strong, dark brows, revealed her every emotion as she warmed to the telling of her tale. They sparkled with impish amusement as Lady Rothley sprinkled the story with a selection of servants’ lurid tales, learned through Matilda. They lit up in laughter at some of the more ghoulish speculations that Eleanor had clearly not heard before, her generous mouth widening into a stunning smile that transformed her already attractive face into one of mesmerising loveliness. Glimpses of the real woman were revealed when she forgot to stand on her dignity and Matthew had to keep reminding himself of her earlier arrogance and also that she was married and, therefore, out of bounds.
Her uninhibited and infectious laugh triggered an unexpected surge of loneliness that he swiftly thrust aside. Apart from his business partner, Benedict Poole, he was dependent on no one and no one was dependent on him, and that was exactly how he liked it. His burgeoning desire for Eleanor was as unwelcome as it was unexpected and he forced his thoughts from the direction they were taking to concentrate on her words.
‘As for this afternoon,’ she was saying, ‘you have already heard what happened. A stray shot—surely an accident—hit one of the team, causing the carriage to overturn. It was no more a deliberate attack on me than the fire was, despite my aunt’s vivid imaginings. Mark my words—it was a burglar, or someone with a grudge. It must have been.’
He recognised the faint hint of desperation in her final words. Eleanor was nowhere near as confident as she pretended to be. Still, it was none of Matthew’s concern. He would go on his way very soon—and, judging by his increasingly salacious thoughts, the sooner, the better—and he would likely never see either of the ladies again.
‘I must agree with your aunt that a burglar would be unlikely to set fire to a library,’ he said, ‘but I also think you may be right that a grudge was the cause. If someone was intent on killing you, surely they would pick less haphazard methods? After all, both the fire and the carriage accident had the potential of injuring, or even killing, many more individuals than you and with no guarantee that you would be amongst the casualties.
‘It would appear that, for once, you and I are in agreement,’ he added, unable to resist a final teasing comment, biting back his smile at her disgruntled expression.
Eleanor had begun to relax despite her suspicions about Matthew, initially roused by Fretwell, and her earlier irritation at his relegation of her to the role of helpless female in a crisis. After all, had she not pictured him in the role of a white knight before lamenting she was not the sort of female to arouse protective instincts in a man? And he had proved an easy man to converse with, when he was not deliberately goading her, or flirting, that was. When his blue gaze settled on her in that particular, assessing way he had, her blood heated and her insides fluttered in a way they never had with Donald.
‘It would seem that, for once, you are right, Mr Thomas,’ she retorted. How did he manage to ruffle her feathers quite so effortlessly?
He laughed. Their eyes met and Eleanor felt a jolt of pure energy shoot through her. Her cheeks flamed. Flustered—and irritated by her reaction—Eleanor jerked her gaze from his and stared at the flames, saying, ‘Goodness, this fire is hot.’
She searched in her reticule for her fan and plied it, grateful for an occupation as she fought to control her inner turmoil. Thankfully, Aunt Lucy appeared not to notice anything amiss, and launched a determined crusade to discover as much information as possible about their rescuer. Matthew proved adept at evading her questions, clearly relishing their verbal swordplay, and Eleanor viewed her aunt’s increasing frustration with quiet enjoyment.
She relaxed back in her chair, allowing her nerves to settle. Without volition, her gaze wandered over Matthew, admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the solid muscle of his legs. She watched as he picked up his cup with a broad hand—no gentleman’s soft, well-manicured hand this, but strong and masculine and capable. He drained the contents, his penetrating eyes flicking to her face as he leaned forward to set his cup on the table, his lips still moist from the tea. Desire coiled deep within her as the rumble of his voice enveloped her. She could listen to him for ever. How wonderful would it be to be able to lean on such a man, to share the burden of her life?
Even as that thought flitted into her brain, she suppressed it. She needed no man to lean on. She had spent the three years since her father’s death striving to prove that point. Besides, he would end up the same as all the men who had ever shown her any attention—interested only in her fortune.
She dreamt of being swept off her feet, of being wooed by a man who was besotted with her and declared his undying passion for her, but could she ever trust her own judgement?
Donald had fooled her with his eager courtship after they met at James and Ruth’s wedding. He was an army officer and had returned to Ashby, shortly afterwards, when he was on leave. Eleanor had believed he was in love with her and, even though his kisses had left her strangely unmoved, she had persuaded herself her love for him would blossom given time.
She studied Matthew and desire flickered deep within her...surely a kiss from a man like Matthew Thomas would not leave her unmoved? She tore her attention from his sensual lips, vaguely scandalised by her outrageous thoughts.
Would she ever know the feel of a real man in her arms?
She blessed the day she had discovered Donald’s true intent. She had overheard him discussing her with his sister, Ruth, and their contempt for Eleanor was clear. Donald was interested only in her position and the wealth she would inherit from her ailing father. The following day, to her father’s distress, she had refused Donald’s offer of marriage and he had returned to his regiment. Sadly, she had heard, he had not survived the war.
Eleanor’s father had died the following spring and Eleanor still regretted that he had died worrying over both her future and that of the estate.
The room had fallen silent. Eleanor came back to the present with a guilty start.
‘You appear lost in your thoughts,’ Matthew said. ‘It would seem they are not all pleasant?’
Blushing, Eleanor realised that she had been staring directly at Matthew whilst her mind wandered. Aunt Lucy was dozing by the fire and they were effectively alone together.
‘I am sure they would be of no interest to you, Mr Thomas.’
‘I think you would be surprised at my interests, my lady,’ he replied softly, his blue eyes aglow.
There was admiration in his gaze. Awkwardly, Eleanor gazed down at her hands, entwined in her lap, uncertain how to respond. Her come-out, as well as her experience with Donald, had taught her to be cautious of reading too much into a man’s supposed admiration for it seemed, more often than not, that it was disingenuous.
Matthew continued to regard her steadily, waiting for her reply. Irritation at his persistence clambered over her discomfort.
‘Indeed,