The Bumblebroth Read online

  He'd dismissed her with a pinch on the cheek. "Nothing to worry about," he'd said. "I'm sure we'll get on like two peas in a pod."

  "Yes, His Grace."

  He'd chuckled. "Better get that right, m'girl, or we'll have the wags down on us. It's Your Grace when you're speaking to me, you know."

  "Very well, Your Grace."

  Mattie remembered returning to her room and seeing the colour of Gilly's face when she heard the news. Gilly had turned white as a lily, and her voice had trembled when she'd asked, "Do you say you have already accepted him?"

  "Yes."

  "My dearest child— if I'd only known!"

  Then Gilly had said nothing more, not then, not ever, until her recent admission that she should have protested to His Grace.

  Mattie thought about her subsequent life, when the secrets of marriage had been revealed to her. She could not say that she'd enjoyed that aspect of marriage, but neither had His Grace.

  He had tried to conceive an heir, once, and then semiannually, until Pamela had finally been born. When she had turned out to be a girl, he had patted Mattie on the shoulder sadly and said, "Looks like this heir business is more difficult than I thought. By Jupiter! It is too hard! Better leave it to the younger fellows. Cosmo says he don't want to be a duke, but he can jolly well take my place."

  Then he'd examined Pamela and a flicker of interest had lit his face. "Taking little thing, an't she? Wonder if she'll cry much."

  "I don't really know," Mattie had said, eyeing her bundle with a jumble of feelings. She was sorry she had not given His Grace an heir since he had seemed to want one, but he did not appear to be severely disappointed. And from her perspective, the baby in the cradle was as beautiful a being as she had ever seen.

  No, she reflected with tears tonight, she would never truly be sorry she had married His Grace, not when he had given her Pamela. She had never been sorry, not even when they had gone to London and she'd been given a glimpse of what she'd missed: the handsome young men; the rounds of parties and schemes. She had missed them all, but His Grace had given her a safe place to live, where none of the gossips who'd said she had married him for his position could possibly harm her.

  And now came William, seeking her out in spite of her retirement. He said that he loved her. He wanted her. And she thought she knew what he meant by the fire that was in his eyes and the corresponding warmth that built inside her.

  During her short tenure in London, Mattie had heard other whispers, about men and their mistresses. She had seen the glances some men had given to women, when their spouses were not watching.

  Could she dare to be William's mistress? She did not know how he planned to manage the affaire, but she knew that she could trust William to find a way. If he wanted to be with her, he would find the time and place to do so in secrecy.

  And would she?

  Mattie felt the heat from his kiss burning into her thoughts, and she knew she would take the dare. She knew that she loved William, and the lure of his embraces was too strong to pass up. This would be her first chance— surely her last— to have a love. She would give herself to William, her true self that she had buried away long ago for the convenience of a dear old man.

  Tears filled her eyes as she remembered His Grace's last words to her. "You're a good girl, Mattie. A good girl to put up with an old man. Don't fret for me, mind."

  His Grace would not have understood her need to have William, even for the space of a brief affaire, but neither would he begrudge her the chance.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Mattie trembled with anticipation as she made her way into the garden to meet William.

  Her roses were in bloom. Moss, cabbage and sweetbrier, pale pink and pearly white, lay open to the sun like velvety offerings to Venus. On the tops of the walls, birds flitted between the glossy vines, playing their own flirting games. It seemed to Mattie that her garden shared her sense of expectancy, filled as it was with the sharp smell of fertile earth, the soft whispering of leaves, and the humming of bees as they sipped upon nectar.

  But William was not there yet.

  Seeing this, Mattie felt a twinge of nervous disappointment, but she consoled herself with the thought that he would be along shortly. The problem was that she was not quite sure what to do with herself. She could not very well work without soiling the pinafore Turner had sewn. Mattie had worn it so as not to arouse the servants' suspicions.

  Convinced that mud would not be conducive to romance, Mattie resolved to wait in demure idleness. She stood with an eye discreetly turned towards the stables, by which direction William was sure to come.

  She waited, fidgeting, for several minutes. It proved a vastly uncomfortable thing to do since the poses she affected as being most likely to show her in her best light could not be held indefinitely. Her neck became stiff from holding her chin at an arrested angle, and her back grew sore from being stiff. She started at the snap of every twig and the rustle of every blade of grass until she thought her head might fly off at the next sound. Disappointment built inside her, and the deeply disquieting feeling that she might have imagined the whole had begun to take hold of her when William's deep voice came from behind her.

  "Mattie."

  She spun, jumping backwards. Her pulse began a rapid beat, and she breathed, "Oh . . . . It is you."

  "Did I startle you?" Amusement lit William's eyes, as he took a step closer.

  "Oh, no . . . Well, yes. You see, I— " Staring at William, Mattie realized that she was seeing him in a new light, as her potential lover. His strong masculinity seeped through her defenses. His virility echoed in her bones. A blush crept up her neck as he slowly walked towards her, and a rush of heat such as she'd never felt made her stammer hoarsely, "I thought you might come around from the stables."

  "I couldn't sleep," William said, taking her hands. His earnest gaze filled her with fear and joy. "I decided to walk instead." He searched her face. "I must know now, Mattie. Have you decided to accept me?"

  "Yes." Her voice trembled on the response. "If you are sure you want me."

  "Ah, Mattie." William swept her into his arms, and his voice sounded low near her ear. A delicious sense of strength surrounded her. "I think I have wanted you since that first day I saw you."

  "Have you?" Joy bubbled up inside her. William kissed her, and her frightful quivering was replaced by a deeper yearning, an insistent hunger to move even closer to him.

  "Tell me, Mattie," William insisted, his hands moving from her waist to her hips in a way that made her feel dizzy. "Do you love me? Tell me that you love me."

  The absurdity of his question brought a smile to her lips. "Yes, of course I do. Else, I should not be kissing you in this shameless way— " A sudden realization of what they were doing— and where— made her squeak, "William, you must let me go! What if the servants see us?"

  "Let them." He ran kisses down her neck, and the sensation was so novel and so delicious that, at first, Mattie could not bring herself to stop him. She felt a strange and overwhelming desire for William to bury his lips between her breasts.

  Then, a sense of her own vulnerability, the knowledge that they must conduct their affaire discreetly or risk shattering her peace, gave her strength.

  Gently, and breathlessly, she extricated herself from his grasp. With a reluctant grin, William accepted the distance she put between them, but kept hold of her hands.

  Now that she could feel his dark, seductive gaze, shyness overcame Mattie again. She was not sure what they ought to say next. Should they discuss when and where they could meet?

  William must have perceived her discomfort, for he dropped one of her hands and drew the other into the crook of his arm. "We could stroll in the garden if you like. Would that suit your sense of propriety?"

  "Yes, you must know that it would."

  They walked, not looking at each other until both their pulses had steadied a bit. William led her towards a tall row of shrubbery. He see
med to be taking his time about discussing the arrangements that would have to be made— a discussion that would surely put her to the blush.

  Of a sudden, he drew her behind the hedge and back into his arms. "There. Now, we may be comfortable."

  "William!" Mattie shrieked in a whisper. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm making passionate love to you. Don't you like it?"

  "I— I don't know. I think I like it excessively, but— I hardly know what to expect!"

  "Don't know what to expect?" William held her away from him and searched her face. Whatever he saw there made him tighten his jaw. "Mattie, I do not know what your marriage was like, but I aim to make love to you, and often. Does that disturb you?"

  Mattie bit her lip to keep its quivering from betraying her. "I did not mean that entirely," she said painfully, "but you must know that His Grace was not— a young man— "

  William gathered her gently into his arms. "You needn't say more. I will never hurt you, Mattie, but I desperately want to make love to you."

  "Yes, I know."

  "Answer me, then. Does the prospect frighten you?"

  Mattie felt his arms go tense.

  She examined her feelings— the excited hammering of her heart, the delicious weakness in her knees— then hid her face in his coat. "No."

  "Thank God."

  She heard his rush of relief, and the thought that she had pleased him gave her a burst of happiness.

  "Have I rushed you, Mattie?" he asked. "It could not be soon enough for me, but I had planned to take longer. I had a feeling that you would need more time to feel as deeply for me as I do for you. If you wish, I will court you more slowly."

  William's thoughtfulness brought tears into her eyes in the same moment that an unaccustomed greediness prompted her to say, "Yes, please. I would like that."

  Gently, he held her away, then planted a kiss upon her nose. "Perhaps I should send you roses?"

  Mattie chuckled. "No, you needn't do that. I think I have enough of them."

  "Then what would please you, my love? You have only to say."

  A pulse started up in her throat as she asked, "I would like— very much— for you to tell me why you love me."

  "Why." William considered. "Now let me see. . . ."

  Mattie giggled at his earnest expression.

  "I simply could say that I do not know why. I cannot help myself. But I doubt that that would satisfy."

  Mattie shook her head, suppressing a dimple.

  "Perhaps I could tell you the things I love about you? Would that do?"

  "Yes," she said, trying to hide her eagerness.

  "That will be easy."

  William's arms tightened about her waist. His lips softened as she gazed deeply into his dark eyes.

  "I love the way you dress in faded old gowns," he said softly. "I love it that smudges find their way onto your nose. I love the way you seem blind to any mistakes your daughter makes, but that you blush for your own quite charmingly. I love it that— "

  "But those are all faults!" Mattie protested, not sure that she wanted to hear more.

  "Oh, no, my love. You are very wrong. Each of those things is a sign of your unspoiled nature and your generous heart. Those are what I love you for, Mattie."

  When she peered up at him, still not convinced, he grinned, "I might want you because you are beautiful and have a splendid figure, but I love you because you are a kind and gentle soul, Mattie. There is no one else like you."

  A catch filled her throat as she said, "I love you, too, William." She threw her arms shamelessly about his neck, and he held her tightly.

  "There is one thing I would request," he murmured into her ear.

  "What is that?" Mattie would do anything. She had never been so happy. At this point, she only wanted to know how they would manage to be together, for she did not think the shrubbery would be a comfortable place to meet.

  "Promise me," William continued in a sober tone, "that once we are wed, you will go back to gardening in your outmoded gowns. They have the most splendid effect on my— "

  "Married!" Mattie gasped as his words sank in. She pushed away from him in order to see his face. "But we are not to be married!"

  "Not . . ." He frowned, and bewilderment clouded his features. "What the devil do you mean? I thought you said yes."

  "I did. But not to marriage!"

  Mattie waited for the truth to register on his face. When it did, she felt a stab of shame.

  "Mattie, you cannot mean— you did not think that I was offering you carte blanche?"

  The hint of anger in his voice made her wince. "But, of course, I thought so! What else could I think? You could not possibly mean to marry a woman my age."

  "I could mean it, and I do mean it. I have no intention of giving you a slip on the shoulder. You must think I'm the devil of a fellow."

  "No, oh no." Mattie could see that he was hurt, but she would not blame herself. "You said nothing of marriage. How was I to know?"

  "How? Did you think that I would so mistreat you? Haven't I just said how much I love you, Mattie?"

  "Yes, but— " Distress clogged her throat. "Now this is a bumblebroth!"

  "It doesn't have to be one. Now that we are both clear on what I do want, you have only to say yes again."

  "But I cannot!"

  "For God's sake why?" William ran one hand through his perfect locks.

  Mattie stared at him helplessly, unable to believe that he would not understand. "The talk— The things people will say— "

  "What things?"

  "They will say that I robbed the cradle!"

  "Nonsense. They will look at me with envy and say how clever I was to win you before the Ton laid eyes upon you."

  "No, William." Mattie's eyes filled with tears. "You cannot know— you cannot imagine the cruelty— "

  He took her by the elbows and gave her a little shake. "What cruelty? What did they do to you, Mattie?"

  She hung her head. She wanted to throw herself in his arms, but she dared not. She had to make him see that it was impossible. "When I was first married, His Grace took me to London to be presented. Everyone turned their noses up at me. I heard what they said— they did not try to hide it. They said I had married him for his money and his position, but— " she grasped William by his lapels— "I did not, William! I had a fortune of my own."

  William's lips curved indulgently, as if he failed to see how miserable she had been. "I know you did not," he said. "I think I know how it was. But that is all in the past, Mattie. It has nothing to do with us."

  "Yes it does. Don't you see? They will remember that old scandal and say that I married just as callously the second time as I did the first."

  "You're a grown woman now. You must not care for what people say."

  "Not even Lady Westbury?"

  "Particularly not my mother."

  Mattie shook her head vehemently. "I cannot face her, William. Not her, not anyone. I cannot live through another scandal when I have Pamela to think of. You want a wife who can take her place in the Ton, but I cannot be that person. They will say you should have chosen a wife who can give you children, that it was selfish of me to marry such an eligible man. I know how they think!"

  William was smiling broadly now, as if she were simply being foolish. "You are taking a pet for nothing. Those people are not worth worrying about. And whether we have a child or not does not concern me overmuch. I mean to enjoy trying, but if we are unsuccessful, Gerald will make a fine viscount."

  "But what about Gilly!" Mattie changed the subject, unwilling to talk about such issues as children, when she knew she would never have the chance to know William's child. "Miss Fotheringill, that is. I could not face her, William, and if I could not face Gilly, who loves me, how could I stand up in public with you?"

  William's look became stern. "You refine too much upon your servants' feelings. I've noticed that you let them bully you. You must not let anyone bully you, Mattie!"


  His tone, when he said this, was so overbearing that Mattie could only stare at him wryly.

  A look of sheepishness came over his face, and he apologized, "There I go, doing it, too. I am sorry, Mattie. I will promise never to bully you again if you will marry me."

  "But don't you see? Everyone does. I cannot stand up to people, William, and you must believe me. That is why I live the way I do. And I was happy enough. And then you came along, and I thought I could be perfectly happy to love you in private where no one would see or know— "

  Mattie broke off at the disapproving look on his face. She gathered her courage and said, "I can be your mistress, William. I very much want to be your mistress. But I cannot be your wife."

  "No, Mattie. I will have no backstairs affaire with you. You must marry me."

  A determined gleam showed in his eyes as he took a step backwards. "I shall have to convince you. That is all."

  Mattie held her quivering chin in the air. "You cannot."

  "We shall see." A hint of sympathy tinged his gaze. "I sincerely hope that you are wrong."

  "Oh, William— " Mattie reached to brush his cheek— "I do love you, but it would be too great a mistake. You must not try to persuade me."

  "I am sorry to distress you, dearest, but I must."

  Mattie could not speak. Her tears were too near the surface. She made a sign for him to go.

  William raised her hand and kissed it before saying, "I shall call on you soon. Don't worry yourself too much over this, Mattie. All will come right in the end. You will see."

  Mattie wished she could believe him. As he turned to leave her, and crossed the great lawn on his way back home, she felt her heart would break. Her one great chance for happiness had come and gone. But she could not give in. She could not, either for Pamela's sake or for William's own.

  If she married him, he would regret it as soon as the scandal erupted. He was not like His Grace. William moved about in the world. He would not be happy with a wife whom society rejected.

  Mattie turned and fled back into the house, the fabric of her peace all torn to shreds.