In contrast, London was cold and gray and too crowded. He sighed, rubbed his temples. He’d turned into acasscarrabias, a curmudgeon, and he wasn’t even thirty years old.
“It sounds divine,” Miss Woodchurch said.
Mateo had allowed himself to drift too far away. “I am, admittedly, biased...but I think it is. Here now, I have work for you.” He handed her some papers and turned his attention to the work at hand.
In the remaining hour of her time, Miss Woodchurch deciphered more of his grandfather’s writing and penned responses to two invitations. He was surprised when it was time for her to go—it seemed as if the afternoon had passed more quickly than usual.
When Miss Woodchurch took her leave, and wished him a good day, he went to the window for some air. He must have stood there for longer than he’d meant—his thoughts had drifted back to Santiava again, to a pair of hunting dogs he’d left safe in the hands of his staff but missed nonetheless—and happened to see Miss Woodchurch and one of the kitchen workers, Aurelia, emerge from the servants’ entrance. He watched them walk to the end of the house together, then turn to the street and disappear from his view.
As far as he knew, Aurelia spoke not a word of English. But the two of them walked along as if they were friends.
Miss Woodchurch was so...unexpected. She was the only person in London who had caught his attention in any meaningful way. She was educated, she had a wide range of interests, apparently, and was not the least bit reserved.
He felt different with her. He never knew if the inability to know someone was because of his position as duke in Santiava, or because of his stoic nature. Whatever the reason, he tended to feel an invisible wall between him and people he met. Particularly women.
The existence of the wall was entirely his fault. He could never think of what to say that didn’t sound either condescending, or worse—disinterested. With Miss Woodchurch, the conversation had been much easier because of her easy nature.
And he was not disinterested. No...if anything, his interest was growing.
CHAPTER NINE
THEVISCOUNTWASthe most remarkable man Hattie had ever met. She couldn’t quite understand him, really—he was so reserved as to be detached, so cool in his response as to be at times unpleasant. A vexing man, indeed. And yet, she was fascinated by him. She had the impression that she annoyed him from time to time, but that didn’t keep her from speaking up.
And then, somehow, she’d cracked his stoic facade. After she’d done all the talking for days on end, with no hope of ever receiving more than a word or two in response, the moment she noticed his book everything had changed. That was the only time she’d thought him truly interested in anything she had to say. In fairness, she said quite a lot of things that no one was interested in, and really, what did possess her to sing the virtues of Hyde Park, as if she were the mayor of London?
Still, she was very happy to have found a sliver of common ground with him. Reading was one of her favorite things, and she was thrilled the subject had moved him to speak. She wanted to find if there were more.
In the meantime, there wasn’t a soul in Hattie’s life who wasn’t eager to know at leastsomethingabout the new viscount. They asked questions about him they had no business asking, but asked anyway: Why was he not in society more? What did he say, eat, drink, smoke? Who called on him? Where did he dine? Was something the matter with him? Had he looked for a spouse? Did he have a secret lover? The last question had come from Mrs. O’Malley.
Hattie avoided answering, but the questions kept coming. The silent, brooding Santiavan viscount was an enigma to everyone. Even the newspapers didn’t seem to know what to make of him, calling him a recluse, locked away in his grandfather’s home. They complained he’d been rumored to make a match, and yet, no one could report any news on that front. Some speculated that the negotiations for a bride would begin in earnest with the start of the Season. Others speculated he had no intention of marrying an English woman, and any assumptions toward that end were wishful thinking. Hattie certainly didn’t know.
Her family was especially curious about the viscount. For reasons Hattie could not fathom, her parents seemed to despise him based on his title alone. They would practically lie in wait for her when she came home, pouncing on her the moment she walked in the door with their questions.
Queenie and Flora were hardly any better. Queenie in particular pressed Hattie for even the smallest tidbit she might use as leverage in gossiping around town. Oh, but Queenie swore she wouldn’t say aword. Hattie knew better and took her vow to keep the viscount’s affairs confidential much to heart. She didn’t tell anyone what she heard or what he said—which wasn’t much at all, except when it came to the dispute about goats and sheep, which aggravated him into actually speaking. Or when he talked about the book he was reading.
She did, however, leave one small truth for everyone to gnaw on—the viscount often left the room while she worked. That news was disappointing to all.
“Howtediousthis position of yours appears to be,” Queenie complained after Hattie had fended off a series of questions with“I don’t know, I hardly know.”
On this particular afternoon when Flora and Hattie called, Queenie was stretched across the chaise in her enormous bedroom, eating from a bowl of sweets like a Greek goddess. “What do you do, then, justwriteall day? Lord, Hattie—what do you find appealing about that sort of work? You put to mind the image of a monk copying ancient texts, stuffed away in some dusty attic with only the light of a single candle.”
Hattie laughed at the image. She would have thought it was obvious what appealed to her. The money, certainly, although Queenie clearly had no understanding of that. From the look of it, she had everything she could possibly want. But then the chance to be near a very handsome man was rather exhilarating, too. That, she was certain Queenie could appreciate. It wasn’t every day that any of them found themselves in such company. As if Queenie wouldn’t leap at the chance to write a few letters for the opportunity to ingratiate herself to Lord Abbott.
“There isnothingyou can tell us?” Queenie pressed, sounding suspicious. “He’s not been seen anywhere for more than a fortnight! Everyone wonders if something is amiss. The only thing anyone knows is that he’s to dine at the Forsythe house, and that’s not until the end of the week. We shouldn’t have to rely on Flora for news.”
“Me?”Flora blinked. “I’m sure I won’t speak to him more than a moment. Everyone will be vying for his attention. He won’t even notice me.”
“Then you’ll have to try harder, Flora,” Queenie said. She sighed and turned back to Hattie. “I have a theory about your secret.”
“I don’t have a secret,” Hattie said.
“He’s ill, isn’t he?That’swhy he hasn’t been seen about. That’s why you won’t breathe a word.”
Hattie nearly choked. “He looks the picture of health!” Remarkably so, she thought—virile, all muscle and sinew, a broad back and strong hands. “I think it’s simply a matter of a lot of work to settle his grandfather’s estates. I can’t imagine he has time to make calls and whatnot.”
“The Quality always has time to make calls,” Queenie scoffed. “It’s a waste having you there, Hattie. It should have been Flora.”
“I’mnot meant to work,” Flora scoffed, as if she believed Queenie was suggesting she dig a few ditches.
