Bexley-Smythe Quintet 02 - Rhyme and Reason by Catherine Gayle Page A
Authors: Catherine Gayle
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the drawing room.
Mattie couldn’t help but notice Rose’s desperate attempts to look back over her shoulder at the two of them. Nor could she blame the girl.
“Only a week?” Mattie said to her friend with a painfully hushed whisper. “But what if…?”
The rest of her question trailed off her lips and completely out of her mind . Mr. Goddard came into the drawing room, filling the doorway with his frame like very few men of her acquaintance could possibly do and very nearly robbing her of her breath with the combined look of determination and mortification upon his face.
He should have brought flowers, like Sir Lester had done yesterday.
It was a little late to think of such a detail, however, as he was currently standing at the threshold of the very same red drawing room where he’d felt so terribly out of place, once more feeling like he couldn’t possibly belong in such a setting. Now, though, he also felt like a dolt for not having brought Lady Matilda flowers. How was he supposed to woo her if he couldn’t even remember such a simple thing as that? Ladies liked flowers and operas and poetry, things of the sort which he more often than not didn’t even realize existed.
Perhaps he ought to start paying them more attention.
Berating himself over his own ignorance wouldn’t solve anything, though, so he did his best to push those negative thoughts aside.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Goddard,” the brunette beside Lady Matilda said. She stood and crossed the room to him, smiling all the while. “I’m Beatrice Emery, Lord Teasdale’s eldest daughter and Lady Matilda’s friend. I’m not sure we’ve properly thanked you for all your assistance.”
Miss Emery’s beauty was the sort that could stagger a man, at least if he was ill-prepared to be struck by it. She stood nearly as tall as Thomas, with arms and legs that stretched for days and a long, swooping neck. She was the very epitome of graceful elegance.
Even still, he found his gaze ret urning to Lady Matilda already. Her gown today was the color of a ripe peach. It matched the bit of color in her cheeks in the most charming manner. Her hands were folded neatly upon her lap, her hair knotted loosely behind her head with a ribbon the shade of clotted cream twisting through it.
Finally, he remembered that Miss Emery had spoken to him, had thanked him for helping Lady Matilda. “It was…” It was the only thing he could have done in that instant. Taking her into his arms and carrying her to safety had been as natural to him as breathing, as unconscious and involuntary an action as waking when the sun rose each morning.
“It was heroic,” Miss Emery finished for him. “You were just like a knight on a white charger, coming to rescue her.”
It hadn’t felt heroic in the slightest, especially when he remembered it was his own shout which had startled her so much that she lost her footing. He wanted to say as much, but Miss Emery had taken his arm and was guiding him more fully into the drawing room. He allowed her to lead him to a chintz armchair at an angle from Lady Matilda, and sat when she nudged him to do so.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Goddard,” Lady Matilda said.
“Is your head well today?” he asked while Miss Emery skirted around the room to sit slightly apart from the two of them at the opposite end of a red silk sofa.
“Yes, thank you.”
Then an uncomfortable silence descended upon them. Thomas hadn’t the first clue what sort of things he ought to speak to a lady of her breeding about. Every time he thought of a conversational topic, he had second thoughts and then mentally castigated himself for it.
Lady Matilda stared at her hands where they were resting upon her lap.
This would never work. Yet he had to make it work. He couldn’t let her fall into whatever trap Hammond was laying for her.
The tick-tock, tick-tock sounds coming from the Bornholm clock on the wall opposite the hearth seemed to grow louder until Thomas
Mattie couldn’t help but notice Rose’s desperate attempts to look back over her shoulder at the two of them. Nor could she blame the girl.
“Only a week?” Mattie said to her friend with a painfully hushed whisper. “But what if…?”
The rest of her question trailed off her lips and completely out of her mind . Mr. Goddard came into the drawing room, filling the doorway with his frame like very few men of her acquaintance could possibly do and very nearly robbing her of her breath with the combined look of determination and mortification upon his face.
He should have brought flowers, like Sir Lester had done yesterday.
It was a little late to think of such a detail, however, as he was currently standing at the threshold of the very same red drawing room where he’d felt so terribly out of place, once more feeling like he couldn’t possibly belong in such a setting. Now, though, he also felt like a dolt for not having brought Lady Matilda flowers. How was he supposed to woo her if he couldn’t even remember such a simple thing as that? Ladies liked flowers and operas and poetry, things of the sort which he more often than not didn’t even realize existed.
Perhaps he ought to start paying them more attention.
Berating himself over his own ignorance wouldn’t solve anything, though, so he did his best to push those negative thoughts aside.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Goddard,” the brunette beside Lady Matilda said. She stood and crossed the room to him, smiling all the while. “I’m Beatrice Emery, Lord Teasdale’s eldest daughter and Lady Matilda’s friend. I’m not sure we’ve properly thanked you for all your assistance.”
Miss Emery’s beauty was the sort that could stagger a man, at least if he was ill-prepared to be struck by it. She stood nearly as tall as Thomas, with arms and legs that stretched for days and a long, swooping neck. She was the very epitome of graceful elegance.
Even still, he found his gaze ret urning to Lady Matilda already. Her gown today was the color of a ripe peach. It matched the bit of color in her cheeks in the most charming manner. Her hands were folded neatly upon her lap, her hair knotted loosely behind her head with a ribbon the shade of clotted cream twisting through it.
Finally, he remembered that Miss Emery had spoken to him, had thanked him for helping Lady Matilda. “It was…” It was the only thing he could have done in that instant. Taking her into his arms and carrying her to safety had been as natural to him as breathing, as unconscious and involuntary an action as waking when the sun rose each morning.
“It was heroic,” Miss Emery finished for him. “You were just like a knight on a white charger, coming to rescue her.”
It hadn’t felt heroic in the slightest, especially when he remembered it was his own shout which had startled her so much that she lost her footing. He wanted to say as much, but Miss Emery had taken his arm and was guiding him more fully into the drawing room. He allowed her to lead him to a chintz armchair at an angle from Lady Matilda, and sat when she nudged him to do so.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Goddard,” Lady Matilda said.
“Is your head well today?” he asked while Miss Emery skirted around the room to sit slightly apart from the two of them at the opposite end of a red silk sofa.
“Yes, thank you.”
Then an uncomfortable silence descended upon them. Thomas hadn’t the first clue what sort of things he ought to speak to a lady of her breeding about. Every time he thought of a conversational topic, he had second thoughts and then mentally castigated himself for it.
Lady Matilda stared at her hands where they were resting upon her lap.
This would never work. Yet he had to make it work. He couldn’t let her fall into whatever trap Hammond was laying for her.
The tick-tock, tick-tock sounds coming from the Bornholm clock on the wall opposite the hearth seemed to grow louder until Thomas
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