Page 2 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

Wolverhampton, Staffordshire, April 1874

“You might pretend to be happy for me, Matthew.”

Harriet fiddled with her bouquet before looking up tentatively.

She grinned.

And why should she not? No longer was she Harriet Coxwell—the lanky daughter of a lock manufacturer, whose lips moved silently when she read from the Book of Common Prayer in her lap, or who smiled shyly as she passed him the salt cellar from across the table. Now she was Harriet Grice, wife of a banker, with cheeks round and flushed, looking well pleased with herself. After all, she ought to be bursting with joy, oughtn’t she? Her eyes were lit with excitement.

Dr. Matthew Collier reckoned he’d never seen a kinder, more handsome pair of eyes in his life.

“I am,” he said. He swallowed as his gaze shifted to her new husband, standing proud as a peacock in his morning coat, his voice booming good-naturedly as he spoke with the assembled well-wishers. Matthew looked back to Harriet with whatever semblance of a smile he could muster. “I’m so pleased. For you. And him—Mr. Grice.” Matthew prayed she could not hear the strain in his voice, nor see it on his face.

“Truly?” she breathed.

It gutted him. She looked as near an angel as he’d ever seen, swathed in a pristine white dress, with a wreath of orange and myrtle blossoms atop her neat, fair hair.

“Of course. Why would I not? You’re the oldest and dearest friend I count,” Matthew choked out, suddenly overwhelmed by memories from across the past twenty years. “No one is more deserving of…” He glanced around the Coxwells’ generous dining room, with flowers spilling out upon every surface. “Of all this,” he finished in a solemn tone.

For he meant it. Harriet deserved everything. A large, stately house. A jocular, well-liked husband. Children, as many as she wanted.

And if she’d found it with Mr. Percival Grice instead of with him, then so be it.

For the two of them were not meant to be, and Matthew refused to allow any bitterness to creep in. Unfortunately, that meant only one emotion remained: sorrow. And it had violently taken hold.

“Oh, Matthew, I can’t tell you how pleased that makes me.” Harriet lifted her bouquet and clutched it to her chest. The gesture made her look younger than she was. “I know that you once harbored a…” She trailed off and looked down, blushing prettily. “Well. There was a time when I had assumed that we might come to an agreement, but that was years ago.”

At that, Matthew’s throat thickened, and not with catarrh.

“Why, I’d all but given up hope of anyone ever offering after last autumn when my birthday passed without notice,” Harriet continued in a merry voice, unaware of the brutal pain slashing through him with every word. “When Mr. Grice did, I was so stunned I stood there for an age! Can you imagine, my mouth hanging open like some great cod lying upon ice at the fishmonger’s stall? Surely I must have been the happiest woman in Staffordshire, with a gentleman such as him noticing me.”

“Your birthday?” Matthew said, frowning. “But we celebrated, did we not?”

He had always visited his aunt and uncle’s home each autumn for that express purpose, ever since he’d returned from his first appointment as an apprentice surgeon in the Crimean War to find that the next-door neighbor’s daughter had grown into an exceedingly lovely and kind young lady of sixteen.

From that point forward, Dr. Matthew Collier had always returned to the household that had raised him, to celebrate the birthday of the only girl he’d ever loved—Harriet Coxwell, now Grice. Not Collier.

For that birthday he’d given her a pen.

“Oh, Matthew,” Harriet laughed.

He furrowed his brow, heart thudding in his chest. Had she not liked the pen?

Unfortunately, she appeared disinclined to explain her meaning, for she shook her head fondly and changed the subject.

“And how long do you expect to stay in Wolverhampton? I’m sure your aunt would be well pleased were it to be a longer visit.” Her gaze drifted away from him and landed on the back of her husband, whereupon her countenance changed entirely; her lids became heavy, her eyes distant, her lips just slightly parted.

It was then that Matthew finally comprehended his true loss: She would never desire him.

Of course, he’d known it to a degree when he received his aunt’s letter excoriating him for waiting so long to act, he’d known it when he received the wedding invitation on thick, cream-colored paper, and he’d known it when he glumly set foot on the platform at Euston Station yesterday.

But now, the finality of it slid gently over him, like a sheet of white muslin drawn over a cadaver.

“No,” he said, with such conviction that he startled both Harriet and himself. “No,” he repeated, this time in a gentler tone. “I’m off for London today.” He glanced about the room, looking for his aunt. “Now, actually,” he decided suddenly.

“So soon?” Harriet protested, but her heart was not in it.

Matthew took her hand. “Best wishes to you, Mrs. Grice.”

He couldn’t bear to look upon her anymore.

“I had a word with my grandfather, you know. Earlier this week.”

Cressida froze mid-movement, pins between her teeth, one heavy hank of chestnut hair in each hand. She raised an eyebrow at her reflection in the small vanity mirror. Letting go of one handful, she took the pins from her mouth and set them atop the dressing table.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. He thinks it’s high time I stopped all this nonsense and settled down.”

“Oh dear,” Cressida responded mildly, tilting her head so she could see as she twisted one section of hair. “What sort of nonsense, Richard?” She looped and pinned generously; other women might have a need to bolster their locks with switches, but she’d never been one of them.

Richard Rimmer, the charming diplomat whom she’d entertained for a handful of years, cleared his throat.

“I don’t think he supposes you , exactly, so have no fear on that count; our entire association could still be easily disavowed.”

“Thank my stars for that,” she said in a low tone, more to herself than to him. Cressida wasn’t in the habit of leaving her reputation in the care of flippant young men, however handsome.

“But he’s well aware of my, ah… interests. My… carrying on . He’s getting on, and he wants me sorted, you know. Forget all this diplomacy work. Back in England, with the family.” He paused before adding apologetically, “Perhaps… with a family of my own.”

Cressida shifted so she might see his reflection behind hers. Goodness, one would think the Euston could afford a slightly larger looking glass. It might be a decent enough hotel, but as with all rail accommodations, it was far from what she’d consider luxurious. Especially considering the other hotels to be found in London.

“Certainly a prospect worth considering,” she said.

Her hair finally sorted into something respectable enough for a carriage ride back to Rowbotham House, she turned her head this way and that, one slim hand running along her bare neck as she inspected.

Once she was satisfied, she studied his reflection as he crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. He shook his head, then stood and set to pacing.

She supposed the poor thing was having a time of it, attempting to end their association in such a tawdry manner, with the bedsheets rumpled in the tightly cramped room. Cressida chuckled to herself at the thought as she replaced her dainty gold filigree earrings. Bartholomew had gifted them to her in their first year of marriage, so it seemed only fitting to wear them each and every time she lay with a lover.

When Richard finally spoke again, it was to the wall opposite her, his hands on his hips.

“I’m nearly thirty, if you’ll recall,” he declared with conviction.

Cressida halted and pivoted slightly upon her seat. Still she could not see his face.

“And you, why, you’re thirty-six but many might mistake you for far younger…” He turned suddenly, the upward tilt of his brow and earnestness of his tone portending something most unwelcome.

“Richard,” she began, speaking far more gently than she ever had over the duration of their understanding.

“And we get on, don’t we? We get on quite well, in my estimation.” He crossed the room, his words speeding up.

“Richard,” she repeated, lower now. A warning.

He dropped to his knees before her, taking her hands in his, kissing them.

“And you’ve borne two healthy sons, two heirs. That counts for something, doesn’t it? If Grandpapa had any objections, we could certainly point to young Lord Caplin as—”

A flash of anger rushed through her. How dare he speak to her of her son? Certainly she would never even dream of making the merest mention of Arthur or Henry in his presence, and in fact she never had, not once in five years. Just as she’d gone to excruciating lengths to keep her affairs as private as one could. The thought of either of her sons hearing a rumor… Rage surged within her. The cheek, the gall, the downright crassness of it!

Cressida drew her hands back and folded them in her lap.

With one long breath she harnessed her seething anger, twisting it into a cold thread as handily as a crone at her distaff. She held that thread taut, her body tense, her words frigid when she spoke.

“Your grandfather? Object to me?” She feigned a small chuckle. “My dear Richard, have you not spared any room in that lovely head of yours for the notion that perhaps I might be the one to harbor objections?”

The young man sat back on his heels, his expression blank. His arms fell to his sides.

“Objections? You mean, you would hesitate to marry me?”

“Oh, that’s putting it far too mildly, dear. No, Richard, I will not marry you, under any circumstance.”

He blinked. “But we get on so well,” he stuttered.

Cressida sighed and stood. How to make the poor fool understand? The cold anger within her thawed as she remembered his earlier exuberance, the vigor with which he’d moved against her.

“That we do,” she admitted, “which is more than I can say for my first foray into the institution.”

She shut her eyes, trying to will away the wretched memory of Bartholomew’s unpleasant lurching. Cressida could still hear the bed rails wailing in protest during those hateful first nights.

“Then why—”

“Because,” she said sharply, turning on him with one brow raised. “You think I ought to be happy as a bride? Should I be well pleased to limit my daily life to bowing and scraping to your grandfather, to bear you sons?” She paused. The thread was unraveling; she must hold it together. She took a deep breath and continued, more calmly now. “To give up my home, to remove to… to… just a tick, where does your family hail from? I don’t believe I’ve ever asked.”

“Bedfordshire,” he said glumly.

“Oh, Richard,” she said, shaking her head sympathetically. “Absolutely not.”

He stared at the floor for several long moments before pushing himself up to his feet once more.

“So, this is it, then? We’ve shared such…” He swallowed, his eyes glassy. “Intimacies. And now it’s ‘Absolutely not, Richard?’”

“It isn’t so much whether or not you’re up to snuff, mind. It’s merely that I fail to see what advantages a marriage to you would offer.” She looked askance, thinking. “Actually, I suppose it is you, then—but only somewhat.”

“I suppose you’d laugh if I mentioned the idea of love,” he grumbled.

“Richard,” she tutted as she stood up to retrieve his hat from the stand across the room. “You’re far too old to believe those fairy stories now. What was it? Nearly thirty, you said?”

“Next month,” he said, accepting his hat with a flat expression.

“Well then,” she said, feeling magnanimous as she stretched upward to kiss her lover’s cheek for the last time. “Many happy returns.”

He had somehow succeeded in slipping away after catching his aunt and saying his goodbyes to her. And as he’d fetched his things and made his way to the railway station, he’d even succeeded in avoiding thoughts of Harriet. Or of her meaning when she’d spoken of her last birthday. There was plenty else to think on, such as his appointments for the coming week, the new issue of Hardwicke’s Science-Gossip he meant to peruse on the return journey to London, and whether or not he’d make it home in time for the dinner service at his club. And if he did, whether the entrée would be pressed duck, for the cooks at the Transom Club were middling at best, and pressed duck one of their worst dishes.

But despite his herculean effort to ignore the throbbing ache in his chest as he stared out the compartment window at the passing countryside, his thoughts inevitably drew back to her.

He’d fallen in love with Harriet upon his first return to England, numbed by the brutality of war, by the terrors he’d seen as a young field surgeon. He hadn’t expected to feel anything ever again, his capacity for emotion sacrificed to the never-ending horrors of war. And then he’d seen her at his aunt and uncle’s dinner table. She’d been gentle, innocent, clean. As far from the blood and mud and shit of the battlefield as anything could possibly be.

But young, far too young. Matthew felt it wrong, forcing her to decide her future at sixteen, leg-shackling herself to a reserved and shattered man several years her elder. But when she teased him for his beard—every man in Crimea who could grow one had done so, desperate for whatever measure of warmth could be had—he shaved it off.

And waited.

And then, when after a few more years she still seemed interested in him and his conversation, he thought he’d muster up whatever courage he had left and ask her to marry him.

But then her mother died, and Matthew decided to wait. More years passed. Until, finally, everything seemed to have fallen into place again.

And then… his own uncle passed. Aunt Albertine went into a pitiable state, and Matthew had scarcely a moment to sleep the entire following year, constantly shuttling back and forth between his practice in London and his aunt’s house in Wolverhampton.

And then? Matthew’s own reflection suddenly appeared in the window as the railcar pulled into the light of the London railway station.

By then it had been nearly a decade. Harriet’s father had done well in those years, his business increasing tenfold, and the Coxwells had moved to a more upscale street, no longer next door to Aunt Albertine. Their new neighborhood was smarter, their home larger and grander, their furnishings far finer. They now dined with local aldermen and an aristo or two.

Matthew had panicked. He had a reasonably comfortable living in London, with a home in Marylebone that housed his doctor’s surgery and a steady stream of respectable patients. But it wasn’t enough, not good enough for Harriet—he was certain of that. By then he’d all but given up. How could he trust his suit to win her heart when she kept such company?

Matthew couldn’t even manage to finagle his way into a first-rate club.

Dejected as he walked toward the grand pediment that was the station entrance, recounting the past, he realized the answer far too late.

Harriet hadn’t cared a fig for those fancy toffs. She had waited for him. Blimey, she’d all but told him so that morning at the wedding breakfast!

And he had forfeited his chance.

Suddenly Matthew felt as if at sea. He stumbled to the side, placing one hand against a massive Doric column to steady himself, his worn leather holdall dangling from the other.

Twenty years she waited… He was seized by shock; if he wasn’t a man of medicine he would surely think himself dying. Why hadn’t he asked her? Why hadn’t he declared his love, made her his companion for life?

But the panic subsided quicker than he anticipated, washed away by a cold, difficult question: Had he ever truly wanted her?

Matthew stood up straight and swallowed, adjusting his collar. He thought of how Harriet had looked at Mr. Grice, her eyes languorous and full of want. Then he thought of the locked drawer in his study, the one filled with lurid magazines, obscene cabinet cards, and a small stack of well-worn novels of the salacious sort. He thought of Harriet before him. Nude. With her hands bound, perhaps. And having to ask her to…

A cold sweat broke out over him.

It was mortifying, the thought of propositioning Harriet in such a crude manner. How could he even imagine her unclothed? He felt his face redden. It would never have done. He blew out a sigh and looked upward, wondering if perhaps it had all been for the best. One couldn’t handle one’s wife so perversely.

Perhaps he possessed an aberrant nature. But did that have to preclude his chance to take a wife, to have a family?

To find love?

Blood rushed to his head. Matthew felt as though his ears had been stuffed with cotton wool and were now cleared, the sounds of the station blaring with a fiercer intensity. Men shouted, an engine chugged, the bell rang. Carriages and hacks rattled before him. Hoofbeats pounded.

No , he reassured himself. That’s enough of that. Still, he felt odd.

Two hotels flanked the avenue before the portico. The lower-quality Victoria to the west, which advertised only sleeping accommodations, and then to the east, the full-service Euston Hotel, named for the station. Matthew had taken refreshment within on several occasions, usually when he didn’t feel like crowding into the station’s bustling waiting room. Matthew far preferred the peace and quiet.

His thoughts were still a jumble as he approached the Euston, not taking care to mind his step. Which was how he came to crash headlong into a woman.

Somehow, Matthew had never gotten fully used to his large form, often forgetting just how solidly built he was. The woman ricocheted backward with a gasp.

Without thinking, he reached out quickly with his free hand, catching the lady’s arm.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, yanking her arm back as soon as she’d righted herself.

“I’m so sorry, infinite apologies are due on my end,” Matthew stuttered, appalled at his lack of awareness. “I ought to have…”

He forgot the rest of his intended sentence. The lady was small in stature, elegantly turned-out, with a lovely face nearly completely hidden by her hat’s wide brim and generous veil. Forgetting himself, Matthew peered closer.

Then he nearly choked as recognition dawned on him. Somehow, he managed to stammer the name that came ringing back into his mind with startling ease.

“Lady Caplin?”