It was then—as the light caught on her freckled cheeks—that Christian saw. He understood, finally, what he should have known from the first. What he would have known, had he not been stupid with brandy and anguish and lust.
It was not Matilda, this woman with the frightened voice and all-wrong scent.
It was her twin sister.
Chapter 6
Matilda stood outside the door of Ashford’s London townhouse and lifted one gloved hand to rap upon it.
She took a breath, dropped her hand, and spun away before she could do anything she might regret.
Was she being ridiculous? She could not tell. Margo was typically the more impulsive of the two of them, as last night’s ludicrous costume drama suggested. Matilda usually thought ahead. She usuallyplanned.
But something had come over Matilda when her twin had come home from Lady Montmorency’s card party and related the night’s events, her hair tousled and her eyes wet with regret.
“I’m sorry,” Margo had said. “I’m so terribly sorry—I—I only wanted tospeakto him. I wanted to make sure he was good enough for you. I—I had no idea he would say such things!”
Matilda had not expected it either. Truly, Ashford declaring that he wanted to tie her to the bed and shag her silly would have been at the very bottom of the list of things she’d imagined he might say, just belowLet’s get married Sunday nextandI transform into a jaguar on the full moon.
She had been so bloody angry at Margo—who might only havespokento her if she had concerns, not pretended tobeher! And angry at Ashford too—for acting as though she were the shameless one when he—when he—
Had he meant he desiredher,Matilda?
Had he meant Margo?
She whirled back to the door, and—before she could talk herself out of the ridiculous plan that had crystallized in her mind as she’d stared in horror at her twin—she lifted her hand and knocked.
Christian had considered writing her a letter.
He was still considering it, with a kind of hypnotized horror, as he packed for Bamburgh.
His trousers went into the trunk.
Dear Matilda—so sorry I embraced your sister yesterday. Not to worry, though—it was only because I thought she was you!
Stockings. Smallclothes. His spectacles, which were going to be crushed. Christian considered removing them and decided he did not care to stop his momentum.
Dear Matilda—so sorry I revealed my deviant desires to your twin. I was quite drunk, you see, which obviously excuses everything.
Shirts. Why did he haveso manyshirts? He had not brought this many down from Bamburgh. Perhaps they had reproduced in his wardrobe.
Dear Matilda—forgive me. No,don’tforgive me. Stay angry for the rest of your life, so long as it keeps you as far away from my presence as possible.
Jackets. Waistcoats. A clothes-brush.
Dear Matilda—I’m an ass and a fool and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
There was a scratch at the door, and Christian looked with some perturbation at the mess he’d made of his garments. “Come in.”
His London butler, Fanning, entered, caught sight of Christian’s efforts, and appeared briefly locked in an internal struggle between outrage and propriety. His bushy eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.
Propriety won, but it was a close call. Outrage still trembled in Fanning’s thick moustaches as he intoned, “I believe the grooms are nearly ready, my lord. But first—you have a caller.”
Christian pinched the bridge of his nose. Probably it was Whitby. He had escaped from Katherine Montmorency’s card party without bidding Whitby farewell, and he hoped sincerely that Whitby did not mean to propose another social event.
Christian thought he might rather die.
“In the drawing room?”
