Chapter 3
The trip to London had not been an easy one. The overcast day had given way to rain and mist, and the only horse available to Matt from Mayfield’s stables had been a difficult mare with her own mind. Matt and the blasted animal had argued from the moment he’d left his stable door until the reins had been turned over to a street lad to keep the mare walking to cool her down.
So Matt was not in a conciliatory mood.
Especially toward females.
He had also not bothered to stop at his London home to change. He wasn’t afraid to let Miss Reverly see him in his mud-splashed boots and breeches. Let her know that he had taken her letter seriously.
And he had.
Her terse wording was branded in his mind:We are not suited. I am releasing you of any obligation to me. Sincerely, W. Reverly.
What was she, a solicitor? She was releasing him with two sentences?
Miss Reverly’s curtness was not how a woman should write to a man to whom she’d been promised. She hadn’t minced words but had been clear she was willing to mince him.
The closer he’d come to London, the more he’d wanted to knowwhy. What hadhedone to set her off? He hadn’t even been in London since the evening of their betrothal party.
And now here he was cooling his heels in Reverly’s palatial London home that spoke of money and power. All the furniture was gilt-painted wood. There wasn’t a worn carpet or threadbare pillow in sight. The air was scented with beeswax and the room showed the meticulous care of dozens of well-paid servants.
Gracing the walls were as many paintings as could be found in any stately house. A few were of landscapes or good horseflesh. Most were portraits, although Matt doubted if any were of Reverly’s ancestors. The man had supposedly come from humble roots, worked hard, and married well.
Matt suspected some of those paintings could have been those sold from Mayfield. Reverly was known to have a fondness for a bargain. He’d turn any agreement in his favor. “Greedy as a fox,” one lord had warned Matt.
Well, God willing, the man would be his father-in-law.
Matt paced the length of the receiving room, struggling with his pride and temper and considering how best to approach the rebellious Miss Reverly.
Someplace in the house, footsteps could be heard. A clock chimed the hour. Late afternoon. He’d made good time from Mayfield.
A footman had taken his greatcoat and hat. However, his hair was damp. He combed it back from his face with his fingers just as he heard voices, feminine ones. He squared off with the closed double doors.
One half opened—and Miss Reverly seemed to float into the room.
For a moment, he was caught off guard. He’d forgotten how graceful she was. She reminded him of a petite opera dancer. Perfectly formed, no movement wasted, comfortable in her own skin.
And lovely. Far prettier than he remembered.
Four months ago, Matt had still been preoccupied with thoughts of Letty. Now, he was struck by what he hadn’t noticed about his intended.
Yes, Willa Reverly was a mite of a thing... but there was something about her presence that made her seem taller and stronger than her size indicated. Dark, thick hair and clear skin made her conventionally pretty. What set her apart was the intelligence in her snapping blue eyes and the determination in her attitude.
For the first time, Matt realized perhaps one shouldn’t underestimate an heiress.
She was not alone. To his surprise, Cassandra, Soren’s wife, was with her. Any other time he’d be delighted to see her because this meant his good friend was in town.
However, now he struggled not to frown. He had no desire to have an audience for this interview. At least he liked Cassandra. Soren had chosen well. And yet, there was nothing he could do about the matter of her presence but play his part.
“Your Grace.” Miss Reverly made the barest of curtseys.
He returned with the barest of ducal bows. They were as formal as strangers.
“Miss Reverly, you could put a garden full of flowers to shame.” One thing Matt had learned about London ladies, they lapped up this nonsense. He truly believed it was impossible to overflatter one of them.
Willa Reverly disputed his theory. Annoyance and, yes, disappointment, crossed her face. “One should expect a better compliment from a poet.”
So much for pleasantries... and his assumption that Willa was like all London ladies.
