Miss Bradshaw's Bought Betrothal

Chapter Five

Taking Finnegan Matlock’s arm was not to be recommended. The moment she had threaded her own through his, Evie quickly learned two things. Firstly, he had the body of a man who spent a great deal of time outdoors. Not that she had a great wealth of experience of the male form to draw upon, but he certainly did not feel anything like her occasional dance partners or her fiancé, whose arms were quite soft in comparison to his irritating brother’s. And secondly, and perhaps more importantly, just the feel of that solid, muscled, male appendage did funny things to her.

Instantly, Evie felt warm, her heart began to flutter in her chest and her fingers desperately wanted to run themselves all over the muscles to trace every intriguing plane and bulge. She was excessively grateful when he checked his pocket watch and then failed to offer out the offending arm again.

‘Stanford House is about a mile away,’ he said without any trace of his usual sarcasm or surliness. ‘Just over that hill.’

The gently rolling landscape of the Dales was spread out before her and Evie could not help smiling at the sight. ‘It is beautiful here.’

‘I have always thought so. Quite a change from London, I suppose?’

Good grief—were they actually exchanging pleasantries? ‘Indeed, Lord Finnegan, the only opportunity to see nature at all is in the parks and they are always so crowded.’

‘I cannot imagine that. I find York stifling enough.’

‘Have you never been to London?’

‘I have never had cause to go there, thank goodness. I am certain that I would dislike it immensely.’

‘I loathe London.’ Had she just said that out loud? By the way he turned to look at her, his dark head slightly tilted to one side and his expression curious, Evie realised that she had. And to him, of all people.

‘Why?’

How to explain something that she had never verbalised before? ‘It is crowded and unforgiving.’ Perhaps not the best choice of words, but fitting.

‘Unforgiving?’

Oh, dear, definitely not the best choice of words. Now she had to explain herself and he would no doubt think her pathetic. ‘Even though it is filled with people, the society there is very close-knit. Everybody knows everybody else’s business.’

‘It is like that in the countryside also.’

‘Yes—but...’ Evie sighed, becoming increasingly aware of his intense gaze. ‘In London, everybody is judged. And once judged, it is impossible to be anything other than what you are perceived to be.’ She really should not have said that. Except, that was how she felt. Bottled, labelled and displayed on the shelf. In London, she was Evie the spinster. The plain wallflower with the dull personality. A woman whose ship had not so much sailed, but failed to leave the harbour. A nobody. A nothing. She doubted this splendid-looking man would understand how draining it was to be of no consequence.

‘And how are you perceived to be, Miss Bradshaw?’

The question startled her and she blushed ferociously. She could hardly admit to the truth—but then again, she already had, she supposed. ‘I am perceived exactly as I am, Lord Finnegan. A plain, plump wallflower who has been so long on the shelf that she is almost a part of it.’

‘How old are you, Miss Bradshaw?’

Goodness, the man was rude. Nobody asked a lady’s age. ‘Almost six and twenty.’

‘That is not old. You still have plenty of child-bearing years left.’ Another thing that, frankly, should never be discussed, especially as Evie’s heart lurched at the mention of the children she would never have. ‘And you are neither plain nor plump.’

‘You do not need to spare my feelings, Lord Finnegan.’

The corners of his mouth curved up as he stared straight ahead. ‘I believe you know enough about me, Miss Bradshaw, to know that I am not a man to spare anyone’s feelings. If you want me to be completely honest, I believe that your choice of attire and matronly hairstyle make you appear plain and plump. And old, Miss Bradshaw. Far too old.’

‘You are a very insulting man, Lord Finnegan.’

‘Yet a moment ago you accused me of sparing your feelings?’ Evie could not think of a quick enough answer to that so marched on ahead to the crest of the hill. When she got there, and stared down, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Ahead of her was what she assumed was Stanford House. Like Matlock House, it was Palladian in style and perfectly symmetrical. Unlike Matlock House, it appeared to be missing a roof.

‘I did tell you that it was uninhabitable.’ He came level with her and then jauntily bounded down the hill with a definite smug spring in his step, leaving Evie to trail despondently behind. Insufferable man.

By the time she caught up with him he was a few yards from the shell of a house with his arms folded. It was obvious by the lack of glass in several windows, and the black stains that blotted the pale stone above those gaping holes, that there had been a horrendous fire. A horrendous fire that Fergus had neglected to tell her about during their hasty negotiations. Was nothing about her move to Yorkshire going to go to plan?

‘What happened?’

‘About three years ago, my dear brother had one of his house parties. I have never really got to the bottom of who did what and when, Fergus never invited me to any of his many entertainments and I would never have gone even if he had. Suffice to say, at some point during the night someone set fire to something. Because it had been a particularly hot summer and because they were all so deep in their cups that nobody had the good sense to throw water on the flames quick enough, the place went up like a firework. You might have noticed that the roof is missing. If you go inside, and I do not recommend that you do, you will also discover that the entire upper floor has collapsed as well. You could always pitch a tent in the grounds.’

‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you, Lord Finnegan.’

His mouth curved upwards again and he nodded. ‘So—it’s back to London for you, I suppose.’

The rush of pure, unadulterated fury was so sudden and so visceral, Evie quite forgot herself. Of their own accord, both of her hands shot out and pushed him firmly in the chest, sending him backwards so that he landed unceremoniously on his bottom on the ground. He stared at her in shock.

‘I am never going back to London! I do not care if I do have to pitch a tent! I am never, ever going to live with Hyacinth again! I hate that woman. I hate the way she makes me feel. And I hate her stupid, spiteful daughters. And most of all, I hate the way that I am when I am around them!’

Evie covered her mouth with her hands and simply stared at him, shocked at her own lack of control. The anger on his face, changed to bewilderment. ‘Who’s Hyacinth?’

Evie’s voice was shaking and so were her hands. She had just pushed a grown man, a very big, solid, hateful grown man, to the ground and she had no idea whether to be mortified or exulted. ‘She is my stepmother.’

His dark head tilted to one side again as he assessed her from his seat upon the ground. ‘Why do you hate her so much?’

A painful knot formed at the base of Evie’s throat and for a few moments she was certain that she might cry. ‘This is really not what I had hoped for when I came to Yorkshire.’

In resignation, she lowered herself to sit on the ground as well, where she took several calming breaths. ‘My stepmother married my father for his money. When he died, the only reason she kept me on was because my father had left the bulk of his fortune to me, not her. But she resents me for it and spends every minute of every day reminding me of my shortcomings, making me miserable while she happily spends my money on her life and all I get to do is watch. In London, I am a doormat. An invisible nobody. I came here because I wanted to stop being a doormat. I am running away, you see, Lord Finnegan. I know that you probably think me over-dramatic or lily-livered for not standing up to Hyacinth, but if I stay there I will continue to fade away until there is nothing left of me but an outline. I cannot go back there; no matter how awful things are here.’

* * *

Finn did not want to feel sorry for her, but he did. He could see the tears shimmering in her pretty eyes that she would not allow to fall, saw the light of hope in them dull and hated the sight of it. He knew how painful it was to have all hope die. But she had misguidedly put all of her hope in Fergus so she was already doomed to be disappointed. ‘I doubt your life will be any better here with my brother, Miss Bradshaw. He will spend your money, too, and probably a darn sight quicker than this Hyacinth woman. And he will never be here. Already he has abandoned you for the gaming tables and I fear that he will always do so.’

‘I do know that, Lord Finnegan. It was one of the reasons why I became engaged to him.’

Now Finn was truly baffled. ‘You willingly became engaged to a man who will make you miserable and ignore you, just as you claim this Hyacinth woman does?’

‘I suppose, to you, that does sound silly, but I have no desire to spend any more time with your brother than he does with me. I came here to live my own life, Lord Finnegan.’ She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, and in doing it was almost as if she was repairing herself. When those eyes opened again there were no more tears there. ‘I shall buy a house, Lord Finnegan. A fine house. And I shall live in it. I am not a doormat any longer. The new improved Evie Bradshaw is resilient and determined. This is only a setback—not a defeat. In the meantime, I shall take rooms at the inn.’

She stood up then, smoothed down her skirts and started to walk back towards the hill. Whilst he admired her tenacity, her lofty plan was flawed. ‘It could take many weeks, months even, to find a house and complete the sale. Your aunt cannot stay all that time in an inn.’

‘My great-aunt is made of stern stuff, Lord Finnegan. We will do well enough whilst we wait. Besides, I would not send her back to Hyacinth. That woman is a nasty bully.’

A nasty bully? The way she said it suggested she had been on the receiving end of such harsh treatment. A new knot of guilt was forming in Finn’s gut.

‘There is no need to send your aunt back to Hyacinth Whoever-She-Is.’ Good heavens, what was he saying? ‘And there is no need for either of you to go to the inn. Under the circumstances...’ Stop, man—before you say something that you know you will regret! ‘...and as we are to be brother and sister, I would prefer it if you stayed at Matlock House while you search for a new home.’

Finn stared at the sky and cursed his parents for bringing him up to have good manners.

She stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘I do not wish to inconvenience you, Lord Finnegan.’ But there was hope sparkling in those golden-flecked eyes again and he did not want to be the one to dash it.

‘It is not an inconvenience, madam. Just do not expect me to be a good-humoured host.’

When she rushed at him and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek in gratitude, Finn had the overwhelming urge to respond in kind. Except it was not her cheek he wanted to kiss. Instead, he stood stiffly and hoped that the sale would go through more swiftly than any sale had ever gone through before. ‘I suppose we should head back.’ His voice sounded gruff and she disentangled her lush body from his. Instantly, he had the overwhelming desire to pull her back, but resisted.

They set off up the hill and his brother’s fiancée could not stop smiling. And perhaps smiling was contagious because Finn felt the urge to smile back at her. Clearly doing good deeds warmed the heart and his cold, shrivelled heart felt inordinately pleased with itself.

‘Now that you are no longer a doormat, what will you do with your days?’

‘I intend to do whatever takes my particular fancy rather than Hyacinth’s. I am tired of being dragged around town while she makes endless calls on people who are always glad to see the back of us. I hate balls and parties and sitting with the wallflowers. So you see, Lord Finnegan, by contrast this place is paradise. I shall paint outdoors, sing folk songs loudly, wear unsuitable gowns...’

‘The one you are wearing is quite unsuitable enough. It does not fit and it is ugly.’

‘You are a very rude man, Lord Finnegan.’ But she was smiling as she said it.

‘Perhaps. Would you prefer me to lie to you with idle flattery? I assumed that the new and empowered Miss Bradshaw would have the gumption to insist on complete honesty.’

‘I do not have the right figure for gowns to fit properly.’

‘Any decent dressmaker could make you a gown that fits properly. That abomination is shapeless and far too capacious.’

She stiffened in outrage but the faint blush that stained her cheeks was actually very becoming and certainly something that she should do more often. ‘More fabric is flattering to someone with a more generous figure!’

Knowing full well what lay under all of those acres of stiff fabric, Finn was inclined to disagree. ‘Is that one of your awful stepmother’s pearls of wisdom?’

She paused thoughtfully before answering. ‘Yes, it is! And as I am no longer a doormat, I should probably ignore all of her advice going forward. I shall find a new dressmaker as well as a new house.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Her good mood was infectious. ‘Perhaps you should find a new fiancé while you are about it?’

She simply grinned at that and chatted about everything and nothing all of the way home while she idly picked wild flowers that he wanted to weave into her hair.

Chapter Six

Over the course of the next week, Evie fell into a new routine which she rather enjoyed. Because she was an early riser, most mornings she collided with her surly host over breakfast. Usually he was gruff and forthright, occasionally sarcastic, but he never failed to look at whatever gown she wore with utter disgust. This appraisal was always accompanied with one cutting word, although the choice of word varied. Yesterday it had been dull, the day before it had been foul. Hideous, matronly and only one two-word insult—good grief!—had also featured in his daily criticism.

Yet those cutting words somehow spurred her to be the better, braver Evie Bradshaw. The no-longer-a-doormat Evie Bradshaw that she wanted to be. Yes, he criticised her appearance much like Hyacinth had, but her stepmother had criticised Evie personally: her face, her figure, her hair; his criticism was directed solely at the awful gowns Hyacinth had chosen for her. Gowns that Evie had always hated, but had been conditioned to believe were the best she could expect when she was as unfortunately shaped as she was—Lord Finnegan, in his own curt, unfriendly manner, made her wonder if perhaps Hyacinth might have dressed her like that on purpose, which, strangely, motivated her to undo that damage.

Underneath all of that surliness, he was occasionally uncharacteristically considerate, although he did his best not to show it. If he saw her nibbling on toast he put bacon on her plate; he was kind to Aunt Winnie, even though he pretended to be completely put upon. Aunt Winnie insulted him playfully and he gave as good as he got. But even when he was being sociable he never laughed and even the rare approximations of a smile were few and far between. At all costs he avoided them.

Aside from breakfast, the only time Evie got to see him was in passing because he gave his guests a very wide berth. He never ate dinner with them, preferring to take a tray into his study rather than sit down with them, and he apparently never ventured into the bright and airy drawing room at any time of the day. Whether that was because he really had no desire to have anything more to do with them than was necessary, Evie could not say, but she much preferred those few minutes with him in the breakfast room to the hours she sat in the drawing room with Aunt Winnie.

The housekeeper had explained her master’s reluctance to go into that room was because it reminded him too much of his beloved wife. Hardly a surprise when the room was dominated by a large painting of a lovely blonde-haired young woman with a butterfly perched in her open hands.

His wife.

Olivia Grace Matlock.

Perhaps it was the butterfly, when Evie was merely a moth, or perhaps it was the fact that the ethereal beauty of the woman made Evie feel plainer than usual, or perhaps it was the fact that she suspected that this woman still haunted this house and its surly owner—whatever it was, the drawing room was intimidating. And she quite missed his company there.

When their paths did cross, he would engage in brief, usually curt, conversation and then he would take himself off to his study and she would not see him again until the following morning. Though as silly as it was, Evie really looked forward to those mornings. Later in the day, when he was tired, there was an air of sadness about him, almost as if he was already quite done with the day and the effort of being part of it. But in the mornings, he seemed less burdened, much as Evie was feeling decidedly less burdened with each day that passed that she was not in London. Already she had made inroads into the huge task of restarting her life.

The same day that Finn had agreed to allow her to stay had been the very same day that she had made an appointment to visit a dressmaker.