He heard her soft inhalation of breath and wished the coach would stop long enough for him to kiss her. When it stuttered to a halt, he glanced out the window to discover they had arrived at Wingfield House.
“Thisis your townhouse?” Catherine asked, her gaze on the tony building located near Park Lane and the Stanhope Gate to Hyde Park.
“Yours, too, if we marry,” he replied, wincing when he realized he was attempting to bribe her into marrying him. He might not have money, but he did have accommodations, and at the moment, he wasn’t adverse to dangling them as an incentive.
As they waited for the driver to open the door, the unmistakable sounds of horses’ hooves and another town coach passed by. Matthew wouldn’t have paid it any mind but for the brief flash of gold from the coat of arms painted on its door.
He was about to say it was good to see he wasn’t the only aristocrat in town when he remembered he couldn’t—not without giving away his true identity.
Chapter Nineteen
One Office, One Kiss
Catherine pulled thehood of her mantle over her hat before she gripped Matthew’s proffered hand and stepped down from the town coach. Her gaze immediately lifted to take in the white townhouse’s four stories above ground, their windows trimmed in black. There was also a below-ground level. The royal-blue-painted front door was lit by a gas lamp post located in front of the area and next to a walkway made up of patterned pavers. Snowflakes showed as glitter as they cascaded through the gaslight.
She glanced over at Matthew as a cloud of white formed between them. “How many farms do you own?” she asked in a whisper, immediately deciding this address for a publishing company would be far more lucrative than one found in Paternoster Row. Mayhap not as convenient for the other aspects of the business, but the first impressions formed when meeting with authors would be worth it.
Matthew chuckled, which had another white cloud forming in front of them. He quickly ushered her toward the house. “A few,” he replied, in response to her query.
Before they even reached the door, it opened, and a butler appeared and bowed. She wasn’t surprised when he momentarily displayed his own look of surprise. His expression soon schooled into that of an unflappable butler, and Catherine resisted the urge to tease the older servant.
“Miss Catherine Kingston, may I have the honor of introducing you to Chessings? He is the butler both here and at the manor house in Berkshire,” Matthew said by way of introduction. He took off his caped greatcoat and handed it to the butler.
“Chessings,” Catherine acknowledged with a nod.
“It is my honor, my lady. May I take your wrap?”
My lady?Catherine glanced at Matthew before saying, “I don’t expect to be here long, but thank you.” She pulled her gloves from her hands and stuffed them into the pockets of her mantle.
The butler appeared momentarily offended.
“Miss Kingston is here to take a look at the front salon,” Matthew explained. “If it’s to her liking, she will use it as her office for her publishing concern.”
Chessings nodded. Overhead, the candles in the hall chandelier were still alight, but he lifted a lit lantern from the hall table and hurried ahead of them. “I’m afraid the Dutch cloths are still in place in the salon, sir,” he warned.
“Oh, please don’t concern yourself with removing them,” Catherine said. “I only wish to see the room.”
Opening the door to the salon, Chessings stepped in to place the lantern on a low table before he moved aside.
“That will be all this evening,” Matthew said, directing his comment to the butler. “I can let myself in and lock up after I return from dropping Miss Kingston at her home.”
“Very good, sir.” The servant disappeared as Matthew followed Catherine into the salon.
Before she had even made it halfway into the room, she whirled around to face him. “This is beautiful,” she said. Turning toward the front window, she hurried to where green velvet drapes framed the glass planes and sheer white fabric hung in even folds to the floor. Beneath her half-booted feet, a Turkishcarpet covered most of the floor, but beyond its edges, she could make out white tiles. “Is the floor marble?”
“It is. Same as what’s in the hall,” Matthew replied. “I think my mother might have used this salon as a parlor at one time. For the older ladies who had trouble with stairs.”
“What do you use it for now?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Oh, Mr. Higby, this is…” She turned to face him and discovered she was nearly touching the front of his body.
“Call me Matthew,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper.
Her eyes widened. “Matthew,” she said. “This is… perfect.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” he said, one of his hands moving to cup the back of her elbow through her mantle. “May I kiss you?”
