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“Perhaps you should introduce us,” he said to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
The lady’s teacup clinked in her saucer. “Lady Crewood, this is the newly vested Duke of Embleton, Matthew Rydell. Your Grace, Lady Crewood, Sarah Ainsworth.”
Behind the veil, wide eyes blinked. “A duke? Why is he here?”
Matthew’s mouth jerked. “My brother has had business with Mrs. Dove-Lyon before. He suggested I meet with her.”
Lady Crewood did not move. “Why?”
“Because I need a wife. Quickly.”
A step backward followed a quick gasp. “Why?”
Matthew motioned at the two chairs in front of the desk. “May we sit?”
“I do not think—”
“Sit, girl,” commanded Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and the lady dropped into her armchair as if her knees had broken. She folded her arms over her stomach, pressing her reticule against her body. A trapped animal.
Matthew sat as well, albeit more gingerly. “I am only recently the duke. I am a soldier, an officer under Wellington. He has asked me to join him in France, which I greatly desire to do. But my mother is relentless, convinced that I need a wife and an heir as soon as possible. I have no interest in Society or balls or any of the courtship madness of the Marriage Mart. If I am to find a wife, I need to circumvent all of that. My requirements are few. I need someone who is healthy and frugal, as well as smart and determined enough to run an estate when I am not in residence. If she is from the aristocracy, that is a benefit but not necessary, as long as she understands the nature of London Society. I would prefer she not require a large Society wedding, as the planning for such is too extensive and time consuming. A dowry is unnecessary.” Matthew let out a long breath. He had rehearsed that speech for two days. He hoped it was convincing.
But Lady Crewood merely stared at him. “So. A business arrangement.”
He glanced at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, whose face, what he could see of it, held no expression. For the first time, his own determination skipped a beat. Despite what he had been told, this was all a surprise to Lady Crewood. His jaw tightened. “Yes. Of course. That’s what I believe a good marriage should be. I am a duke—and a soldier—not a love-sighing schoolboy. I will be away a great deal, and my wife will have charge of my younger siblings and my mother.”
“It would be a good position for you.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s steady voice remained calm. “A stable one. With a good future.”
Lady Crewood shook her head. “I do not think this is a wise idea.”
“Why not?” Matthew leaned forward. “Do you not think you would be a good wife or is that you do not think I would be a good husband?”
She shook her head. “I do not know you, Your Grace. I have no opinion of your qualities or character.” She took a shaky breath. “But I cannot see myself as a wife. To anyone. I do not know if I could bear having a man—any man—touch me.”
“Why not?”
She gestured at the veil. “I wear this for a reason beyond being a widow.”
“Then take it off.”
She stood again, back away from him. “I do not—”
“Let him see, Sarah.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s gentle words barely reached his ears. “Let him see why you would refuse him.”
Lady Crewood took another step away from the desk, moving into the shadows. After a moment she stilled, her gaze on the floor. Then she reached up and removed the veil.
Matthew rose and went to her. Even in the dim light, he could see the pink and white puckered skin that covered the right side of her face, starting at her hairline and moving across her cheek and down her jawline, disappearing into the high neck of her dress. He had seen dozens of such wounds before, mostly on the battlefield. A burn. A bad one. But it had been healed for some time.
He fought the sudden urge to touch her, to comfort her. But her earlier words rang true. She did not want his pity. And Matthew realized he liked this woman more than he had expected to when Mrs. Dove-Lyon had described her to him. For her to go from this injury to where she was now represented a fierceness he could admire.
“How far down does this go?”
Her pinched voice grated. “Down my arm and side, onto my hip and thigh.”
“And how did it happen?”
“My husband pushed me into the fire grate. My dress caught.”
Matthew’s chest tightened. “Bloody shit-sack.”
