Page 58 of Calling on the Matchmaker
“Then say it, Finola.” In the darkness of the evening, his handsome face was taut and his eyes nearly black.
“Say what?”
“That you don’t care for me and don’t want to be with me. If you say it, I’ll walk away and never bother you again.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she rapidly blinked them back. She couldn’t let him think she had regrets even though she did.
“Say it,” he demanded harshly.
A sob pushed up, and she fought for a breath. Then she forced out the final words, the ones that would make him leave her and sever all connections. “I don’t care for you and don’t want to be with you.”
She didn’t wait for him to reply. Instead, she climbed out of the gig and practically ran across the flagstone path to the frontdoor, unable to keep the tears from rolling down her cheeks any longer.
She didn’t look back at him, didn’t want him to see her crying, didn’t want to see the pain etched in his expression and know that she’d put it there.
As she reached for the front door handle, Winston swung it wide and stepped aside for her to enter, obviously having been watching her interaction with Riley, perhaps tasked by Da or Kiernan to report to them with details.
Tonight there would be no tales of stolen kisses or shared intimacy or even flirty conversations. No, the only tales to report were of sadness. And if Winston didn’t know it yet, he would from the tears streaking her face.
As he moved to close the door, she almost reached out to stop him, had the urge to rush back outside and tell Riley she’d made a mistake. But the servant seemed in a hurry. As he turned to her, only then did she notice the absolute stillness and silence of the house.
“There is a case of cholera in the neighborhood.” Winston spoke gravely. “And your father has taken the rest of the family and staff away, out of the city to the country house to escape the disease.”
Finola’s knees shook, not from the news of the cholera spreading. As bad as that was, all she could think about was Riley riding away and never returning.
“Your father waited as long as he could for you to come home.” The servant glanced out the half-moon glass at the top of the door, likely watching Riley’s departure. “He would like you to pack your bags and be ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
She swiped at the tears on her cheeks, but more fell to replace them. She couldn’t leave the city. Couldn’t leave Riley.
But that’s exactly what she’d done already.
Before she could throw open the door and chase after him,she forced her way toward the stairway and raced up them as fast as her feet could carry her. She barely reached her bedroom before the sobs escaped. As she flung herself across the bed, she released the torrent. She’d not only broken his heart. She’d broken hers too.
20
Riley pushed his way through the crowded pub, his eyes on only one man. Bellamy McKenna. He didn’t greet anyone else and didn’t even stop to acknowledge the slaps of congratulations for rescuing the lad who’d fallen through the ice.
“Bellamy!” he bellowed above the racket.
The swarthy-skinned, dark-haired man was behind the bar counter in his usual spot, pouring drinks and making sure the establishment ran smoothly while Oscar sat at his back table surrounded on all sides by men waiting to talk to him, not only about making matches but also for advice. Those in any kind of trouble sought him out for his words of wisdom.
Riley crammed a hand into his hair. Should he seek out Oscar first for advice on how to handle Finola’s rejection? Maybe the fellow would be able to tell him how to stop his chest from feeling like it had been ripped out by a bear and clawed into tiny pieces. His entire body burned. His head pounded. And his throat ached with the need to rage with the storm of emotions ravaging him.
“Bellamy!” he roared louder.
This time the younger matchmaker glanced up and gave him a nod while he finished pouring a shot of Irish whiskey.
Riley shoved through the throng the last few steps to the bar counter, staggering as if he’d already guzzled several pints. The men seated on the stools called out welcomes to him and moved aside good-naturedly, among them old Georgie McGuire with his mostly toothless grin and pale red cowlick sticking on end.
But tonight, Riley couldn’t muster any cheer in response. Instead, he pounded a fist on the counter, causing glasses and bottles to rattle. “Bellamy.”
Georgie pounded his hand on the counter too. “Bellamy, Saint Riley is calling for you.”
Bellamy crossed his arms casually and then quirked one of his brows. “Riley Rafferty, my name hasn’t changed in all the three times you’ve used it since walking in the door. If you be wanting something, just spit it out, why don’t you?”
“Yes, I want something!” He thumped his fist again, and this time the patrons grew quiet, clearly sensing his inner turmoil. Either that or he had a face like a bulldog licking pickle juice off a nettle.
He wouldn’t be surprised if it was both cases. After waiting outside the Shanahan residence for way longer than he should have, praying that Finola would come to her senses, rush out, and tell him she’d been wrong, he’d swallowed the lump the size of a boiled cabbage in his throat. He’d driven around trying to figure out what to do. But all the while, he’d only grown more agitated and confused and frantic.
