The Matchmaker's Match
Lydia was watching her, a curious quirk to her brows.
“What?” asked Amelia.
“Do not sound so cross. I am simply flummoxed.”
It was Amelia’s turn to raise a brow.
“I believe it was only this morning that you specifically told me to disregard politics as a conversational tool.”
“He asked me first,” Amelia pointed out. “Furthermore, I am not on the marriage mart. I have no need to curtail my tongue in those matters.”
“I see.”
“Good.” Amelia frowned. She did not like the satisfied look upon Lydia’s face. It was almost as if she was suggesting...something. Amelia did not quite know what her cousin implied, but she felt that it was threatening somehow.
While Lydia thumbed through the evening’s schedule, Amelia snuck a glance at Lord Ashwhite. His profile was exceedingly handsome. As she looked, she felt those butterflies again, and that was when the knowledge came upon her.
She was attracted to Lord Ashwhite.
An honest-to-goodness affinity for the marquis.
She pressed a palm against her stomach and looked away. Surely it could not be so. Why, she had not felt a passing interest for any man in years. Not since Lord Markham, who’d teased her and danced with her, his dimpled smile charming her into believing he held more regard for her than he really did.
She’d told him all about her dreams. Her aspirations to change society, to make life better for others, and he’d listened. He’d listened so well she thought he actually loved her.
The remembrance of his attentiveness brought a sour feeling to her stomach.
No, attraction was deceptive. True love did not involve the senses but rather actions. She nodded. She would not respond to this absurd feeling burgeoning within. Her goals for life did not include a husband.
Home involved paintings and letters and books. Not a husband. Why, did she want to end up like Eversham? A man who’d always been strong-minded and progressive? Now look at him. A poor sot chained to his wife’s side, doing her bidding, forcing his sister, his very own twin, into drastic measures just to preserve her way of life?
She thought not. And that was why she wouldn’t gawk at Lord Ashwhite, let alone engage in conversation with him. At this time her emotions could not be trusted, and she certainly did not want them to interfere with her plans.
The lights lowered, and the play began. Something about one of the actresses niggled at her memory, but she couldn’t place her. Eventually the story line pulled her in, and the night passed with laughter, temporarily relieving her from the worry that had gnawed at her since her brother’s visit.
Despite her interest in the play, she never forgot who sat beside her. His laugh was low and contagious, and she discovered that they invariably laughed at the same lines.
Finally the play ended. As they rose from their seats, she felt a tap upon her shoulder. She turned and found Lord Ashwhite studying her closely.
“My lady,” he said, voice serious, “I would have a word with you.”
“Privately?” Her gaze shifted to where Eversham was busy helping his wife.
“Yes.”
She blinked. Oh, dear, this was not going as planned. She could feel those exuberant butterflies waltzing within. Heart pounding, and despite her better judgment, she nodded.
His hand pressed gently against her back as he guided her toward the box’s exit. She shot Lydia a glance, but her cousin had become entangled in a conversation with Lady Eversham.
Slipping out, she gave Lord Ashwhite a bland look. Best to keep her voice modulated, as well. She did not want to give away her nerves in his presence. They were jangling wildly and affecting her ability to think clearly.
“How may I help you, my lord?”
He moved closer and glanced furtively about the theater before meeting her gaze square on. “I am in need of your services.”
Baffled, she couldn’t help squinting at him through her spectacles.
He chuckled. “You heard me correctly. At the present moment, I find myself in a quandary that I think only you will be able to help me out of. My lady—” his grin faded “—how much would it cost for you to find me a wife?”
* * *
Spencer repressed a smirk at the stunned expression crossing Lady Amelia’s face. Indeed, her lovely mouth rounded as if she’d forgotten those manners she seemed to pride herself on. Then she drew herself up, and her eyes flashed beneath the lowered lights of the theater.
“Sir, you are mistaken.” Her nose lifted, though she couldn’t possibly look down at him from her spectacles because he towered over her. He had the feeling she wished he would shrink. “I am not for hire.”
He allowed his lips to tilt in a mocking smile. From experience, he knew women tended to be partial to his smiles. Lady Amelia would be no exception. “Come, now, my lady, that is an untruth.”
“I beg your pardon?” She had the audacity to look shocked. The fan she’d been gripping tightly waved about her face, which was turning an attractive shade of pink.
There was something about her movements as she fanned herself, something both hurried and graceful. His gaze rested upon her fingers. Discoloration marked the tips of her nail beds. Oil paint residue? It must be costly to paint...
“I believe you heard me quite clearly and are being deliberately obtuse,” he said.
She gasped, and her fan picked up its pace.
“In fact, if I were a wagering man, which I’m not, I’d say you are most definitely for hire, but the fact you wish to conceal this is intriguing.” The purse of her lips was distracting him. Her eyes were indignant behind the spectacles, but even more, there seemed to be a spark of curiosity there.
“My lord.” Her gaze darted past him to the opening of her brother’s box. “I am not in the habit of finding wives.” She pinned him with a severe look that made him want to laugh. “I beg you to forget this conversation and leave me be.”
Noise filled the space as Eversham, Harriet and Miss Stanley joined them.
“The play was ever so lovely. Do you not agree, my lord?” Miss Stanley batted her eyelashes at him, amusement playing about the corners of her mouth.
“It was,” he said, though he found his stare returning to Lady Amelia. Said lady appeared to be communicating with her brother via glares. Tension filled the air as the group fell silent.
“Well, I believe we shall be going. We have an early-morning stroll planned for tomorrow.” Miss Stanley linked her arm through Lady Amelia’s and flashed an even row of teeth. “I do hope we’ll see you again, Lord Ashwhite. Perhaps at Almack’s next week? We shall be there often, and I shall reserve a place on my card—” Her voice cut off suddenly, and then Lady Amelia bestowed a syrupy smile upon the group.
“Good evening, everyone.”
Was he mistaken or did Lady Amelia just forcibly nudge Miss Stanley to turn and leave? Unable to stop his grin, he watched the two depart.
“I do not understand why you invited her,” said Lady Eversham beneath her breath.
“You must get used to her presence.” Eversham’s voice held a stern note.
Lady Eversham’s eyes cut to Spencer then back to Eversham as if warning him to keep their personal matters out of public hearing. A mischievous streak prompted Spencer to speak.
“I quite enjoyed their company. Will Lady Amelia be living with you? Seeing her more often would boost my mood immensely.”
Eversham growled and stalked toward the theater’s exit. Lady Eversham kept quiet, confirming Spencer’s suspicions.
So the lady might have to move in with her brother and his difficult wife. What a dilemma. His mind raced as he followed them to their waiting curricle.
A dilemma for her, but for him, quite possibly the opportunity he needed to keep his estate.
Chapter Four
“There has to be a way out of this.” Spencer flexed his fingers and watched the lawyer carefully. After realizing the dearth of suitable ladies on the marriage mart and being subjected to Lady Amelia’s forceful refusal to help in his search for a wife, Spencer decided to call on the lawyer again. Perchance he’d misunderstood him on the first visit. Early-morning light slanted against the elderly man’s wig and outlined the offensive papers upon his desk.
“No, my lord. The will is airtight. You must find a wife within three months’ time or your entailed property will pass to your cousin, Lord Dudley.”
“He already has an earldom.” An earldom that was mismanaged, to say the least. “I will not lose Ashwhite to him. My father... I don’t know what he was thinking.” He ground his teeth. As always, his father had gone too far in meddling with his life. Even after death, the old man insisted on controlling things. “I will fight this.”
“Perhaps you should marry and be done with it.” The lawyer adjusted his spectacles, reminding Spencer of Lady Amelia’s refusal last night to help him.
He wondered what she might think of this clause in his father’s will. He focused on the lawyer. “When was this updated? Might it be said my father’s mental faculties were impaired when he wrote it?”
“When did you last see your father, if I may ask such a thing?” The lawyer’s quizzical gaze burned Spencer.
It had been too long. Guilt swept through Spencer and shook his resolve. He inclined his head, accepting the lawyer’s question with regret. “Four years.”
“I see.” The lawyer cleared his throat. “Well, your father was in the pink of health when he had his accident. The horse had to be put down, and it was the infection that took your father. I was there that last day, and his faculties were fully functional. The will was made a year ago, though, and has not been altered since.”
A year ago... Right about when Spencer had begun doubting his place in life. He’d had a particularly rough patch with gaming debts and irrational, clinging women. A brewing scandal had convinced him to take a little trip to the Americas...probably the best decision he’d ever made.
He frowned, tapping his fingers against his trousers.
“It looks as though I’m well and completely snookered,” he said. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. If I do not marry, what shall happen?”
“You will have the entailed property from your mother, and you shall keep your title as Earl of Hartsacre. There is no money with that property except for what it makes. Your standing would be diminished.”
Standing. Spencer grunted and pushed to his feet. He did not care a fig for social status, but he did love his home, and the thought of losing Ashwhite... He gripped the edges of his coat. It could not happen. He schooled his features and held out a hand. The lawyer stood and they shook.
“You may send a copy of the banns when you’ve found a bride, but keep in mind you must be married in three months’ time, not engaged.”
“I understand.” Spencer gave the lawyer a curt nod and let himself out.
If he was to save his property, then he must marry. And to marry, he must find a suitable bride. For all his travels and his transformation that had taken place in the Americas, he felt himself at a crossroads.
What would the God he’d chosen to follow in the Americas think of this choice to marry? Was marrying to keep his lands and fortune safe rather than for love acceptable? Falling in love was unlikely, but surely there must be something in the Bible about parameters for marrying. Talk to God. Confess to Him your needs.
The American preacher’s voice, filled with conviction, filtered through his memory. Perhaps prayer was the answer. Outside the office and right on the street, he closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Let it sink deep in his chest before exhaling.
Lord, the preacher said You know my desires and needs. Right now, more than anything, I’m in need of wisdom. And some help. Please show me the way, if You would?
Spencer opened his eyes. He waited and didn’t feel any kind of answer, but he did have a strange contentment that he must assume came from praying. Perhaps it was an answer in and of itself.
Smiling, Spencer relaxed. His friends might never believe him about this, but surely there was a God, and surely He heard prayers.
He walked to where he’d parked the phaeton. The morning mist felt cool upon his face, perfect weather for a quick ride around Hyde Park. He made sure his tiger, Jacob, was safely situated at the back of the phaeton before he snapped the reins. The bays launched into a steady prance, and his shoulders eased back. Confinement in his town house proved to be more stifling now. After a year in the Americas, that land of stubborn colonials, he’d come to appreciate the scent of fresh air and the wildness of being free.
For so many years, he’d wasted his mornings with sleep. Spent his evenings gaming and carousing with women of ill repute. Missed the golden drench of sunrise, the newness God brought each day. Even now it was hard to remember why he hadn’t thought of God, how he’d strolled through life living only in the moment, thankful for nothing, expecting everything.
He inhaled a deep breath of morning air, tasting its richness imbued with the flavor of summer flowers. Around him the streets remained quiet. It was the height of the Season, after all, and the ton and their servants would still be sleeping off their late nights.
One of his horses snuffled softly. This exercise would keep them strong and healthy. He turned them to circle the park and reminisced upon last night.
He’d gotten nowhere in talking to Eversham. His friend was being surprisingly tight-lipped about his sister and her situation. Maybe Waverly knew something, though he doubted it. While he’d been in the Americas discovering a new way of life, his friend Waverly had continued to stay busy following his normal, debauched path.
A path Spencer had stepped away from forever.
Thoughtful, he turned the bays in the direction of Mayfair. The one piece of information he’d received from Eversham last night was Lady Amelia’s address, though it had been reluctantly given and accompanied by a suspicious frown.
Spencer couldn’t stop his smirk.
Poor Eversham. On one side a needy spouse and on the other a far too independent sister. Spencer had always wanted siblings, but now he thought perhaps it was better he had none. They were far too emotionally costly. By the time he found Lady Amelia’s townhome, sunlight had melted away the mist and coaxed a fine layer of perspiration to his brow. He brought the phaeton to the curb. His tiger leaped down, and he handed the reins to him.
“Jacob, is it?” he asked as he climbed down.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Mrs. Cubb’s son? You’ve grown.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The young man flushed and bowed.
“Have you driven a phaeton before?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And can you handle these horses?”
Jacob’s eyes brightened. “That I can.”
“Be a good lad, then, and take my phaeton home for me. I shall walk back or catch a hackney.”
A mile-wide grin bunched the boy’s cheeks. Smiling, Spencer turned toward the house and listened as the phaeton pulled away. The joys of childhood left too quickly, as young Jacob would discover.
He rapped at the door, and an aging yet capable butler received him. After presenting his card, he followed the butler to a small library.
“Her ladyship may not be receiving callers today,” the butler told Spencer. “I shall return with an answer.”
“Thank you.” Spencer took a seat and looked around. Evidently Lady Amelia appreciated literature. Her library was...excessive. Books not only lined the walls but also topped every table in the room. Some of the shelves held double rows of books.
Intriguing.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever met a woman before who read so very much. Then again, most of his intimates had not been keen on intellectual discussions. He frowned, remembering his former ways.
Many had called him a rake. Maybe that was why his father had added the marriage clause to his will. Spencer hoped his reputation wouldn’t impede any progress in the marriage quest.
The door to the library opened once again. The butler gave him a steady look. “Lady Amelia is indisposed and wishes for you to return at a later time.”
Spencer bit back a sudden grin. So that was how she intended to play things? Well, Lady Amelia was sadly mistaken if she thought she could ignore him. He had too much to lose to fall over and play dead to her whims.
He arched a brow, leaned back and propped one ankle across the other. “I shall wait.”
The butler tilted his head. “Her ladyship does not wish to be disturbed.”
Knowing it was the height of rudeness and not caring one whit, Spencer gave him a slow, lazy smile. “I’ve come to discuss important business. If she will not see me this morning, then I shall wait until this afternoon. And if not this afternoon, then I shall arrive again the next morning. I shall come every day until Lady Amelia recovers from her indisposition and is ready to receive my call.”
To his surprise, the old butler chuckled. “I will give her the message, my lord.”
“Very good.” And he settled back, certain he would not have to wait long.
* * *
“My lady.”
The whispered words filtered through the haze of sleep anchoring Amelia to her bed. Her blankets bunched up around her, creating a comfortable haven of warmth. She scrunched her eyes closed, praying she had only dreamed the sound of Dukes’s voice. Now, where had she been... Oh, yes, dancing. She burrowed into her pillow, remembering that delicious low rumble of her partner’s voice...
“My lady, I apologize, but Lord Ashwhite is in the library.”
She groaned. “Again?”
’Twas the third day the persistent man had shown up at her doorstep. Yesterday he’d stayed until evening. Abominable creature. She groaned again and pressed her face against the pillow.
“My lady, shall I tell him you’re indisposed?”
“Please,” she whispered. Two could play at this game. Perhaps if she didn’t know what he wanted, she might be compelled by curiosity to see him, but the problem remained that she did know, and she could not help him.
Aiding Cousin Lydia was risky enough, especially since she wasn’t receiving a payment for her services. As much as she needed the money, she certainly could not allow Eversham’s best friend to hire her. When her brother found out, then her fate would be sealed. Her independence decimated by Harriet’s voracious need for control.
The sound of something plopping against her coverlets raised her head.
“My lady,” Dukes said. “I’ve brought your morning mail in case you do not plan to leave your room again.”
“Thank you.” She pulled the covers over her head, scowling into the darkness. How uncouth of Lord Ashwhite, how utterly irritating, that he persisted in this nonsense. She refused to be bound to her bedroom simply because he could not take no for an answer.
On the other hand, she had no wish to face him. It was bad enough that she dreamed of his voice, but to look into that startling, laughing green gaze of his and refuse to help might be her undoing.
If he wasn’t her brother’s good friend, she’d call the constable...oh, no.
She was to meet with her Bow Street runner today regarding Lord Dudley!
She whipped into a sitting position, startling the stack of mail into slipping off the bed. It crashed to the floor. Her hair knotted about her head in a wild mass that divided her line of vision. She swiped it away and jumped out of bed, almost colliding with the boudoir as she rang for Sally.
While waiting, she scooped up the mail. Nothing important except a letter from her brother. She sighed, went to her vanity and plucked up her letter opener. She slit the envelope and read his scrawling script, each of his words tightening her chest until she felt as though she wore a corset three sizes too small.
She closed her eyes. Deep breaths. It would not do to have a fit of the vapors. Her fingers clenched the letter opener. The cool metal dug into her skin. She would not be hysterical. She would not.
Her brother’s threats to end her life as she knew it, forcing her into that cage he called a home, were not idle after all. His demand that she pack within the week was ludicrous.
He cared not that she wasn’t earning money helping Lydia. He only worried for their family’s reputation...a reputation that was perfectly unharmed by her actions. He and Harriet were behaving in such an unreasonable way.
“My lady, are you all right?” Sally stood in the doorway, brow puckered.
“Perfectly fine,” she answered crisply. She would not allow Eversham to bully her. Surely she could make him see reason. “I need my hair done quickly, though, not a moment to lose, for I must find my brother and talk some sense into him. And could you ask Dukes to keep Lord Ashwhite in the library? It appears I’ll need to speak with him after all.”
Not only that, but her Bow Street runner was scheduled to arrive at ten o’clock. It wasn’t like her to be so disorganized. She frowned as she looked for a dress to wear. Perhaps a modest muslin of a robust shade. Something to lift her mood and give her confidence for the battle to come.
Thirty minutes later, armed with her spectacles and a magnificent fan she’d bought with Cousin Lydia in Bath, Amelia descended the stairs and marched into the library.
As expected, Lord Ashwhite lounged in a chair. Unexpectedly, he held one of her novels in his hands. Open.
Her eyes narrowed. “You wished to see me?”
“Two days ago.” In a smoothly relaxed move, he laid the book, facedown, on the side table. He regarded her with laughing eyes. “Do you read much of that rubbish?”
Cheeks burning, Amelia set her jaw. “My reading materials are none of your concern.”
“Should I hire you—and after reading that, it’s a questionable venture—I would need to know that your ability to pick a spouse is not based on some impractical frippery that only exists within a woman’s imagination.” He tented his fingers. “Or perhaps these stories inspire you?”
His languid tone, the way his lips curved as if he were trying to hold his laugh in, set her teeth on edge. His aristocratic snobbery filled her with a sizzling need to throw a book at his head, which she didn’t understand. Why, she barely knew this man. She’d shared one dance with him, had one conversation, and yet she was beginning to comprehend why the jewel-laden woman at the ball the other night had slapped him.
Wetting her lips, she moved farther into the room. “As you are a good friend to my brother, I will pretend you have not insulted me within my own home. I will overlook the fact that you’ve been rude and hostile, and I will answer your questions. But first, have you need of refreshment? Surely the time you’ve spent encamping in my home has famished you?” She ended with a soft little smile even though she was seething on the inside. And those butterflies were waltzing in her stomach again, aggravating her even more. Her fingers clenched within the folds of her dress.
He studied her, the posture of his hands suggesting a more serious mood. Good. She could handle a man with a real goal, but a tease? No, she was ill equipped for that. Her mind flashed back to Lord Markham, and she grimaced.
“I am in no need of refreshment, my lady.” Lord Ashwhite stood and pointed to the other chair. “Would you care to have a seat so that we might discuss business?”
“We have nothing to discuss. You have asked and I have declined.”
“These books look costly.” Lord Ashwhite ran a supine finger down the length of her bookcase. “Does the money you receive from your brother cover your purchases?”
“That is hardly your concern.” But she found herself captivated by the movements of his hand. He touched her books lovingly, as a man who understood the value of such things.
“There is no Lord Byron here,” he murmured.