The Matchmaker's Match Read online

  “You really have changed...but for how long?” Waverly followed his gaze. “She’s a fine-looking lady. If I was in the mood for a wife, I’d take that one.”

  “Yes, she’s intriguing.”

  “Who needs intriguing when you have beauty like that?” Waverly grinned. “Those blond curls are artfully designed to trap a man, along with his fortune.”

  Spencer’s chin snapped up. His friend obviously had focused on Lady Amelia’s cousin.

  “The plain one is Eversham’s twin sister, you know.”

  “Indeed?” Spencer tried to keep the shock from his voice. “Our friend Eversham? She’s the one...”

  “Yes, she’s that one. Difficult and independent. Refuses to do anything he says. A bluestocking of the spinster sort, if you ask me.”

  She sounded like Spencer’s mother, and he had no patience for women like that. His mother was gallivanting on the Continent at this very moment, and who knew when she’d decide to return to her home.

  “The lady appears benign.” His eyes narrowed on the subject of their conversation. Perhaps not so benign after all. There was a purposeful air to her as she scanned the ballroom. Like a hound nosing for a fox. He’d seen that look on his mother far too often for comfort.

  “Ha, that’s not what Eversham says. Though he doesn’t talk much of her, apparently there was a small ruckus last week, and when we met at White’s for coffee, he acted distraught.” Waverly pulled out his pocket watch. “Time for a bit of sport. You’re sure you won’t come?”

  Spencer shook his head. “I’ll meet you at White’s tomorrow. I need your and Eversham’s help with something.”

  “That sounds alarming.”

  “Quite.” He felt a glower tugging at his brow. “I met with the family lawyer today. I’ll give you details tomorrow, but in the meantime, keep an ear open for eligible ladies in need of a husband.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to get leg shackled?” Poor Waverly sounded distressed.

  “Indeed,” Spencer answered grimly. “And I’ve less than three months to do it.”

  Chapter Two

  “Do you suppose I shall ever have a waltz?” Cousin Lydia swirled around the morning room, her dress fluttering precariously close to the sideboard.

  “It is an impractical dance and frowned upon for a young miss fresh in her first Season.” Amelia plucked a piece of bacon for her plate and tried to dismiss the sudden memory of Lord Ashwhite’s hand upon her sleeve last night. She’d realized why his name prodded her conscious. He was an old friend of her brother’s but had just now come into his title, hence the change of names. She knew him as Mr. Broyhill.

  She eyed Lydia. “Why are you daydreaming about such a thing when we’ve other goals to pursue?”

  “Oh, I don’t know...” Lydia shrugged. “I suppose I feel like an ox on the market. Picked at and looked over. It is all decidedly unromantic.”

  “Which is why we will find you the perfect gentleman for your nature. He will bring you flowers in the morning and write verses devoted to your fair beauty every day.” Amelia smothered her smile as she sat at the small table to read The Morning Gazette. She took out the gossip column and set it to the side. Sunlight bathed the simple furniture in a lovely hue perfect for a painting. Perhaps today she would have time to take out her easel and paints.

  “You aren’t going to read this?” Lydia flipped up the gossip column. “Why, Lord Ca—”

  “Stop at once.” Amelia held up her hand. “I do not partake in gossip.”

  “Why, Amelia, are you serious? Never?”

  “Never,” she pronounced, careful to add stiffness to her tone. If there was one thing that rankled her more than anything, it was the idle chatter of busybodies. She’d much rather gather the hard facts, not emotional speculations.

  “But how do you find husbands? How will you know their worth?”

  “Certainly their worth won’t be determined by what others say about them. Would you please sit down? You’re making me quite dizzy.”

  Lydia flounced into the chair beside her, a pout upon her pretty features. “I am not sure I want to be married, Amelia.”

  “Then, why do you partake of my services?” She took a bite of her bacon. Perfectly crisp and delicious. She must find a way to give a bonus to Martha for being such a wonderful cook. Perhaps if she could sell a painting soon...

  “It seemed a promising idea. After my dreadful mistake, I thought perhaps I’d need help on the marriage mart. Father and Mother agreed.”

  “Your mistake was minor and quickly forgotten. Just do not take any more moonlit walks without a chaperone and mind your tongue.”

  “He deserved a dressing-down for taking liberties with my person.” Lydia’s eyes flashed with pique.

  “A good swat with your fan works wonders. A true lady does not lose her temper in public and call a suitor ungentlemanly names.”

  Lydia uttered an amazingly loud sigh.

  Ignoring the melodramatic response, Amelia continued, “In the meantime, we shall work with what we have. My particular specialty is providing young ladies with a love match.” Amelia met Lydia’s gaze. Her eyes were a delightful cornflower blue most men would adore gawping at. “You will not have a problem attracting admirers, but to find a man who sees past your outer beauty...that is our challenge.”

  “There may not be much beyond my face.” A glum note entered Lydia’s tone.

  “Come, now.” Amelia touched her hand. “You are intelligent and lively. A good man appreciates those qualities.”

  “And why are you not married? You possess those qualities in abundance.”

  Amelia tried not to groan. She finished her bacon and patted her mouth with a delicate napkin. “This is a conversation about you and not about my marital status. I am perfectly happy with the shelf I have set myself upon.”

  “Is that so?” A mischievous spark glinted in Lydia’s eyes. She leaned across the table. “Then, why did I see you dancing last night? And with an eligible marquis, no less?” A smirk hovered across her face.

  “That was nothing,” Amelia said firmly, though her nerves felt afire. “I saw an overzealous suitor practically running toward me and needed an escape route. Lord Ashwhite is an old friend of my brother’s. Dancing was a deviance from the norm, I assure you.”

  “I have never seen you dance before. You were lovely. So very graceful. The gentleman looked quite enraptured with you.”

  “Oh, stuff and nonsense.” Amelia stood quickly, unsure why she felt so skittish. “We have much to accomplish today. A new gown for next week’s ball and then the theatre tonight. I am hoping you shall see Lord Dudley there. What did you think of him, cousin?”

  Lydia stood as well and rounded the table.

  “He is nice enough, but I think we should keep our options open,” she said as they walked to the small library on the other side of Amelia’s modest townhome.

  She was fortunate the stipend her brother gave her covered the cost of maintaining her own house. The home was located at the edge of Mayfair, a distinguished and safe neighborhood, and whilst small, suited her purposes most admirably. She enjoyed the privacy and location, not to mention the salon boasting huge windows that let in a good deal of light, perfect for her paintings.

  Her allowance also provided for a cook, a butler and a housemaid. She needed her side career of matchmaking only for paints, canvases and good deeds. And once in a while, a new gown. She’d started her business two years prior and had no plans to end it.

  She and Lydia spent the rest of the morning practicing an assortment of fine arts every lady must know. As the oldest child of a country baron, Lydia lacked some of the refinement a lady of the ton demonstrated, but Amelia was confident she’d learn quickly. She’d begun her lessons last week. Her mistake was the reason she’d been pulled out of finishing school. Her parents had decided a personal tutor would work better. Thanks to a successful matchmaking assignment, Amelia’s services had been recommended t
o them.

  Unbeknownst to Lydia, Amelia was not charging her parents. She was family after all. This put her in a bit of a bind, but she hoped a sold painting might put her in a more comfortable spot until a new client came along.

  After discussing subject matter a lady should and should not indulge in while conversing, Cousin Lydia left with her parents to go back to the townhome they rented during the Season.

  Amelia exhaled with relief when the lessons ended. She detested how ladies must be bound by proprieties men did not observe, but it was the society in which she lived, and if Lydia wished to flourish in this society, she’d have to know the rules before she could break them.

  Pursing her lips, Amelia went to her writing desk situated near a window. Speaking of rules, she had a few complaints to send to the House of Lords. Not that anyone there would take her seriously, but she meant to irritate them. Then she’d plant a few nuggets in their wives’ ears.

  Perhaps next week at Almack’s. She’d finally gotten the invitation for Lydia, and she did not intend to miss such a prodigious opportunity. If Lydia did not wish to know Lord Dudley better, then Almack’s might present a whole new round of young men for her perusal.

  Love blossomed when least expected. It could not be forced, though. How she wished it could. Her thoughts wandered to the past, to the man whom she tried so very hard not to remember. Their last dance...

  Dipping her quill, she forced herself to concentrate on her letters. What was past was past. There was nothing to fill that broken space within.

  As she finished her final letter—more a rant, really—her butler, Dukes, poked his head into her study.

  “My lady,” he said softly, his voice as old as his age. “Lord Dudley left his card.”

  “You may dispose of it, Dukes. I shan’t be seeing him.” The man could not take a hint, it seemed. She did not wish to be cruel, but considering her plans for Lydia, she certainly could not encourage the avid tendencies of Lord Dudley.

  She rummaged on her desk until she found the letter she’d written requesting a Bow Street runner. Some investigations were better handled by professionals. She held it out to Dukes. “See that this is delivered immediately, please.”

  He took it. “Very well, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “Also, Lord Eversham is here to see you.”

  “Oh, bother.” She dropped the quill into its holder and spun around. “You don’t suppose you could direct him to come back later?”

  “No, my lady. He is insisting he see you at once.”

  “What is the delay?” Her brother’s voice grew louder and then he was at the door, sliding past Dukes with a scowl upon his handsome face. She’d never understood how he could have inherited all the looks, but to be fair, she considered herself to possess the bulk of the brains.

  “Good morning, brother. How do you fare this fine and bright day?” She plastered on a sweet smile, smothering the laugh that threatened to escape as his scowl deepened.

  “A moment, Dukes.” He waved off the butler, who flashed Amelia an apologetic look before closing the door.

  Amelia folded her letter to the House of Lords before taking her stick of sealing wax and heating it above the flame of her candle. She pressed the stick against the paper and sealed the letter closed. She placed it on the teetering stack of her correspondence and returned the sealing wax to its place on her desk. “Do calm yourself, Eversham, or you shall pace a hole in my already faded rug,” she said mildly.

  “You...you...” He could not finish but rather continued his erratic pacing, his breathing ragged.

  Why, he was really at the end of his tether! She frowned. Though her brother often proved to be a bossy irritant, she loved him dearly and had no wish to cause him undue pain.

  She cleared her throat and rose from her seat but did not approach him. “Dear Ev, please take a breath and explain what I have done to upset you so.”

  He stopped abruptly and faced her. Though they shared the same nose, the same eyes and the same hair, on him those features became suave and handsome. He’d always been popular with the ladies. At this moment, though, his eyes were dark with anger, his lips pressed tight.

  She grimaced. It took much to put her brother into a rage. What had she done this time?

  He crossed his arms as he glared at her. “It has come to my attention that you are running a business.”

  She felt her face go slack.

  “Aha!” He pointed at her. “I knew it must be true. Amelia, how can you do such a thing? You will never find a husband like this. Dillydallying in politics, serving food at Newgate with that...that woman.”

  “Her name is Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, and she is quite respectable. She is thinking of starting a school for the female prisoners.”

  “I care not one whit about her name. You are creating a reputation for yourself, and it’s not a good one.”

  “And why would an earl with the fortune you have be concerned with reputation?” she countered.

  “You know why.” He stalked toward her and then dropped into her desk chair. “I am being nagged night and day—”

  “Perhaps you should have married for love rather than money,” Amelia said pertly, though inside her stomach twisted. “I do not wish to cause you stress, Eversham. But I must paint. I must keep myself busy. And I am quite positive I shall never marry.”

  His head dropped into his hands, and her heart grew heavier.

  “I am sorry to be such a burden to you,” she said quietly.

  “It’s not that,” he muttered.

  “My business is proceeding nicely.” She walked to her desk and picked up her last invoice. “Do you remember Lady Goddard? She and her husband are on a trip to the Continent right now, but I earned a good bit from training her and helping her find him. They are immensely compatible.”

  Eversham sighed and lifted his head. “I do not understand you, Amelia. You spout nonsense about love, but you are the most pragmatic individual I have ever met.”

  Relieved to see him calmer, Amelia settled on the edge of her desk. “Perhaps our definitions of love are different. It is not some silly feeling or a fainting spell but rather an action toward an individual. It is the most practical of all emotions and the most helpful.”

  Her brother’s lips almost tilted but then chose to settle in a firm line. “Nevertheless, I have come here to demand that you cease your business at once. You are a peer, the daughter of an earl. You’re comfortable here. Why do you need extra finances?”

  “I cannot quit my painting, Eversham. Canvases, brushes... They cost money.”

  He let out a large, overdramatic sigh. “Very well. I will enlarge your stipend.”

  “Your wife will not allow that.”

  Eversham winced. He could say nothing to that. He’d married a woman who tightly controlled the purse strings. Amelia wasn’t sure how, as her brother had never been a pushover, but for some reason he regularly gave in to the whims of his wife, a woman whom Amelia studiously tried to avoid at all times.

  Eversham rose from his seat, so Amelia followed suit. A familiar bulldoggish expression crossed his face, which did not bode well for her.

  “I am insisting you quit this nonsense,” he said. “Find another way to buy your supplies, but your business ends today.”

  “Do not think that because you were born three minutes before me you have the right to order me about. I shall not end my profitable venture.” She lifted her chin, daring him to defy her.

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ll not have you upsetting my wife. If I hear anything more of this...” He trailed off ominously.

  A slither of fear snaked through Amelia. Was he contemplating what she thought? She rubbed her arms, which suddenly felt cold. “What, Eversham? Do say it.”

  “Harriet and I have discussed the problem in depth.” His tone turned serious. “If you continue this preposterous business, we are prepared to leave off renting this town house, and you will come to live with us.” His brow lowered. “Foreve
r.”

  * * *

  Leg shackled, indeed.

  The last thing on earth Lord Spencer Ashwhite wanted was a wife.

  He winced as Eversham’s spouse hit a particularly high note with her words. They were in Eversham’s curricle on the way to Drury Lane, and Lady Eversham had not stopped jabbering the entire way. Her conversation consisted of frippery. Lots of comments about fashion and the Prince Regent.

  Spencer tried to tune her out as Eversham seemed absorbed in her opinions and hadn’t bothered to involve Spencer in conversation. Thankfully they were almost to the theater. Though Spencer hoped to avoid Miss Winston, who was likely to be here tonight. If not starring in the show, then watching it with her friends.

  Their relationship had been short-lived, but she did not like that he’d left for the Americas. He grimaced as he remembered the crack of her palm against his cheek. Over nothing but his refusal to continue their relationship when he returned to England.

  She’d felt slighted, not seeming to understand that his priorities—nay, his very heart—had been changed.

  At least this afternoon’s jaunt had provided a solution as well as comfort. The clergyman had listened well to Spencer. In fact, Spencer had been surprised by the cleric’s attentiveness. He’d even pulled out a Bible and shared scripture with Spencer. His advice had been sound, and Spencer had decided to go with his recommendations about pursuing marriage.

  Though at this very moment, with his ears ringing and his patience sorely taxed, he was tempted to lose his estate rather than find a spouse.

  The curricle pulled to the curb. Spencer exited and then watched as Eversham helped his wife out. He appeared deeply devoted to Lady Eversham, though Spencer knew for a fact that her money had initially snared Eversham’s interest.

  He followed them into the theater, contemplating his friend’s change of actions. He must ask him about it, especially since he’d be imitating Eversham’s choices. Once ensconced in Eversham’s box, he turned to his friend.

  “Before our show begins, I have an inquiry.”

  “One moment.” Eversham turned to help Lady Eversham with her dress, which had snagged on a chair. She flashed him a grateful smile, and Spencer watched in surprise as the back of Eversham’s neck burned red.