He swung back and trapped Henrietta’s gaze. “But now that’s all gone—useless wasted effort, wiped away.” He gestured broadly, sweeping a slate clean. “Which leaves me with a bare four weeks in which to find and woo a suitable young lady as my oh-so-necessary bride.”
Halting before Henrietta, he looked down at her. “And the blame for such a fraught situation, one that could dramatically and adversely affect the livelihoods of so many innocent people, lies equally as much at your door as it does at mine.”
A chill washed through Henrietta. Eyes locked with his, burning with anger, shot with concern, all she could think of to say was, “Oh.”
The control he’d maintained shattered. Incredulous, he stared at her. “Oh? Is that all you can manage? Oh?”
Swinging violently around, he paced away from her, then paused, whirled, and came charging back. “But no—it’s worse.” He looked truly appalled as he halted before her, staring down at her. “I just realized—everyone in the ton, certainly all those with marriageable young ladies under their wing, will now know that on the issue of Melinda Wentworth’s hand, you’ve passed judgment on me and found me wanting. Found me not worthy.” Sinking both hands into his hair, he ran his fingers back through the dark locks, clutching with both hands as he turned away. “Aargh! What the devil am I to do? How in all Hades am I to find my necessary bride now?”
Silence greeted his questions. He started pacing away from her.
“I’ll help you.”
She hadn’t even known she was going to say the words; they formed and fell from her lips without conscious direction.
Purely in response to what she’d heard, what she could see—what, inside, she knew.
His back to her, he halted. Several more heartbeats of silence ensued, then he slowly turned his head and, frowning slightly, looked at her. “What did you say?”
She moistened her lips, and stated more definitely, “I said I’ll help you.”
He slowly turned to face her fully. His frown deepened. “In case you didn’t know, you’re known as The Matchbreaker. You break up matches of which you disapprove, just as you did with me and Melinda.”
“No.” She drew breath and evenly said, “I only tell young ladies who’ve asked me to learn the truth about their prospective fiancés what I find. For your information, I confirm as many matches as I disrupt, and contrary to the generally held belief, not all those matches I confirm are love-matches.” She held his gaze levelly. “Not all young ladies wish to marry for love. These days most do, but not all.”
She hesitated, studying his eyes, his face; neither gave all that much away, but she thought she detected a glimmer of hope, which was encouragement enough for her to say, “I didn’t know your situation, but now I do . . . I can help. I can tell you which young ladies might suit, and if the ton’s ladies see me assisting you, they’ll know that the reason Melinda drew back was not in any way a reflection of any substance on you, but rather lay in her expectations, her wants and wishes. In other words, that she and you didn’t suit in that regard, but my . . . championing of you will lay all other adverse speculation to rest.”
Pausing, she tipped her head, regarding him steadily as she considered. “I admit it’ll be a challenge—finding you a suitable bride in barely four weeks—but if I work with you, we might just manage it.”
It was his turn to tip his head as he regarded her, in his case through slightly narrowed eyes. “You’d do that?”
Righting her head, she nodded decisively. “Yes, I would. I’m not apologizing for disrupting your pursuit of Melinda, because such a match wouldn’t have worked, but given your situation and, as you correctly point out, the implications of my involvement over Melinda, and you’ve always been a good friend to Simon, too, then given all those circumstances, helping you to find your necessary bride seems the least I should do.”
He stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what she’d said, and didn’t know how to reply. Eventually, he ventured, “So The Matchbreaker will turn matchmaker?”
She tipped up her chin. “I only disrupt matches that won’t work, but, assuming you can leave that aspect aside, if we work together, we might just have a chance to meet your deadline.”
He studied her for a moment more, then he slowly nodded. “All right. So . . . where do we start?”
They arranged to meet in Hyde Park the next morning.
Handsomely garbed in a walking dress of sky-blue twill, Henrietta was waiting some yards inside the Grosvenor Gate, not far from her parents’ house in Upper Brook Street, when James came striding along Park Lane and turned in through the pillared gateposts.
At the sight of him, her heart tightened and an inexplicable band constricted about her chest, restraining her breathing. The effect was so marked, and with no one else about she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t occasioned by him. Which was nonsensical.
Admittedly, he was dressed in his usual impeccable fashion and was therefore the epitome of an elegant ton gentleman; his coat of Bath superfine was exquisitely cut, his waistcoat of blue and muted silver stripes a study in understated elegance, and his superbly tied cravat would doubtless engender envy in all the younger blades. Nevertheless . . . faintly irritated by such missish susceptibility—she was twenty-nine, for heaven’s sake, too old to be affected by the sight of any man—she bundled the sensations aside, and when that didn’t work, banished all awareness of them from her mind.
Spotting her, he strolled across, his stride all long-limbed predatory grace; joining her, he smiled and inclined his head in response to her polite nod. “Good morning.”
“Indeed. I thought we could sit on that bench over there.” Keeping a firm grip on her wayward senses, with her parasol she indicated a park bench, presently unoccupied. “We’ll be far enough from the fashionable areas to ensure we won’t be interrupted.” Starting for the bench, she continued, “I need to get a better idea of the sort of young lady you’re looking for, and then we need to devise our campaign to locate her.”
Large, lean, and powerful, he strolled beside her. “I can see the sense in the latter, but as to the former, I suspect beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Nonsense!” Reaching the bench, with a swish of her skirts she sat, and frowned up at him. “You’re a Glossup—you can’t marry just anyone.”
The expression in his eyes suggested he wasn’t so sure about that. “I’m desperate, remember?” He sat beside her and looked out over the manicured lawns.
“Desperate time-wise, perhaps, but not, I fancy, desperate choice-wise.”
“I bow to your greater knowledge of my options. So”—he glanced at her—“where do we start?”
Henrietta paused to consider. She’d spent half the night wondering why she’d offered to help him—why she’d felt such a compulsion to do so. Yes, she’d felt obligated, given that the difficulty he now faced was a situation her actions, albeit wholly justified, had inadvertently contributed to. Yes, he was Simon’s best friend, and she felt another form of obligation on that score, but she’d finally decided that the greater part of what had moved her had been simple guilt. She’d misjudged him, in her mind even more than via her actions; she’d failed to recognize, let alone credit him with, any sort of honor, yet as a Cynster she knew honor was a sterling quality that not only men valued—ladies, if they had any sense, valued it, too.
And it was very easy to see that the greater part of what was driving him—the primary source of his desperation—was his unquestioning devotion to the welfare of people whose well-being was an obligation he’d unexpectedly inherited. He didn’t have to take up that burden, yet he had, and from all she could see, it hadn’t even occurred to him to shrug it aside, even though, in reality, he could. His grandaunt’s estate aside, he was wealthy enough in his own right to walk away, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even thought of it. It was difficult to get much more honorable than that.
Although she wasn’t, even now, totally certain as to the entirety of
her motives, guilt had, at the very least, weighed heavily in the scale.
Settling more comfortably on the bench, she commanded, “Tell me what traits you don’t want, or alternatively that you specifically require, in your bride.”
His gaze on the trees and lawns before them, he took a moment to think, then replied, “No flibbertigibbets, no ninnyhammers. And preferably not anyone too young. Whether she has a dowry or not is of no consequence, but as you observed, she should be of good family, preferably of the haut ton. If she can ride, that’s a bonus, but social aptitude is, I suspect, a must.” He paused, then asked, “What else?”
Henrietta’s lips quirked. “You forgot the bit about her being at the very least passably pretty, if not a diamond of the first water.”
“Ah—but you already knew that.” From under heavy lids, he slanted her a glance. “You know me so well.”
She humphed. “I know your type well enough, that’s true.” She mentally reviewed his responses, then asked, “Are there any physical characteristics you prefer? Blond rather than brunette, tall rather than short—that sort of thing.”
Dark brown hair, taller than average, soft blue eyes—rather like you. James kept the words from his lips and substituted, “In all honesty I’m more interested in the substance than the package—on what’s inside, rather than outward appearance.” He glanced at her. “In the circumstances, it’s more important that I marry a lady of sound character who accepts me as I am, and accepts the position that I’m offering for what it is, and is willing to devote herself to the position of my wife.”
She’d caught his gaze; she searched his eyes, then inclined her head and faced forward. “That’s an admirable attitude and an excellent answer.” After a moment, she blew out a breath. “So we know what manner of lady we’re looking for.”
“Now, how do we find her?”
“Did you bring your invitations as I asked?”
He fished in his pocket and drew out the stack of cards he’d received.
She took them, placed them in her lap, and started leafing through them . . . and stopped, frowning. “These aren’t sorted.”
No . . . “Should they be?”
She glanced at him, perplexed. “How do you keep track?” When he blinked, not quite sure what she meant, she huffed and waved. “No—never mind. Here.” She regathered the stack and gave it back to him. “Sort them by date, starting with tonight. And we’re only including events at which marriageable ladies of the ton will be present.”
“Hmm.” That cut out a good half of the invitations he held. Somewhat reluctantly laying the others—the invitations to dine with friends at clubs and the like—aside, he combed through the untidy sheaf, extracting and ordering as she’d instructed.
Meanwhile, she opened her reticule, rummaged inside, and drew out a medium-sized calfskin-bound book. She opened it, smoothed the page, then set it in her lap.
He glanced over and realized the book was her appointment diary. It was roughly five times the size of his and, he noted, had roughly five times the entries for each day.
She waited—with reined patience—for him to reach the end of his sorting. “Right, then,” she said as he neatened the pile. “Let’s start from this evening.” She tapped an entry in her diary. “Do you have an invitation to Lady Marchmain’s rout?”
He had. They progressed through the next two weeks, noting those events she deemed most useful for their now-shared purpose for which he already had invitations; where that wasn’t the case, she made a note to speak to the relevant hostess. “There’s not a single hostess who will refuse to have you, especially if she suspects you’re bride-hunting.”
“Ah . . .” A horrible vision flooded his mind. “We’re not going to make any public declaration of my urgent need for a bride, are we?”
“Not as such.” She looked at him—as if measuring how much to tell him, or how best to break bad news. “That said, as you’ve already been courting Melinda but have parted from her, most will know, or at least, as I said, suspect that you’re actively looking about you, but as long as you’re with me, under my wing so to speak, I seriously doubt you’ll be mobbed.”
“Oh—good.” He wasn’t sure whether to feel reassured or not. After a moment, he added, “I purposely haven’t let it get about that I’m under any time constraint. I imagine that if I let my desperation become known, I won’t be able to appear in public without attracting a bonneted crowd.”
She chuckled. “Very likely. Keeping your deadline a secret is indubitably wise.” Returning to her diary, she flipped through the next weeks. “But as to that, as I didn’t learn you had a deadline even though I learned the rest, I can’t imagine any other lady will readily stumble on the information, so you should be safe on that score.”
He nodded, then realized she hadn’t seen. “Thank you.”
She glanced at him, her soft blue eyes glowing, her delicately sculpted, rose-tinted lips curved in an absentminded smile, and he felt a jolt strike his chest, reverberating all the way to the base of his spine, even as he realized just how deeply he’d meant the words.
He trapped her gaze. “And thank you in the broader sense, too. I honestly don’t know what I would have done—how I would have forged on—if you hadn’t offered to take me and my campaign in hand.”
Her smile deepened, her lovely eyes twinkled. “Well, it is something of a challenge, and a different challenge to boot.” Shutting her diary, she slipped it into her reticule, then nodded across the lawns. “Now we’ve defined the essential elements of our campaign, we should make a start on assembling a short list.”
He rose as she did. He would have offered his arm, but she lifted her parasol, shook it out, then opened it, angling it to shade her face. Then she looked at him and arched a brow, distinct challenge in her eyes. “Shall we?”
He waved her on, then fell in beside her, strolling bravely, with no outward sign of his inner trepidation, across the lawns toward the Avenue and the carriages now crowding the verges, and the surrounding hordes of fashionably dressed young ladies and elegantly garbed gentlemen chatting and taking the air.
He paced slowly, adjusting his stride to hers. While some wary part of his mind still found it difficult to accept that she—The Matchbreaker—really had agreed to help him, she was indeed there, and was indeed helping him, and he was absurdly grateful for that.
Regardless, he hadn’t expected to dream about her last night, yet he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed about a specific woman, rather than a womanly figure, yet last night it had definitely been Henrietta in his dreams; it had been her face, her expressions, that had . . . not haunted, but fascinated. That had held his unconscious in thrall.
The dream—dreams—had not been salacious, as most of his dreams of women were. Which was just as well; Henrietta was his best friend’s sister, after all. But the tenor of the dream had puzzled him and left him just a tad wary, a touch wondering. His attitude in the dream had felt worshipful, but perhaps that had simply been his gratitude manifesting in a different way.
Assuring himself that that was most likely the case, he focused on the rapidly nearing crowds. Dipping his head closer to hers, he murmured, “What should I do?”
“Nothing in particular.” She shot him an assessing glance; he appreciated that she was taller than average, so he could easily see her face. “Just relax and follow my lead.”
Her tone made him smile. Raising his head, he looked forward. “As you command. Onward—into the breach.”
As it transpired, the interactions, the exchanges, flowed more easily than he’d anticipated. Henrietta was so well known she could claim acquaintance with virtually all the older ladies and matrons present, and could thus introduce him, in turn gaining him introductions to the ladies’ unmarried charges.
The next hour passed in steady converse. As they were walking between two barouches, temporarily out of hearing of others, Henrietta tugged his sleeve; when he glanced her way i
nquiringly, she tipped her head toward a knot of people gathered on the lawn twenty yards away. “That’s Miss Carmichael. She would have been a good candidate, at least for you to consider, but the latest on-dit is that Sir Peter Affry has grown very particular in his attentions. That’s him beside her. As you don’t have time to spare, I see no sense in wasting any on Miss Carmichael—I suspect we’ll have enough candidates to assess without chasing after one some other perfectly eligible gentleman has all but settled on.”
Curious, James looked over Henrietta’s dark head, peering past her parasol’s edge at the group in question. A fair-haired lady with an abundance of ringlets stood surrounded by a bevy of gentlemen, a much less well-favored young lady by her elbow. The gentleman on the fair beauty’s other side was presently scanning the Avenue, but then he looked down at her and smiled. He was a touch older than most of the gentlemen strolling about and had a striking, dark-featured face. James faced forward. “Even I’ve heard of Affry. Up-and-coming Whig, by all accounts.”
“Indeed, but he is only an elected member, after all.” Henrietta frowned. “I’m really not sure what all the fuss is about him, but he does seem quite charming.”
“Ah, well—charming is as handsome does, or however that saying goes.” With a wave, James indicated the group they were approaching. “So, centurion, who do we have here?”
Henrietta smothered a laugh and told him. She continued to guide him about the various groups and was favorably impressed by his behavior and his style. He made charm seem effortless, and his attitude was all relaxed urbanity, polished to a gleam. She might have made the mistake of thinking him a superficial sophisticate—and indeed, that had been her previous, half-formed view—but in the times in between, when they left one group and traveled to the next, he dropped his mask. As they compared impressions of the young ladies they’d encountered, his comments revealed a dry wit and a keenly observant eye, both of which struck a chord with her. Regardless, he was never unkind, not by word or implication, and his behavior never strayed from what she mentally characterized as the quiet, honorable, gentlemanly type.