A Matchmaker's Match (8 page)

A faint hint of color rose to the earl’s cheeks and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Ah, so you dislike the way men run the world.”

“I do, indeed!” Psyche leaped into battle. “Men have made a royal mess of things. Why, look at that Frenchman Bonaparte, attacking us, thinking he can conquer England.”

“And how would
you
have things run?” the earl inquired dryly.

Psyche shook back her curls. “By a woman,” she declared. “A woman like good Queen Bess. After all, in her time we stopped the Spanish Armada.”

The earl smiled. “You’re right, of course. But come.” He picked up the cards and pushed them into her hands. “Shuffle, please. I am eagerly awaiting word of my future.”

Psyche took the cards reluctantly. She didn’t know why her hands wanted to tremble. Reading the cards was a trick, an illusion, a ruse. She knew that. So did he.

She shuffled the cards again and began to lay them out. The earl chuckled. “The five of hearts. Shall
I
take a long trip, alone of course, and meet a wonderful woman?”

“I think not,” Psyche said, refusing to smile. “You have already made a long trip to get here.”

“I see.” He beamed at her across the little table. Why must he be such a wonderful-looking man? A man who made her feel alive and happy. A man she would like to spend forever— Enough, she told herself sharply. It was foolish to dream of such impossibilities.

She turned up the six of spades. “Your temper will get you in trouble unless you are careful.”

“My
temper,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“My
temper is one of the evenest. Now your temper—”

She refused to be baited. She refused to smile, too. He was only playing with her, sharpening his drawing-room skills on her. And only because she was Lady Bluestocking, and her poor opinion of men—and marriage—was so well known. If he ever suspected her real feelings, that at this very moment she longed to be in his arms . . .

She turned up another card. “Six of hearts. Someone will do you a personal favor for which you must take care to express your appreciation.”

He grinned brashly. “Are you quite certain this is
my
fortune you are telling?”

“Quite certain,” she repeated, unable to meet his eyes. She was suddenly aware that she was being churlish. No doubt, as Overton had pointed out, the earl treated all women with this friendly raillery. Perhaps she had been too long in the country. It was foolish of her to take his actions so personally.

She forced herself to smile while she reported on the rest of the cards and the earl accepted their interpretations in silence.

Then Psyche reached for the first of the turned-down cards. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should stop now, leave well enough alone.”

“Oh no!” She forced her voice to gaiety. “You must have your
whole
fortune read.” She turned over the first card. “The ace of hearts.”

“The same fortune as Georgie’s,” the earl murmured, glancing to where she was flirting with Gresham.

“Yes.” Somehow Psyche managed a smile, managed to get the words out. “Lifelong happiness with the one you love.” Fortune-telling was a ridiculous business. Just because his fortune was the same as Georgie’s— Just because Georgie looked at him that way— She turned over another card.

“Three of hearts. A situation will soon arise in which you will have to choose between sentiment and business.”

When he didn’t comment on that, she reached for the last card. “Queen of hearts. A blond woman secretly admires you.”

She was watching his eyes, his dark, expressive eyes. They didn’t move away from hers, didn’t seek Amanda’s blond, youthful beauty across the room. Or Georgie’s more sophisticated allure. But the corner of-his mouth twitched and he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Silently Psyche gathered the cards and returned them to him. “I find I am very tired,” she said. “Will you ask Overton to send a footman to help me up to bed?”

“No, I will not.” His gaze didn’t leave hers. “You see I rather like the job. And I do not intend to give it up.”

She was too tired to continue this game. “You will give Overton apoplexy if you continue to carry me about. To say nothing of what the Lindens will make of it.”

He shrugged. “I have already carried you—to the horse, to the library, up to your room, down to the library, in to dinner, back from dinner— How can one more carrying do any harm? Besides, the Lindens have already retired to their rooms.”

Psyche sighed. There was a certain perverted sense to his logic. Besides, perhaps being once more in his arms she could dispel these foolish girlish notions and remember that she was a mature woman who had promised to help Amanda Caldecott get the husband she wanted. “Very well.”-

So, once more the earl gathered Psyche in his arms. He congratulated himself on his good fortune. He should thank his lucky stars for that mishap she’d had with the building stone. He would never have gotten this close to her otherwise, his prickly Lady Bluestocking.

She fit so perfectly in his arms, his delightful Psyche, his acerbic Psyche. As perfectly as she fit in his heart. And he would make her love him. He must. Because now that he had spent time with her, he was more convinced than ever. He loved her. He wanted to make her his wife.

He waited while she made her good nights, then moved toward the stairs, carrying his precious burden. The surgeon had assured him that her ankle was only twisted and that keeping off it would effect a cure. He didn’t want her to be incapacitated, of course, but he would dearly love the chance to carry her longer.

Her head rested against his shoulder, her scent teased his nostrils. Had she been any other woman he would have succumbed to the temptation and kissed her, right there in the upstairs hall. But this was Lady Bluestocking—and he did not dare. Not yet.

He suspected, indeed, he was almost positive, that her intense dislike of men and marriage had been a facade, erected to protect herself from the sort of suitors that her mother had pressed on her. Poor darling, to be so hard put to keep from marrying.

And yet how fortunate for him. If one of them had succeeded, Psyche would be forever beyond his reach. Instead she was there, so temptingly there, in his arms.

Chapter Eight

Psyche woke to morning sunlight streaming into her room. She sighed and stretched. She had not spent a restful night. Indeed, with so much tossing and turning it was a wonder she hadn’t injured herself even further.

She closed her eyes, remembering the night before, remembering the earl. After she’d made her good nights to the other guests, enduring Georgie’s raised eyebrow, Gresham’s knowing grin, and Amanda’s pained frown, the earl had dutifully carried her back up the stairs to her room.

As she had promised herself she would, she tried very hard to rid herself of the strange feelings that being so near the man incited in her. When he lifted her from the sofa, gathering her again in his arms, she tried very, very hard. But no matter how she tried or how she warned herself that this kind of thinking was the most unutterable folly, she still wanted to be there, held in the earl’s arms, cradled against his waistcoat. It was sheer stupidity, but she simply couldn’t help it.

The earl paused outside her chamber door, waiting till Curtis opened it for him. And Psyche wished that Curtis would, just this once, be remiss in her duties so that the moment might last longer. But alas, Curtis, as conscientious as ever, came at the first call.

The earl carried Psyche to the bed, putting her gently down on the pink silken coverlet. He bent low, his handsome face only inches from hers. “Do you need anything else?” he asked softly. “If you do, I shall be glad to get it for you.”

“No, no. You have—been most—kind.” Her tongue wanted to stumble over the simplest words and her heart had leapt up into her throat and was bouncing around there like a mad thing. “Thank you.”

For another long moment he remained bent over her, his face close to hers, his mouth mere inches away. She felt his breath on her cheek, inhaled the hint of spice and leather. And then, when she thought she couldn’t bear another instant of this exquisite torture, he straightened. “Sleep well, Psyche. Good night.”

“Good night.” She watched him go, his back so straight, his figure so manly, his stride so determined. And she sighed. Like the greenest schoolroom chit, she sighed.

Curtis shut the door after him and scurried back to the bed, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Oh my, milady, he’s a real looker, that earl is. But,” she frowned, pulling off Psyche’s slippers and setting them side by side on the floor, “but I heard tell he’s quite a hand with the ladies. One of them ladies is always thinking she’s going to marry him, but ain’t none of ‘em managed it. And from the looks of him, they won’t.” She straightened, hands on hips. “That’s a man what’ll choose his own woman. And have his pick of ‘em, too.”

Psyche finally found her tongue. “Curtis,” she said crisply, “we won’t discuss my cousin’s guests.”

“ ‘Course not,” Curtis replied complacently, undoing Psyche’s hooks and helping her out of her gown and into her nightdress. “Still, milady, I’ve got to say it. Was I a lady of any kind, and a man like that was to come near me—” She grinned. “Why, I’d do everything I could think of to get him to marry me.”

Frowning, Psyche lay back against her pillows. Even the servants were mesmerized by the earl’s insistent charm. Well, at least she would be prepared. She would not be surprised when he asked for Amanda’s hand. Still, she could not help thinking that his marriage to Amanda would be a mistake, a great mistake. A man like the earl would expect conversation with his wife, conversation of some depth. How, for example, could Amanda discuss antiquities with him?

Psyche sighed and stretched again, opening her eyes. Last night’s questions had had no answers then; they had no answers now. And all the time she’d spent lying awake trying to find answers had been a pure waste—of time and energy. If she wasn’t careful, she would indeed be bracket-faced! If only from lack of sleep.

She stretched again and bent her ankle. It felt surprisingly well, considering. Perhaps she’d be able to stand on it. She threw back the covers and put her bare feet to the floor. One step, then another. Her ankle felt a little stiff, but otherwise everything was fine.

She sighed again, almost disappointed. Disappointed! What foolishness! She could not be having the earl carry her around all the time. It was not dignified. And besides, it was too disconcerting, too disturbing, too—pleasant. And there was Amanda to consider.

Psyche sighed deeply. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She must dress now and have a serious talk with the girl.

* * * *

The breakfast room was deserted when Psyche arrived there, but the sideboard held enough food to feed an army. She filled a plate and sat down; eating alone was no novelty to her. When she had finished, she sat back with a cup of tea and summoned a footman. “Find Miss Caldecott and tell her I wish to speak to her in my room, as soon as possible.”

The footman nodded. “Yes, milady.”

Psyche finished her tea and started back up the stairs. This coming interview with Amanda was not going to be pleasant. She could not even be sure the girl had enough understanding to follow what she was going to try to tell her. Certainly Amanda had not seemed particularly bright so far.

Mounting the great staircase, Psyche sighed. The earl was going to be so bored, so overcome with ennui— That is, if he decided to marry Amanda.

What a tangle! To make Amanda happy she must make the earl unhappy. Not on purpose, of course. But how could the man be happy leg-shackled to a veritable child? Some men, of course, preferred young brides, gullible girls who could easily be trained to obedience.

Psyche snorted and nearly missed a step. Obedience, indeed! The very idea put women on par with animals. It was indecent. And it did not seem like the kind of thing the earl would do.

She reached her room, sent Curtis on an errand, and settled down on the chaise longue to wait.

She didn’t wait long. Five minutes later a knock sounded. “Come in,” Psyche called, bracing herself.

The door opened and Amanda said stiffly, “Did you wish to see me?”

“Yes,” Psyche said. “Come over here and sit down.”

Amanda came slowly, her face showing reluctance.

“Pull up that chair,” Psyche said. “We need to talk.”

Amanda pulled up the chair and perched on the edge of it, obviously ready to take flight.

“You are upset with me,” Psyche said. “Because the earl has been carrying me about.”

Amanda nodded, twisting her ribbons. “Yes, I am! I don’t see how you can expect him to ask to marry me when he’s always carting you about. It-- It doesn’t look good.”

Psyche sighed. Overton’s sentiments, no doubt. “It does look strange,” she admitted. “But the earl is a friend of Overton and I am Overton’s cousin.”

“I know that,” Amanda said. “But you still don’t have to let the earl carry you about.”

Psyche swallowed a sigh. “He won’t be carrying me anymore. You’ll be pleased to hear that my ankle is better today and I can walk by myself. You see, the earl was just being friendly, helpful.”

Amanda’s pink lips pursed in a pout.
“Very
friendly. Lady Linden says—”

“Lady Linden!” Psyche rubbed her temples, where a great headache hovered, ready to pounce. “How can you possibly believe that horrible woman?” She threw her arms heavenward, her patience exhausted. “Fine! Ask
her
to manage your come-out!”

Amanda’s pout vanished and her face crumpled into tears. “Oh no, not Lady Linden! She’s just terrible. I couldn’t stand it.” Tears stood in her bright blue eyes. “Oh, milady, please help me. I know I’m a foolish girl. But I do love him so.”

Psyche swallowed another sigh, her head beginning to pound. What did this child know of love? “Amanda, love isn’t always the best measure of happiness. I know you want to marry the earl, but think— Would you be happy with him?” She paused, but Amanda didn’t answer. “Wouldn’t you have a more pleasant existence with a man nearer your own age?”