The Misguided Matchmaker (14 page)

What
a wondrous, topsy-turvy carnival her quiet little world had become, and none of
it would have happened if this stubborn, impossible, stiff-necked Englishman
hadn’t come seeking her in Lyon. She regarded him solemnly, her heart in her
eyes.

“Damn
it, Maddy; get that blasted puppy-dog look off your face.” Tristan’s voice was
harsh, his mouth a thin slash of disapproval. “Now climb up the ladder so we
can get underway.”

With
one last swipe of her brimming eyes, Maddy folded his handkerchief and put it
in her pocket. Nothing had really changed, but deep down inside her a tiny seed
of hope germinated. “Methinks the fellow protests too much,” she murmured to
herself, happily misquoting the favorite bard of the English.

She
reached for the rope ladder dangling at the side of the ship and placed her
foot on the first rung. But no sooner had she attempted to move to the second
rung than she realized that complying with Tristan’s order in her new traveling
costume was not all that simple. The skirt was too narrow to afford easy
climbing, yet more than wide enough to allow the two sailors manning the
longboat a view of her ankles that no lady could, in good conscience, allow—and
however unconventional she might be in some respects, Maddy had been brought up
to be a lady.

Cheeks
flaming, she clung to the ladder, unable to move either up or down and thinking
longingly of her rough peasant’s breeches and the freedom of movement she had
enjoyed as a boy.

“Look
the other way or answer to me, you grinning apes,” Tristan barked, and a moment
later he moved to the rung below her, shielding her with his own body from any
surreptitious ogling by the chastised seamen.

She
sighed. Once again her hero had come to her rescue; how could he or anyone else
question his sense of honor?

The
crew was already unfurling the sails when Tristan and Maddy stepped onto the
deck. The captain greeted them with obvious impatience and a searching perusal
of Maddy when, to her surprise, Tristan introduced her as his friend, Miss
Smythe. With a curt bow, the captain left them on their own and repaired to the
bridge while the first mate supervised the hasty raising of the anchor.

“It
was your father’s wish that your identity be kept a secret until you reached
England and he could make your existence known publicly himself,” Tristan
explained once the captain was out of earshot.

“Why?”

“That
is something you will have to ask him.” Something about the way Tristan avoided
her eyes led Maddy to believe he knew a great deal more about her father and
his wishes than he had heretofore let on. In fact, now that she thought about
it, his answer to why he had been the one chosen to return her to England had
been much too glib to be entirely believable.

But
why the mystery? What was he hiding? And why did she have a feeling that
somehow her father and his wishes had a strong bearing on his refusal to offer
for her? Maybe the answer to that was one of the weapons she needed to combat
this mysterious code of honor he had chosen to live by.

Far
above her, the sails caught the brisk salt breeze and the ship lurched forward;
beside her, Tristan pulled the collar of his duffel coat up around his ears and
jammed the seaman’s cap on his head. Maddy’s breath caught in her throat. More
than ever, he looked the part of a buccaneer; she could almost imagine they
were heading for the Spanish Main instead of the Straits of Dover.

The
ship cleared the harbor and once in the open water, the wind freshened. She
tied the ribbons of her bonnet more tightly beneath her chin to keep it from
blowing off and her heartbeat quickened. They were well and truly on their way
to England at last.

Curious,
she stared about her at the ship that bore her name. The deck was immaculate,
the brass gleaming, and the crew, though a rough-looking lot, appeared to be
working with cheerful efficiency. Even the somewhat surly captain appeared in
better spirits; quitting the bridge, he joined Tristan and Maddy on deck.

A
short man, he was almost as broad as tall, but he was obviously all muscle
without an ounce of fat on his square frame, and his face had the same
weathered look as the teak planking beneath his feet. His uniform, if it could
be called that, was a nondescript blue with tarnished brass buttons, and
beneath his battered captain’s hat, his iron-gray hair was tied at his nape
with a narrow strip of frayed black leather. Apparently her father didn’t
demand the same look of perfection in his ship’s officers as he did in the ship
itself.

“I’ve
been expecting you these past four days, milord, and I don’t mind telling you I
was getting mighty anxious,” the captain said in explanation of their hurried
departure. “If the Old Man hadn’t issued orders to wait for you, I’d have
weighed anchor long ago.

“My
seamen have heard disturbing rumors in Calais that the Corsican is marching
across France and gathering an army as he goes. If this is true, ‘tis no time
to be caught lollygagging in a French harbor.”

“No
time indeed,” Tristan agreed. “For the rumors are, in fact, all too true.
Bonaparte is already in Paris and even after all he’s put them through these
past years, the soldiers who served under him are flocking to his standard by
the thousands.”

“Bloody
hell! The man must be a bloomin’ spellbinder.” The captain flushed. “Beg
pardon, ma’am. We don’t often carry passengers—especially ladies. I’m not used
to watching my language.”

Raising
his spyglass, he searched the horizon. “There’s even talk of a French frigate
lying in wait for any British merchantmen trying to cross the Channel, but I
put little credence in that. We’ve seen little of the French navy in ten years
since Admiral Nelson put them to rout. Still, it never hurts to be on the
alert.”

He
grinned sheepishly. “If the truth be known, I’d rather face Bonaparte and all
his legions than the Old Man if I let anything happen to
The Madelaine
while she’s under my command. She’s his flagship, you see, and his pride and
joy. I doubt he’d have let her leave her home port if he’d had any suspicion
Old Boney was about to cause more trouble.”

Once
again, he studied Maddy with undisguised curiosity. “Unless I miss my guess,
he’s cursing himself out this very minute for letting you talk him into putting
the brig in harm’s way. You must be a very persuasive fellow, milord, to have
convinced him to let you use
The Madelaine
for your own purposes.”

Maddy
could see he was fishing for information, but Tristan merely smiled obliquely
and sent him on his way none the wiser. She held her counsel, but more than
ever, she felt certain the captain was not the only person from whom Tristan
was withholding information. Minette had pegged him correctly. Tristan was very
adept at divulging only what he wanted his listener to know—which, she supposed
was a very useful talent for a spy.

But
damn the arrogant Englishman and his half-truths.
She had lived with half-truths all her
life and she was heartily sick of them. Her temper flared and with it an
irresistible urge to do something so unbelievably
outré
it would shock
Tristan out of his smug, self-righteous shell and wipe that infuriating look of
cool indifference from his handsome face.

She
curled her fingers around the smooth, polished wood of the ship’s rail and
breathed in the cold, salt spray thrown upward as the ship plowed through the
choppy waters. “An idea just occurred to me,” she said, raising her eyes to
gaze at his stern, implacable profile. “You, sir, are rather deeply in my
debt.”

He
turned toward her with a scowl. “How so?”

She
smiled sweetly. “I saved your life, as you yourself admitted. Surely that
warrants some compensation.”

His
eyes widened with surprise. “I cannot dispute the fact that I’d have had a
knife between my ribs but for you, but look askance at your lack of taste in
demanding compensation for such a thing.”

His
scowl deepened. “But admitting a debt and paying it are not necessarily one and
the same. You are the heiress, Maddy, not I. All I have in my pockets at the
moment is what’s left from the sale of the horses after outfitting us both with
decent clothes—and I’ll need every farthing to see us from Dover to London. I
am afraid my greedy little friend, you will have to wait for your compensation
until I draw my last six month’s pay from Whitehall.”

Maddy
watched the same wind that was billowing the sails whip a strand of Tristan’s
shoulder-length black hair across his face and smiled to herself. Just as she’d
expected, he was falling nicely into her trap. She raised a querulous eyebrow.
“But you do admit the debt?”

“Very
well. I do admit the debt.”

“Then
it must follow, that you also admit it is my right to determine a just
compensation.”

Tristan
leaned on the rail, his gaze riveted on the white-capped waves rolling back
from the bow of the ship. The smallest of smiles curled the corner of his
sensuous mouth as if, in spite of himself, he was enjoying their verbal
sparring. “Ah,” he sighed, “but what, pray, is a just compensation? Surely not
the same thing to an heiress as to a man whose pockets are to let. I should not
like to find myself in a debtors’ cell at Newgate over this ‘just
compensation’.”

“On
my oath!” Maddy raised her right hand. “The pittance I ask would not empty the
pockets of the poorest chestnut vendor we passed just yesternight outside the
Tuileries.”

“Very
well then.” Tristan turned his back to the railing and, leaning his forearms on
it, regarded Maddy with a speculative gaze. “Why do I have the feeling that
something is amiss here—that you are not being entirely forthright?”

“Probably
because, like all men, you tend to look at the world through your own devious
eyes. So, let me see. How much will it be?” Maddy raised her left hand and
counted off the fingers with her right. Forefinger, index finger, ring finger.
“Three it is then.”

“So
I owe you three pounds for saving my life? That strikes me as more than fair.”

“Three
pounds? What are these ‘pounds’ of which you speak? I have not yet set foot in
England and know nothing of your confusing currency.”

“Three
francs then? I believe I am insulted. Is that truly all you think my life is
worth, mademoiselle?”

“But
of course not. My life in France is behind me; I no longer deal in francs.”

Tristan’s
expressive black brows drew together in a frown. “Three of what, then, Maddy?
What is it you think I owe you?”

Maddy
closed her gloved hand around the railing and braced herself against the
rolling of the ship. Heart pounding with trepidation of her own daring, she
raised her gaze to the heavens just as a pale sun burst through the bank of clouds
blanketing the sky above the Channel. A good omen, she felt certain.

“Three
of what?” Tristan asked again, a note of impatience sharpening his voice.

“Why
the only currency in which you and I may deal equitably, of course. By my
reckoning, monsieur, you owe me exactly three…kisses.”

“D
evil
take it, Maddy, you go too far. You have always shown a penchant for the
outrageous, but this is beyond anything!” Tristan gritted his teeth in
frustration. “How can you suffer such ladylike distress at showing a glimpse of
an ankle one minute, and then act like the veriest hoyden the next?”

“It
is not ladylike to enjoy being kissed?” Maddy looked positively dumbfounded.
“But that simply does not make sense. I have only been kissed once, but I could
plainly see it was a most pleasurable pastime. If I must pretend I dislike it
to project an appearance of propriety, I fear the cause is hopeless, for I have
never had the least talent for dissembling.”

Tristan
groaned. That blasted kiss again! What kind of monster had he created with that
one moment of moonlight madness? “I fault myself for your confusion,” he said
stiffly. “In an unguarded moment, I succumbed to my baser instincts—a
transgression for which I am heartily sorry.”

“You
infer then that if I were truly a lady I should find kissing abhorrent?”

“Of
course not.”
Lord, how had he gotten himself into this bumblebroth?
“There is nothing wrong with enjoying a kiss, but a lady reserves such feelings
for the man she plans to marry.” Too late, he realized his blunder. Maddy had
that starry-eyed look again.

He
chose to ignore it rather than risk digging a deeper hole than the one he
already found himself in. He hunched into his duffel coat and stared out to
sea. “We will simply forget you ever broached the unfortunate subject.”

“We
will do no such thing!” Maddy’s voice fairly crackled with indignation. “You
were the one to make such a point about honor. What is honorable about refusing
to pay one’s debts?”

“This
has nothing to do with paying debts. You wouldn’t understand, but there are
unwritten rules about such things. No man with even a modicum of ethics would
poach another man’s private preserve.”
Another stupid slip of the tongue; he
had almost given the game away with that one.

Maddy
drew herself up to her full height and stared him in the eye. “And what bearing
does that have on the subject at hand, pray tell? I am no man’s private
preserve—and I’ll tell you something else, Mr. Tristan Thibault. I am not some
missish young schoolgirl whom you can wangle out of her due. I am a woman
grown, and a merchant’s daughter besides. One way or another, I intend to
collect what is owed me.”

Tristan
gnashed his teeth. He wasn’t certain how or when he had lost control of the
situation, but lost it he had, for he could plainly see that nothing he said
had changed her mind one iota about the kisses she planned to collect from him.
She was, without a doubt, the most stubborn, the most unreasonable, the most
infuriating woman he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

Turning
away from her, he leaned on the rail and stared at the churning water beneath
him, his thoughts as turbulent as the white-capped waves rocking the ship. Hell
and damnation! She had even gone so far as to blithely declare she would not
collect the kisses all at once, choosing instead to keep them as special treats
for when her spirits needed lifting. Like pieces of candy she could savor
whenever the desire for a sweet struck her.

Though
he racked his brain, he could find no logical reason for her bizarre behavior.
She was not some trollop with the morals of an alley cat like Minette. But
neither did she display the modesty and rectitude of a true lady. Rather, she
was halfway between the two—a lady-hoyden, if there could be such a thing.

What
kind of wife would this “lady-hoyden” make his staid, conventional brother? And
what possible explanation could he give her father, and Garth, if she actually
made good her threat to waylay him whenever she felt in the mood for a kiss?

As
he saw it, his only hope lay in the possibility that once they reached London
she would become so caught up in her new life, she would forget the whole silly
idea. Or, failing that he would find the will and the way to stay out of her
sight until Garth and she were safely married.

It
was late afternoon when they reached Dover. This closest of the English ports
to the coast of France was shrouded in fog so thick, a ghostly pall hung over
the docks. The other ships in the harbor loomed like dark shadows in the gray,
swirling mist, and the dock men who caught and secured
The Madelaine’s
mooring lines were merely half-seen specters with strangely disembodied voices.

Following
the recommendation he’d secured from an innkeeper in Calais, Tristan searched
out a moneychanger who converted the remaining francs from the sale of the
horses into pound notes. The rate of exchange was ridiculous, but considering
the times, no worse than he’d expected.

Next,
with Maddy in tow, he stopped at the stable where, before sailing for Calais,
he’d secured a pair of matched grays and the phaeton that were all that was
left of the Earl of Rand’s stable. “Have the horses fed and the rig made ready
at dawn tomorrow, for we shall leave for London at first light,” he directed
the ostler.

That
done, he searched out a clean but humble dockside inn and secured accommodation
for the night. A tankard of ale and two plates of mutton and boiled potatoes
depleted all but a few of his coins, but at least Maddy and he would go to
their respective beds on the last night of their journey with full stomachs.

“I’ll
have my first kiss now, if you please,” she said as he walked her to her
chamber door an hour later.

Tristan’s
head whipped around. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll
have my kiss,” she repeated. “For if there was ever a time when my spirits were
in need of elevating, that time is surely tonight. I cannot stop thinking about
my grandfather and my home in Lyon…and I fear I find this England of yours a
trifle depressing.”

“Depressing?
How so?”

Maddy
frowned. “For one thing, the language is harsh to my Gallic ears; for another,
the food is deplorable.
Nom de Dieu,
there was not even a hint of
rosemary on the lamb, which I suspect was really mutton. Nor was there so much
as a sprig of parsley on the potatoes.” She shuddered. “And Dover is so
cold…and gray.”

“It’s
the fog,” Tristan said, his heart aching at the sight of her woebegone face. He
watched her finger the flowers on her new bonnet as if even the artificial
blossoms reminded her of the sunnier clime of her home in southern France.

Gently,
he brushed a tousled curl off her forehead. “The sun will probably shine
tomorrow and everything will look brighter—and don’t judge all English food by
what is served in a dockside inn. There is nothing better than plain country
cooking, to my way of thinking. Though admittedly our British cooks have not
the skill with herbs and spices of their continental counterparts, which is why
most of the peers of the realm staff their kitchens with French chefs.”

He
was prattling inanely, he knew, but he hoped such small talk would make her
forget her homesickness. For that was the malady from which she suffered. He
had dealt with it often enough himself in the past six years to recognize the
symptoms. She was also close to exhaustion. Even in the dim light of the single
wall sconce decorating the narrow hallway, he could see her extreme pallor and
the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

She
regarded him solemnly—waiting, he suspected, for him to comply with her highly
improper request. As God was his witness, he had no intention of kissing her.
Not now. Not ever again. He had learned his lesson on that score.

But
devil take, she looked so young, so vulnerable…so unspeakably lonely. A
terrible, wrenching tenderness welled within him and he found he could no more
refuse the comfort she asked than he could refuse to draw the breath of life
into his lungs.

“Ah,
Maddy,” he murmured, and taking her in his arms, he kissed her with the same
chaste compassion he’d often kissed away his sister Caro’s childish hurts. Raising
his head, he smiled down at her, congratulating himself that for once he had
managed to maintain a tight control on his emotions where this perplexing
lady-hoyden was concerned.

With
a sigh, she snuggled deeper into his arms. Her eyes were closed, their amber
light hidden beneath smoky lashes. “I didn’t know,” she said softly against his
chest. “I am so ignorant about such things. I thought all kisses were the same.
I see now they are not at all. This one was so…so different from the last. Very
nice,” she hastened to add, “but quite different.”

Her
eyes fluttered open and her gaze locked with his. “And how wise you are to know
exactly what kind of kiss is apropos to the moment.”

She
cupped his cheek with her hand in a gesture of tender affection and instantly
his heart started thudding heavily in his chest. “Maddy,” he whispered
hoarsely, and before his very eyes, lips that only moments before had trembled
like those of a frightened child now curved in a seductive, womanly smile that
sent tongues of flame licking along his veins. With a strangled sound deep in
this throat, he again drank hungrily of her soft, open mouth.

“Oh
my,” she murmured a long time later, “I can see you really do know a great deal
about kissing. All kinds of kissing. If I were not already…” She pressed her
fingers to her lips. “Well, I certainly would be now.”

Hell
and damnation, she’d done it again! Driven him to lose the control he’d always
prided himself was inviolable. How could a complete innocent be such a
temptress? He dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back, determined to
make her understand once and for all the folly of this attraction between them.

He
took a deep breath. “Maddy…”

“Good
night, Tristan,” she said softly, interrupting him before he could phrase what
he wanted to say. Opening the door, she quickly slipped into her chamber.
“Dream sweetly, as I know I shall, for thanks to your lovely kisses, my
flagging spirits have quite recovered.”

She
glanced over her shoulder, the same enigmatic smile on her face that had been
his undoing just moments before. “But remember,” she said softly. “I did not
ask for the second one, so it was free. You still owe me two more.”

As
he’d predicted, they rose the next morning to a cloudless sky and a dawn bright
with the promise of a sunny day. Maddy was obviously in a cheerful mood, and
Tristan felt loath to risk upsetting her again with the lecture on propriety he
had rehearsed during his long, sleepless night. In truth, it scarcely seemed
worthwhile. Once they reached London and Garth began to court her, she would
forget all about those two kisses she claimed he owed her.

With
dogged determination, he ignored the pain that such a picture of the future
caused him and strove to make their last few hours together as pleasant as
possible.

The
grays were particularly lively after their long period of inactivity and
Tristan pushed them to their limits, pausing only for the briefest of rests.
For with every mile closer to London they drew, the greater his need became to
end the torture of Maddy’s presence. He could see now there was nothing for it
but to request Lord Castlereagh send him on an assignment as far away from
London as possible.

Dark
was settling over London when they arrived—the daytime life of garrulous street
peddlers and sober merchants, busy matrons and noisy children giving way to the
painted prostitutes and wealthy pleasure-seekers that inhabited the ancient
streets after dark.

Tristan
guided the grays along Holborn Road to the busy crossroad leading to the
section of the city in which Caleb Harcourt resided. “You can’t miss Bloomsbury
Square for it’s that near the British Museum,” the old man had said in the day
he’d seen him off on his assignment. And indeed, he found it with an ease that
he could see left Maddy thoroughly impressed with his knowledge of the vast
city.

He
had no idea what to expect of a residence so far removed from the genteel
environs of Mayfair, where the townhouses of the Earl of Rand and other members
of the
ton
were located. But the minute he saw the narrow, two-story,
redbrick townhouse standing at the north end of Bloomsbury Square, he decided
it suited Caleb Harcourt perfectly.

Neat,
unpretentious, and unadorned by the Ionic columns and leering gargoyles that
decorated the large mansions surrounding it, the small house had a symmetry and
grace of line that somehow reminded him of Harcourt’s trim flagship,
The
Madelaine.

“This
lovely little house is where my father lives?” Maddy asked, her eyes looking
more than ever like those of a startled fawn. “Are you certain?”

“I’m
certain,” Tristan replied. “He gave me explicit directions as to where I should
deliver you, including the fact that I should look for the brass door knocker
in the shape of a dolphin—and unless my eyes deceive me, there it is.”

With
the promise of a shilling, he tossed his reins to one of the ragged street
urchins who obviously made his living tending the horses of the visitors to
Bloomsbury Square, handed Maddy down from the carriage, and led her up the
shallow steps to the door of the townhouse.