A Matchmaker's Match (11 page)

Psyche sighed. She hoped so. She wished so. But with Overton she couldn’t be sure. “We’ll just have to wait and see. But you are so beautiful I’m sure other men will notice you. And you must laugh and speak with them. Perhaps flirt a little.”

Amanda started to pout. “I don’t want—”

“You listen to Lady Psyche,” Curtis said, reaching out to adjust a blond curl on the top of Amanda’s head. “She knows what she’s about.”

Amanda gave her a sidelong look. “But— But
she
didn’t catch a husband. So how does she know—”

Curtis gave an exasperated groan. “Girl, where’s your brains? She didn’t get a husband ‘cause she didn’t
want
a husband. Were she wanting a husband, why, she’d go right out and find herself one. Just like that.”

Hastily, Psyche turned away. Curtis had been in on her Lady Bluestocking exploits, had even helped her think them up. Curtis’s faith in her was heartening. It was also misplaced. Because, Psyche thought, if she’d had the least idea how to get a man to propose marriage, she would have gotten herself such a proposal from the earl long before this.

The clock chimed the hour and Psyche’s heart thudded. Soon now. Soon the earl would be arriving.

* * * *

Minutes later Psyche looked around the ballroom. The flowers were excessive and on the large side, but at least they weren’t orange. And getting them properly arranged had kept Aunt Anna so occupied that she would not immediately notice that there had been a slight—or rather a considerable—change in the menu. The six different flavors of ices her aunt had wanted were definitely excessive. The present repast would be quite sufficient—and not cause a lot of unfavorable talk.

Cook had been quite amenable after Overton had spoken to her. So had the footmen, who had conveniently neglected to deliver invitations to certain unsavory people Aunt Anna had meant to include. Everyone in the house, with the exception of Aunt Anna herself, knew that Psyche was managing the come-out, and all acted accordingly.

Psyche surveyed the ballroom with a sense of satisfied accomplishment. Considering all they had gone through, all the trouble and worry, things were going quite well.

Aunt Anna came bustling up, a massive figure in sickly green ruffles. She patted her frizzled hair and surveyed Amanda’s gown critically through her quizzing glass. “Well, I suppose it will have to do. But it’s dreadfully plain, no ruffles at all. In my day a well-dressed young woman always wore ruffles. Your mama and I both knew that.”

Since her own mama had hated ruffles, never permitting them on any of her numerous gowns, Psyche found Aunt Anna’s pronouncement rather difficult to believe. But she nodded. “Yes, Aunt Anna. Of course, Aunt Anna.”

Aunt Anna adjusted the ruffle that hung from her bodice. “Yes, well, too bad. But we’d better form the receiving line. The guests will be arriving soon.”

She pressed a pudgy hand to her forehead. “Now, where is that boy of mine? Overton ought to be here.”

“I am here, Mama.” Overton appeared behind her. “Right here.” He turned to Psyche. “Is everything in order?”

“Of course,” Aunt Anna replied, just as though he had spoken to her. “You know what a good manager I am. I’m just sorry Amanda ruined her gown. It was quite an expensive gown and— ”

“Of orange silk,” Psyche said softly.

“With lots of ruffles,” Amanda added.

Overton’s face began to turn pink. “Orange?” He pulled at his cravat. “Ruffles?”

“Indeed,” Psyche continued. “It was a very unique gown.”

Her cousin looked about to succumb to apoplexy.

“But unfortunately,” Psyche hastened to add, “Amanda was writing in her diary and spilled some ink on her gown, making it unfit to wear.”

Recognition and relief mingled on Overton’s face, and his color slowly returned to normal.

“But,” Psyche went on, “I happened to have a new gown in my armoire. And it fit Amanda to perfection. Doesn’t she look lovely in it?”

Amanda flushed a deep pink as Overton looked her over. “Very pretty,” he said, nodding, “very pretty. She looks nice in anything, of course. But what is this about— ”

“Overton,” Psyche interrupted. “May I speak to you for a moment privately?”

When she got him aside, out of his mother’s hearing, she spoke to him quite frankly. “The gown Amanda is wearing was made especially for her. But to avoid argument I let Aunt Anna think it was mine and we purchased the orange silk that she wanted.”

Overton raised an eyebrow and tugged at his cravat. “And the accident with the ink?”

Psyche smiled. “A fortuitous event.”

“Quite fortuitous,” Overton exclaimed. “My God, how the ton would have talked if she’d appeared in orange ruffles! I owe you for that, Psyche.” He shuddered. “Orange ruffles! Of all the addle-brained schemes!”

“You must not let on,” Psyche said, “to your mama that the accident was not really— ”

Overton drew himself up. “Of course not. I’m not a pea brain.” He turned. “Come, we’d better get back. I want to see who appeals to Amanda. Her husband has to be a special fellow, you know.”

Psyche followed him to the receiving line.

She’d barely taken her place there when Georgie came in on Gresham’s arm. Seeing her, Psyche swallowed a sigh of relief. Georgie hadn’t come with the earl, so perhaps he would come alone. Maybe he would even ask Psyche for a waltz. It was a pleasant prospect, the thought of whirling around the floor in the earl’s arms, very pleasant. But this was Amanda’s party. She had to think about Amanda.

Visitor after visitor arrived, filling the ballroom with their bright chatter and the tinkle of laughter. Finally Aunt Anna allowed the receiving line to dissolve and the music began.

In a chair beneath some palms, Psyche settled to watch the dancers. So young they looked, so vibrant and full of life.

She smoothed the claret silk of her skirt. Where was
he?
Why hadn’t the earl arrived?

She swallowed a sigh. What did it matter? If he had arrived, he would be dancing with Georgie. She was out on the floor this very minute, whirling in the steps of the waltz, and smiling up at every man within smiling distance.

Georgie was beautiful, vivacious tonight in a gown of sea-foam green embroidered with seed pearls, her face bright with laughter, her eyes shining with enjoyment.

Lucky Georgie to be able to delight in the presence of so many men. Psyche sighed again. There was only one man who could make
her
glow like that, one man whose attentions meant more to her than she knew how to say. But the earl only saw her as someone to banter with, someone safe who would not try to trap him into a marriage he didn’t want.

Well, Psyche thought crossly as the dancers twirled by, he needn’t worry about that. She couldn’t trap him if she tried. She simply didn’t know how.

“You are pensive tonight,” the earl said, emerging from beside the palms. “How are things going?”

Psyche swallowed hard, trying to stop the foolish grin of joy that had risen to her face at the sight of him. “All things considered, I think the come-out is going well. We managed to eliminate the orange flowers—and the orange gown.”

The earl raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me--”

Psyche smiled. “My aunt insisted on buying Amanda an orange gown.” She paused. “A ruffled orange gown.”

“Good God! Where is the poor child?”

“There’s no need to worry,” Psyche said. “Amanda spilled ink on her gown at the last minute. And so she was forced to wear one of mine.”

“Ah ha!” He raised the other eyebrow, looking her up and down. “And I suppose you are going to tell me that it fit her perfectly despite the difference in your heights.”

Psyche nodded, unable to hold back a grin. “Just as though it had been made for her.”

The earl chuckled. “My dear Lady Bluestocking,” he drawled, “it’s such a shame you never married.”

Psyche’s heart rose up in her throat. “Why is that?”

“Because, you are so admirably adept at using devious methods.”

What did he mean? She didn’t know a thing about being devious. If she had— “Devious methods?” she repeated.

He nodded, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Yes, the kind wives use to get what they want from husbands.”

She couldn’t help it. She bristled. “Indeed!”

The earl looked amused, his mouth curving into a brash grin. She wished for a moment, childishly, to kick him hard in the shins, but of course she couldn’t. Such behavior was most unladylike. “And why is it that wives must stoop to using devious means to get what they need from husbands?” she inquired caustically.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he said, “never having had a wife.”

Psyche gave him a cold look. “That’s true,” she said, “and very fortunate, too, considering your attitude.”

He surveyed her with lazy, laughing eyes. She wanted to be angry, she
was
angry, but she was so glad to see him. And he looked marvelous. So big and strong and handsome. No wonder women threw themselves into his arms.

She sighed in exasperation. She wanted him to think of her in wifely terms—and here she was, doing and saying all the wrong things. Being Lady Bluestocking again.

The earl raised a hand, as though he meant to ward off a blow. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t mean to conjure up Lady Bluestocking.” She frowned at him, but he forged on. “I’m afraid you won’t appreciate my saying it, but you are very lovely when you’re angry.”

He didn’t know what was driving him to provoke her. He ought to be smoothing her feathers, not ruffling them. But somehow he wanted to see Lady Bluestocking with his own eyes, see her come flaming to the defense of womankind. And she was magnificent, her eyes blazing, her chin thrust stubbornly out, defending her sex against all comers.

“If the world were run on equality,” she pointed out crisply, “there would be little need for deception. But since women are the weaker sex—not in intellect, but in power and physical prowess—they must use whatever they can to achieve their ends.”

He liked the fierce way she glared at him. His Psyche was no milksop, no simpering maiden always bowing to his wishes. She would be herself—the self he loved.

But did she really believe what she’d said? He fixed her with a hard look. “Are you telling me that the end justifies the means?”

Psyche hesitated. She didn’t really believe that. She couldn’t. But what she had said did sound like it. “I- No, I don’t believe that, but--”

He rose to his feet, looking so handsome in his black evening clothes that her heart began to thud painfully again.

He turned to her. “I suppose I shall have to do this the conventional way.” He bowed over her hand. “Would you honor me with this dance?”

“I-- Should I--”

“Amanda certainly is well taken care of,” he pointed out. “You may have one dance to yourself.”

Psyche managed to pull herself together. “It is kind of you to ask me, but— ”

He took a step closer. “Kindness has absolutely nothing to do with it,” he replied with that lazy grin. “I
wish
to dance with you. Now
you
can be kind and consent.”

He extended a hand and waited expectantly, smiling down on her.

Psyche surrendered to her feelings and got to her feet. “Very well,” she said, trying not to smile in such a giddy fashion. “One dance. But then we must find Overton and do what we can to help Amanda.”

Chapter Eleven

One dance, and only one dance. That was what Psyche told herself when she let the earl lead her to the dance floor. He took her right hand in his left, put his other hand in the small of her back. Her gown of claret silk was quite heavy and of course he was wearing gloves, but she could feel his hand burning through the material, almost scorching her skin.

“I--” She hesitated. “I have not learned to waltz,” she murmured. “When I had my Season, the waltz was not yet—”

“There is nothing to it,” he interrupted cheerfully, with that grin that made her heart turn over. “It’s just a one-two-three thing.” He smiled. “Put yourself in my hands and I will guide you.” He looked down at her and chuckled. “That is, if Lady Bluestocking will
allow
a man to guide her.”

The touch of his hand had made her so giddy she could not think how to reply, had to concentrate instead on not melting into him.

When she didn’t answer, he raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you will permit me to point out that, though a lady may not need a man to manage her estate any more than a fish may need wings to swim, a lady
may
find a man useful
if
she wishes to waltz.”

“Yes,” Psyche conceded with a smile, at last finding her tongue. “You are right. I will do as you say and allow you to guide me—through the waltz.” She would allow him to guide her through life, through anything, she thought, but there was no way to let him know that.

“Now,” he went on, in that lazy drawl that somehow made her remember quite vividly the feel of being carried in his arms. “This is how we do it. Lean back against my hand. And give yourself up entirely to the music. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Psyche said.

And they were off, whirling around the floor in intoxicating circles. He clasped her so close she inhaled the tang of leather, of spice. She felt the comforting, almost possessive, pressure of his hand on her back. Closing her eyes, she gave herself completely up to him.

The music ebbed and swelled around them, its wonderful beat invading her body, setting her heart to thumping in rhythm with it. It was mad, it was glorious, it was like nothing she’d ever felt before. No wonder Lord Byron had called the waltz wanton. No wonder he felt it heated a man’s blood. A woman’s, too, though probably few ladies would have admitted it.

All too soon the music stopped. And they stopped dancing. Reluctantly, Psyche stepped back, out of the earl’s arm. “Thank you. That was most enjoyable.”

His eyes were so warm she thought they might burn a hole right through her. “For me, too,” he said, his voice low. “I wish—”

“There you are!” Miss Linden paused beside them, watery blue eyes gleaming. “Milord, how good to see you. And you, Lady Psyche.” She gave Psyche’s gown a quick appraisal. “Claret is not really your color, but otherwise that gown is quite nice.”