A Matchmaker's Match (12 page)

“Thank you,” Psyche murmured, her expression blank.

The earl kept a tight hold on the fingers that trembled in his. Psyche was upset, he thought, but her face wasn’t showing it.

Miss Linden inched closer, blinking up into his eyes. What did this whey-faced creature expect from him? He certainly did not mean to dance with her. He wanted only to dance with Psyche. All night with Psyche. Forever with Psyche.

And then it came to him, the Linden chit could be useful. Keeping a tight hold on Psyche’s hand, he gave Miss Linden his finest smile. “If you’ll excuse us, I believe this is our dance.” And he whirled Psyche away.

She was silent for several minutes and then she looked up at him, and never missing a beat asked, “Really, Southdon, why have you done such a foolish thing?”

He made his voice serious and pretended surprise. “Of what sin am I to be convicted now?”

“You know you have danced with me twice,” she pointed out, frowning at him. “Twice, and in a row. People will talk.”

He raised a nonchalant eyebrow. “Have you forgotten that you are Lady Bluestocking?”

Perplexed, she stared up at him. “Of course not. All London knows that.”

“And all London also knows that you have no use for marriage—or men. So they will think nothing of another dance with me. A slight idiosyncrasy on your part, nothing more.”

She ought to refute his illogic. She knew it. But she was too conscious of his nearness to step out of his arms, too full of longing for his touch to forfeit even one sweet second of this dance.

“Very well,” she said. “But as you well know, this must be our last dance. Then we must attend to Overton.”

The earl nodded gravely. “As always, your wish is my command. And by the way, claret
is
your color.”

* * * *

They left the dance floor at the end of the waltz, the earl tucking her arm through his as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

She let her arm stay there, let her hand rest upon his warm sleeve. She did this only, she told herself fighting a certain lightheadedness, because he was going to talk to Overton. And of course, as he had so aptly pointed out before, he could be seen in Lady Bluestocking’s company with complete safety. No one would ever expect him to marry
her.

That was not the happiest thought and she pushed it aside. Tonight she must think about Amanda, only about Amanda. “Do be careful,” she whispered, glancing up at the earl.
“We
don’t want Overton to suspect—”

The earl frowned, but his eyes were twinkling, dancing with mischief, in fact. “I say. Lady Bluestocking, do you doubt my capacity for deception?”

“I—” That was not a conversation she wished to resume. “I just want you to be careful. If Overton finds out, Amanda will be devastated.”

The earl smiled. “Cupid’s arrow has struck deep then.”

“Indeed, yes,” Psyche agreed. “Unrequited love is such an uncomfortable bedfellow.”

The earl sent her a strange look. “A peculiar sentiment for Lady Bluestocking, is it not? I’d have thought she’d have more caustic words for love. Unrequited or otherwise.”

“I— I only meant that that is what I’ve heard.” She was heartily tired of all this talk of Lady Bluestocking. She opened her mouth to tell him so—and closed it again quickly. Saying such a thing might drive him from her side. And she would rather have him with her this way than not at all.

By then they had reached Overton, who was standing alone by some palms, watching the dancers go by. Psyche, following his glance, saw that it was resting on Amanda, an Amanda who gave every appearance of being fascinated with the man in whose arms she went whirling around the floor.

“The evening seems to be going well,” the earl commented.

“Yes,” agreed  Overton,  still watching Amanda. “I am pleased.” He smiled and for a moment Psyche saw how Amanda could love him. “I suppose Psyche told you about the gown—and the other things.”

“Yes,” the earl said. “It’s fortunate you had her to manage the thing for you.”

Overton heaved a great sigh and tugged at his cravat. “I know it. With Mama like she is, it’s been the most tremendous job. And I’m eternally grateful to Psyche.” He turned. “But tell me, what do you think of Amanda?”

“She’s a lovely young woman,” the earl said. “She’ll make some man a fine wife.”

Overton nodded proudly. “Did a good job if I do say so myself. Couldn’t have done better.”

“Have you someone in mind as her husband?” the earl inquired.

Overton frowned. “No, not really. I want to please her, of course. She’s such a delicate-minded little thing. I don’t want her to have any of those oafish fellows like Psyche’s mama pressed on her. Nor old ones neither. This fellow has to be young and good enough. To take care of Amanda and all.”

The earl nodded. “Admirable standards. I quite understand. Have you danced with her yourself yet?”

Overton started, his eyes rounding, his hand reaching for his cravat again. “Gracious, no! You think I should?”

“Of course. It shows your approval.”

Overton nodded, his face serious. “Right, I’ll do it.”

The earl, searching his friend’s face, recognized the signs. There was no doubt of it. Overton was snared. Caught good and proper. He just didn’t know it yet.

The earl looked down at Psyche. So unrequited love was an uncomfortable bedfellow. Perhaps. But
he
didn’t intend to find out. His love would not go unrequited. He meant to make Lady Bluestocking his wife.

Strange, no woman had ever affected him as she did. He’d been on the town five years before he went off to fight Napoleon. And in that time, he’d seen many beautiful women, loved more than a few of them. Or thought so at the time. But those feelings had been but pale imitations of what he felt for Psyche, his Psyche.

The dance ended and Overton went off to claim Amanda for the next one.

“Well, what do you think?” Psyche asked anxiously.

He was tempted to ask her “think about what,” but, poor darling, she really was worried about Amanda. “I think he’s taken with her.”

“Then why doesn’t he speak?”

The earl grinned. “The poor fool doesn’t know it yet, that’s all.”

Psyche sighed in exasperation. “How can we make him realize it?” She grimaced. “Short of hitting him over the head with something.”

The earl shrugged. “Some men are rather dense in matters of love.”

“Indeed!” Psyche snorted. “I should say so.”

Her gloved hand lay still upon his coat sleeve. He covered it with his own. “Please, Psyche, don’t fret yourself over this. I promise you—we will contrive it someway, somehow. Amanda will have her Overton.

“And now,” he said, “how would you like to set this company on its collective ear?”

Psyche stared up into his eyes, eyes dancing with laughter. Why must he be such a terribly attractive man? “And how shall I do that?”

“Simple. Dance with me again.”

“Southdon!” Shock had made her voice rise. People nearby turned to look at them. She spoke more softly. “We have already danced twice. You know to do more will cause talk. Why, it might even prevent suitors from calling on Amanda.”

“So it might,” the earl agreed, raising a mocking eyebrow. “And would that be such a terrible thing, considering that—”

“No, I guess not.” Psyche looked out on the dance floor, where an adoring Amanda was being whirled around and gazing up at her guardian from worshipful eyes. “But . . .”

Psyche sighed. She loved the waltz, the invigorating beat, the tantalizing rhythm, the feel of the music in her very blood. But most of all she loved being in the earl’s arms, loved the excitement, the joy of it.

“Didn’t I do a good job before?” he inquired. “Guiding you through the steps of the dance?”

“Yes,” she conceded. “And I admit there’s some logic to what you propose, but Southdon— you know how my cousin is about propriety. He will explode when he hears this!”

The earl laughed. “Look at him. He wouldn’t notice if everyone else in the room left!” He took a step toward the dance floor. “Come, Lady Bluestocking, I dare you!”

“That’s unfair!” she cried, unable to keep from laughing. “To use what I told you about myself against me. How ungentlemanly.”

He extended a hand, grinning down at her. “Indeed, it is ungentlemanly. But it’s also fun. Come, what do you care? They talked about you before. The whole of fashionable London repeated your epigrams with great glee.”

She swallowed a sigh. “I know.”

“It didn’t bother you then. Don’t let it bother you now. Let them talk. We won’t mind it.”

“You are mad,” Psyche said. “No one goes against the dictates of the ton. Lady Jersey and the others—”

“Do you wish to frequent Almack’s? Eat stale cake and drink warm lemonade?”

“Of course not. I’m too ol—
My Season is over.”

“Then you need not fear Almack’s patronesses. Do you wish to make calls and be received?”

She glared at him in mock exasperation. “You know I don’t. I wish only to get Amanda safely married to Overton.”

Again he smiled down into her eyes. “Then dance with me. I will handle anything Overton may say to you. And I will bear the brunt of his criticism.”

Psyche laughed. It was not a healthy laugh, but one of resignation. “You will go home,” she said. “When the ball is over, you will go home. And I will remain here—with Overton—and bear his scolding.”

The earl let his hand fall to his side. “I am sorry,” he said. “You are quite right.”

Perversely, Psyche wished he hadn’t given up. Other women had their husbands, had someone to love them. And she had no one. As soon as Overton could be made to see the truth, she would return to Sussex. But life in the country would never be the same—not after this, not after she knew what it was like to dance with a man she loved, to be carried in his arms, to feel his breath on her cheek, to wish for—

“You are quite right,” he said. “I am beyond the bounds on this. We will just watch. Proper, staid, correct.”

But she didn’t want to be correct. She wanted, desperately, dangerously, to be in his arms again. And this might be her last chance. “Yes,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” she repeated more firmly. “We will dance again. But you must help me with Overton when he finds out. You know how he fusses. And we must make him recognize that he loves Amanda.”

“Have no fear about that,” said the earl. “I have in mind a plan.”

Psyche frowned. “If only we could speak outright to him.”

The earl shook his head. “I don’t think that would work. You must never give Overton advice, at least not openly. You must sneak it in, let him think it is his own idea.”

Psyche stared at him. “You speak like someone who knows.”

Fool,
the earl told himself.
You can’t let her know that you planted the idea of her managing Amanda’s come-out in her cousin’s mind.
He nodded. “Well, he has been my friend for some time. So I’ve learned how to deal with him.” He smiled at her, putting all his charm into it. But still she frowned. Why wouldn’t the charm that had put London’s women at his feet work on this one who meant so much to him?

He had no answer. But he knew he wouldn’t give up. Psyche was meant for him. He didn’t question that; he couldn’t. He took her in his arms, smiled down into her lovely face, and waltzed her out on the floor.

Chapter Twelve

That dance ended, too, far too soon to suit Psyche. And as they left the dance floor, Georgie approached them, Gresham trailing behind her.

“Southdon!” she cried. “You naughty boy!” She rapped him smartly on the wrist with her fan. “You have been here long enough to dance and you have not come to pay your respects to me. How dare you, you wretch!”

The earl smiled and bowed over her outstretched hand. “A thousand pardons, Georgie dear. But I saw you occupied with Gresham there. And I would never wish to intrude.”

Georgie shrugged, as though dismissing the man behind her. “Have you forgotten that you promised me a dance?”

“Of course not. How could I?”

Psyche swallowed a sigh, and watched as Georgie led the earl off.

“Like a tame bear,” Gresham murmured.

Psyche turned. Gresham looked as though he’d lost his best friend. “I beg your pardon?”

“She leads a man, any man, around like a tame bear,” Gresham explained. He sighed, fixing her with a beseeching look. “You’re her friend, Psyche. Tell me, please, how can I win her?”

Psyche bit back brittle laughter. She was hardly the person to give advice in matters of love. But the man was so troubled, she had to do something to help him. “I don’t know,” she began. “Have you indicated your feelings to her?”

Gresham groaned. “Oh yes, many times. But she laughs at me and then she smiles at someone else.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more mussed than usual. “She treats me like a servant. And yet, sometimes, I think I see in her eyes that, that she may care about me.”

He sighed piteously. “It’s driving me crazy.
She’s
driving me crazy. Oh, Psyche, what am I to do?”

She frowned. “I don’t really know, but I have heard--”

“Yes, what?” He stared at her eagerly.

“I have heard that some women, like some men, can be won by making them jealous.”

“Jealous?” Gresham considered this. “You mean I should pretend to have a tendre for someone else?”

Psyche nodded. “Perhaps you needn’t go quite that far. That is, you don’t wish to cause some poor young woman pain.”

“Of course not.” Gresham’s face brightened. “Jealous! Yes! I will try that. And thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome. I only hope it works.”

Psyche watched Gresham stride off to where a beautiful young thing waited to be swept away in the dance. And she noted that he maneuvered his partner past Georgie and the earl, and that while doing so, Gresham appeared to take no notice of them at all.

Jealousy, Psyche thought, sinking into a chair, was supposed to be a primitive human emotion. Could they use jealousy to bring Overton up to scratch, to get him to offer for Amanda himself? She’d have to ask the earl and see what he thought about it. Too bad she didn’t know some way to make
him
jealous.