A Matchmaker's Match (17 page)

Chapter Sixteen

In the days that followed the earl saw to it that the six of them frequented most of the sights of fashionable London: the tower, the menagerie, Bullock’s, the exhibition of art at the Royal Academy. He arranged excursions to every conceivable attraction within driving distance and almost always, except when Georgie insisted on doing the jealousy thing, he paired himself with Psyche.

She told him that male callers flocked to the house on Grosvenor Square, but Amanda spurned each and every one. And those who still persisted, Overton turned off with harsh words. But the man still made no move himself.

And so one August afternoon, having exhausted all of London’s attractions, the earl scheduled a return to Farrington’s Folly. Helping Psyche descend from the carriage, he found himself wishing, as he had so often lately, that Overton would stop being such a pompous ass and recognize what was so obviously before his eyes. But the man simply refused to see. And Amanda, no matter what anyone said to her, adamantly refused to even consider another man.

The earl swallowed a sigh. And then there was Psyche! Psyche was always pleasant, not cruel to him as Georgie was on occasion to Gresham. And sometimes the earl was sure—or almost sure—that what he saw in Psyche’s eyes was much more than friendship. But still he hesitated.

Perhaps he only
thought
he saw, perhaps it was wishful thinking on his part, perhaps to Psyche he was only a friend. And if that were true, a proposal of marriage would surely make her see him as no friend at all—and she would drive him from her side in anger and frustration.

He tucked her arm in his—at least she allowed him that—and followed the others into the museum.

Amanda, hanging on Overton’s arm, was looking up at him in that sickening way of young females in love. The earl stifled another sigh. The chit looked ridiculous, all wide-eyed and glowing like that. And yet—he would give a great deal to have Psyche gaze at him in that very same way.

He glanced down at her, but as usual she was looking around. No wide-eyed awe from Lady Bluestocking. In fact, sometimes she scarcely spoke to him at all.

He glanced at the exhibit before which they had halted, a rather sorry arrangement of primitive weapons presided over by a harshly painted wooden figure. From the looks of its feathered headdress, this display was supposed to portray savages from the Americas.

“Fierce-looking devil, isn’t he?” he inquired, bending to Psyche.

She smiled. “Yes. And I suppose even fiercer if one met him when she was alone and defenseless.”

His heart rose up in his throat at the picture—Psyche, his beautiful Psyche, at the mercy of some heathen savage. He swallowed. Thank God such a thing couldn’t happen here. This was a civilized—

A shriek echoed from the interior of the museum. It was followed by another—and then a whole series of screams and shrieks, cries and yells. Pandemonium broke loose and people came rushing out, streaming down the corridor, shoving and trampling all before them.

The earl did not stop to think, but immediately swung Psyche behind him, backing her into a corner against the wall, imposing his own body between her and the panicked crowd. Whatever was out there causing such terror, it would reach Psyche only over his dead body. He braced himself and waited.

Behind him, Psyche stood silent, her heart pounding, her cheek pressed against his back. Everything had happened so fast—the screams, the pandemonium, the rioting crowd. She supposed she ought to be frightened—something was certainly very wrong here.

And yet the pounding of her heart, the trembling of her limbs—those were not due to fear at all, but to the inescapable fact that the earl’s body was pressing her into the wall, into safety. Except, of course, that what she felt for him left her far from safe.

She waited, every sense alert, every nerve recording the feel of his broad back, his strong shoulders against her. And then, inexplicably, the earl began to laugh, deep hearty laughter. He didn’t sound hysterical—and of course he was not a man to be frightened. But this was not a matter for laughter either.

She tried to peer around him, but his shoulders were so broad there wasn’t enough room, she could see nothing. She tugged at his sleeve. “Southdon! Tell me! Please. What is so funny?”

He stepped aside, so suddenly that she almost fell and he had to put out a hand to catch her by the elbow.

She caught her breath and then she saw. “Why, it’s Toby, the learned pig.”

“Yes,” said the earl.

“But why--”

“Apparently he was running loose and he frightened someone, thus causing the riot.”

She drew herself erect, straightening her bonnet, painfully conscious that the earl was no longer as close to her as she would like. “I— Thank you. You—you risked your life for me.”

She gazed up at him, but he said nothing. If only this rescue meant something, something special to him. But it didn’t. He had rescued her before. Should the occasion arise he would rescue her again. He was that sort of a man.

But standing there in the deserted exhibit room, hanging onto his arm, Psyche faced the truth. She had made a real mess of things by coming to London. Every day that passed made her love the earl more, made her see how impossible that love was. And every day that passed made her feel the pain more deeply.

She had to get Amanda married. And then Lady Bluestocking had to return to the country. Given time—years perhaps—she might be able to forget the earl. Though she doubted it.

His dark face was full of concern. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She almost laughed at the irony of it. “No,” she murmured. “I am fine. But what happened?”

His frown smoothed out. “Evidently the pig ran amok. Five hundred pounds of porker coming at one could be rather frightening.”

Psyche sighed. “Yes, but—” She pointed toward the pig, now squatting complacently on his haunches and examining his front feet. “How can anyone be afraid of Toby?”

The earl shrugged. “In a crowd panic is easily aroused.”

“Toby! Toby, now you come on.” The pig’s master appeared, a little unsteady on his feet. “Toby, you come on now. We’ll get us a nice bucket.” He lowered his voice, apparently unaware that they could still hear him. “A nice bucket of gin.”

With a little squeal the pig lumbered to his feet and started off toward the back of the museum. The earl turned back to Psyche. “Well, it appears the pig imbibes.” He smiled. “Now, where can our friends have gotten to?”

Psyche flushed. She had quite forgotten Amanda and the others. “Perhaps in all the confusion they went outside.”

“Perhaps.” He stared down at her for the longest moment. Her heart pounded faster, faster, harder, harder. Slowly he bent his head, his face came closer, closer, and—

“There you are!”

The earl straightened, biting back a curse. Trust Overton to arrive at just the wrong moment. Why couldn’t— He pulled himself up short. It was probably just as well. If he kissed Psyche, as he had been so tempted to do, kissed her in a public place yet, she would have been horrified. Perhaps she would even have shunned his company ever after.

“We were just coming to look for you,” he said. Psyche’s hand still lay on his arm. He felt it tremble, but he dared not look at her. Had she read his intent in his eyes? Did she know what he had almost done? “Where are the others?” he asked.

Overton frowned. “I left Amanda outside, with Gresham and Georgie.” He pulled at his cravat. “The poor child was absolutely terrified.”

The earl swallowed a sigh and asked, “Shall we go get them?”

Overton scowled and seemed in danger of completely ruining his cravat. “I don’t want to bring Amanda back in here now. She has such a fragile constitution.”

The earl almost snorted. Fragile, indeed! The chit was strong as a horse and a deuced poor actress besides. That kind of fragility had passed with the previous century.

The women he knew used other wiles—the fluttering eyelash, the flattering word, the unexpected press of a bosom against a man’s arm. They gazed adoringly into his eyes and fell weakly into his arms. And it was all the sheerest fakery. Not one of them had experienced a genuine emotion. Not one of them had really loved him. And not one of them was worth Psyche’s little finger.

“Amanda will be disappointed,” Psyche pointed out. “If you don’t want to bring her back in here, let us at least go somewhere else.”

“Capital idea,” said the earl. “How about a ride to Rotten Row?”

Overton hesitated and Psyche persisted. “The change of scenery will be good for Amanda.”

“Well—” Overton sighed. “I suppose we could do that.”

When they reached Hyde Park and descended from the earl’s landau, Gresham offered Georgie his arm, Overton gave his to Amanda, and Psyche found herself bringing up the rear with the earl, a situation certainly to her liking.

“Southdon,” she said when the others were out of earshot. “We must do something. We must make Overton see the truth.”

The earl frowned. “But how? Our best tactic seems to be patience.”

“Pa—” Psyche paused and lowered her voice. “Patience, indeed! We could wait till hel—”

He frowned, his lips thinning into a disapproving line.

“Till next year or the year after,” she continued, changing her remark somewhat out of deference to his look. “Waiting simply will not work. We must do something. And we must do it now.”

The earl frowned. If only she knew how impatient he was to have this thing settled. “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know, but we must do something.” She frowned, her lovely forehead wrinkling in concentration.

“Things certainly used to be much simpler,” he observed. “A man just swooped down, like a bird of prey, and took his woman away.” He hoped to raise her ire, to divert her from Amanda and her problem to a diatribe on men and their ridiculous customs.

But Psyche was not so easily distracted. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and said, “There’s got to be a way, some way to— That’s it!”

She stopped so suddenly, clutching his arm in a death grip, that he almost lost his balance and pulled them both down.

“I say,” he protested. “You’ll have us both on the ground in a minute. And Overton won’t like that the least bit.”

“But I’ve got it!” Psyche cried.

She was lovely in her excitement—eyes sparkling, cheeks rosy, bosom heaving. But he did wish she’d make more sense. “What have you got?” he inquired politely, shifting his gaze to her face.

She grinned. “I’ve got a way to make Overton recognize his love for Amanda.”

“You have?”

“Yes. We’ll have Amanda abducted.”

“Abducted?” Had the woman lost her mind? “Psyche, be sensible. Amanda may not be as fragile as Overton believes, but I really don’t think she could handle abduc—”

“No, no,” Psyche interrupted in obvious irritation. “Not a real abduction, a fake one.”

“A fake one,” he repeated, wondering if the woman he loved had lost her mind.

“Yes, it will work superbly. We’ll have her abducted. When Overton finds out, he’ll be absolutely frantic.” She smiled happily. “And at last he’ll recognize that he loves her.”

“Psyche.” This really was a bubble-brained scheme. Even a man in love could see that. “Really, the girl’s reputation—”

“It will be safe enough,” she insisted stubbornly. “That’s the beauty of the whole thing. I shall be with her all the time. Surely no one can doubt Lady Bluestocking.”

He hesitated. She had something there. “But if the girl’s to be abducted someone must do it.

She nodded vigorously. “Of course. You.”

“Me! Of all the harebrained-”

She stiffened and pulled her arm from his. “Might I remind you, milord, that your way has not been at all successful? And you have had the entire summer, too.”

She was right about that. He couldn’t deny it. Still— “I cannot be the abductor,” he began.

“Well, if you won’t help--”

He swallowed a curse. How could he love such an obstinate woman? “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, but I can’t be the abductor.”

She stopped and put her hands on her hips, lovely hips he noticed. “And why not?”

“Because Overton will not believe it of me. Think, Psyche. I am Overton’s friend. If I want Amanda, I have only to ask. So why on earth should I run off with her?”

He was right. Psyche sighed. Was there no end to this torture? She had to get Amanda and Overton married, get herself away from this pain. “Well then, we’ll have to think of someone else. Now who?”

“Psyche, really-”

Why must he frown like that, as though she’d suddenly taken leave of her senses? She was an intelligent woman. And this was an ideal plan. She put a hand on his sleeve. “Surely you must see—this plan will work.”

“It will throw Overton into a perfect frenzy,” the earl said. “Surely you don’t wish that.”

Psyche frowned. Why must the man be so dense? “Of course I do. When he discovers that she is gone, he will realize that he loves her. And he will act accordingly.”

“Will he?” the earl inquired. “How can you be so sure?”

Psyche swallowed a sigh. “I can’t, of course. But we must try. Amanda is getting frantic, talking of wasting away, declining into the grave and the like.”

“Good Lord! Where did she get an idea like that?”

Psyche frowned. “I’m not sure, from something she’s been reading, I suppose.”

“What sort of drivel has the chit been into now?”

“Well, she mentioned a Mister Richardson, and a heroine of his named—let me think— Clarissa.”

“Oh no!” cried the earl.

Psyche turned to him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Did she tell you anything about this Clarissa?”

Psyche shrugged. “Only that she admired her greatly.”

His face darkened. “Damnation!”

“Southdon! You’re frightening me.”

The earl put a reassuring hand over hers. “I don’t mean to do that, but. Psyche, this Clarissa dies.”

“Dies!” Psyche stopped right in the path, oblivious to the people passing on either side. “Not from--”

“Yes,” the earl went on. “She wastes away while writing her memoirs. And while using her coffin for a writing desk. Georgie told me all about it.”