A Matchmaker's Match (3 page)

Psyche saw Georgie’s inquisitive look. “Not now, Amanda. We’ll talk later.”

But Amanda would not be put off. She grabbed Psyche by the arm. “Oh, milady, I must know now! Aren’t you agreed? Don’t you think the earl would make me a wonderful husband?”

Georgie’s small gasp wasn’t lost on Psyche. She felt a rising irritation. If Amanda was going to act this bird-witted, she’d have little chance of success.

She took the young woman by the arm. “Excuse us, Georgie.”

Georgie nodded, but she looked ready to burst with curiosity.

Psyche led Amanda to a secluded corner where she looked at her sternly. “Amanda, when I say
not now,
I mean
not now.
If you expect to win a husband, you must learn discretion.”

Amanda looked surprised, her blue eyes widening in shock, her pink mouth forming an oval of dismay.

“Suppose,” Psyche continued, “that Lady Standish were to tell the earl what you just
said.”

Amanda’s eyes grew even rounder. “She wouldn’t! She’s your friend.”

Psyche knew better. Friend or no, if Georgie wanted the earl, she would go after him. And she would use any available means to get him. She sighed. “Amanda, have you never heard the expression—’All’s fair in love and war?’ ”

Chapter Three

The next morning Psyche rose early, put on her claret-colored riding habit, and made her way to the stable. Morning air always cleared her mind and this morning it felt in particular need of clearing.

The events of the previous evening were foremost in her mind as she turned Hesperus away from Tall Oaks. The gelding tossed his handsome head: it was obvious he wanted a good run.

“Not now,” she told him.
“We don’t know this country well enough.”

She held the horse to a walk, but her mind was not so easily controlled. It insisted on galloping over the events of the night before. Imagine meeting someone like the earl now. If she had met him before, during her Season, there might not have been any need to create Lady Bluestocking.

But he hadn’t been in London then; he’d been off fighting Napoleon. And so her Season had come— and gone, leaving her unwed.

Oh, even the second year she might have accepted several offers. But she had continued to play Lady Bluestocking to the hilt and so frightened her suitors that they’d cut and run. She’d had to do it--marriage to any of them would have meant disaster. She’d known it then, and she knew it now.

Hesperus had halted. Looking up, she saw that he stood outside the wall of a ruin. From the lay of it, it could be what was left of an abbey. She couldn’t be sure.

In any event there was a quiet grace about the place. Tendrils of ivy crept over the tumbled stone, harbingers of spring, opening green buds to the sun.

Psyche sighed. Just a few weeks remained to prepare for the Season. But could she undertake such a task? Did she want to go back into the world of the ton? They were not kindhearted, those people who fed on gossip, who lived for the
on-dit,
the whispered scandal, the ruined reputation.

She might not be considered bracket-faced yet, but she had to admit she
was
on the shelf. There was no skirting the fact that she was three and twenty, long past the prime age for marriage. And worse, her reputation as Lady Bluestocking had not been buried. Or, more accurately, it had been resurrected by the Lindens.

“I had to do it,” she said, scratching behind the gelding’s ears. “I had to protect myself from those creatures Mama pushed on me. I had to create Lady Bluestocking.”

The horse snorted and tossed his mane. “I know,” she said. “You want a nice run. But I don’t. Not yet at least.” She gazed around. “I believe I’ll just take a look at these ruins. Perhaps the abbey was built on the remains of something Roman.”

She slid down and tethered the horse to a tree. The stones were all tumbled about, but in the far corner part of a wall had survived intact. A lot could be surmised by looking at the stones themselves. Papa had taught her that chisel marks often had a tale of their own to tell.

She set out for the corner, picking her way carefully among the scattered stones. The way was rough, the ground uneven. Holding up her riding skirt, she stepped cautiously. She thought she was being quite careful, yet one minute she was upright and walking, and the next her ankle had turned and she was thrown violently to the ground.

“Oh!” Her Cossack-style riding hat kept her head from hitting directly on the stones. And her heavy velvet habit protected her skin from scrapes, but her entire body felt jarred by the fall. Tomorrow would bring a fair-sized bruise on her derriere. There was no doubt in her mind of that.

She started to push herself upright. Pain jolted through her and she cried out. Her foot was trapped under a heavy block of building stone. Evidently the weight of her stepping on it had tilted the stone sideways and when she fell it flipped over on top of her foot.

After she caught her breath, she tried again to reach it. But the stone was too big and heavy, and her foot was twisted at an angle that made it hard to get at.

She sank back with a sigh, frustrated. It was clear that she could not free herself. Forcing herself into calmness, she tried to settle comfortably. Though her foot was trapped, it was not excessively painful. She would just be in for a longish wait. Since it was yet early morning, no one would be apt to miss her for some time.

There was little point in ranting and railing at her fate, however. She was pinned there till someone found her—no amount of complaining would change that.

Well, she had wanted to be alone, to clear her head so she could decide whether or not to help Amanda. And here she was—certainly alone. With plenty of morning air and plenty of time to think.

She gave herself up to considering the pros and cons of returning to London. At the end of the first hour she had come no nearer a conclusion. What she had concluded was that the stones were quite hard and that she could find no comfortable position among them. For the first time her courage faltered a little. No one at the house knew where she had gone, not even what direction. How would they know where to look for her?

The sun came out from behind a cloud, forcing her to close her eyes against its glare. Perhaps she would doze a little. The time would pass faster.

* * * *

The earl pushed his horse harder. Why hadn’t he risen earlier? He hadn’t expected Psyche to go out riding alone. He’d meant to be there before her, to suggest he ride with her.

But he had laid awake long into the night, recalling her every word, her every look. So that this morning he’d been late to rise, too late to catch Psyche.

Besotted,
he told himself,
you’re absolutely besotted with the woman.
But he didn’t care. He only hoped he could find her. The stable boy had said there were ruins in this direction—and he was hoping that she had decided to ride there.

And then he saw them, great blocks of tumbled stone, probably once an abbey. Seconds later he spied the horse, its saddle empty. Was Psyche examining the ruin? But where?

And then the splotch of claret caught his eye, claret among the gray stones of the ruin. She was on the ground!

He pulled the horse to a halt, dismounted, and hurried to her. “Psyche?”

She didn’t stir. She looked to be asleep, but with that building stone on her foot she could be injured. If she’d fallen and hit her head-- He moved closer, repeating her name, this time a little louder. “Psyche! Are you hurt?”

She stirred then and opened her eyes. He let out his breath in relief. “Well,” he said, making his tone jocular, “what have we here?”

Psyche jerked awake and looked up to see the Earl of Southdon looming over her. “Southdon, are you really here?”

He smiled. “To the best of my knowledge. But what-”

“I slipped and my foot got caught.” She flushed. “I know it was foolish. Papa would have scolded me. He always cautioned me against clambering about ruins alone.”

“A wise man,” the earl observed, moving closer. “Let me get this stone off your foot.” He lifted it easily and set it to one side.

Psyche sighed. “Thank you. That feels much better.”

He tested her ankle, his fingers gentle. “We really should get that boot off. In case your foot swells.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He straddled her legs, his broad back to her. “Can you brace yourself with your other foot?”

“I—” To do what he suggested she would have to plant her other foot directly on the seat of his immaculate inexpressibles.

He glanced back over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for?”

The blood rushed to her face. “I-- Your-”

“Just put your boot where it will do the most good.” He grinned. “And count yourself fortunate. Few people get such an opportunity.”

She decided to take him at his word and set her good foot firmly on the seat of his breeches. “Ready.”

“All right. I’m going to make it quick. It’ll probably cause you some pain, but to go slow would only drag it out.”

She nodded. What sort did he think she was? Lady Bluestocking would not cry out. That kind of carrying on was for frailer females. She braced herself against the rocks. “I’m ready.”

True to his word, he was quick. The boot came off with a jerk and she fell back among the stones, not quite able to contain a little whimper.

He turned to her at once, his eyes full of concern. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but leaving your boot on would have made it much worse. And cutting one off can be tricky business.”

She moistened her dry lips. “I—I am fine. Thank you for your help.”

To prove she was fine she started to get up, to show him she could do so quite easily, but the world, unfortunately, refused to stand still. Indeed, it commenced spinning in dizzying circles and then, quite to her astonishment, the ground came rushing up to meet her.

In that last second before the darkness hit she felt the earl’s strong arms closing around her. She was conscious of the smell of leather and his pomade. And then there was nothing.

She opened her eyes to find herself lying in his arms. For the briefest second she fought the temptation to close her eyes again, to savor the moment.

He frowned in concern. “Lady Psyche, are you in much pain?”

“I—” She struggled to sit erect, terribly conscious of his arms around her. “I am not in pain.” She frowned. “Well, perhaps just a little. But I am frightfully dizzy. The result of my fall, no doubt.” She hesitated. “Perhaps you could help me to my horse?”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “And have you fall off him into my arms? I think not. You might injure yourself further.”

“But . . .” Actually the prospect of falling into his arms did not seem at all daunting. Why must the man have such a bewitching smile?

“No buts,” he continued. “I would be remiss in my duty if I allowed such a thing.”

She looked at him in bewilderment. “But then how shall I get back to the house?”

He gazed directly into her eyes. “You must ride with me, of course.”

Her heart began to pound in mad confusion. “With you?”

“Yes.” His smile was tender. “I shall lift you into the saddle first, then swing up behind you. But you must call out immediately if you feel faint. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Good. I shall carry you out to the horses then and we’ll be on our way.”

“There’s no need to carry me,” she protested. “I mean, I can lean on your arm.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I prefer not to take that risk.”

“I am not a small woman,” Psyche began, painfully aware of the impropriety of being carried. And by such a man, by a man who already made her heart pound in a dreadful fashion.

The earl shrugged. “I’m much larger, and I’m no weakling.” Moments later he was on his feet and lifting her into his arms.

She discovered that she was quite comfortable there, in his arms. He had a strength to him, imparting a certain sense of safety to her. But she was conscious, too, of some other feelings, feelings that might prove quite dangerous.

Picking his way carefully among the scattered stones, the earl was soon back to where the horses waited.

He set her on her good foot first, keeping his hands on her waist, his face so close to hers that she could feel his warm breath. Then he lifted her right up onto the saddle.

“Hang on while I get your boot,” he said with a worried look. “Don’t faint on me now.”

“I’m fine.” She was feeling light-headed again, actually rather giddy. But she strongly suspected the feeling was caused by the earl and not the pain in her ankle which only throbbed a little.

He came back with her boot and tucked it under a strap on her saddle. Then he loosened the horses, holding both sets of reins, and swung up behind her. It was a strange sensation, having a man so close. One she liked. The men who had pursued Lady Bluestocking had been the sort a woman wanted to get away from, not get close to.

She tried to sit erect. This was, after all, the man Amanda loved. If she meant to help the girl, she could not give in to these feelings of weakness that threatened to engulf her. And at any rate the earl was only being kind. Last night’s repartee was only that—witty badinage to pass the time. He knew she was Lady Bluestocking, and therefore not interested in matrimony.

Nevertheless, she felt a terrible inclination to melt back against him. She stiffened her spine. Perhaps conversation would help to distract her. “How did you happen to be out here?” she asked.

His arms were so strong around her, gathering her closer. But she shouldn’t think of that.
Or the feel of his chest against her back, his warm masculine chest.

“I just thought I would explore the ruins,” he said. “Remember, I am interested in antiquities.”

She smiled. “How fortunate for me. I might have lain there for a long time, undiscovered.”

“Yes.” His voice was rough. “You really should tell the stable boy where you’re heading when you ride out.”

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“Because I asked him.”

The answer was obvious, but still it startled her. “Oh.”