A Matchmaker's Match (5 page)

Overton frowned. “Southdon’s a good enough chap,” he said, advancing into the room. “But he has quite a name with the ladies. You should—”

“Overton!” What a worrier he had turned out to be. “There’s no need to read me a lecture. I’m quite aware the earl’s a charmer.”

Overton nodded, but he still looked anxious. And if he pulled at his cravat much more it would come undone.

“You mustn’t hold it against him,” he said. “You know we men get used to behaving that way with females.
We can’t help it.”

With some effort Psyche swallowed her irritation. Overton was actually putting himself into the same class as the earl! If she hadn’t been so frustrated by her long lonely afternoon abed she might have been more amused. “I understand, cousin.” She sighed. “I do want to come down to dinner. But those Lindens . . .”

Overton shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “They’re busy relating all the latest
on-dits.
You know the sort.”

“Only too well.” Psyche straightened. There was something about his look, something evasive. “By the way, how do they know you asked me to manage Amanda’s come-out?”

“I— I guess I told them. They wormed it out of me.” Still avoiding her gaze, he edged closer to the door. “I’ll see you at dinner.” Then he, too, was gone.

Psyche reached for the bell cord. Since she was going to dinner, she was going well dressed.

* * * *

When the bell announced the dinner hour, Psyche was ready, dressed to the teeth in a gown of deep blue silk that Curtis swore was the loveliest she’d ever seen. Psyche supposed Overton would send some footmen to help her down to dinner. Since she had tried standing and found she was unable to take any steps alone, it seemed rather obvious she would not get downstairs if he didn’t.

A soft rap sounded on the door. “Come in,” she called.

The earl entered, smiling cheerfully. “Well, you are looking very fetching for an invalid.”

Psyche tried not to return his smile, but she found it impossible. The man must be the greatest charmer alive. “I am not an invalid,” she reminded him. “I am just a trifle indisposed. When Overton remembers to send some footmen, I shall be down for dinner.”

The earl’s eyes twinkled. “In that case I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

“What!” Overton couldn’t be meaning to leave her there in her room! “You mean I can’t go down to dinner?”

The earl gave her an amused glance. “My, my, like all your sex you seem prone to jump to conclusions.”

“I’ll tell you where I’ll jump,” Psyche threatened dramatically. “If I have to spend the entire evening shut up here, I’ll jump out the window!”

The earl grinned. “Now, now, there’s no need for such theatrics.” He advanced toward the bed.

Psyche eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t understand.”

“I am here to carry you down to dinner.” His grin broadened. “Never fear. Though you are no feather, I believe I can manage it.”

“You don’t say.” She forced herself to ignore the wild antics of her heart. “I should prefer . . .” But she never got to finish the lie. The earl scooped her up into his arms. Psyche, her head against his waistcoat, could only sigh. She was, she reminded herself, a mature woman, used to handling her own affairs. Then why did being in the earl’s arms make her feel so very young and giddy?

“You see,” the earl said cheerfully, “I am as strong as any footman.” He would never give this delightful task over to a footman. His arms had seemed empty since he’d let her out of them. And, though in truth, she was not exactly light, he would gladly have carried her anywhere. And soon—

* * * *

The guests were gathered in the library, those Psyche had already seen and some newcomers. Overton’s small house party was growing—growing too fast for her comfort.

The earl paused in the doorway to the library. When he looked down at her, the delightful man winked again. It was obvious he was enjoying setting them all on their ears. But when he spoke, his tone was sober. “I’m sure you’ll all be delighted. Lady Psyche will be joining us for dinner after all.”

Psyche, looking out into the curious faces, wondered what they were thinking. This was twice in one day that she had appeared before them cradled in the earl’s arms. Across the room Miss Linden and her mother exchanged speaking glances. Psyche strongly suspected that only the hope of more scandal had kept them from rushing off to spread what they already knew.

She looked up at the man who carried her. “Why don’t you put me down?”

“I prefer to hold you,” he whispered with that fetching smile. It was so warm, so tender, that her bones felt like they’d melted and her heart began another series of wild palpitations.

Then she caught sight of Amanda’s stricken face. “You must put me down,” she told him firmly. “I shall explain later.”

He shot her a quizzical glance. “Promise?”

“Of course.”

He put her down then, but since he set her on her feet instead of depositing her in a chair, she was forced to lean rather heavily on his arm. It was a strong arm, well muscled. She could feel its hardness under her trembling fingers. And certainly leaning on it was a most pleasant experience, but she should not be thinking things like that.

Miss Linden approached, followed by her dragonish mama whose gown tonight looked like it had once been an awning and still contained sufficient yardage to revert to its original use.
“My
dear Lady Psyche,” Lady Linden gushed. “I have not seen you for some time.”

“I have been busy in the country,” Psyche said, “managing my estate.”

Lady Linden’s eyes narrowed and her voice turned syrupy. “It’s such a shame you have no husband to help you.”

Psyche debated giving the old gossip a few sharp words, but, mindful of the avid listeners, she settled for saying, “I am quite capable of managing my own affairs, thank you.”

Lady Linden actually smirked, quite an unattractive expression that did little to improve her looks. Then she nodded. “Except, of course, for marriage. My dear, I don’t blame you for not wanting to help sweet Miss Caldecott find a husband. After all, you could not find one for yourself.”

“Couldn’t I?” Psyche could feel all their eyes upon her and she reacted automatically. She looked the huge harridan directly in the eye and said distinctly, “Miss Caldecott finds the estate of matrimony attractive. Lady Bluestocking despises it.”

The earl, seeing all their shocked faces, cursed inwardly. The idiots would frighten her back into her Lady Bluestocking pose, into making those acerbic attacks on men and marriage. And that would mean more work for him, more wounds to heal before he could make her his wife.

He sighed. He
would
marry her. Someday. Somehow. He had promised himself that if he survived his wounds, if he reached England intact, he would have the woman he had loved for so long— and so secretly. But it would take patience— and he had never been a patient man.

Psyche kept her expression bland, but the shocked silence that followed her announcement was almost more embarrassing than Lady Linden’s insults. Then the earl laughed and squeezed her hand. “Such a wit you are, Psyche.”

His use of her Christian name raised eyebrows around the room, but that was not the worst of it. Psyche swallowed a bitter sigh. There would be no burying Lady Bluestocking now. She was back for good.

Chapter Five

The butler chose that moment, most opportunely to Psyche’s way of thinking, to announce that dinner was served. He had scarcely finished when she felt the combined gazes of the guests return to her and her companion. The way they were staring at her, she might as well be the main attraction in a raree-show!

“If you’ll just let me lean on you,” she told the earl softly, “I believe I can walk to the table.”

He frowned fiercely, his black eyebrows almost meeting over his nose. But though his frown was quite ferocious, his dark eyes were twinkling merrily. “Nonsense,” he remarked, loud enough for all ears to hear. “I can carry you quite easily. And I—”

“Southdon, really-” Overton bustled up, frowning like a little old woman, and pulling at his cravat. He glanced around at the avidly watching guests and lowered his voice. “You are doing irreparable damage to Psyche’s reputation, old man. If she must be carried, let a footman do it.”

Psyche drew herself up. What a prig Overton was! And he far exceeded his authority, which did not in the least extend over her. “I thank you,” she said haughtily, “for your cousinly concern, but I assure you that I am quite capable of looking out for my own reputation.”

“Indeed,” commented the earl dryly, “she is. Besides, how do you suppose Lady Bluestocking’s reputation can be damaged? Her poor opinion of matrimony—and of men in general--is certainly well known.”

And while her cousin gaped, openmouthed, the earl once more lifted Psyche into his arms.

She did not protest. Truly, she found walking very painful. And, just as truly, she found being in the earl’s arms very pleasant. After all, if she decided to take on Amanda’s come-out, she would have to spend a great deal of time in the earl’s company, though not, regrettably, in his arms.

She was a practical person, she might as well enjoy his company while she could. But, she admitted to herself, enjoy was not precisely the word for the feelings she experienced, nestled there against the earl’s brocade waistcoat.

It was strange that this man, this one particular man, should have such a peculiar effect on her. During her several seasons in town she had been besieged by men of all kinds. She had been pampered, courted, flattered, cajoled, humored, indulged, and doted on. But each man had seemed cut from the same cloth, and that cloth of a rather inferior quality.

The earl was different, though. He was a diamond of the first water, a top of the trees Corinthian, in manners and looks. But it wasn’t only that. It was how he made her feel--strangely giddy, girlish, weak and helpless, yet strong and beautiful at the same time. Such foolishness, she chided herself. But she could not keep herself from delighting in the feel of the steady thud of his heart, his strong determined heart, beating under her hand. And even worse she could not prevent her own heart from palpitating wildly.

The earl, with her warm willowy body in his arms, tried not to smile in satisfaction. By the time her ankle had recovered, he intended to be much better acquainted with the beautiful Lady Bluestocking.

He carried her directly to the huge dinner table and deposited her at her place. Then while she watched, those lovely pansy eyes full of amusement, he calmly switched place cards with someone else, announcing, “Since I have appointed myself your transportation I must stay close at hand.”

“Of course,” Psyche answered, returning his smile. She had not smiled so much in many years. But that smile soon faded. Down the table Amanda was whispering to Overton, her pretty face contorted into a frown, her slim white fingers plucking nervously at a golden curl.

Psyche sighed. The girl was lovely. Bucks, young and old, would come flocking to pay court to her. Beautiful Amanda would have her pick of London’s richest and finest. But she wanted London’s best, she wanted the Earl of Southdon.

Psyche addressed herself to her tortoise soup. Why couldn’t Amanda have wanted any other man in London? Why must the silly chit want this particular man?

The girl needed a good talking to. Perhaps then she’d set her sights on a target more appropriate to her tender years.

“Oh Mama, fie!” Miss Linden’s staccato shriek pierced the convivial atmosphere of the dinner table and drew all attention in her direction. “I think that was all a mad, mad story. Even Lady Bluestocking wouldn’t!” Here mother and daughter both sent Psyche a look that boded no good.

The earl swallowed a sigh. Psyche would not back down from anyone, least of all the odious Lindens, who were famous—or infamous—in all of London for their vast repertoire of scandalous
on-dits,
and the speed with which they disseminated them. It seemed everyone was determined to make his task harder.

He turned to watch. What would Psyche say now?

Miss Linden smiled and he was reminded of a cat about to pounce on an innocent mouse. “Lady Bluestocking would never say such a thing,” she cooed. “Now would you?”

Psyche swallowed a pointed observation on Miss Linden’s intellect—or lack thereof—and on the interesting possibilities of her parentage. Forcing herself to smile, she replied, “I’m afraid I can’t say, since I don’t know what it is that I—that Lady Bluestocking—is supposed to have said.”

Miss Linden looked around the room in triumph, obviously pleased to have everyone’s attention. Her thin lips curved into a smug smile. “Why, the story is that Lady Bluestocking, that
you,
told Lord Fetherill that a woman needs a husband like a fish needs—wings.”

A shocked murmur sped around the table and then all was quiet as Overton’s guests waited, their faces turned expectantly toward her.

“Surely you would not have said such an outrageous thing,” Miss Linden continued. “I was just telling Mama so.”

Well, Psyche thought, it was exactly as she’d feared. The Lindens meant to make all the trouble they could. But denying the truth would not prevent trouble, only increase it.

She kept her expression amused. “I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint you, Miss Linden, but it appears that your mama is right. I distinctly remember making such a comment to Lord Fetherill.” She managed a chuckle though she would far rather have strangled the stringy little gossip—and her fat toad of a mama, too. “If I remember rightly, he turned quite red, poor dear.”

“But Lady Bluestock-- Lady Psyche--” Lady Linden waved a pudgy hand, liberally ornamented with rings. “Surely you must recognize that women are weak creatures, the frail sex we are called.”

A strange noise seemed to issue from the earl’s vicinity, but when Psyche glanced his way he appeared quite composed and entirely engrossed in his partridge.

“Some women may be frail,” she said stubbornly, looking directly at Lady Linden. “And obviously men are physically stronger than women, but I believe that some women are every bit as intelligent as some men.”