A Matchmaker's Match (6 page)

“Hear, hear,” whispered the earl, but only loud enough for Psyche’s ears.

“I manage my estate quite well,” she continued, warming to her topic, though she wasn’t sure why. “Why should I desire to give it over to the control of some male who may well know less about managing it than I do?”

“Why indeed?” inquired the earl, sotto voce.

Lady Linden’s expression vacillated between shock and satisfaction. Obviously she had hoped to goad Psyche into saying something of an inflammatory nature that could be spread around London. And just as obviously she had succeeded.

Miss Linden’s colorless mouth snapped shut and her pale blue eyes blinked in surprise. “Oh my word, such shocking sentiments.”

Psyche swallowed a sharp reply and kept her tongue firmly between her teeth.

Giggling girlishly, Aunt Anna patted the mauve ruffles that embellished her expansive bosom. “Oh my dear Miss Linden, Psyche always says shocking things. But she’s a sweet girl anyhow. And she knows so much.”

Aunt Anna frowned in puzzlement. “I never could figure out how sister’s daughter could have such good understanding.” She touched her frizzled blond hair, arranged in a style Psyche thought hideously uncomplimentary to her sallow face. “Sister and I, we were known for our beauty, not our brains. Not that Psyche isn’t beautiful.” She tittered. “She’s quite an attractive girl in her own way.”

She stopped, waving a hand in an aimless circle, then pressing it to her brow. “Oh dear! And now I’ve lost track of what I meant to tell you.”

“Perhaps,” said Lady Linden, her round face creasing into a satisfied smile, “perhaps it had to do with Lady Psyche’s fortune-telling. Earlier today you mentioned that she can tell amazing things about the future. And with just a deck of playing cards.”

“Oh yes!” Aunt Anna cried, clapping her hands. “She can!”

Psyche swallowed an urge to garnish Lady Linden’s more than ample bosom with the remains of her tortoise soup. She’d been quite right in her supposition. As usual, the Lindens were out to make trouble. Unfortunately, she had no means to stop them.

“My dear,” Aunt Anna cried, her eyes sparkling, “after dinner you simply must amuse us.”

“I’m afraid I have no playing cards,” Psyche said, careful to keep the satisfaction out of her voice. She sent a speaking look to Overton, silently imploring him
not
to produce a deck of cards.

Beside her, the earl frowned. It was obvious to him that Psyche didn’t want to tell fortunes. It was equally obvious that the Lindens would continue to harass her until they trapped her into more Lady Bluestocking
bon mots.
Surely telling fortunes from cards would be the safer pastime.

He smiled to himself. If Psyche told fortunes, he could assist her. He could carry her about. And he could get her to read the cards for him. She would not be able to escape him—at least not for the space of her fortune-telling. And the Lindens would not get any more ammunition to use against her. Psyche was not to be trifled with. Not when he was present, at least.

When the Lindens said nothing, Psyche heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently they had no cards either. They were foiled—at least for the moment.

And then from beside her, from the last person she would have expected to give any help to the Lindens, came a deep chuckle. “I have a deck of playing cards,” the earl said, “quite new, in fact. And I shall be pleased to offer them to Lady Psyche if she will entertain us later.”

His smile was all graciousness, but his eyes were twinkling again. What strange ideas of amusement the man had.

But she knew she was fairly caught. Glancing down the table she saw Aunt Anna beaming happily, Gresham nodding enthusiastically, and Georgie clapping her hands in glee. “It will be capital fun,” Georgie cried. “Psyche is really very good at it.”

Psyche, stealing a glance at the Lindens, found them both wearing complacent smiles. And no wonder. They had achieved their end and now would be able to bruit it about London that Lady Bluestocking was up to her old tricks.

Smiling, Aunt Anna returned to her dinner, Georgie turned to converse again with Gresham, and Amanda resumed her agitated discussion with her guardian, the subject of which Psyche feared was the distressing conduct of her new mentor. Psyche resumed eating her partridge.

“Your popularity spreads,” the earl remarked softly, leaning toward her.

She fixed him with a gimlet eye, trying to appear incensed. But he was such a devilishly attractive man with his eyes sparkling in that mischievous way and his lips curling into that appealing smile that she found her own lips trying to curve into an answering smile.

Still, she tried to be stern. “Perhaps,” she told him, “I do not wish to tell fortunes. Didn’t that occur to you?”

“No.” He appeared genuinely surprised. “It didn’t. Why ever not? As Georgie says, it sounds like great fun.”

She wrinkled her nose. “For you, perhaps. But tell me”—she lowered her voice—”why do you abet the Lindens in their infamous behavior?”

He shrugged his shoulders, reminding her again of their considerable breadth. “Perhaps I wished to see you in action.” He grinned. “Or perhaps I wanted to discover
my
future.”

“I can tell you your future without cards,” she said darkly. “You will come to no good end.”

He chuckled. “Because I have aided and abetted the enemy?”

She knew she was smiling, yet she was unable to stop. “Precisely. If you had kept quiet, I could have avoided this tangle.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But to what end?”

She stared at him. “To what end? To the end of not adding to Lady Bluestocking’s already more than adequate notoriety.”

His eyes danced. “Do you seriously believe you can keep the Lindens from spreading gossip about you?”

She smiled grimly. “Not unless they are both taken deathly ill and rendered mute.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then why not amuse the rest of us with your talents?”

Why not, indeed. She supposed her reluctance must seem peculiar to him. “You see— It’s just— I had hoped to leave Lady Bluestocking buried, keep her out of my return to London. Resurrection of the Bluestocking stories will hardly increase Amanda’s matrimonial chances, you know.”

He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass. “Does that mean you have made up your mind, you have decided to take on the come-out?”

She nodded, the decision made. “Yes, it’s quite foolish of me I suppose, but I have always risen to a challenge. In effect the Lindens have dared me to do it. And so I feel I must.”

He seemed to consider this for some moments while he ate. Then he turned to her and raised a dark eyebrow. “So, did someone dare you to become Lady Bluestocking?”

She sighed, wishing for the hundredth time that the Lindens had let Lady Bluestocking lie-dead and buried—and quite forgotten. “No,” she said. “It just—sort of happened.”

That was not precisely the truth. It had just-sort of—happened because she had
made
it happen. She had set out deliberately to make herself the talk of the town, and she had succeeded beyond her fondest aspirations. Lady Bluestocking’s escapades, her anti-marriage sentiments, her diatribes against husbands, her acid recriminations against the male half of the species, were recounted far and near, whispered about in every fashionable club and drawing room in London—and far beyond.

She had achieved the effect she desired, convincing her suitors that she was not suitable wifely material, that marriage to her, in spite of her rather large fortune, would be more trouble than it was worth.

She sipped her wine. What a pity the earl hadn’t been around then. Lady Bluestocking might never have seen the light of day if the handsome, witty earl had been there to trade badinage and warm looks with her.

But of course the present warmth in his looks was entirely due to his friendship with Overton. She was, after all, cousin to Overton, and so the earl would exert himself to keep her amused. And, of course, being Lady Bluestocking, she was safe company. There was nothing more to it than that. She was going to London to arrange Amanda’s come-out, after all, not to embark on some husband-hunting jaunt of her own. Lady Bluestocking would never find a husband. She had seen to that five years ago.

A lump rose in her throat, making it temporarily difficult to swallow. How silly people could be, believing every ridiculous thing she said—or at least believing
she
believed it.

Chapter Six

After dinner, the gentlemen, eager to hear their fortunes read, decided by common consent to forego their port. The earl dispatched a footman to his room to acquire the playing cards from his valet. Then he lifted Psyche again and carried her back to the library.

He paused in the doorway, looking down at her with sparkling eyes. “Where do you wish to be deposited?” he inquired.

Psyche found it difficult to behave normally, as though they were just making polite conversation, when all the time this most attractive man had one arm under her knees and the other around her back, when her cheek was resting against his shoulder, and his darkly handsome face was so close to hers that her heart wanted to jump out of her bosom.

She tried to think sensibly, but it was not easy. “I don’t know. I shall need a table—to lay out the cards. And something to sit on.”

He nodded. “Perhaps the sofa is best for you. You will be more comfortable there with your foot up.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She appreciated the earl’s concern for her. Goodness, without him she’d be stuck up there in her room, with only Curtis for company. Still, it did seem that he was carrying his friendship for Overton a little far, especially considering her cousin’s prudish anxiety over reputations.

Then she had another thought. Perhaps this was not a thing of friendship, perhaps the earl was ragging his friend. These London bucks did like to tease each other. And Overton certainly had a tendency to get flustered, to be overmuch concerned with propriety.

As though her thoughts had summoned him, Overton crossed the room, his forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. “Really, Psyche,” he said, pulling at his cravat. “Don’t you think this is a trifle excessive?”

From her place in the earl’s arms, Psyche gave him a hard look. “Indeed, I do. But it was
your
guests and
your
mama who insisted upon my doing it.”

Overton looked pained. “I did not mean--That is, I meant--”

Oh no, Psyche thought, averting her gaze, not another scold. The Lindens already had sufficient verbal ammunition to keep the ton talking about her for months on end. What could being carried one more time add to that?

The earl frowned. Overton was overdoing this propriety thing. If he didn’t want the Lindens spreading their malicious tales throughout the ton, he should have countermanded his mother’s invitation and sent the pair packing. Two unlikelier, more unwelcome, house guests had seldom been seen. And Overton had played right into their hands.

The earl fixed the man with a grave look. “Psyche’s right. What else could she do when everyone asked her? You
were
talking about the fortune-telling, weren’t you?”

With a look at Psyche, Overton sighed sheepishly.

The man had not been thinking of fortune-telling, the earl thought. That was plain enough. Overton had been thinking of the impropriety of one of his male guests carrying one of his female guests about. Well, he could fret all he wanted. If Psyche needed carrying, it would be done by the man who loved her.

Overton pulled at his cravat again. “Yes, of course. Really, Psyche, I am only thinking of Amanda, you know. The ton can be very hard on-”

“Indeed, I know,” Psyche interjected smoothly. “And because of that perhaps you had best let your mama handle Amanda’s—”

“No!” Overton glanced around, frowning.

She was good, the earl thought. She knew how to bring Overton around.

The earl smiled. He hadn’t done so badly himself. Overton was convinced that Psyche was the one to handle Amanda’s come-out. And that had been no small feat, though knowing Overton’s esteemed mama’s alarming proclivities had helped considerably.

Overton sighed again and went on in a lower voice. “I want you to do the come-out. The girl needs a good husband and you’re the one to find him for her. I want Amanda to have the best.”

Psyche swallowed a sigh. Overton and his ward were agreed on that one thing, at least. Unfortunately agreed. She could understand a schoolroom girl, which was what Amanda really still was, falling head over heels for the handsome, dashing earl. But Overton ought to know better than to encourage her. What had possessed her cousin to think that Amanda, that green girl, would suit the earl? Why, he’d be bored with her in one night, at the most two. And then what would the child do?

The earl put Psyche on the sofa. “You’ll be comfortable here,” he said, bending to pile pillows behind her back and more under her injured ankle to properly elevate it.

She saw Georgie sending her knowing looks. And Amanda was frowning fiercely. Psyche avoided her gaze, trying to think about something else. But unfortunately, what she thought about was not any less disturbing. She was actually sorry to be out of the earl’s arms. She had been quite comfortable there. Well, not exactly comfortable, but happy. Now she was experiencing a most peculiar sense of loss and an intense desire to be that near him again. This was insanity! She must forget such thoughts immediately.

The earl smiled down at her. “I shall find the table and chairs you require.”

As he moved away, the others pulled their chairs into a circle, curiosity on their faces. Except for Amanda. She looked like she’d eaten too many green apples. They must have a talk—and soon. No man would wish to marry a woman who went around looking like she had a perpetual stomachache.

The earl returned, carrying a small fluted table whose pedestaled base looked like the foot of some great leviathan. Psyche smiled. Aunt Anna’s taste in furniture had always leaned toward the Egyptian, but this table was grotesque. The earl put it beside the sofa, then placed a lyre-back chair on the other side of it.