Though truth be told, he was never too far from her thoughts. In fact, whenever she glanced out the windows of the agency toward Sterling’s, she looked for a glossy black carriage with red spoke wheels and wondered if, perhaps, he’d ever thought of her.
It was silly, she supposed. He was certainly not a romantic figure, by any means. And yet, on that one morning, she’d had more of an adventure than she’d ever experienced in her life.
A frustrated growl from Temperance brought Briar back to the walled garden, the scented air thick as nectar.
“I think there is something wrong with my arrows. They look fine on the outside, but inside their cores must be all twisted.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” Briar agreed for her friend’s sake and offered a handful of her own. “Try some of these instead.”
Temperance studied the new arrows carefully as she returned to the matter at hand. “I do wish Daniel would have come out of his rooms when you arrived. Since Mother can pester anyone into submission, there’s still hope, I suppose. Though, now that I think on it, perhaps we shouldn’t remind him about your family business for now. I don’t want him to think that we’re plotting to marry him off.”
“Even if that’s exactly why you asked me here?”
“Well, you are the only matchmaker I would trust with my own brother’s happiness. And do you know what else, I think you should make a match for my cousin as well.”
Briar inhaled sharply, then coughed.
Temperance whacked her between the shoulder blades. “Are you quite well? I hope you didn’t swallow an insect, for it would ruin your appetite for tea.”
Briar shook her head, knowing it wasn’t an insect. The sour flavor on her tongue tasted far too similar to guilt. She hadn’t yet told Temperance about the challenge she’d accepted from Genevieve Price.
“You want me to make a match for your cousin?” Briar croaked.
“I think Nicholas is lonely. There’s been something off about him since last year. Of course, I could be wrong and he’s merely worried about Daniel. But all the same, I should like to see him happy. Would you consider it?”
“Well, yes, certainly. But there’s something I need to tell you.”
Temperance held up a finger. “Hold that thought, for I am eager for the two of you to meet. I’d better go and see what’s keeping him. Surely, meeting with his steward couldn’t take this long. Though if I had to guess, I’d say he was rooting around in the kitchens for more of Mrs. Darden’s scones. He was quite mad for them when he tasted them earlier.”
“Then I’m glad that I brought more with me—not lemon, but orange and ginger with a jar of fig preserves.”
Temperance set down her bow and put a hand over her midriff. “Tell me not to look in the kitchens for my cousin, for I fear I will eat the scones myself.”
“Just think of them as a necessary indulgence. Don’t they say that idle hands are the devil’s workshop? Well, if we keep a scone in each hand, then we are working toward our own salvation.”
“I absolutely adore the way you think.” Temperance walked up the terrace steps and called over her shoulder before she disappeared into the house, “Shoot some of my arrows, will you? If Daniel does come out into the garden, I want to have something to boast about, and hope that he doesn’t see the havoc I’ve wreaked on the shrubs in the distance.”
Left alone, Briar resumed her task, methodically shooting the arrows in her own quiver, each of them striking in the center circle of Temperance’s target. She mulled over how she would tell her friend about the challenge she’d accepted.
Distracted by her thoughts, she felt an odd prickling down the back of her neck, as if someone were watching her. Likely it was Temperance, returning to tell Briar that she’d succumbed to the temptation of the scones. Yet with a glance over her shoulder, she saw that she was wrong. It wasn’t her friend at all.
She gasped, her eyes going as round as saucers. A man stood there, tall and dark, and . . . oh-so-familiar. “You.”
It was the stranger from that day!
Forgetting that she had a loaded bow, she let the shot escape. The arrow sailed aloft, landing in the rhododendrons near the edge of the terrace.
Leaning casually against the archway, his long legs crossed at the ankle, the rogue merely raised a black eyebrow at the rustling leaves but did not stir from his spot. Clearly, he was used to sudden attacks—random arrows, women’s kisses in public, debutantes bent on appropriating his carriage . . .
“I seem to recall once believing that you would have been a fair shot with a pistol, when some lout accused you of wearing rouge on your lips. Now I realize I’d been wrong. I was at greater risk of death by arrow.”
“Depending on your proximity, of course.” She was breathless with disbelief, and perhaps from the deep timbre of his voice as well. The lush, wicked sound burrowed into the pit of her stomach the same way it had before, like a cat clawing a cozy spot on a coverlet for a long nap. “But what are you doing here?”
Strangely, it seemed that no time had passed since their last meeting. Though, clearly it had, for his appearance was somewhat altered, his skin a little brown, his face thinner, and there was an overall sense of exhaustion that she had not noticed before. Still there was no mistaking the unforgiving angles of his cheeks and jaw, the wealth of his nose, those erudite ebony eyes, and her unaccountable fascination with his countenance.
“I’m merely enjoying the beauty of the garden, and a serendipitous reunion with an old acquaintance.” He pushed away from the door and ambled across the terrace toward her.
She felt a blush creep to her cheeks in a wave of tingling heat. It had been foolish to share a carriage with a man who’d showed no qualms over engaging in salacious activity on the pavement outside of Sterling’s. There was no telling what other thrilling activities such an irredeemable rake was capable of . . .
Her thoughts trailed off as the most disturbing realization occurred to her. “Surely you’re not—you couldn’t be—Cousin Nicholas?”
He sketched a bow. “The very one.”
No. When she’d accepted the challenge, Briar had been sure Temperance’s cousin would possess some redeeming qualities. But this man?
Bother. How could she ever convince such a man to marry? And more importantly, how could she find a sane woman willing to marry such a man?
It seemed that her slippers had lost every drop of luck, after all.
“Come here, Briar,” he said with unabashed, toe-curling naughtiness, a sinful gleam in his dark eyes. Then he opened his arms. “Give your long-lost cousin a kiss.”
Chapter 7
“One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.”
Jane Austen, Emma
“You and I are hardly cousins. And it is Miss Bourne to you.” She offered a haughty sniff. Then, tucking a wisp of corn silk hair behind her ear, she turned away to select an arrow from the quiver, leaving Nicholas peculiarly disappointed.
Where was the unforgettable young woman he’d met last year who would have had far more things to say? Who wouldn’t have hesitated to level him with her opinions, either on his conduct or his countenance? Who would have conjured a ludicrous scenario out of thin air, convinced of its possibility?
He hated to think that something or someone had altered that wholly vivacious, charming, and unabashedly ingenuous carriage appropriator, and turned her into a standard society debutante—pretty but far too bland.
“Well then, Miss Bourne, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Though it may shock you to realize that I once met a young woman who bore a striking resemblance to you. Ranted on and on about a pair of lucky slippers, if I recall.”
She went still. Staring straight ahead, her hand gripped the string, elbow cocked. “You haven’t mentioned that to anyone else, have you?”
“And risk having Aunt Lavinia hear that I’d had a tipsy and unchaperoned debutante in my carriage? I’d never hear the end of it.”<
br />
Briar expelled a breath and sent the arrow flying. It struck the straw target soundly, and she didn’t hesitate to slip another arrow from the quiver and continue.
“We’d have been forced into marriage,” she said in a stage whisper, facing an audience of manicured shrubs. “Likely have our third child by the time Mrs. Prescott stopped mentioning the scandal at family dinners. Our oldest son would be constantly warned against following the example of his father’s debauched past. Our daughter would be an angel but spoiled beyond offering any true guidance. And our youngest son, though still in the cradle, would have your dark eyes, but everyone would know he was going to be a trial on his mother’s nerves.”
And there she is.
He grinned, feeling an uncanny tingle of pleasure to know that London had not changed her after all. Nevertheless . . . “While I admire your ability to invent these outlandish scenarios, I do wish they’d find a target other than my own head.”
“It cannot be helped,” she said without the barest apology and sent another arrow flying. “I’ve given my imagination free rein to invent at will. I know that, someday, it will come up with some brilliant idea that will make me an excellent matchmaker.”
Had there actually been a time when she’d suppressed her imagination? Highly doubtful. “The last time we met, you were not yet a matchmaker.”
“Correction—I was very much. It’s just that I was the only one who knew it.”
“And now?”
She hesitated, the plump flesh of her bottom lip curling inward as she issued an uncertain hum. “I have a potential opportunity to change my circumstance.”
So that hadn’t changed either. Which was odd, because she’d been so determined to make her mark on the unmarried population of London.
He studied her with renewed curiosity, noticing every alteration. As opposed to that dim, foggy morning, sunlight made her complexion glow, the apples of her cheeks tinged with a lovely carnation pink. Her hair seemed more lustrous, too, a pale golden silk, curling at her nape and brow. Her lips were still a velvety rose-petal red, and absently, he wondered how many suitors she had at the moment.
Then he shook himself free of the errant thought. It did not matter, of course, for he would never be one of them.
She drew back the bowstring, her movements graceful, the toned sinew of her slender arm on display beneath short capped sleeves. When they’d met before, she hadn’t offered so much lovely skin for him to admire. If she had, he might not have been able to put her out of his mind. Because now he was imagining how those arms would feel wrapped around his neck, those high, pert breasts crushed against his chest.
The tips of his fingers tingled with the desire to skim them down from sleeve to wrist. Though instead of giving in to his baser impulse, he merely allowed his gaze to take the journey, admiring every delectable inch of her.
Dimly, he noted that she was nearly out of arrows. Moving beside her, he took up the abandoned quiver from the ground, and slung it over his shoulder, offering her one.
She looked down at it and pressed her lips together once more. So full of indecision today. He wondered what was occupying her thoughts.
“A potential opportunity suggests that you have not yet decided to seize it. Perhaps you’re not ready to become a matchmaker.” He quirked a grin, wanting to rile her, and was rewarded by a flash in those cornflower blue eyes.
With her gloved hand, she reached out and took hold of the shaft. Strangely, he felt the tug within him as she pulled it from his grasp.
“It is in my blood. Of course, I am ready and perfectly capable of taking on any challenge.”
“Not according to the gossip column in the Post.”
She swallowed, her voice strained. “How do you know it was me? Any one of us at the agency could have made that error.”
“Not entirely reassuring news to your clients.” He chuckled.
“That should not matter to you. Unless . . .” She gasped, whirling to face him, winged brows lifted in hope. “Are you already thinking of applying to our agency?”
He didn’t know what she meant by already, but he chose not to ask. “I do not want a bride. Though if I did, I would find one on my own from the slew of women eager for my hand.”
“Arrogance is not an attractive quality.”
“It is only arrogance if I believed the prize they sought was this ancient rhinoceros.” He turned his head to offer the best angle of his nose. “But the sentiment has more to do with my wealth and titles—I even have extra to pass along to my heirs. A trial really.”
She slid him a rueful glance before angling toward the target and setting the nock to the bowstring. “Dear me! Not a title and a fortune! How utterly dreadful for you. Pray tell, why haven’t you married one of those women?”
“As a general rule, I should like to trust the person who would run my household, rear my children, and inherit all my worldly goods. But in my experience, women are a rather untrustworthy lot.”
And he was being kind, considering his history with the Miss Smithsons of the world.
Releasing another arrow, she stared distractedly toward the target as if lost in thought. “It is a commendable characteristic for a man to think of his future children’s well-being.”
“I was merely speaking in hypotheticals.”
“Yes, of course. It is a language I understand quite well.” She pivoted slightly, tilting her head to scrutinize his countenance, a mysterious light glinting in the depths of her eyes. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to think about marriage and children. After all, you haven’t many years ahead of you.”
If it wasn’t for her sugar-coated smile, he might have thought she was serious and thinking of him as a potential client. Yet, since he knew how she enjoyed wild flights of fancy, he smirked back at her. The only marriages he was interested in were those of his cousins, or more pressingly, Daniel’s.
“So, tell me, how did a born matchmaker become such an excellent marksman? Training for Cupid’s army?”
“Lessons. Practice. Years of pent-up frustration. There are few activities deemed suitable for a debutante’s life. And even fewer if you have an overprotective family. It wasn’t until my uncle introduced my sisters and me to the Duchess of Holliford that our social education was refined.” Stripping another arrow from his grasp, she proceeded to use it like a tutor’s pointer over a study list on an imaginary blackboard. “Should a gentleman require entertainment—but of a blander variety than you are used to, no doubt—I can also play piano and sing. If he has a taste for art, I could paint a watercolor, embroider a tapestry, or cover a screen. I have practiced with a dancing master. Learned how to pour tea with a graceful turn of the wrist. And can converse on several topics bound to keep a dinner partner enthralled.”
“Quite a list of accomplishments.”
She inclined her head regally, playfully holding the arrow like a scepter.
“But still, nothing that would qualify you as a matchmaker.”
At once, she squinted at him, her deep golden lashes crowding together. “Don’t you have a parade of sin to attend, somewhere else, and far away from me?”
“The jugglers were tired, so I sent them home,” he said with a grin, enjoying this little reunion of theirs.
Even so, it wouldn’t be long before they were interrupted. It was time to get to the main reason why he’d waited to find Briar alone this morning—to help him find a wife for Daniel.
The way Nicholas saw things, he needed someone with inside information. Someone who had a proverbial finger on the pulse of the marriage mart. Not only that, but someone who had a close tie to the family—Briar’s friendship with Temperance, for instance—was more likely to desire a solid union. And he would be hard pressed to find anyone more motivated than Briar.
All in all, she was the best option for expedience, lack of experience aside. “However, in regard to your accomplishments, I noticed that you did not list your chosen profession as one of them.”<
br />
“I haven’t had much practice, that’s all. Nevertheless, I have studied under the incomparable tutelage of Miss Emma Woodhouse and I’m eager to use the knowledge I’ve gained.”
He felt the flesh of his brow pucker in confusion. “I’ve heard that name before, but I cannot quite place where.”
Briar shifted and looked down toward a knobby elm root protruding from the clipped grass. The silver threaded toe of her slipper peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirts and struck softly, as if in a tentative test of its foundation. “Perhaps through Temperance, for I know she has read all three volumes of Emma as well.”
“Wait a moment. Are you speaking of a character in a romantic novel?” A laugh rumbled out of him, unexpected and hearty.
Her incredulous gaze whipped up to spear his. “It is the matchmaker’s bible, after all.”
“You cannot learn all your skills through a work of fiction and expect to impact those who live outside the pages.”
“And what do you know about making matches? Aren’t you more interested in avoiding them?”
“I know a great deal about attraction—not merely physical, but what draws people together elementally.”
“Oh, yes, the spark!” She nodded encouragingly, eyes bright. “That’s what happens when the Fates bring people together.”
He shook his head. “Sparks are blinding and fleeting. It’s best to avoid those at all costs. What you need is someone to teach you how to observe men and women. How they see each other. How to discover what they are truly saying when they fill out their applications. After all, you said yourself that you took lessons to become skilled. Why should this be any different?”
“Are you offering to become my tutor?” This time she laughed and lowered her bow.
“I’m certainly more skilled than a character in a book. And by the time I’ve taught you a fair amount, you’ll have produced so many matches that no one will think about yesterday’s embarrassing incident.” As the words left him, he was surprised that they sounded as if he was, indeed, volunteering.
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 7