“It’s always the same with gentlemen, isn’t it?” Briar asked Temperance with a conspiratorial smirk. “They take an age to choose what they will wear, fussing over their cravats and such, whereas women can just don any old gown and be ready in a snap.”
“It seems our secret is out, Nicholas,” Daniel said with a shy grin that chased away the taut lines of dread that were there only an instant ago.
Nicholas understood the reason, all too clearly. Briar had such an ease about her that it was impossible not to be drawn in by it. “So true, and all that careful planning is for naught because we are seldom admired for our efforts.”
Briar laughed. “Forgive me, for I meant to say how dashing you both look.”
“A clear ploy to ensnare a dancing partner. What say you, Daniel, shall we give in to their bold manipulations?” Nicholas asked, forgetting that he’d never intended to dance with Briar, not tonight or ever.
“I’m afraid we must.”
“Oh, but you are too late,” Temperance chimed in, jingling her wrist at her brother, where a tiny booklet hung from a shiny silver bracelet. “Our cards are quite full.”
Briar concurred, untying the ribbon of her own card and passing it to Nicholas. “It is true. Temperance and I have come up with a system for this evening. When a gentleman asks for a dance, whichever one of us it is invites him to escort our friend first and promises to hold a place for him for the following dance.”
Nicholas absently perused the names and frowned. “Who is this Lord M.M.? You cannot give one gentleman three dances.”
“The letters stand for matchmaking,” Briar said on a whisper, leaning close enough that he caught the sweet essence rising from her skin. And all at once he was transported back to the sitting room off the gallery, with her lips coasting over his, her scent filling his every breath as she slowly consumed him.
He’d been unable to think of anything else for the past five bloody days. Which was precisely the reason he’d come up with a solution—lesson number three. He knew he would be cured the instant she completed her next task.
Temperance spoke, pointing to the card and breaking him away from the sudden dark turn of his musings. “Briar is ever so clever, is she not? We dance with our shared partners, then talk about their finer points and see if they hold any potential. However, I am willing to forgo my dance with Lord M.M. and give it to my dear brother, should he ever ask, that is.” But Temperance did not give Daniel the opportunity to utter the request. She simply linked arms with him and began to walk toward the floor.
Daniel looked over his shoulder and shrugged.
“I guess he’s dancing whether he likes it or not,” Nicholas said as he returned Briar’s card. Before he was even aware of doing it, rakish impulse took over and he glided his thumb along the underside of her wrist.
Briar did not lift her gaze to him, but her cheeks colored slightly. “I never should have doubted you, my lord. You declared that you would arrange an evening at Almack’s and you have done just that.”
“That is a lesson learned for you, for if I say I will do something, then it will happen.” Then for good measure, he added, “And if I say that I will not do something—like remarry, for example—then I will not.”
She tapped his sleeve with a graceful flick of her pearl-handled fan. “Don’t be so disagreeable on such a promising evening. I know that I cannot force you to alter your opinion. Only someone you find wholly irresistible could do that. But be warned, I plan to keep careful watch over where your feet are pointed.”
“Then you will be disappointed, for my feet will remain angled toward the door all evening.”
“That cannot be true. With only the best of society permitted entrance, I’m sure to have wonderful luck in finding your potential bride this evening. I’ve already imagined the entire scenario.”
“Is this one like the others, ending with my death and my relatives scavenging through my belongings?”
“Only after a long and happy life. So, you can wipe that frown off your face. Oh, and by the by, your widow simply adored you,” she said with an unrepentant smirk. “Never fear, you left her surrounded in the cherished comfort of your seven children.”
“Seven?” A startled cough escaped him before he remembered that there were inquisitive ears about. “Isn’t that a bit generous?”
“Twenty-eight grandchildren as well. And no, I think the number is quite low for a man like you.”
He was strangely offended. “I do have other pursuits, I’ll have you know. I’d hardly confine my wife to—” His words cut off midsentence as he glared down at her dancing eyes. Damn it all to hell.
“See? You’re already talking about marriage. Just wait until I tell Temperance. She’ll be so pleased!” Briar laughed and tapped him once more on the sleeve. “And that is a lesson learned for you. If a matchmaker says she will find you the perfect counterpart, she will do just that.”
“You’re not a matchmaker yet, Miss Bourne,” he said sharply, his voice at the level of a warning growl as he steered her through the crowd toward the refreshment anteroom. In the din of all the conversations, laughter, and music, it wasn’t likely that anyone could hear their conversation. Even so, he didn’t want to risk adding any more logs to the rumor pyres.
She bristled slightly, her gaze darting up to his, a stark, uncertain blue in a sea of white. “I have a good foot under me already.”
“You’ve become presumptuous and have forgotten that our bargain is a means to an end. Which will end, indeed, when Daniel has married.”
Yet, if that were true, then why had his thoughts lingered more on Briar than on the list of potential candidates she’d made?
“And, Temperance, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he snapped, but realized with a degree of shame that Teense’s potential nuptials weren’t in the forefront of his mind. “My sole focus is on ensuring the contentment of my cousins.”
And not on a kissing bargain that was only meant to serve as a diversion.
Yet, because he found himself constantly distracted by Briar, he decided to remedy it straightaway. He’d given the matter a good deal of thought, but his stomach still churned from the solution he had in mind. Even so, it had to be done, for both their sakes.
“As is mine,” she said with a strained glance up at his face. “Foolishly, I thought we were acquainted enough that we could tease each other good-naturedly.”
“I am your mentor, and that is all.”
He saw the instant the words struck her. She flinched reflexively, brow furrowed, eyes squinting to shield the blue of her irises with a crowd of lashes. And suddenly he wanted to take those words back and eat them, pretend they never existed. Which was absurd because he spoke the truth. They weren’t friends. They were associates in this venture.
So, he pressed on. “As such, I have your third lesson. I saw on your card that you’ve met Lord Holt.”
“Yes,” she answered crisply, keeping well abreast of him as they passed through the corridor and headed toward the table lined with cups of pallid liquid. “Your aunt introduced us. Apparently, he has heard of the agency and is hoping to find a match.”
A rich one from what Nicholas had heard. “And did you find him as handsome as most of the ladies do?”
“I suppose. Though it is a pity for him.”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Why is that?”
“Because of lesson number two, of course. He is handsome, ergo his wife will not be . . . well”—she blushed—“content.”
“Yes, make sure you always remember that one.” Nicholas felt a grin tug at his lips, but he subdued it and plucked two cups off the table, handing one to her as they moved to a corner. Then he glanced around them to ensure there was no one lingering within earshot before he spoke. “For lesson number three, I want you to flirt with Holt and see if he tries to kiss you.”
“What?”
“I believe you heard me.” He had a bad taste
on his tongue, and the tart, lukewarm lemonade only made it worse. “This is a game men and women often play when they are seeking a mate.”
“The Bourne Agency does not believe that love is a game of any sort.”
“Perhaps not, but you will have clients who have experience with these types of manipulations, those who are innocently curious, and those who will use any means to procure a spouse. It is vital that you get a sense of which type you’ll be dealing with, for I do not want my cousins married to the latter. And because of your own naive, romantic notions, you would not even think to look for such a trait.”
“You underestimate me,” she whispered, her shoulders stiff, her gaze fixed on the fragile cup locked in the grip of both hands.
He drained the last of the horrid beverage and continued without responding directly. “I saw Holt’s name scribbled beside the waltz.”
“And what of it?”
Nicholas tried to be nonchalant about the entire episode, but felt his jaw harden, the confines of his own irritation prickling like quills beneath his skin. “No doubt the young lord will mention something about the heat and offer to escort you to the terrace for air. He’ll direct you to a spot, distant from the doors, and give you the reason that the quiet is necessary for conversation. But he won’t be there to talk. Instead, he’ll say something about the moonlight in your eyes and he’ll sweep in and . . . kiss you.”
“You cannot know this,” she hissed, fury in every syllable, eyes flashing up to his.
“I do because all rakes think alike.” His own gaze drifted to her tempting lips and he knew Holt wouldn’t be able to resist.
“If that is true, then I’ve had more than enough experience in manipulation since meeting you.”
“No. It must be someone else. Someone with whom you’re not so familiar, as you are with me and my family.” He looked away from her hard, wounded stare. “Though, you needn’t worry that he will attempt anything more than a kiss. From what I’ve heard, he needs to marry an heiress to get himself out of debt, and he cannot risk your reputation. But still, be on your guard—no immersing yourself in the experience.”
“It seems you’ve thought of everything.” With alarming calmness, she stepped to the side and poured her lemonade into the urn of a palm tree. When she returned, she handed him her cup, her teeth bared in the taut semblance of a smile. “But what if I don’t want to kiss him? As far as I am aware, I am still my own person.”
“You are, indeed. You may decline, demure, storm away, or”—he swallowed—“submit if you choose. It matters not to me. You’ve proven to be too easily distracted by, what you perceive as, a friendship. It would be an unkindness to mislead you. As I said before, there is nothing between us other than an exchange of services—my tutelage for the eventual marriages of my cousins.”
“Then allow me to assure you once more that I am never going to find myself in love with you—you arrogant buffoon. This entire arrangement is purely academic for me, and that is all.”
Nicholas was glad she stormed off because, if she hadn’t, he might have found himself doing something rash, like claiming the waltz for himself and showing her exactly what a rake would do.
* * *
Briar had never imagined a person could be furious when waltzing, and yet she was. Thoroughly. Her palms were damp and clenched, blood rushing in her ears, and all while Lord Holt smoothly swept her about the room.
She wished it was Nicholas instead, because she could easily envision wrapping her hands around his throat. Or perhaps she would do something even worse like . . . pouring a perfectly good cup of chocolate over his head.
And, the next time she had a cup on hand, perhaps she would.
Of all the nerve! Oh, he thought he was so clever that he could script Lord Holt’s exact actions. Well, she could not wait to tell Nicholas that Holt had not once mentioned stealing her away from the protective eye of Mrs. Prescott, and the waltz was nearly fin—
“Would you care to join me on the terrace, Miss Bourne?” Holt asked, his smooth, drowsy cadence blending in with the intimate steps of the dance, his gaze shadowed by a thick fringe of minky lashes.
Briar’s focus snapped to her partner.
Lord Asher Holt was a handsome devil, to be sure, but with his air of languid indifference it was impossible to believe him capable of careful calculation.
Even so, she barely had the chance to complete her nod before he deftly maneuvered her into a turn. Then they disappeared behind one of the potted palms and down a passageway that she didn’t realize was there. And before she knew it, they’d emerged onto the terrace.
As Nicholas predicted, no one else was about. The others were still waiting for the waltz to end before heading in to dinner. And so, it seemed, the eleventh hour was nearly here.
Was Lord Holt planning to kiss her? Nervousness caused her stomach to tremble, the contents feeling like popping corn set near the fire.
“The night is rather warm even out of doors. Perhaps if we stand at the far corner we might capture a breeze,” he said, his hand coasting over the small of her back as he guided her, every movement subtle, practiced, as if he’d done this countless times before.
It seemed that Nicholas had been right about this, too, and she hated him for it. She could well imagine drowning him in an entire vat of chocolate, maniacally laughing at his last sputtering breath as he slowly slipped beneath the froth.
She frowned at the scenario, disturbed. It wouldn’t work—death by chocolate was too good for him.
“Is this spot agreeable?” Holt asked, his concentration on her expression, his own frown forming. “If you would rather return inside . . .”
“Not at all,” she said quickly, tucking her annoyance away for the moment. “I appreciate the reprieve from the heat.”
“Yes. I now have sympathy for every lamb roasted over a spit.” He chuckled and slid a finger between his neck and cravat, revealing that he actually had a second one—black silk—beneath the snowy white.
Puzzled, she asked, “Why do you wear two cravats?”
“I don’t normally, but the patronesses would refuse my admittance without the white one. And I wear the black as a matter of principle. You could say that I’m in a period of ante-mourning, and all too conscious of the debt that will be foisted upon me one day.” An unrepentant smirk hooked one corner of his mouth. “In addition, the sight of it drives my father absolutely bonkers. So, of course, I can never be without it.”
Assuming that he was teasing, at least in part, she smiled. “Well, then, you’ll need to find a wealthy bride straightaway.”
As luck would have it—she thanked her blue hair ribbon—the agency happened to have an applicant, a Miss Throckmeyer of Hampshire who had a fortune of £40,000. What a coup it would be to make such a match! But first, she would need Holt listed on their client registry.
“It isn’t often that I find a woman who cuts so cleanly to the heart of the issue. I rather like that,” he said.
“My uncle started the Bourne Matrimonial Agency to help every person we can. While necessity may dictate your need for an heiress, we’ll ensure that you also find a bride who shares your interests, beliefs, and passions. Everyone deserves to feel that spark that only comes with their perfect counterpart.”
“Not only pretty, but incomparably clever. I don’t suppose you have a fortune lying around, do you?” Dark soulful eyes rimmed in black lashes focused solely on her, and his smirk transformed into a chemise-melting grin.
Holy handsomeness! Was there a woman alive who could resist such a rake?
“Paltry dowry, I’m afraid,” she said with a high, tittering laugh that she’d never heard herself utter. She might even have been on the verge of swooning.
“Then we’re in the same boat, aren’t we?” He moved a step closer, setting his hand on the balustrade near hers. His gaze dipped to her mouth and then lifted to her eyes again. “Just the two of us, searching for the one that is out of reach, but so cl
ose we could almost taste them.”
Oh my, he was awfully good at this. She was a bit lightheaded now, her heart beating faster, though from nerves more than anticipation. With Nicholas, she’d felt a degree of comfort having had the rules established ahead of time. But with Holt she was uncertain. The only thing she could cling to was what Nicholas had told her would happen.
“So tell me, what is the process at your uncle’s business?”
“First, we will take your application and then cross check your responses with others we have on file . . .”
“Fascinating,” Holt said, convincingly absorbed, sliding ever closer.
“. . . then we’ll arrange a meeting to see if you’re compatible.”
“Compatibility is very important.”
Briar swallowed, watching as he glided his hand along the balustrade. He was going to reach for her, pull her closer, and press his lips against hers. And she was going to let him, she decided. In fact, she might even enjoy it.
She most certainly would enjoy telling Nicholas how superior Holt’s kiss was—no matter what the results.
The final strains of the waltz drifted to them on a warm current of air, marking their time. It wouldn’t be long before she was missed. Holt really needed to hurry this along.
She leaned forward in encouragement and he tilted his head, a question in his gaze.
Yes, she answered by way of rising up on her toes. But that put her at an awkward angle. To keep herself from tipping forward, she skimmed her hand over the railing and shuffled closer. The only problem was, something snagged her glove, causing her to twist. At the same time, the toe of her slipper caught on the edge of a stone. And the next thing she knew, she was falling.
Oh dear. Holt’s eyes widened an instant before he caught her by the shoulders, and held her an inconvenient distance apart.
Briar had to take matters into her own hands. No longer attempting to play coy, she curled her fingers around his lapels and pressed her mouth to his. Hard.
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 15