The Incurable Matchmaker

by Mary Balogh

  But there was no putting off the evil moment. Jimmy opened the carriage door, put down the steps, and announced in his gravelly voice that there was no way he was going to put his neck in danger for one more half mile that day. This was where they stayed, whether she liked it or not.

  Jimmy had a peculiar tendency to believe that everyone was about to argue with him. His manner was always decidedly belligerent.

  "And glad I am to hear it, Jimmy," she said, putting a gloved hand into one of his large and solid ones and stepping gingerly down onto the mud-strewn cobbles. She hurried into the taproom of the inn away from the lashing rain.

  It was empty, apart from the burly figure of the innkeeper, she saw with some relief. She felt as if someone had lifted her heart right up inside her brain, and it was beating there with great enthusiasm.

  The following half hour was worse than a nightmare. She was shown to a room at the top of a single flight of stairs. She had no objection to that. She scarcely noticed, and certainly did not care, that the inn was small and unfashionable. She did not notice Bridget inspecting the sheets of the bed for dampness and bedbugs. She scarcely participated in the process of undressing herself and brushing her hair and washing her face.

  All she could think of was crawling into bed and being left alone with her misery. But the inn bustled noisily about her. And Bridget whispered. To be fair, she whispered about Diana in the third person, so that the latter would not feel the necessity of replying. The gist of her monologue seemed to be that the Lord was to love her poor mistress.

  "Lord love her," Bridget whispered. "Never a complaint though she has been bounced and jounced near to death and well nigh overturned on these English roads and her with a headache to start with. It is a blessed thing that she has fallen asleep at last. I have been hoping for it and have not talked out loud all day so as not to disturb her. The lamb. Lord love her."

  Diana clutched her head and burrowed farther into the pillow.

  Bridget whispered on as she bustled about tidying her mistress's things and setting up a truckle bed for herself for the night.

  "Ah, she's still awake, the poor lamb," the whisper said finally from beside the bed. "Let me go and get you something, mum. Some laudanum. You need a good night's rest."

  Diana looked up weakly out of squinted eyes and gave in. "Some laudanum, then, Bridget, if you please," she said, and found herself reaching greedily for it five minutes later.

  Was there ever such misery?

  When Bridget started suggesting again that the Lord love her, Diana sent her downstairs for dinner. Although she realized her voice was sounding childishly plaintive, it was the best she could do. In one more minute she would start screaming and throwing things.

  "Lord love her" preceded the firm slamming of the door. Diana sank back into her sleepless misery.

  * * *

  Three gentlemen sat at a table in the taproom, or rather slouched in their chairs, not talking to one another or looking at one another or otherwise communicating. One played a hand of solitaire, though his indolent pose made it appear that his mind was not wholly intent on his game. Another turned and turned his glass of ale on the table and occasionally lifted it to examine the rim of wetness at its base. The third sat with arms folded, watching the barmaid across the room.

  The barmaid was washing off a table. She had washed off all the tables except the one at which the three gentlemen sat, some of them more than once, though no one had occupied any of them all evening. If it could possibly be arranged, she faced the gentlemen as she scrubbed, bent forward so that her bosom, which was almost out of her bodice anyway, appeared to have no bodice to give it respectability at all.

  The third gentleman tried winking at her. She tossed her head and rubbed harder at an invisible spot on the table.

  "Well, I don't know what you have that I don't, Jack," he said at last, his voice petulant.

  Lester Houndsleigh made patterns on the table with the wet base of his glass and yawned. "Haven't you taken a look at Jack lately, Ernie?" he asked. "And haven't you looked in a mirror?"

  "It isn't just looks, though," Lord Crensford said. "It's something else. Jack always could have any woman he wanted."

  The Marquess of Kenwood kept on playing solitaire.

  "And some he didn't want," Lester agreed. "Look, he don't even fancy the barmaid, though she is the juiciest piece of female flesh I've clapped my eyes on in a month. But she don't have eyes for you or me, Ernie, my lad. We might as well go to bed—without the barmaid."

  The marquess's eyes remained on his cards. "Winking can be a handy weapon in flirtation," he said. "But only if one knows that a female is already attracted. Otherwise it is a rather pathetic gesture. And pinching bottoms is the least likely way to win the heart belonging to that bottom. It is the tactic of a boy."

  Lester had pinched the barmaid's bottom the last time she had come to their table to refill their glasses. He sounded aggrieved when he spoke again. "And yet all you have to do, Jack" he said, "is sit there with your boots stretched out below the table and your eyes on your cards, and the wench is almost offering herself to you on a platter."

  The marquess shrugged. "Sorry," he said.

  He glanced once beneath his eyebrows at Lord Crensford. Ernie was sulking, of course, he noticed. Had been since before they left London. He couldn't say he altogether blamed him, though the whole business was stupid in the extreme. He set his cards down, the game not finished, and summoned the barmaid with one lift of an eyebrow to refill his glass. He set a careless arm about her waist as she did so.

  He would probably have her for the night. She was certainly shapely enough and pretty enough and willing enough to help him pass what promised to be a dull night. It had certainly been a dull evening. No other guests at the inn except them and the lady of the lovely legs, who disappointingly had not put in an appearance belowstairs and was now unlikely to do so.

  "What a day!" Lester said.

  "What an inn!" Lord Crensford said.

  They were like a Greek chorus. They had been saying as much, sometimes switching lines, all evening.

  "So," Lester said, stretching his arms above his head and yawning hugely again, "are you going to win this wager, do you think, Jack?"

  It was not a wise topic of conversation at the end of a day that had tried all their nerves and frayed all their tempers. Lord Crensford scowled. The Marquess of Kenwood shrugged.

  "Of course," he said. "Provided the lady puts in an appearance, that is."

  "Oh, she'll be there." Lord Crensford's voice was instantly testy. "She'll come for Papa's birthday, like a lamb to the slaughter. But you'll win the wager over my dead body, Jack."

  The marquess shrugged again. "If necessary," he said.

  "But you really are being an ass over this, Ernie. Anyone would think I had contracted to do the woman some terrible harm. I am going to woo her and bed her. There are many women who would give half a fortune for just that."

  "Damn you, Jack," Lester said without any particular rancor. "Anyone who did not know you wouldthink you excessively conceited. But of course it's true. I wish I knew what your secret is. Apart from the devilish good looks, of course."

  Lord Crensford ignored the last speech. "But it is Diana you are talking about," he said. "Teddy's widow. My sister-in-law. I'm fond of her. And I don't like the thought of her becoming just another one of your casual bedfellows, Jack. I won't have it."

  They had been over the same ground several times in London after they had both recovered from their prize hangovers. But they remained deadlocked. Indeed, there seemed to be no way to sort out their differences to the satisfaction of the honor of both.

  The Marquess of Kenwood had been appalled when he finally woke up and remembered all the details of that insane wager at White's. It was true that he had a way with women and that he used that way whenever he possibly could since he found that making love was one of the most pleasurable activities that life had to offer. But he
had never really thought of himself as a libertine or a rake—just a normally healthy male with normal, healthy appetites, who happened, perhaps, to be more fortunate than most.

  But however it had come about, that decidedly silly wager had been made. And what gentleman in his right mind could think of forfeiting a duly recorded wager without even trying to win? It was just too much to ask.

  Besides, there was something rather intriguing and challenging about it. Mrs. Diana Ingram was said to be beautiful. And unapproachable. A delightful combination. She was also a widow of a year's duration. It was very likely that she was panting for a man's attentions.

  So he would give her his attentions. Together they would satisfy both their needs—hers for a man, his for the honor of winning his wager. And doubtless they would also have some pleasure together. He did not believe that there had been an occasion in the past several years when he had allowed a woman to

  rise from his bed unsatisfied.

  So why feel guilt? Why worry about the undoubted vulgarity and tastelessness of the wager? Probably nine-tenths of the wagers recorded in the betting book were equally so, since they were generally made when the gentlemen were in their cups.

  Besides, life had become confoundedly dull of late. The Season had lost its charms after so many years of sameness— he had spent those few months in town for all of the last ten years, ever since he was one-and-twenty and freshly down from university. He had thought several times during the past month of retiring to his estate earlier than usual. He always enjoyed his summers there, working at the books, working on the land, visiting his tenants and neighbors, conversing with his mother and his younger sister, sometimes entertaining his older sister. And this year, like last, there would be that young sprig of a nephew to brighten the days when she visited.

  But he had stayed. One was always afraid of missing something if one left town too early. So this house party was as good a distraction as any. Not the party itself, of course— that was almost bound to be dull—but the pleasure of the chase, knowing that the stakes were high. He was looking forward to meeting Mrs. Diana Ingram. He hoped she would be there when they arrived the following day.

  "I'm afraid you don't have any choice in the matter," he said to a tight-lipped Lord Crensford. "You can't expect me to give in to that snake Rittsman without even a fight, Ernie. Besides, it is all your fault, you know. I would have settled for any female who was reasonably within my reach. It was you who opened your mouth and suggested your sister-in-law."

  "I was so drunk it is amazing I was still upright," Lord Crensford said hotly. "No one should have listened to me. What the deuce possessed me to mention Diana, anyway?"

  "You're in love with her," Lester said.

  "I most certainly am not!" Lord Crensford transferred his ire to his other cousin. "That is a filthy thing to say, Les. Diana was Teddy's wife. My own brother. Of course I admired her before she was married, but that was a long time ago. Before she became my sister. And I still take it as unkind of you, Jack, to refuse to go to Rittsman and insist that the name be changed."

  "Don't be an ass, Ernie," Lord Kenwood said calmly. "And if you feel so strongly on the matter, why did you write to your mama to tell her that you were bringing me?"

  ''I could hardly tell you not to come after saying at White's that you could," Lord Crensford said. "A gentleman doesn't go back on his word."

  "Ah." Lord Kenwood regarded his distant relative with one eyebrow raised. "So you must keep your honor, Ernie, while I must go back on mine."

  "It's not your honor that bothers me," the other said. "It's Diana's."

  The marquess grinned. "Well, I'll tell you what, Ernie. I'll promise you that your precious Diana will know the most pleasurable hour of her life as I am in the process of winning my wager. On my honor. What do you say to that?"

  ''If I weren't even more to blame for this than you, Jack,'' Lord Crensford said, "I would slap a glove in your face. That's what I have to say to that. Not that I have a glove downstairs with me, it's true, but I would soon get one. But I can't because I am to blame. But if you were a gentleman, Jack, you would give this up. If not for my sake, than for Diana's."

  The marquess shrugged, gathered his pack of cards together, and shuffled them in his hands. Enough was enough. They would only talk themselves in circles again, and he would only end up feeling somehow in the wrong again. As he already did, he supposed.

  He must look at the matter rationally. Perhaps even without that incident at White's he might have come to this house party if Ernie had mentioned it. If he had come he would have met Mrs. Ingram. And if she was as lovely as she was reputed to be, he would have been attracted to her. And since she was a widow and therefore very probably available, he would have wooed her and bedded her to their mutual satisfaction before he returned to London and the end of the Season.

  He would have had her even without the wager. There was nothing to feel guilty about. After all, he was not going to ravish the woman. He was not going to do anything to her that would be against her will. She would offer herself to him as eagerly as he would take her. It was always so. He would give the five hundred guineas to one of his mother's charities. And perhaps add another five hundred guineas of his own.

  Lester yawned yet again. "I'm for bed," he said. "You might as well come up with me, Ernie. There's no point in tossing any coin over the barmaid. She is for Jack as surely as this is my nose." He tapped it. "Enjoy her, Jack. But remember, you have ten more miles to ride tomorrow—don't ride all night too." He laughed heartily at his own bawdy joke and got to his feet, stretching.

  Lord Crensford downed the last of his ale and got up too. "Good night, Jack," he said. "Give her one for me, eh?"

  3

  The Marquess of Kenwood sat at the table for a few more minutes, realizing as he did so that he had drunk rather too much again. Not that he was anywhere near as drunk as he had been at White's the week before. But his brain felt sluggish, and he felt too tired to make the difficult decision to get to his feet and take himself up to his room.

  At least Carter had arrived finally, having spent a miserable hour in a muddy ditch together with the baggage of three gentlemen. Carter, of course, had somehow managed to put in an appearance looking spotless. Not even a hair on his head had been out of place.

  The barmaid came over to the table and began to clear away the glasses left behind by Lester and Ernie. She said nothing, but she glanced at him slantwise from beneath a very provocative set of eyelashes and displayed an appealing expanse of bosom to his view as she leaned over to wash off the table.

  Lord Kenwood got to his feet, undecided. But tired or not, it was not in his nature to pass by a pretty wench, especially when she was available. And more especially when she was so patently eager.

  He set his hands lightly on her waist from behind. "You are busy, my sweet?" he asked, his hands tracing the line of her shapely hips.

  "Ooh, sir," she said, coming upright and turning in his arms. "I am that, for sure. There's some of us has to work for an honest living."

  His eyes strayed to her pouting lips, and he brought his own closer to them. "And when do you expect to finish your work, my dear?" he asked.

  "Oh, I don't know, I'm sure, sir," she said breathlessly.

  "Perhaps I can give you some honest employment when you are finished," he said. "Or shall we say some pleasurable employment?" He looked down through narrowed eyes at her almost completely exposed bosom, which was heaving against his waistcoat.

  "I'm a good girl," she said.

  He brought his lips one inch closer to hers. "I'm perfectly sure you are, my sweet," he said. "I will give you the whole of the rest of the night to show me just how good, shall I?"

  "Ooh," she said, her eyes devouring his lips greedily.

  He tasted hers briefly and lightly. He would have to go searching for Carter in the kitchen and request that his valet find other sleeping quarters for the night. A pity when the man had set up a truc
kle bed for himself with such painstaking care. But Carter would not enjoy having his slumber disturbed by the sounds of his master making sport in the adjacent bed.

  He would look thoroughly disapproving, of course. And martyred. But he was used to it. It was not by any means the first time it had happened.

  The buxom lady's maid who had been screeching like a dozen demented virgins in the carriage earlier was on her way upstairs before him several minutes later. He had overheard her telling the innkeeper's wife in the kitchen that her mistress had the headache and had taken a second dose of laudanum just

  an hour before.

  ''Don't know what to do with herself, she don't, the poor lamb, Lord love her," the girl had said. "Never willing to take no medicine, she isn't. But even she couldn't refuse this evening. A nasty exhausting day it has been for her." She had cast a self-conscious glance in the direction of the marquess.