The Matchmaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  He had the good grace not to deny a word of her accusations, but not enough to appear in the least embarrassed. In fact, he had the gall to grin at her. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of innocence. “What can I do to redeem myself in your estimation?”

  “I doubt anything you do can alter my negative opinion of you now.”

  “Then why are you here?” He smiled directly into her eyes.

  Olivia swallowed hard and had to remind herself that it was to put him in his place and no other reason. His seductive manner meant nothing to her. Nor did his compelling eyes or the charm he seemed able to turn on and off at will. She snapped her fan shut. “As I said, I am bored here. Entertain me with tales of your wastrel youth. Perhaps if I knew more about you, I could build a case for empathy.”

  She turned and began again to walk, for her nerves were stretched quite to the breaking point. He matched her pace and the filly ambled between them.

  “All I know of your past,” she went on, “is that you have a great appreciation of horses and that you have come to Doncaster from lowland Scotland. Oh,” she added, turning to watch his reaction. “And that you are a hero of the war on the Continent.”

  A shadow seemed to come over his face at that, and he stared straight ahead. But his voice, when he spoke, betrayed no emotion. “Say only that I fought in the war, not that I was a hero. The men who died are the heroes, not those of us who survived.”

  The words were bitter to hear, and like bile, must have been even more bitter to speak. Olivia felt an immediate stab of the empathy she’d jested of. “Does it pain you to speak of it?” she asked, her voice softening.

  “Not particularly.”

  Liar. She studied him more closely. The erect carriage, the straight nose, the strong jawline with its curving scar. Despite his appearance of barely civilized masculinity, it struck her unexpectedly that there was something tragic about him. “Does that mean if I write in my journal that you bear the scars of war, both on your skin and in your heart, that you will not care?”

  A muscle ticked just beneath that scar. “To what purpose do you keep notes on so many men in that book of yours? Do you plan to select your husband from among them? To weigh their merits and flaws and choose the best of the lot?”

  When he glanced at her he looked angry, and it was her turn to look away.

  “It is simply a hobby of mine, nothing more. I help the young women of my acquaintance weed out their suitors—and sometimes I steer them toward gentlemen they might otherwise overlook.”

  “Men like me?”

  She met his mocking expression with a solemn mien. “At the moment I could not in good conscience steer any woman in your direction.”

  Their eyes held a long, disturbing moment. “Perhaps none of the women of your acquaintance is the sort of woman I seek.”

  She dipped her head in acknowledgment of that possibility. “Does that mean you are seeking a wife? I assume you are unmarried.”

  He smiled. “You truly do think the worst of me, don’t you? But yes, I am as yet unwed.”

  Olivia felt a perverse satisfaction which she firmly ignored. “And are you seeking to alter that state?”

  “No.”

  “I see. And what of an heir? I should think your family eager for you to settle that issue.”

  “Are you prying, Miss Byrde?” Again he smiled, but there was a guarded look in his eyes.

  She gave him a guileless smile in return. So, he did not like it when she inquired into his personal affairs. There was nothing that could have made her more tenacious. “But of course I am prying. How else am I to learn anything about you?”

  He halted and studied her a moment. “Very well, then. My family history is no secret. My parents are deceased, as is my only brother. As for my heirs, why should I care who accedes to the Hawke barony? At that point I will not be around to judge them.”

  “I’m sorry about your family,” she said, embarrassed now by her flippant questions. “I had heard something to that effect.”

  He shrugged. “They’ve been gone several years now. Besides, everyone dies someday.”

  He said it without any discernible emotion, and yet Olivia sensed a deep sorrow in him.

  They had reached a line of trees that separated the town proper from a silvery stream of ice-cold water. But Lord Hawke continued on, following a narrow path into the shady bower. The docile filly, sensing water, pricked her ears forward, eager for the refreshment.

  Olivia paused. They were completely alone and would be even more so beyond the trees. The fact that he had shown himself to be completely untrustworthy in such situations should have been sufficient to turn her right around. But the sun was shining, the stream beckoned, and she’d had quite enough of crowds. She glanced back toward the racecourse and the haze of dust that hung above it. By contrast, a bird somewhere ahead trilled an ode to life, and a pair of butterflies, one yellow, one orange and black, danced along the line between sunshine and shade.

  The racecourse and all the people there were not so very far away, she reassured herself. Besides he was sober now, and she did not think him fool enough to risk losing the goodwill his horses had won him. At the moment he seemed willing to talk and she did not want to miss this chance.

  So she hiked her skirt up a few inches and forged through the knee-high grasses. Once in the damp shade the grass gave way to arching ferns arid, going deeper, to soft moss banks. He glanced over at her once, but it was too brief for her to read his expression.

  Go back, the voice of reason warned her.

  But curiosity urged her on. How had his parents and brother died, and why did he shy from marriage when it would be the perfect antidote to his loneliness? For one thing Olivia felt certain of: Neville Hawke was lonely. That was why he sat up at night and drank too much. Perhaps with her aid he could find the right woman to fill that void. Whoever she was, she would have to be a woman of considerable mettle and quite outside the bounds of normal society.

  Olivia rolled her eyes at her own perversity. His tragic tale must be affecting her, for finding a wife for Lord Hawke had hardly been her intention when she set out to approach him today.

  Then he ducked under a low-hanging oak branch, and in so doing, sent her that wicked one-sided grin of his. At once Olivia’s foolish maunderings collided abruptly with reality. Neville Hawke needed no help finding a woman, and only an idiot would think otherwise. She should turn around at once—but if she were not going to do that, then she should at the least keep her purpose firmly before her. He had no reason to torment her, yet he chose to do so. It behooved her on behalf of decent women everywhere—be they maid or peeress or anything in between—to put him sharply in his place.

  Her head was high as she came out into the clearing along the narrow streambed, and her purpose was firm. Just let him try anything with her and see how swiftly he was set down.

  Kittiwake stood up to her hocks in the bright water as she took great draughts of its refreshing coolness. Olivia stared longingly at the handsome animal. How she wished she could wade barefoot through the stream, then leap onto Kitti for an exhilarating ride.

  “Easy, girl. Not too fast,” Lord Hawke said to the filly, tugging her away from the stream. The horse tossed her head and reached down for more, but he held her back, distracting her with a handful of grass. “Slow, Kitti. Let’s cool you down slowly.”

  “It seems she has a mind of her own,” Olivia said.

  “Most interesting women do.”

  Was that steady gaze meant to imply that she was among that number? Olivia supposed she should appear taken in by his ploy. So she smiled, but her words remained focused on her goal. “Was your mother just such an interesting woman?”

  After a moment he answered. “That’s hard to say. Can a child ever see his parents clearly? Do you see yours clearly?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You can form your own opinion about my mother. However, I can form no opinion of yours save, it seems, through you. Y
ou haven’t answered my question, Lord Hawke.”

  “Why don’t you call me Neville?”

  “We are not sufficiently acquainted to warrant such familiarity.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  With those brief words and one potent look he made her stomach clench in a knot. She pulled a triplet leaf from an elder bush and twiddled it in her hand. “Are you trying to divert me from my question?”

  One of his hands slid up and down Kitti’s side. “It is you who constantly diverts me, Olivia.” He grinned. “Miss Byrde,” he amended before she could correct him.

  “Was your mother an interesting woman?” she repeated with some frustration.

  He met her determined look, then finally shrugged. “My mother was a quiet person, concerned with family, propriety, and religion, in that order. She possessed all the skills a gentlewoman should and was a good wife and a good mother.”

  “But was she interesting?”

  “My father thought so. The only cruelty he ever delivered her was that of dying before she could.”

  “Oh.” Once again Olivia felt small and mean-spirited.

  “He caught a cough he could not recover from. When he died she went into an immediate decline so that within months they were both gone.”

  “Were you still away at war?”

  “No. I had returned.” He averted his face.

  Olivia bit her lower lip. He seemed deeply affected. “They must have been so proud of you,” she offered. “At least you gave them that.”

  “Yes. I gave them that,” he echoed, but there was a bitter cast to his words. “Shortly after their demise my older brother took a bad spill. He lingered two weeks, then died without ever regaining his senses. So you see, Miss Byrde.” He raised his head and stared directly at her. “There is no one to care whether or not I marry, whether or not I produce an heir, and whether or not I behave as I ought.”

  He paused, then with unexpected candor added, “You should not be out here alone with me.”

  Olivia smiled with more confidence than she felt. “I suppose you are right. Since you have already accosted me twice, however, I suppose I grow jaded. Even you can only go so far in your efforts to shock me, so I feel relatively safe.”

  “Then again,” he went on, a puzzled crease across his brow. “There is something curious about you. You are not like other young women of your set. You keep that perverse journal of yours. You wander about strange houses at night. Then you throw yourself in my path—with your mother’s full encouragement, it seems. What is a man to think of all this? And now you quiz me about my family and my attitude toward marrying. That’s more the behavior of an eager mother than a demure young lady. Are you so desperate to wed as all that, Olivia?” He came around Kitti so that they were but an arm’s length apart. “Is there some secret you are keeping from me?”

  For a moment she was baffled by his words. What secret could she have? If she was that eager to wed she would have done so long ago.

  Then his gaze fell to her stomach and his meaning struck with painful clarity. She sucked in a horrified gasp. He thought she needed to wed? He thought she hid a secret that required a husband, and fast?

  “Are you trying to trap me by compromising me?” he added, his eyes glittering with amusement.

  It was that amusement at her expense which provided her some handhold on her temper. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin to a haughty angle. “You know you don’t believe that, Lord Hawke. Your only purpose for making such ridiculous implications is to goad my temper.”

  He grinned. “Have I succeeded?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You have not.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps this might do the trick.” All at once he drew her against him, trapping her folded arms between them. “Are you angry yet?” He stared down into her eyes from a distance of mere inches.

  “I’m getting there,” Olivia muttered. She tried without success to pull away. Though his hold was not cruel, it was nonetheless implacable. “Let me go.”

  “Not yet.” His face lowered. “You’re not angry enough.”

  “Yes I am!” But Olivia’s heart was racing more with fear and anticipation than with anger. “I am furious. Now let me go at once!”

  “You need a little more goading, I think. Perhaps this—” Without warning his lips came down upon hers. Or perhaps there had been a warning, for she’d been warned away from him from their very first meeting, and every time thereafter. Nevertheless, she still was not prepared. She struggled, but only faintly, and only for a few brief moments.

  When his lips moved and slanted for a closer fit, she forgot her anger. And when his arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her fully against him, she forgot to be afraid. When he nibbled her lower lip and teased her mouth open, then slid his tongue between her lips, Olivia felt a heated leap in her stomach and a frightening, compelling anticipation.

  What would he do next?

  What would she let him do?

  Chapter 8

  Neville knew he was behaving badly. An innocent young woman of the ton was not the sort of woman a man was supposed to dally with. But Olivia Byrde’s mouth was incredibly warm and incredibly soft, and it was plain she needed kissing. If her enthusiasm was any indication, she’d been hungry for just such a kiss a very long time.

  So he kissed her, taking his time and doing a completely thorough job of it. She would not forget this kiss, he vowed as he tilted her backward in his arms. And she would have to write something very nice about him in that cursed journal she kept.

  He slanted his mouth against hers, nibbling and probing. He felt the moment her lips parted, and felt no shame for delving deeper. She tasted like honey, like sunshine. It was enough to make a man drunk with desire, and he was not one to deny himself.

  So he took full possession of her mouth, thrusting deeper and more insistently than he should. The fact that she curled her fingers around his lapels did nothing to discourage him. Boldly he stroked in and out, the intimate kiss of lovers.

  Only when his arousal demanded the same sort of rhythm from his lower parts did he regain some portion of his senses. With a groan he reined in his rampaging emotions, raised his head, and stared down into her dazed eyes. “Is that what you wanted from me, Olivia? Is that why you have followed me here to this private place?”

  As he looked down at her flushed face and the fullness of her delicious mouth, he had to stifle an oath. One kiss was not enough. But as he lowered his head for another sweet taste of her, she seemed finally to come to her senses.

  “No!” She twisted her head to avoid his lips, then pushed away and stumbled back nearly to the water’s edge, managing somehow to look properly insulted and temptingly disheveled, all at the same time.

  “No,” she repeated, raising one hand tentatively to her mouth. Her voice was low and shaky. “I think you’ve taken sufficient advantage of me for one day.”

  “I took advantage of you?” He laughed, determined to make her accept some portion of responsibility for their current situation. “Haven’t you got that turned around?”

  “Me?”

  Neville was fascinated by the play of emotions on her expressive face. From fledgling arousal to humiliation to fury, her feelings tumbled pell-mell, darkening her eyes, pinkening her cheeks, and flustering her completely. She took a deep breath, then another, and he could not help admiring how well she filled out the cream-colored muslin of her bodice.

  “You think I have taken advantage of you?” she sputtered. “I have taken advantage of you?”

  “Haven’t you?” He crossed his arms across his chest, enjoying himself as he had not done in years. “You followed me here of your own accord. Indeed, it would almost seem you have a hidden purpose. If it is not to trap a husband, then my second guess is that you hope to gain a paramour.”

  “Oh!” She stamped her foot. “You are absolutely the limit!”

  “Not that either? Hmm.” He frowned. “That leaves m
e with but one conclusion. I’m merely research for that little journal you keep, aren’t I? What will you write this time? Lord H. Aggravating, but he kisses so well.”

  Was that a flash of guilt in her eyes? She averted her gaze too swiftly for him to be certain.

  “I have no intention of listening to any more of this.” She lifted her skirts and clambered up the sloping green bank, angling carefully around him. “Do not invite me to dance this evening, Lord Hawke, lest you are prepared to be rebuffed. I do not wish to continue my acquaintance with you.”

  “How shall you avoid it, I wonder?”

  “I shall manage.”

  “What of your sojourn in Scotland?”

  She whirled around and glared at him. “What of it? I can imagine no occasion when I will invite you to Byrde Manor, nor any reason to call upon you in your abode. So you see, we are done.”

  But Olivia’s determined avowal only increased Neville’s grin. He watched her storm away, head high and long, angry strides. She looked just as good from the back as she did from the front. No, they were not done, he and the redoubtable Miss Byrde, though he knew he trod on dangerous ground. If it was land leases he wanted from her, he was not pursuing them in a very logical manner. Yet he seemed unable to prevent himself from baiting her. Or from kissing her.

  It was not lost on him that he took greater pleasure from this woman’s rejection than he had from any other woman’s welcome. But he’d long ago ceased to wonder at the paradox that was his life. Hailed a hero, yet in truth a traitor. Widely admired, yet consumed with self-hatred.

  It was fitting that he be enamored of the first woman who despised him. But Olivia was as much a paradox as he, sometimes the proper Miss Byrde, other times his earthy Hazel. She was not like the other women of her set—like her mother or Penny Cummings or a hundred others of that ilk. Pretty baubles, the most of them, with no thought beyond the next party and what they would wear to it.

  But Olivia was more opinionated, more spirited. And like him, she seemed to view society with a jaundiced eye.