“Did you hear me?” he frantically called to the pair. “Because if you did, you would certainly cease all activity around me. It is I. Your brother. I said I am h—”
“You were heard,” his sister assured, parting the brush… and then righting her gown with one hand, her other palm firmly tucked into his brother-in-law’s hand.
He blanched. Egad, that was the manner of stuff to ruin one’s day, indeed. The manner of sight that couldn’t be unseen. “If that were the case, then I’d expect you and your husband would continue on your way.” Barry directed that out to the light tug at the end of his line.
“We are here on a matter of business,” she informed.
“Indeed?” His neck grew hot.
“With you,” his sister said impatiently. “I’ll have you know we were, in fact, seeking you out.”
Given the amount of sighs, whispered endearments, and wrinkled garments, he believed his sister about as much as he believed Lady Jersey didn’t give a jot about gossip. “Consider me found,” he said dryly.
Emilia frowned and moved into position beside him. “We were,” she insisted. “Isn’t that right, Heath?”
His brother-in-law dropped a shoulder against a nearby oak tree. “Your sister is endlessly loyal to you.”
“Oh?” Given the fact that not even six months earlier she’d sacrificed Barry, forcing him to sing Christmastide carols before all at the Duchess of Sutton’s winter party, that sisterly loyalty was certainly up for debate.
Emilia released a long sigh. “I really should just leave. You’re an unappreciative blighter.”
“He doesn’t know,” Heath said for his wife’s benefit.
Emilia glanced from Barry to her husband. “No. No, he doesn’t.”
Barry knew precisely what their speaking over him was all about: They were toying with him. Aside from clandestine escapades, he was equally familiar with how to bait a person. Which was why he knew precisely what his sister and her husband were up to.
Drawing his line back in, Barry assessed the nibbled end of the bait at the end of his hook and then recast it.
“Don’t you have a question for me?” his sister asked.
“I’m hardly going to seek any information that might or might not pertain to me from someone who can’t determine whether I have a question for her.”
“It would serve you right if I allowed you to return to Berkshire and find out all on your own what you’re up against.”
He stilled.
“I see I have your attention now.” Emilia smirked. “The paper, please, Heath.” She lifted a palm up.
Her dutiful husband immediately abandoned his repose and came forward. Fishing a sheet from his pocket, he handed it over.
This time, despite his determination to not give in to their needling, he glanced over. The faintest warning bells went off. Distant and faint. Something was afoot. Something his sister was enjoying entirely too much. “What is that?”
His sister gave the official-looking page a little wave. “It is Mother’s guest list.”
He snorted. “And you expect I should be bothered either way about who is coming to stay?” Given he intended to spend his days largely outside amongst nature, he hardly cared what pinch-mouthed matrons she’d brought together for the fortnight.
“I’ll have you know, Barry”—his sister took a step closer, and that page clutched in her fingers danced on a light summer’s breeze—“it is not a guest list like last year’s, or even the year before.”
“Why should it be? The entire purpose was to see you wed, and now that you have?” He pointed at his silent brother-in-law, who wore the ghost of a smile. “There’s hardly a reason to fill our household with potential…” Barry’s words trailed off as he went absolutely motionless as a horrifying possibility crept in. “Surely you’re not suggesting…”
“That is precisely what I’m suggesting.”
After Emilia had been jilted during her first London Season, their mother had made it her life mission to see her wed. Every engagement, every soiree, every house party in summer and winter had been dedicated to the intention of making a match. Now, there was no daughter to worry about wedding. He laughed. “Impossible.”
“You’re nearly twenty-seven, Barry.”
“Positively ancient. In my dotage, I am,” he drawled.
Merriment danced in his sister’s eyes. “Ah, try telling that to your mother.”
His mother? “I’ll remind you, she’s your mother, too.”
“Yes, but when she’s being vexing, she’s entirely yours.”
“Vexing? If your concerns are, in fact, real—”
“They are.”
“Then I’d categorize them as a good deal more than vexing.” Terror-inducing. Infuriating. Stomach-churning.
His sister let out a patronizing sigh that only an elder sister could manage. “Surely you didn’t think you’d escape her matrimonial maneuverings?”
“Of course not. By my calculations, I’ve at least another two years before it is expected I fulfill my ducal heir responsibilities.”
She stared at him incredulously. “And what have you based that on?”
“You were twenty-eight when you wed. I thank you for your warning,” he said and retrained all his energies on fishing. He’d fallen for his elder sister’s baiting enough times through the years. He had no intention of doing so now. “If I may resume my—”
Emilia wagged the page at him. Daring him. “As I have your attention—”
“I should point out,” her husband interjected, “that he’s in no way attending you. He seems content to return to fishing.”
Barry inclined his head, but otherwise didn’t look out from the pond. “Well-noted, Mulgrave.”
“Thank you,” his brother-in-law put in.
“Hush, the both of you. You men are insufferable.” Emilia stomped over, joining Barry at the shore. “I should take myself off. Leave you to your own devices. I was wrong to assume that you would care that the guest list is comprised not of her usual guests but entirely of unwed ladies and their families—”
He spun so quick on the shore, his boot caught the slick earth, and he came toppling down, landing with a hard thump in the water. “What is that?” he called after her and Lord Heath’s retreating frames. Scrambling to his feet, sloshing water as he went, he rushed after the pair.
Stumbling over a tree root, Barry righted himself. As soon as he reached his sister and brother-in-law, he made a grab for the sheet in their possession.
“Uh-uh,” his sister admonished, holding the page beyond his reach.
He glared at her. “Emilia,” he warned, making another attempt.
She kept a tenacious hold on it. “What did you think this house party was, Barry?”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “I thought it was every other annual summer event. Same fare. Same festivities. Same guests.” Same was the way of Polite Society. Everyone was expected to be the same, as were the activities they were expected to conduct.
Emilia’s smile widened as she made a show of studying the paper in her hands. “As I was trying to tell you earlier, the guests are not at all Mother’s usual guests…”
This time, Barry did spare her a glance.
And shivered.
There was a ruthless glitter in his sister’s eyes. The same sparkle she’d had when she and her friend Meredith Durant had emptied his fishing bait in his picnic basket, thoroughly spoiling his lunch.
“You’re enjoying this,” he mumbled.
Her grin widened. “Immensely.”
She taunted him. In fairness, given his blasé attitude of before, he was certainly deserving of it. But that was neither here nor there. “Emilia,” he said once more.
Heath took mercy and plucked the page from his wife’s fingers, handing it over to Barry.
“Traitor,” Emilia muttered, sticking her tongue out at her husband, who reached for her hand to soften the blow.
Ignoring th
e nauseatingly handsy pair, Barry worked his gaze swiftly over the page, and with each name that he read, his horror crept up.
There were six families who would be in attendance. As his sister had pointed out, entirely different guests than those who attended the duke and duchess’s usual annual summer house parties. Twelve unmarried ladies. Only two unattached bachelors—himself included in that small number. And two more brothers to the unwed ladies.
There could be no doubting the purpose of his mother and father’s summer house party at Berkshire Manor: changing his marital state. Or as he preferred to think of it—and keep it—his bachelor state.
With a curse, Barry let his arm fall to his side.
He’d simply deluded himself into believing there was more time. With Emilia happily married, the duchess would—and had, by his sister’s visit and warning here—turn her matchmaking sights on him. Such was the way for a future duke and peer of the realm. Ultimately, all the world, his mother leading the charge, expected those young lords to make a match.
Expectations.
That was what it always came down to. What a gentleman should study… or not study. What pursuits a gentleman should take on. Whom he was expected to marry—and when.
“Bloody, bloody hell.”
“It might not be all bad.” All earlier levity had gone, replaced with a terrifying somberness from his sister. And something more… a sad, commiserative glimmer in her eyes.
Barry whipped his gaze over the sheet once more and snorted.
This was bad.
Very bad, indeed.
At twenty-six, and his father in remarkable health, there was no reason to expect Barry to set aside his bachelor ways and… and… His face pulled. Good God, he couldn’t even complete the thought. Alas, his mother was of an altogether different opinion.
Emilia rested a palm on his shoulder in a gesture of understanding. “Surely you saw that, with me having married, Mother would then turn her sights to you?”
Actually, he should have seen it.
“She’s positively mercenary where marriage is concerned,” he muttered.
“In fairness, she’s positively mercenary where anything is concerned,” his sister pointed out.
And just like that, all his hope of time among the plants and wildlife here was shattered. He swiped a wet hand through his hair. So much for peace and solitude and a jolly good time at Berkshire Manor.
“If I may offer some advice?” his brother-in-law put in. “As a future duke myself who also had to contend with a mother determined to see me married off?”
Barry looked up. “Yes?” He’d take all the blasted help he might find.
“You’ve just two courses of action before you. One, you could marry.”
That was not happening. Not anytime soon. “And course two?”
His brother-in-law—the miserable blighter—grinned. “Hide.”
“Hide,” Barry murmured. For fourteen days, he’d need to avoid a house full of company, and yet, Berkshire Manor was more castle than manor, with places to hide and land to explore. Only, when his parents hosted their gathering, it was all crawling with that which he sought to avoid during the summer—people.
His brother-in-law slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve faith in you.”
Barry brought his shoulders back. The other man was right.
Yes, it was just fourteen days to stay largely out of sight and avoid determined matchmaking mamas and title-seeking daughters.
How difficult a task could that be?
Chapter 4
As Meredith Durant’s carriage rolled up the long, graveled drive, then rocked to a slow halt outside the entrance of Berkshire Manor, there was only one absolute certainty—no good could come from being here at the Duke and Duchess of Gayle’s country estate.
In short, because no good had ever come from her being here.
Seated on the carriage bench, she tugged distractedly at the locket she wore, a gift from her father when he’d still been lucid. The pink-gold piece, which she always touched for comfort, this time failed to provide its usual calm.
She stared out the window at the turrets that reached high into the sky, great peaks heralding the power, wealth, and prestige of the dukes who’d all called this place home. A parade of servants was already filing through the front doors of the impressive manor, the young footmen all strangers to her.
Nay, it wasn’t altogether true that no good had come from her being here. There’d been loyal friends and a happy childhood. This place had been a home… until her father was passed over for a newer, younger, more clever man-of-affairs and her heart had been broken, her future unsettled overnight.
Oh, if she had reached out after her father died, they’d likely have offered their support—financial. They’d been incapable of providing any on an emotional level, which in the darkest days of her father’s deterioration had been all that she’d required.
And when he’d died and she’d been left alone, and all the funds depleted in her caring for him, Meredith had clung to all that remained—her pride. Then, she’d vowed to never accept anything from anyone and certainly not from the Duke and Duchess of Gayle—because they’d proven they weren’t family.
Not in the ways that mattered.
Which was, in fact, why Meredith was here now.
Her entire career had been built upon and was reliant upon the ton. Therefore, declining a summons from a duchess was tantamount to signing the writ on one’s own demise. And as one who’d come to see how quickly life could be shattered, Meredith had developed a keen appreciation that there was no certainty in life except uncertainty.
So she’d answered the summons. Returned to the place where she’d committed her greatest folly, the mistakes that only she knew of. And were the world to find them out, her career as a respected matchmaker—as a respected anything, for that matter—would be destroyed.
Despite her gloves, her palms went moist. That perspiration had nothing to do with the summer’s heat and everything to do with the prospect of losing everything she’d built.
There was a light knock at the door, and she jumped. “Just a moment,” she called. She gave her head a clearing shake. “I am ready.”
The driver drew the door open. “Ma’am,” he greeted, stretching a hand inside.
If there had been any doubts that the reason of her visit was anything less than business in nature, they were shattered a moment later as the Duchess of Gayle came sweeping into the foyer with her arms outstretched. “I’ve been waiting for you. Shall we begin?”
Wrinkled and dusty from her carriage ride from the other end of Dorset, Meredith wished only for a bath and then a bed, not necessarily in that order.
Alas, she’d been serving in her role as matchmaking companion too long. Her own desires and discomforts were secondary to…everything. “Of course, Your Grace.” Bowing her head, she sank into a deep curtsy.
The regal woman, showing barely any effects of the passage of time, had already started forward, expecting Meredith to follow.
Straightening, she hurried after the duchess, bypassing room after room in which Meredith had played hide-and-seek as a girl. Or ridden around with Barry atop her back, neighing all the while and attempting to buck her rider loose, as the only thing that had kept him upright had been his fingers tangled in her hair.
She’d suffered a bald spot at the base of her scalp for three years, a credit to his efforts and her devotion.
Barry, whom she’d seen earlier in the Season at the Royal Horticultural Society and then not again.
Which had also been a welcome reprieve and not truly a surprising one at that. Given the direction of his interests, she’d wager her reputation as London’s leading matchmaker that he was far from the dutiful son to attend his mother’s formal summer party.
“Here we are,” the duchess murmured as they reached her offices, as though clarity was needed. As though Meredith did not know the ins and outs of this palatial residence as
well as she knew the annoying freckles on her own nose.
A servant held the door open, and the duchess waited until Meredith had entered before sweeping in behind her and taking up a spot at the floral upholstered sofa.
The duchess motioned to the chair beside her, and Meredith perched herself on the edge. “I trust you—”
“I am well—”
“—know the reason I’ve invited you this summer, Miss Durant.”
Not Are you well?
And also… Miss Durant.
Miss Durant. At that stiff, direct, and not at all… welcoming greeting, Meredith found herself blinking, uncharacteristically knocked off-balance, and incapable of directing the powerful woman to use Meredith’s new name. Why, this was no homecoming. This was no attempt to make amends for the Aberdeens’ absence at the end of Albie Durant’s life.
Are you truly surprised? They all but sacked your father and sent the pair of you on your way, and not so much as a word had been exchanged between them since.
Bitterness stung her throat and nearly choked her. And here she’d believed herself immune to the pain of that betrayal.
Regaining her equilibrium, Meredith straightened. “I confess to being… mystified by your summons, Your Grace.” There could be no doubting now that hers was not a social invitation. Nor could it be a matter of business, however, as Emilia, Meredith’s childhood friend, had at last married this past winter. Not that a duke’s daughter would ever require assistance in securing a match.
The duchess opened her mouth, but was interrupted a moment later by a scratching at the door. “Enter.”
A pair of young servants came forward, one bearing a tray of tea, the other tarts.
Not speaking until the maids had gone and closed the door behind them, Her Grace proceeded to pour first one cup and, not even bothering to ask, poured a second. “As you are aware, Emilia has married at last.” There was a palpable relief in her tone that met her eyes. The duchess added a spot of cream and a dollop of sugar.
“I did hear of the happy news, Your Grace,” she said as the duchess handed over the porcelain teacup. With her business dependent upon unwed ladies and gentlemen, Meredith made it a habit of reading daily any mention of courtships and marriages. She’d come across news of Emilia’s marriage to Lord Heathcliff—a surprising match for the other woman. And if she was being honest, at least with herself, the truth that her friend had married and hadn’t sent ’round an invitation had stung.
A Matchmaker for a Marquess Page 4