A Matchmaker for a Marquess

by Christi Caldwell

  And then, the moment they’d kissed. In his arms, she’d revealed the depth of the passion that still simmered under the surface. Heat sizzled through him again, a rush of the desire that had compelled him to take her into his arms that morn.

  For all her show of proper matchmaker, in that hideous gown and sporting a painfully tight coiffure, Meredith remained the same passionate, spirited woman she’d always been.

  Only… he’d not known her as a woman. Not as she was now. When she’d gone off, leaving Berkshire behind, she’d been just twenty or so. His last memories of Meredith were her sobbing in his arms. She’d reemerged this… woman, still with sad eyes, clinging tight to her past like the secret it was. And he was a man besieged, filled with a gripping need to know everything there was to know about her. When he’d never before had a desire to have any manner of connection with a woman outside of the physical.

  As if she felt his stare, Meredith glanced over.

  Her cheeks pinkened, but she did not look away. There was a boldness to her stare, which was devoid of any coquetry. And that directness proved more compelling than any carefully fluttered lashes.

  Hers was the gaze of a self-possessed woman who was confident in herself and the business that she did.

  She might as well be the only woman in the room, for she was all that he saw.

  Amidst the hum of the guests chatting and the occasional trill of laughter, the air crackled and hummed with an energy that came from the connection between them.

  Barry bowed his head, the first to break their impasse. “Hello,” he mouthed.

  Then, with all the regal bearing of a princess, Meredith tipped her chin up, an unspoken admonishment that not a single one of Barry’s hopeless tutors or university instructors could have managed. She looked away then, directing her attention to the inanity of the mingling guests.

  His fingers curved into reflexive fists as annoyance killed the inexplicable hungering for Meredith Durant.

  She believed he’d merely toyed with her. She assumed that the whole reason he’d taken her in his arms and covered his mouth with hers, explored the lush contours of her body, had been some intent at revenge.

  And it grated. It grated that her opinion of him could be so low… given the length of the time they’d known each other.

  That charge she’d hurled before flying off had stung in the moment. Coupled with this, her palpable disapproval, he didn’t know whether he wanted to lecture the chit or kiss her senseless—again.

  Meredith darted a tongue out, trailing it over her lips. It was a nervous gesture, a distracted one even, and yet, also the greatest taunt she no doubt didn’t realize she doled out.

  He tamped down a groan.

  The latter.

  It was absolutely the latter. Kissing her mindless.

  “You are being rude.” The sharp whisper effectively doused all hint of his previous ardor, and there could be no doubting that, with the current company he kept, it would remain firmly squelched.

  “Mother,” he drawled. His mother, ever the consummate duchess, glowered at him in return. “And here I thought it would be enough that I’ve joined this evening’s festivities.” Instead of running off as he had last night, straight for Meredith’s chambers, where she’d been in her bed, and he’d been over her and… His neck heated. He’d been wrong. He could lust after Meredith Durant in even the most miserable of circumstances.

  His mother pinched his arm. “It isn’t.”

  “It isn’t what?”

  She pinched him again, and he cursed. “Good God, stop pinching me.”

  “Enough,” she went on and gave his arm another sharp squeeze.

  “And what was that for?” he clipped out, rubbing at the bruised flesh.

  “Because you’re not paying attention. You said your joining the festivities was enough, and I’m telling you it is not. I’ve every expectation that you’ll take part in the actual events, Barry.”

  He glanced around the room where guests still noisily conversed. “But there are no events.” Not yet.

  “There are guests.” She lifted a finger. “And young ladies whom at the very least you should be respectful enough to engage in polite discourse.”

  Unbidden, his gaze drifted over to Meredith. Meredith who was even now tapping her serviceable shoe on the floor in a one-two-three beat. Stop noticing even the most trivial details about the minx. One-two-three. As bored as he himself w—

  “Ouch,” he exclaimed.

  His mother lowered her pinching hand. “Pay—”

  “Attention. I know, I know,” he muttered. “And which lady are you expecting me to give my attention to?”

  With that, Barry managed what he’d otherwise believed impossible until now—he’d ruffled the duchess. “What?” she squawked.

  Ah, she feared he’d caught on to her using Meredith Durant as his matchmaker. He delighted in having the unaccustomed upper hand. “Come, Mother, did you think I shouldn’t have gathered your… intentions?”

  Were she any other woman, the duchess would have revealed a modicum of chagrin or embarrassment. A blush. Downcast eyes. Alas, she was a duchess through and through. “You’ve no one but yourself to blame for the situation.”

  Situation. So that was what they were calling Meredith’s role here.

  “And this I must hear,” he said from the corner of his mouth, his gaze on the guests.

  “Several months ago, when you stormed our townhouse and demanded to see your father and me, you truly highlighted all number of concerns we’d neglected to properly note. In that moment, it could have been”—his mother’s already hushed voice dropped to a barely discernable whisper—“any number of scandals in which you’d found yourself.”

  Horror crept in. “And so you determined…?”

  “That the only thing to ensure you’d settle down was for you to…” She gave a toss of her head. “Well, settle down.”

  He didn’t know whether to laugh, groan, or cry. Good God, he’d put his oblivious parents’ focus on him. “And I trust you’ve handpicked my bride, too?”

  His mother trilled a laugh, and when she reached a hand out, he flinched away from the attack… that didn’t come. She patted his arm, almost affectionately. The way she had when he’d been a child. “Never! I’m not so old-fashioned that I’d make that manner of decision for you.”

  He couldn’t help the snort from escaping him at her slight emphasis on that particular word. “No, you’d just hire a matchmaker to do it for you.” Not just any matchmaker. Meredith. A woman he’d become hopelessly enraptured by since he’d come upon her at the horticultural society.

  “Your father and I are both aware you’d likely react as you have.”

  “Have I reacted?” he asked dryly.

  “You are displeased,” she pointed out.

  “And with good reason.”

  “Everyone requires a bit of incentive…”

  He stiffened. She was a master chess player. Only, her board was the world of Polite Society, and all the people upon it, her pawns. “Go on.”

  “You want the land for your flower gardens.”

  “Experimental gardens,” he automatically corrected, all his nerves on alert.

  His mother beamed. “And your father would be amenable to providing that gift…”

  His stomach sank. “If I wed.”

  Her smile deepened. “You always were a clever boy.”

  Checkmate.

  “Either way”—she clapped her hands—“I don’t care who it is you speak to as long as you’re speaking to someone. It won’t do for Society to believe my boy is impolite.”

  “Imagine the scandal,” he said crisply. “Ouch,” he exclaimed when she attacked him again with that too-quick thumb and forefinger.

  “Socialize.” With that, she swept off, her arms extended. “Lady Sutton,” she called warmly as she joined her closest friend in the world.

  After she’d gone, Barry gave his head a shake and turned his st
are on the bustling parlor. Socialize, she’d ordered. Take part in the evening’s fun. Mingle with the guests. And now, she’d add another command: marry. And what was worse was she’d managed to attach the one thing he desired, the pursuit that brought him joy. And that temptation she’d dangled before him only stirred the bitter resentment in his chest.

  From where she stood conversing with Lady Sutton, his mother caught his eye. “Socialize,” she mouthed and then shifted all her focus to the other duchess.

  Barry gnashed his teeth. The evening had soured, indeed, and he’d no interest in engaging the ladies here. Every last one of them had been assembled, handpicked by his mother with marriage in mind. That was, of course, with the exception of just one—

  His gaze homed in on the lone figure in the corner.

  Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. Stop. Tap-tap-tap.

  She stole a glance in his direction and immediately ceased that endearing tapping. The immobile matchmaker mask was back in place. And he’d no doubt, after their lakeside interlude, that it was anything but a mask. All earlier boredom lifted.

  With a grin, he started across the room.

  *

  Since she’d fled the stream that morn, Meredith had gone out of her way to avoid Barry.

  At dinner, she’d kept her eyes entirely away from him, an altogether easy feat given his placement toward the front of the table and hers? Well, hers at the end, afforded one of her less exalted station.

  That hadn’t meant, however, that she hadn’t felt his stare. Had known it was on her.

  Just as she knew at this very moment that the purposeful set to his steps put him on a trajectory to her. Despite the room full of younger, bright-cheeked, glowing young ladies, he sought out Meredith.

  It’s merely because he’s playing yet another game with you. Just as he did at the stream.

  She knew that. She was jaded enough by her experience with men—her first love and the gentlemen of Polite Society she worked amongst—to know the manner of perverse pleasures that brought him joy.

  Still, knowing that and reminding herself of that very thing couldn’t slow the steadily accelerating beat of her heart.

  And then he was there.

  “Meredith,” he greeted, not with a bow but with a smile.

  A lady of his station would have merited a bow. She found herself preferring that unaffected grin. “Barry,” she said, diverting her focus forward and gathering all the strength it would take to keep her stare on the room—and not on the impressive figure beside her. “Is there something I may help you with?”

  “Not at all.”

  It was futile. She abandoned her earlier attempts and looked over at him. “And?”

  “My mother tasked me with socializing.”

  “And so you chose me?”

  He lifted his head. “And so I chose you.”

  He was a flirt. His reputation had been cemented among Society. He’d crafted the skill as a boy in the nursery, wheedling weak-willed nursemaids who’d been helpless around his cherubic smile. Even knowing that as she did, she couldn’t stop the spread of warmth at the suggestive nature of those words… that met his eyes. “I hardly think this is what your mother had in mind with that order.” In fact, she knew it. For there could be no doubting that, from the duchess, it would have been anything but an order.

  “Oh, she didn’t specify, and as such”—he smoothed his lapels—“I’m merely following the wishes as she set them out.”

  Meredith snorted. “And of a sudden, following your mother’s requests is of paramount importance? If that was the case, I’d expect you to pick a bride among the ladies assembled.” What accounted for the peculiar twinge that accompanied her own retort? That odd pulling sensation in her chest?

  “My, how improper of you, Miss Durant the matchmaker,” he murmured, angling his head lower so that his whisper caressed her skin. “Snorting and then calling out your hostess’s son? Whatever would Polite Society say?”

  “I didn’t call out the hostess’s son. I called you out.” She had snorted. She’d not, however, concede that.

  He arched a brow. “And?”

  “And?” she asked primly, refusing to indulge him.

  “Well…” He dropped an elbow against the wall, nearly shielding her—shielding them—from Society’s prying eyes. “It is simply that if I’m not ‘the hostess’s son’ or ‘your assignment,’ what does that make me?”

  Her heart knocked wildly. It was merely because of the potential scandal that his intimate positioning could herald. It had absolutely nothing to do with his languid pose, or the heat spilling from his words, or the ripple of his biceps as he shifted his shoulder.

  Lying. I am lying, and poorly, even to myself.

  “Hmm?” he prodded on a silken murmur. “Who am I, if not simply the future duke you’ll marry off?”

  “Barry,” she said, her voice breathy to her own ears. “You are just… Barry.”

  Her response managed to shatter the teasing façade that this charming, affable gentleman presented to the world.

  “Just Barry,” he murmured.

  “That’s what you’ve always been.” Through the haze of her own longing, her words served as a reminder of why she was here now. “And it is as a friend that I wish to help you, Barry.”

  “How… very touching.” He spoke in his usual drawl, but this time, it was laced with cynicism.

  She ignored it.

  She ignored him.

  After all, if she paid him no notice and didn’t rise to his ribbing, he’d continue on his way so he could go about fulfilling his mother’s expectations, his responsibilities, and… well, her own responsibilities for him.

  Of course, he’d never allow that silence.

  “I saw your tapping,” he said conversationally, all earlier vestiges of bitterness gone.

  “My tapping?”

  “I saw your feet,” he whispered.

  Butterflies danced in her belly. He’d been watching her that closely? And why did it matter so much that he had? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she forced out with a casualness she no longer felt around Barry Aberdeen.

  “Yes, you do.” His rebuttal put her as an all-out liar, and he owned that pronouncement with all the factuality of one who knew. “And now I can’t help but be curious about what had you tapping those painfully severe boots.”

  Imagined music. Dances she’d never danced. Waltzes she’d never had. Music she played in her mind through the tedium of events that she was part of but never really included in. No one had noticed because, in short, no one had noticed her. There’d been no reason to.

  “Music,” he murmured, shifting his body closer. Scandalously close.

  Meredith’s pulse pounded. She tried to make herself look about for prying eyes, but couldn’t bring herself to look… or care. Care about anything more than the words whispered from his lips. “What?”

  “Knowing the girl I once knew, you were imagining a song in your head and secretly dancing yourself through that set.” His gaze smoldered, and it was like being kissed by a flame. This man bore little trace to the underfoot boy of her youth.

  Her breath hitched. “How—?”

  “Because, as I said…” He dipped his head so that all she need do was tilt hers a fraction, and their mouths would meet. “I know you.”

  I know you.

  Sadness tugged her lips up in smile. “You don’t know me. Not truly.” Nor did he have a need to. And yet, at every turn, he sought answers about her and her past and her life. That regard didn’t fit at all with the rogue he’d become.

  “No,” he said quietly. “But I suspect no one knows you, Meredith. Not anymore. Because the same girl who would have once sung a ditty and danced around this parlor is now determined to hide in a corner, just dreaming of dancing.”

  Her pulse thundered, and she hated him in that moment for having gleaned those secrets, just as much as she hated herself for having thought those very thoughts. From the m
oment her father had fallen ill, to the moment of his death and the years beyond, she’d ceased to be a girl and had instead become a woman with but one purpose and focus: her work. She’d believed herself content with what her life had become, only to have Barry prove the lie there.

  He peered at her with a far-too-knowing stare, one that saw too much. More than she wished. “The Meredith of old is still there enough that I know what you’re dreaming of, even if you’re hiding the truth from yourself.”

  It was too much. “What I wish for or don’t wish for out of life doesn’t matter,” she said, finding her legs once more.

  “Ah, yes.” Barry abandoned his casual repose. “The terms of our arrangement.” He inclined his head. “I like to fish.”

  He liked to fish… That reminder conjured memories of that morn, wading through the water, casting their rods… and him taking her in his arms. Her breath hitched.

  Barry gave her a peculiar look.

  Good Lord in heaven, what in blazes is the matter with you? Agog over Barry Aberdeen. “Fishing,” she echoed belatedly, needing to say something to ground her in her purpose here. She dove for the pencil and notepad tucked in her pocket, but Barry stayed her attempts, pressing a palm against hers.

  “No writing.”

  “But—”

  He dusted the back of his palm lightly over her mouth, and her heart skittered out of control at that faintest and swiftest of caresses. “Only listening, love.”

  Meredith stole a glance about the crowded parlor. She, however, remained blessedly invisible to the more important lords and ladies present, who’d never spare a look for one of her station. “But I need to record—”

  “Uh-uh. Those are the rules.”

  But she recorded everything. Such was the entire purpose of her being here and the deal they’d struck related to her discovering his interests and finding him the ideal match. As such, Meredith dug her heels in. “No, those are not the terms we agreed to.” They were also the rules she needed in place… the ones that would keep Barry Aberdeen as business and not the fascinating figure he proved himself to be with every wicked encounter.