A Matchmaker for a Marquess

by Christi Caldwell

  “I’ve no interest,” he said tersely.

  Pall-mall had been restored to its previously miserable state. Nay, this surpassed all previous moments of pall-mall miseries.

  “But you do have interest in your experiment gardens.”

  “Experimental,” he corrected. “You’d have me whore myself for property I’ll one day inherit anyway.”

  “Ah, but by then the horticultural society will have already chosen some other lord’s grounds.” And that which Barry sought would be lost. Nay, not lost, just… somewhere else. A place he’d have to travel to if he wished to visit. Whereas this? This was here and his, and… all he’d have to do was marry a woman of his family’s choosing. It wasn’t a foreign concept. In fact, given societal expectations, which were drilled into the peerage at birth, it was more foreign for a lord or lady to protest as strenuously as Barry had. And yet—inadvertently his gaze sought and found the one woman not upon any approved-by-the-Duchess-of-Gayle list.

  Meredith.

  His father followed his stare and frowned. “It’s your turn.”

  Barry brought his mallet back and hit the ball hard enough that it jumped and went flying. “What became of the Durants?” he asked after the projectile slid to a stop.

  His father paled, and then color climbed his cheeks. Barry would have to be blind to miss the guilty flush. “I’m not sure what you’re asking. Meredith is here now.”

  He put a hand on his father’s arm, slowing his march to the ball.

  “Yes, but she wasn’t here for ten,” Almost eleven. “years.” When she’d been such an important part of the Aberdeen family.

  The duke’s throat moved, and he looked away. When he again faced Barry, his features were guarded. “Albert became clumsy with his work. Worse. He’d begun to make sizable mistakes. Costly ones.”

  His gut churned. Oh, good God. “You sacked him?” he asked on a furious whisper.

  The duke doffed his hat and beat it against his side. “I didn’t sack him. I retired him.”

  Barry swiped his spare hand over his face. “You retire a damned horse, not your best friend.”

  By the guilt-stricken glint in his father’s eyes, the other man knew as much.

  “It’s your turn, Barry,” Emilia called from her place thirty paces ahead.

  Barely sparing the ball a look, Barry tapped it several feet, allowing them some distance between Emilia and Heath.

  “You did that on purpose,” his father muttered.

  “Yes.”

  The duke sighed. “I thought we were doing the right thing, and I still believe we were.”

  “For you.” Barry seethed. Ultimately, it was always about what his parents deemed best for themselves.

  “For both of us,” his father said insistently. “I gave him a sizable fortune.”

  “And sent them away. And then what of after they left? You didn’t think to reach out?” Instead, Meredith had been alone through the loss of her father.

  “There was your sister’s broken betrothal. She was brokenhearted, as was your mother. Life interrupted, Barry. And when it was finally righted, time had lapsed and…”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t send him away,” his father blurted. His father opened his mouth and then closed it. “I asked him to retire, but I didn’t ask him to leave. Albert was the one who insisted that he and Meredith leave. He said they could not remain. He was adamant.”

  And yet…

  That didn’t fit with what Meredith had shared. And if what his father said was to be believed, then what did that mean? Why had the pair left, then?

  There were so many questions. Ones he was determined to get to the bottom of.

  *

  Barry truly was a miserable pall-mall player.

  And standing on the sidelines as he periodically knocked the ball a handful of feet, Meredith couldn’t have been more rapt.

  She’d believed herself immune to feeling this emotion again. She’d believed herself immune to feeling anything.

  All these years, she’d kept secret the story of her broken heart and the folly she’d made in giving her love to one who’d never truly wanted her. Kept secret those parts of herself she’d been content to trap away, buried and forgotten.

  Only, they hadn’t been either buried or forgotten.

  She saw that now.

  Telling herself she’d forgotten those old hurts and actually moving on from them were two very different things. She’d let the folly of her youth shape the whole of her life. And just as Barry had rightfully accused, she’d prevented herself from truly feeling anything. Because she didn’t wish to hurt anymore. She’d lost her best friend to time and distance. She’d lost her father to death. She’d lost her lover to another. And because of all those hurts, she’d built up walls to keep herself safe.

  Safe, however, was not living.

  She’d been so guarded that she’d not allowed herself to simply enjoy being alive.

  “You are to be commended, Miss Durant.”

  Startling, Meredith spun to face the owner of those regal tones. The duchess glided down the graveled path, a young maid close at her heels and a parasol aloft to ward off the sun’s rays.

  Barry’s mother.

  My employer.

  The duchess.

  And Meredith, who’d built a career and her security upon her perfect understanding and execution of propriety, sank into a belated curtsy. “Your Grace,” she greeted as the duchess stopped beside her. “There was hardly anything to it. Bar—” The duchess’s eyebrows came together even as the young maid’s went shooting to her hairline. “Barely anything to it, at all,” she neatly substituted, and both women’s brows resumed their normal lines. “It merely took him several rounds to find the proper motions.”

  The duchess looked at her as if she’d gone mad. Collecting the parasol from her maid, the Duchess of Gayle gave a flick of her fingers, and her maid promptly scurried off. “What are you talking about, Miss Durant?”

  The better question was: What was the duchess speaking about? “His lordship’s pall-mall game.”

  “I referred to my son’s participation in the festivities, Miss Durant,” the duchess clarified, her expression deadpan.

  Meredith blinked rapidly. “Oh. Yes. Yes. Well, that makes the most sense. Our arrangement.” The one she’d not given a thought to in three days. Except to reflect upon all the ways in which the duchess had invited the absolute worst-possible ladies as potential brides for her son.

  Barry required a woman who was clever and didn’t wilt in the sun, but relished nature in all its glory.

  Not like the row of proper misses even now shielding their cream-white complexions with bonnets and parasols like they feared the sun might melt them.

  “Walk with me, Miss Durant.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Then, nothing from this woman ever had been. As close to royalty as one could be outside the ranks of prince and princess, king and queen, she issued only statements and orders from her lips.

  She quickened to catch up to Barry’s mother, easily falling into step alongside the duchess’s careful, slow, gliding steps.

  “My son is taking part, and yet, my guests are not happy…” She discreetly motioned to the row of ladies on the sidelines, all staring on at the games of pall-mall underway.

  Meredith took in the rabid glimmer in their eyes and fisted her hands at her sides. Nay, they didn’t give a jot about pall-mall. Like Meredith, they were hopelessly fixed on just one person—Barry.

  “And do you know why that is?” the duchess asked.

  Startled back to the moment, she jerked her gaze back over to the duchess. “I couldn’t even begin to presume, Your Grace.”

  “Because he is not entertaining the guests, and do you know why that is?” the other woman shot back.

  “I couldn’t—”

  “Because he’s spending all of his time with you,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Oh, God.
Meredith’s mind blanked and stalled and then resumed quickly, spinning out of control.

  “Now, I understand I tasked you with the role of discovering more about my son and determining which of the ladies present might make him the best match. However, he cannot connect with anyone if he is only with you.” She held Meredith’s gaze, and Meredith felt panic knocking away as she tried to decipher the meaning behind the look leveled on her. “Am I being clear?”

  Meredith wetted her lips. “You are.” She wasn’t. Meredith couldn’t tell what the woman saw or didn’t see. Or whether there was some subtle warning being issued, or just a general duchesslike reminder of the task at hand. None of it.

  “We’re running out of time, Miss Durant,” Barry’s mother went on. “I expect a match to be made before you leave.” With that, her parasol aloft and a maid rushing to her side, the duchess stalked off.

  With a casualness she didn’t feel, Meredith looked out at the pall-mall courts. To where Barry had barely made any progress alongside his father.

  Barry glanced in Meredith’s direction.

  A smile formed on his lips, slightly crooked, boyish, and… real, sending a giddy warmth blazing through her chest.

  He winked and then resumed playing.

  Restive, Meredith fiddled with the fabric of her skirts. The duchess had noted Meredith and Barry’s time together. Of course, Barry’s mother had, in her own mind, explained away the reason for their connection.

  What connection? a voice taunted. You’re the one who’s become hopelessly captivated by the man who is your assignment. Whereas Barry? Aside from that earliest embrace, he’d given her no reason to believe he was anything but committed to the terms of their arrangement that would see him married and in control of the land he sought here at Berkshire.

  Feeling eyes upon her, Meredith forced her gaze away from Barry and over to the cluster of five frowning ladies who’d directed all that displeasure in her direction.

  Her heart plummeted all the way to her toes, stirring up panic and unease.

  The other guests had noticed her attention.

  She forced a smile and then made a show of watching Emilia’s in-laws as they played.

  Meredith stole another peek at the cluster of five, and some of the tension left her. The gaggle was back to firmly ogling the future duke at his game.

  They didn’t necessarily know how hopelessly enrapt Meredith had become by Barry Aberdeen. The rogue who wasn’t so roguish. The gentleman who wasn’t just the athletic one to pursue the requisite gentlemanly pastimes, but was also an intellect.

  And a man, who despite his station, had looked closely enough at Meredith to see how she’d built up walls to keep herself from feeling. And hurting. And in doing so, he’d reminded her of how to simply be alive and enjoy the moments in the here and now without mourning the lost, happiest ones of the past.

  Now she was faced with a new question about Barry Aberdeen…

  How am I going to let him go?

  As if to taunt her with that very question, the latest round ended and new matches were made.

  Lady Ivy Clarence, mallet in hand, went rushing off to greet Barry for their set.

  Plastering a smile on her face that strained the muscles in her cheeks, Meredith made herself stand there and watch.

  The pair of them were glorious golden perfection together. Barry, tall and broadly muscular, and Lady Ivy, slender and delicate in all the ways Meredith had never been, presented as a striking couple.

  Barry sent his ball sailing, and the young lady clapped lightly, then laughed at whatever witty jest he’d no doubt delivered.

  Because that was who Barry was. That was what he did. He could make a widow at her just-departed husband’s services laugh.

  Meredith had gone and made those kindnesses out to be something special that he did for her, when in truth, that was the manner of man Barry Aberdeen was. He showed that depth of warmth to all. Just as he had when he’d been almost sixteen and she just twenty. It was just one of the reasons she loved him.

  Gravel crunched behind her.

  She prayed the person would continue on.

  Alas, was she to expect anything else of this day?

  Lady Ivy’s companion, her spinster sister, smiled at her. “Hullo.”

  “Hello, my lady,” Meredith said, dropping a belated curtsy.

  “Please, there’s no need for those formalities.” The woman’s large brown eyes held a kindly warmth. “After all, we’re not so very different, Miss Duranseau.”

  They were entirely different. Meredith offered a smile. “Though that is kind of you, we’re not quite the same, my lady,” she said gently, glancing out to the pall-mall courts and promptly wishing she hadn’t.

  Lady Ivy, making her namesake a reality, clung to Barry’s arm, crushing her generous breasts against him.

  “Because I’m noble born?” the other woman drawled, bringing Meredith’s gaze quickly back.

  “Yes.”

  “Miss Duranseau, I’m thirty-two years old. I’m serving in the role of companion for my younger sister. And for those reasons, I’m largely invisible to the other guests present. I’d say, for all those reasons, we’re very much the same,” the lady said with a forthrightness Meredith could appreciate.

  “As you put it that way…”

  “I did.”

  They shared a smile.

  “Then I shall call you Lady Agatha.”

  They fell into a companionable silence, both watching the same pair of players. However, their focuses, Meredith wagered, were entirely different.

  Barry and Lady Ivy had found themselves halfway down the court. As before, Emilia and her husband, Lord Heath, had the advantage. Playing as the four of them offered a glimpse of a future with the family joined.

  “You are the matchmaker, are you not?”

  She stiffened. Mayhap she’d given greater credit to another woman seeking her out. “I am.”

  “I trust my sister is at the top of the duchess’s list?” Lady Agatha ventured.

  Meredith started. “My lady?”

  “Agatha,” the lady corrected. She discreetly motioned to the collection of guests assembled—the row of ladies hovering on the sidelines and the disproportionate number of unattached gentlemen. “It doesn’t take much to look at Her Grace’s guest list and determine her intentions in bringing together the ladies she did.”

  “I… couldn’t say either way,” she demurred.

  The taller woman waved her off. “I’d not ask you to violate the duchess’s confidence,” she said, having perfectly followed Meredith’s thoughts. The lady’s eyes twinkled. “Especially as I already know the answer,” she said, startling another laugh from Meredith.

  Lady Agatha joined in, and hers wasn’t the trilling, practiced giggle, but raw and honest. “My sister asked that I speak with you on a potential match between her and Lord Tenwhestle. She’s… noted that he seems to greatly value your opinion and time together.”

  This time, she did not imagine the knowing in the other woman’s eyes.

  “Our families were very close,” she explained. “Our history is long.” Meredith sought to redirect them toward a safer, and yet, still no less miserable, source of discussion. “What do you think of a match between them?” she asked carefully.

  “Truthfully?”

  Meredith nodded. A bee circled before her eyes, and she lightly swatted at it, shooing it away.

  “I know nothing about him aside from the reputation he has amongst the ton as a rogue.”

  He was so much more than that. He was an intellect, with many passions. He was clever.

  “I’d have my sister marry not with a future title in mind.”

  The woman grew tenfold in her estimation.

  Another trilling laugh echoed around the gardens, clear and bell-like and blending with the deeper, more robust masculine chuckle belonging to Barry.

  Meredith and Lady Agatha stared out.

  “They do appear lovel
y together,” Lady Agatha murmured.

  “Yes,” she said softly, torturing herself with the sight of that lovely pair playing on to the next point. Who knew jealousy had a taste? Like vinegar, it was overwhelming in its bitterness. Sharp. And left the mouth soured. Even after Patrin’s betrayal, she’d not felt… this. There’d been fury and outrage and hurt… but she’d not envied the woman who’d won him as she envied the lady upon the pall-mall field now.

  The bee returned, serving as almost a bull’s-eye target on the couple in the distance, and Meredith gave it another angry swat.

  “You needn’t worry, you know.”

  Her stomach muscles twisted. “I’m not worried.” I’m jealous and hurting.

  “You keep swatting at it.”

  What was the other woman on about? She cocked her head.

  “The honeybee,” Lady Agatha clarified.

  Heat went rushing to her cheeks.

  Giving no outward reaction to Meredith’s sudden blush, she rattled on. “If you look close between him and”—turning, she surveyed the row of flowers behind them—“that one there, you’ll see he’s larger. He has no stinger.”

  That managed to penetrate her earlier misery. Meredith’s intrigue stirred. “Indeed?” she asked, squinting first at one creature and then the other, attempting to bring them into better focus.

  “None of the males do. They do no work, and all they do is… mate.” Her lips twitched. “One might say they’re not much different than a nobleman in that regard.”

  A laugh exploded from Meredith’s lips, and the other woman joined in. When her amusement faded, Meredith wiped the mirth from her eyes. How much more fascinating these past years would have been had she the company of one such as Agatha Clarence. “How do you know this?”

  Lady Agatha smiled. “My father was an amateur naturalist. Since I was a girl, he had a sizable collection of bees, and I, to my late mother’s shame and horror, held a like fascination. She despised it…”

  “Your pastime or the bees?” Meredith inquired.

  “Both.” A twinkle lit Lady Agatha’s eyes. “We helped her see the mutual relationship between her prized roses and the bees, and she came to an uneasy truce with them.”