Always the Matchmaker (Never the Bride Book 8)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Chapter Four

  No matter what he tried, Albemarle’s fingers just could not stay still. The tassel on the edge of the sofa, a button on his waistcoat—there were no ends of things he could fiddle with while he waited in these godforsaken rooms for the matchmaker from hell.

  A clock somewhere in the place struck a quarter to nine, and a dark look swept across his face.

  Why in God’s name was he doing this? Did he not have his own life, his own routine, his own choices? Had he not plenty of better things to do rather than sitting around waiting for that demon of a woman to turn up and ‘train him’?

  Albemarle sniffed in disgust in the silence of his drawing room. He could not believe he had agreed to this.

  The look his mother had given him flashed through his mind, and he grinned despite himself. Well, she was a formidable woman. He did not like crossing her if he could help it.

  The damned Ashbrooke woman would be here in ten minutes or so if her protestation at punctuality was correct.

  He had given his word, he reminded himself ruefully as he got up to peer out the window. When an earl, your word was important. He could not go back on it now.

  Unless…

  Unless he simply was not here. An accident, a chance of fate, perhaps, could draw him outside and keep him there until—what, ten o’clock?

  Streams of people moved below, the street teeming with people going on their merry way.

  No, Albemarle thought darkly. Half tempted as he was to leave his rooms and accidentally miss the irritating woman, he would not take that easy way out.

  Besides, Miss Ashbrooke was a little intriguing.

  A smile grazed his face as he watched the world go by. His life had not been devoid of strong women, and he was the product of one, after all, and the Greek countryside seemed full of nothing but determined and fierce womenfolk.

  But most of those fierce women, whether English or Continental, had been twice his age. They were women who had lived and knew what they wanted, and they were not going to wait around any longer for what they desired.

  Miss Ashbrooke was not old. She looked barely five and twenty, despite her serious manner of an older age.

  While her peers were simpering, nodding, agreeing with any gentleman who bothered to even look at them—there was Miss Ashbrooke.

  Fierce. Irritating. Forceful.

  The sound of the doorbell was easily heard by the window, and Albemarle groaned. Ten to nine. She really was punctual.

  Footsteps echoed in the passageway, and it was only at that moment he cried out, “Wait before answering the door, Blenkins!”

  “Too late, I am afraid, my lord,” said Miss Ashbrooke breezily, sweeping into the room and removing her bonnet. “Goodness, what a lovely room. Good morning.”

  Albemarle leaned against the window frame and attempted to glare, but despite the rising sensation of irritation, he could not help but smile as she removed her pelisse.

  Damn Blenkins. He had taken him on from the Earl of Chester, only a footman then. Chester had promised he was a good man, but he needed to be told to listen before opening damn doors.

  What did he think he was doing, smiling?

  Miss Ashbrooke, despite the removal of her pelisse, was still covered up by her gown buttoned to her neck. Dressed like a woman twice her age, she had taken no care with her hair at all. Just pushed and pinned up, without a second thought. No jewels adorned her ears, her neck, or her fingers.

  If he had not known who she was, he would have assumed she was a governess. A housekeeper.

  So why was he grinning?

  Forcing the smile away, he said gruffly, “Miss Ashbrooke.”

  She curtseyed and then stood looking at the sofa pointedly without saying a word.

  Albemarle smiled. She was in his territory now, and that meant he decided how the game was going to be played. His rules.

  Without saying a word, he strode past her and threw himself leisurely onto the sofa—without inviting her to sit down. He looked at her, silently.

  It was a full minute before she coughed slightly—more a clearing of her throat.

  Albemarle could not help but laugh. “Are you so well-mannered, Miss Ashbrooke, that you will not sit down unless you have been invited to?”

  Miss Ashbrooke raised an eyebrow. “Are you so ill-mannered, my lord, that you will allow a woman—and a guest—to stand?”

  It was delightful. If only they could have met in the Assembly Rooms or at a ball. Sparring with Miss Ashbrooke was the most fun he had had since arriving on this damned, damp island.

  What a shame she was attempting to trap him into a marriage he despised.

  “I do not know yet,” he said aloud. “I think I have made it perfectly clear I have no wish to proceed with this ridiculous charade. I have no desire for a wife, and therefore, no need for your services.”

  Any other woman would have scowled at his remarks. Some women would have retorted—a small number would have become emotional and upset.

  Albemarle was intrigued, he had to admit, to discover which Miss Ashbrooke would choose.

  What he did not expect was her to nod. “Yes, I must admit I am gaining little joy from this particular assignment. You forget I am merely a paid subordinate. Your mother has far more influence than I think you care to admit.”

  As he considered her, he saw she was not the disaster he had assumed. To be sure, Miss Ashbrooke rejected modern fads and fashions, but underneath it all, there was prettiness there.

  What his mind had not expected was a vision of what really was underneath. An unconscious smile rose, and he stirred in his seat. If only half his imagination was correct…

  “My lord? You are drooling.”

  Albemarle jumped, his hand rushing to his mouth.

  Miss Ashbrooke almost laughed. “You were a million miles away, my lord, though I must say whoever had your attention, she must have been pretty.”

  He coughed. Allowing his mind to wander was evidently not a clever idea. “You told me you were a paid subordinate, and so, I will treat you like a servant and speak plainly.”

  “Please do,” she said briskly, still standing. “I will endeavor to do likewise, and—”

  Albemarle could not help but laugh. “What, treat me like a servant?”

  Finally, a flush of embarrassment colored her cheeks. “No! No, I meant—I meant speak plainly. Do go on, my lord.”

  There was something delightful about the way she continued to meet his eyes, despite her embarrassment. Here was a woman who would not back down.

  “Well as I said before, I have no wish for a wife,” he said. The sooner this speech finished, the sooner she could leave, and whatever spell Miss Ashbrooke was weaving could be over. “I did this—meet you today, I mean—for my mother’s sake, and for that reason only. You can parade as many ladies up and down before me as you like, but that does not mean I will pick one.”

  What had he expected from this speech? Outrage that he was not interested in matrimony? Concern, perhaps, that he had been hurt before?

  None of these followed. Miss Ashbrooke frowned. “Goodness, my lord, what makes you think—”

  “Constant effort,” he interrupted.

  “What makes you think any of them will want to pick you?”

  Albemarle had never considered his pride much of a problem. He was an earl, and he acted like one, and therefore he was treated like one. It really was very simple—except with Miss Ashbrooke.

  She was starting to remind him of a governess more with each passing moment.

  Trying to ignore the prickle to his pride, his voice still sounded a little gruff as he said, “Well damnit, Miss Ashbrooke, I am an earl! I have money, and I am not as ill-featured as—”

  “Handsome, I would call it,” Miss Ashbrooke interrupted with no sign of embarrassment. “But much to be desired in your manners, I think.”

  If he thought himself irritated before, he was angry now. Much to be desired in your manners?r />
  The cheek of the woman! How dare she come here, ordered by his mother or not, and speak such errant nonsense!

  A small, rebellious part of him gloried in her declaration that he was handsome.

  Flattered? By a matchmaker?

  Was it a coincidence that Miss Ashbrooke looked a little prettier?

  “Damned right,” he said heavily. “Well, sit down, do. Can’t have you floating about the room like a butterfly.”

  With a rustle of skirts, Miss Ashbrooke stepped around the sofa opposite his own and sat down.

  Now she was closer, something strange was happening in his stomach. Had the eggs Cook did this morning been a little odd?

  “I cannot face arguing with you all day,” he said heavily as a horrendous thought struck him. “You—you are not going to be here all day, are you, Miss Ashbrooke?”

  “Goodness, I hope not,” she said calmly. “I—”

  “Because I have many things I wish to do today.”

  “I am not sure I could stand your company all day.”

  Albemarle’s mouth fell open. He could not recall ever being spoken to in that ridiculously rude fashion, not ever!

  Miss Ashbrooke was laughing. “My lord, you will find me honest, brutally so, but only because that is usually what people need. The truth is hard to hear, but ’tis even harder to hear if it is buried under niceties, pleasantries, and downright lies.”

  His mouth was still open, so Albemarle shut it abruptly. He could never have dreamed up such a woman, completely logical, and yet contrary when she wished to be. Teasing him, jesting with him, but from a place of absolute seriousness.

  She was, perhaps, unique.

  “And now, your training,” Miss Ashbrooke said smartly, pulling out her notebook from her reticule. “Genteel conversation, compliments, the growth of a steady temper, reduction of—”

  “Do you think all this is necessary?” Albemarle interrupted.

  Miss Ashbrooke glared as though he was a dog barking at an inopportune moment. “Reduction of interruptions,” she continued, returning to her notebook. “Appropriate conversation topics, appropriate courting behavior, and finally, the proposal.”

  Albemarle sighed and leaned back into the depths of the sofa. This woman was going to be the death of him. Everything she said and did irritated him beyond belief, and he generally considered himself an easygoing sort of man.

  And yet, he could not disagree with her. He did ignore most social conventions around appropriate topics of conversation and never bothered to control his temper nor hide his emotions.

  Why should he? He was the fourteenth Earl of Lenskeyn.

  She lifted her gaze from her notebook, meeting his own, and something happened. Heat flowed through him, his skin tingled, and every part of his body seemed at once desperate for her touch.

  Something was stirring inside him, and he knew exactly what it was. Desire.

  How like him to be so contrary. Just when he needed to concentrate on escaping this foolish training, his body had decided Miss Ashbrooke was far more delightful as a conquest than as a conversationalist.

  So why precisely was Miss Ashbrooke Miss Ashbrooke? She was fierce, fiery, and gave as good as she got. She was easy on the eye, too, if one looked past the fashion more suitable for the 1790s.

  Albemarle found he was smiling again. Christ, he liked her. If she had been a man, they would probably have been friends.

  Forcing down the burgeoning desire, he said, “And which of that terrible list do you suggest we start with?”

  Miss Ashbrooke did not seem to have noticed any of his mixed feelings. She was all business, reviewing her list with a careful eye.

  “Probably a reduction in interruptions,” she said after consideration. “It will make the rest of my training easier to deliver and easier to swallow.”

  Closing her notebook and restoring it to her reticule, she looked at him critically.

  Albemarle shifted uncomfortably. No one looked at him like that. Why was this woman so damned impertinent?

  “Why do you continuously interrupt people, my lord?”

  He blinked. It was not the direction he had expected her to take, and it was a little too deep a question for a quarter past nine in the morning. He usually was not even awake.

  “I was not aware I was—”

  “Did you start doing it as a child?” Miss Ashbrooke spoke clearly, not raising her voice but allowing it to wash over his own.

  Albemarle swallowed. “I think so. You know, I think I did, probably because—”

  “And yet, you continue doing it as an adult,” she said with a slight frown. “Like many other faults which you have brought into your adulthood.”

  The flicker of irritation around his heart was growing. “If you would just let me—”

  “Nasty habit, you know,” said Miss Ashbrooke airily.

  His temper, usually frayed and rarely controlled, snapped. “Let me speak, damnit!”

  The room went silent, but the matchmaker did not look shocked. Instead, despite all his efforts to the contrary, she was smiling.

  “Annoying, is it not?”

  Albemarle was breathing heavily but tried to smile.

  Damn, she was good. Quicker than most men, quicker than his mother. How had she managed, in just sixty seconds, to demonstrate something no other tutor, mentor, or friend had adequately explained to him?

  His fingers had clenched in vexation, but he forced them to relax as his breathing slowed. If he were not careful, he would find that he had plenty to learn from this Miss Ashbrooke.

  His smile was painfully forced. “Yes, very annoying. Thank you, Miss Ashbrooke.”

  She nodded, evidently unconcerned with his fury. “Do not concern yourself overly, my lord. ’Tis a common problem for the titled classes, and one which I am slowly breeding out.”

  Albemarle laughed. “Breeding out?” The nerve of the woman!

  “Why, yes. I only match gentlemen and ladies on my books who have been cured of this ill. They are the ones who breed. Do you see?”

  “God’s teeth, woman, but you are terrifying!” He did not bother to self-censor any longer. This woman had no problem being honest, and so he would pay her the same courtesy. “You think you can change the state of the nobility and gentility of England and Ireland with your…your training?”

  Miss Ashbrooke should have been embarrassed. She should have looked down, colored, and muttered something about her words being but a jest.

  She did none of these things. “You cannot argue with the results, my lord. Scores of couples, and quite literally hundreds of children, all raised by parents who, thanks to me, no longer perennially interrupt those around them. I should be knighted.”

  Albemarle laughed. She was mad! She was marvelous. Talking with her was exhilarating.

  “You were raised to think your opinion far more interesting than everyone else’s,” she said calmly. “It is a fault that can be cured, and easily.”

  He could not help himself. “Really?”

  Miss Ashbrooke nodded. “My lord, I am here to tell you that your opinions are utter rot. They are not more interesting than anyone else’s—and in fact, I would go so far as to say they are not that interesting at all.”

  This was too much. In his rooms, a woman paid by his mother to disparage him, and now tell him all he thought, all he believed, was rot?

  “You go too far, Miss Ashbrooke,” he growled, wanting to get closer to her but fully aware his manhood was doing the thinking. “You have only just met me! You have no comprehension of my opinions.”

  “I am an excellent judge of character, and I make excellent matches,” she replied swiftly, holding his gaze. “In the eyes of the world, sir, I have more proof of my intellect than you do of yours!”

  Albemarle could not permit this to go any further. This was preposterous. This could not be borne. “I have a degree from Cambridge!”

  She did not exactly laugh. No one could call that hastily forced
down snort a laugh, but it made Albemarle’s spirit wilt.

  “Well, yes, your title, you see,” she said apologetically, as though explaining the truth of the world to him for the first time. “A title will get you most things. I suppose you have never had to truly try in your whole life.”

  Albemarle stared at the woman who was rapidly destroying all notions of himself. Not a single person had dared speak to him like that—not since Mr. Lister had spoken damned rudely once at cards.

  His fists had seen off that idiot, but the last thing he would ever do was strike a woman. And Miss Ashbrooke did not deserve that. She spoke calmly, as though stating facts. And her eyes…

  Albemarle could not help but gape. Could she possibly be right? Had he gone through life without trouble because everyone else merely stepped out of his way and ensured he got what he wanted?

  Was his title, his wealth, that gave him the incredibly comfortable life he enjoyed? Did his name and breeding force everyone to stay quiet when he interrupted them?

  Could it be that, actually, he was not good company at all, but merely tolerated?

  At the age of nine and thirty, it was a terrible thing to drastically reconsider everything about oneself. Albemarle did not like it, but he could not reject it out of hand. This would require thinking.

  His gaze refocused. Miss Ashbrooke’s smile had not disappeared, but it was softer now. Kinder.

  “Good,” she said quietly. “You are reevaluating. Everyone must do it at some point, and I would say nearly forty is quite old enough.”

  Never before had Albemarle felt this vulnerable—and because of a matchmaker! This was intolerable. He could not permit it to continue any longer.

  “Are you old enough?” he snapped, frustration and fear pouring into his tones. “When was the last time you had your opinions reevaluated?”

  Miss Ashbrooke did not blink. “I perform a self-evaluation every—”

  “Oh, well, self-evaluation,” Albemarle said with a smile, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. He would take back control of this conversation if it were the last thing he did. “A self-evaluation is easy. ’Tis when other people evaluate you that it gets complicated, and if you ask me, you are a conniving, interfering woman who only makes matches because she cannot get a husband for herself.”