“When I heard the plans for their honeymoon, I thought—”
“Very crowded, isn’t it?” Albemarle interrupted. It was time to take control of this boring conversation.
Miss Lymington blinked, evidently thrown by the change in topic. “Crowded?”
He nodded as he grabbed at a glass of wine carried by a passing footman. “Yes, crowded. Many people here at the ball who you know?”
“Not especially, no,” Miss Lymington said warily. “I mean, ’tis hardly Almack’s. One cannot expect the best people to attend a ball like this, even a private one.”
Albemarle hid his smile in his glass. He was not sure whether Braedon, who had put a good deal of work into ensuring his ball was one of the best in the Season, would take too kindly to Miss Lymington’s words.
“I am so new to society, I hardly know one face from the other,” he said, treating Miss Lymington to a rare smile, which made her simper. “Is there anyone from Lady Romeril’s card party here, for instance? We had such a lovely time, did we not?”
Another simper from Miss Lymington and she shifted to be closer to him.
Really, it was all too predictable, thought Albemarle dryly. Poor Miss Lymington. With all her thirty thousand pounds, one would think she would try for a duke, like her twin sister, but she seemed perfectly happy to attempt for him.
It was tiresome. She was tiresome, bless her. Any other year, he would have been intrigued by her beauty and wealth enough to entertain the thought of a dalliance, but now…
“—obviously will be here, as ’tis his ball!” Miss Lymington laughed coquettishly. “And Miss Darby is somewhere around here. I am sure I saw her earlier.”
“And Miss Ashbrooke?” He had spoken as lightly as possible.
Miss Lymington snorted. “Well, I suppose she could be here, but I never take much notice of servants. Who knows what they get up to?”
The boredom and mild entertainment Albemarle had felt conversing with Miss Lymington evaporated, leaving only a spike of irritation.
Theodosia, a servant? It was wildly inaccurate—worse, it was offensive. Theodosia was a goddess in her own right. He had never known an obsession like this before, and his thoughts were inextricably drawn to her over and over again.
Each time he thought he had stopped thinking about her, he realized he was then congratulating himself, silently, for not remembering the softness of her hands, the arch of her eyebrows, that cutting way she looked at him that made him feel…
He swallowed. If he was not careful, he was going to find himself hard, right here at Braedon’s damn ball, talking to Miss Lymington! That would certainly convince her of his interest.
As Miss Lymington continued to pout, talking of her gown intended for her sister’s nuptials, the memory of that wild proposal in the gardens sparked in his mind.
What had possessed him to propose, for God’s sake! Just two weeks ago, he had been protesting to his mother, quite ardently, that he had no desire to marry at all.
Now he had proposed marriage, in complete seriousness—and the bedeviled woman dared to reject him.
It was nonsense. It was a sharp kick to his ego and no mistake. And all it did was set his body alight for Miss Theodosia Ashbrooke all the more.
“I am sure I can procure an invitation for you.”
“What?” Albemarle blinked. Invitation? What in God’s name for?
“Why, for my sister’s wedding, your lordship,” Miss Lymington said with a smile. “I do not know if you are acquainted with His Grace—a rather rough and uncouth fellow if you ask me, but my sister…”
Albemarle tried to pay attention; he really did. But the room was warm, his drink was intoxicating, and Miss Lymington was not. Why did she drivel on and on about her sister’s wedding?
He had already found his perfect match. If only Theodosia could see it. If only she could see how obvious it was, how they were made for each other. Her sharp prickles rounding off his edges perfectly.
“I thought Miss Ashbrooke would be here by now,” he said, interrupting a tirade from Miss Lymington about the guest list.
For the first time in their conversation, she frowned. “Miss Ashbrooke, again? If you are so interested in her, why are you talking to me? Ah, I can see Lady Romeril. Do excuse me.”
Taking only a moment to curtsey, Miss Lymington strode away in what Albemarle could only describe as a huff. She curtseyed to the older woman and started talking in a hurried, low voice. The two ladies, one young, one approaching seventy, turned to look at him. Both scowled.
Albemarle bowed low with much twirling of his hands and a broad smile, and guffawed as they turned away.
Well, he was unlikely to receive a good report from either of them, and Lady Romeril was one of the key voucher holders for Almack’s. He could wave admission to that hallowed ground goodbye.
Like he cared. He had never gone out of his way to earn the good opinion of others. One did not have to when one was an earl, and an errant earl who spent most of his time abroad cared even less.
It had ceased to be meaningful the moment he had said those words to Theodosia in the garden.
“Marry me, Theodosia.”
“B-But I-I…I am a matchmaker, not a countess!”
Albemarle placed the now empty wine glass onto a table and sighed heavily. No, he was not here to impress everyone. He was not here to impress anyone.
It was Theodosia he knew he had to convince, and she—
She had just walked into the room, and his heart swelled, pouring affection through his veins and making his legs feel weak.
She was beautiful. Not dressed to impress, she would leave that to the ladies in that damned notebook of hers. No, Theodosia dressed with elegance, restraint, and good taste.
Far more alluring.
Albemarle tried to take a step toward her and realized his cursed legs would not work.
How did a mere matchmaker have this perturbing effect on him? But then, Theodosia was no mere matchmaker. Mere matchmaker? She was something entirely different from any woman he had ever encountered.
The Earl of Lenskeyn had been a slave to no one his entire life—but God’s teeth, he would be a slave for her.
Albemarle swallowed as he watched her greet the people around her. Everyone was very polite, to be sure, but they seemed to forget about her almost immediately. She was—what had Miss Lymington called her? A servant?
Bile rot. In mere weeks, he had found himself besotted with her.
Albemarle attempted to attract her attention in the only way he knew how.
“Theodosia!”
He cringed at his mistake. The room went silent, heads turning to stare at both of them.
Really, calling a lady by her Christian name in public, shouting it to boot!
A delicate blush blossomed on her cheeks as the matchmaker strode across the room and stopped before him with an almighty glare.
“Now really, you are too much, you foolish man,” she said, eyes narrowed. “I did not consider proper deportment and accurate social customs for names to be lessons an earl would require! Perhaps I was mistaken!”
She continued to glare as she waited for his response, but Albemarle had to swallow down his delight before he spoke. Christ in his Heaven, but no one was like Theodosia when riled up.
He wanted her. He wanted her writhing underneath him and calling his name. He wanted to taste her, to kiss every inch of her.
But more than that, he wanted this fiery woman by his side for the rest of the years God would permit him.
“You are smiling and not attending,” Theodosia said sternly, keeping her voice low to ensure no one else could hear. “I am surprised at you, your lordship. Have I taught you nothing?”
Albemarle swallowed again. Why did his body react this way, seeing Theodosia furious with him? There was something delightfully perverse about it. No one told an earl what to do—no one ever had. No one had the guts.
No one except her.
&n
bsp; A few curious glances were thrown their way as the matchmaker gave her most prodigious client a good telling off. But there were far more intrigues at a ball than an earl being chastised by a matchmaker.
“See, the entire world is watching.”
Albemarle shivered. Theodosia had stepped closer and now whispered in his ear. The softness of her breath on his neck made him almost melt into his boots.
“The news that an earl is looking for a bride has clearly spread,” Theodosia said delicately, a little laugh in her voice. “Half a matchmaker’s work is done through gossip and tittle-tattle, your lordship, but the rest has to be done by you. Now. Who will you dance with first this evening?”
He knew very much who he would like to dance with. “Who’s to say I have not already danced with someone?”
Theodosia moved away, maintaining the proper etiquette of a ball. “I do. I know you, Albemarle Howard, and I would bet—not my entire savings, but a significant portion, that you have stood here making banal conversation with whoever walked up to you. Am I right?”
He could not help himself. The words spilled out of his mouth before he could catch them. “Dance with me.”
The smile on Theodosia’s face disappeared immediately, but he could see the desire in her eyes.
“Damn your self-control, that restraint forbidding you from enjoying anything in life,” he said in a low voice, his hand finding hers. “I asked you because I want to dance with you. No tricks, no hidden agenda.”
Theodosia was unsure. It did not take a ladies’ man to see she had been hurt. At some point in her past, a brigand had hurt her, and if he ever met that sorry fool, he would—
But this was not the time to throw around threats. This was his chance to show Theodosia some men could be trusted.
He wanted her. He would have her. It was as simple as that.
“Fine,” she said eventually, “but only as a practice. I have not seen you dance before, and you need further instruction.”
“No, as a woman I am courting,” Albemarle said firmly, his fingers interlocking with hers close to his side so that no one could see. “Miss Ashbrooke…Theodosia.”
He could not continue. Her name on his lips overwhelmed him. He needed to regain control of himself. He was a Lenskeyn!
“I am not sure how else to show you I am serious about this suit,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her. “I meant what I said in Sydney Gardens. I want to dance with you, court you, wed you, damn it all. Why are you so obstinate? Isn’t this your bloody job, finding me a bride?”
The curse words fell from his mouth with frustration, but Theodosia did not pull away. “I suppose so, but that bride is not supposed to be me.”
“Where is it written?” he challenged. He would convince her, if it were the last thing he did at this dull ball. “I am determined. You are a far better match for me than any chit of a thing you could find, and I am not about to accept defeat. So.”
Dropping her hand, he held out his arm. She paused for what felt an inordinate amount of time and then took it.
Every inch of Albemarle’s body came alive. Before he knew it, they were standing in the line of dancers, and Theodosia was stepping forward, hands outstretched, to take his own.
Each time they touched, burning pain in his chest radiated across his entire body. The first time it occurred, Albemarle was convinced it was a heart attack. He was aging, yes, but he had not considered himself old.
But then his gaze connected with hers, laughing as she twisted around, weaving in and out of the others in the dance, and a jolt fired in his stomach.
Hell’s bells. Albemarle knew what that meant. He knew love when it twisted his stomach in knots and made him furious at any and every other gentleman for touching her.
Theodosia Ashbrooke. She had found a way into his heart, cheeky, forceful, direct woman that she was. She used none of her feminine wiles, utterly avoided bringing any notice to herself, but as Albemarle turned and brought her into his arms as they paraded down the set, he knew this was where she belonged.
In his arms.
Life would never be the same again—and life would hardly be worth living if it did not have Theodosia in it.
Before he could understand the thoughts and feelings rushing through his mind, before he could enjoy the dance or say something witty—or say anything, any words at all!—it was over. They were bowing and curtseying along with the rest of the set, applauding the musicians for their tune.
Albemarle watched her, laughing, cheeks flushed, speaking with the lady beside her. She was radiant. She was everything he wanted, everything he had not known he had wanted.
Christ alive, he was in trouble now.
“Well, as practice, that was…good.” Theodosia smiled and then laughed as she stepped toward him. “I believe the dance has entirely exhausted you! Go and find some refreshment, your lordship—I was rather late to the ball, so I need to circulate. Ask a lady to dance.”
She had stepped away before Albemarle could find the words to tell her how he felt. He barely understood it himself, except that he would have her.
For the next two excruciating hours, he was forced to watch Theodosia go to work. She was an expert, almost an extension of the dance as she wove in and out of people, speaking to some, encouraging others.
Albemarle could not tear his eyes from her. She made introductions, met new people, and ensured she gained the most critical details from them, found some who were a little lost in the crowd, and made sure they were moved to a lively group.
She was a master—no, a mistress of society. He was drawn to her like a moth to flame. Everywhere she went were the best conversations, the funniest jokes, the most interesting discussions.
She knew everyone or could be introduced to anyone and was the matchmaker for society, evidently, for a reason.
Albemarle marveled and felt jealous of everyone she was with in equal measures. No matter who attempted to draw him into conversation, it was utterly useless. He could hardly string six words together, his attention captured by the woman who protested she had no interest in him.
If he had hoped for a woman who was his equal in intellect, passion, determination, and fire, then he had found her. If only he were clever enough to persuade Theodosia that she was, in truth, his perfect match.
When he saw her mutter something low to a footman and, in turn, receive her pelisse, Albemarle was forced from his stupor.
“You are going?” he said after stepping across the room to her side.
Theodosia smiled wearily. “I am tired, your lordship. My first appointment this morning was before nine o’clock, and it is past midnight now. It all starts again tomorrow, so I must be leaving. Did you make any interesting connections? Speak to any ladies who took your fancy?”
Ignoring the questions entirely, Albemarle said, “You cannot be walking back to your rooms? Here, my carriage is waiting outside, and my horses receive very little exercise. Let them take you home.”
They had stepped outside now, and the chilling midnight air brought a blush to her cheeks. He saw her hesitate. A carriage would be much more comfortable than a walk.
“There is nothing untoward about my offer,” he said in a low voice, attempting to win her around, “especially as you are in my employ.”
Christ and all his disciples, why did he say that? Thrown into agonies of shame, he saw Theodosia’s cheeks pink a little more, but then she nodded.
“’Tis a cold night,” she said formally, “and I would be grateful of your carriage, your lordship.”
Albemarle nodded, barely trusting himself not to say something foolish. Raising his hand in the air, James immediately clicked at the horses, bringing the Lenskeyn carriage around to them. Opening the door, he offered his hand, but she had already clambered in.
He smiled. Of course, Miss Theodosia Ashbrooke does not need assistance.
“Miss Theodosia Ashbrooke,” he murmured to his driver. “Queen’s Square. Take the longes
t route possible.”
Following her into the carriage, he tapped the roof, and it shuddered into motion.
“The longest route possible?” Theodosia smiled. She was seated beside him. “My, my, with anyone else, I would be concerned, your lordship.”
“Perhaps you should be.”
She laughed, pulling off her gloves and placing them in her reticule. “Now then, your lordship, we are alone. You do not have to practice your little patter on me.”
This was it; his chance to show her, not attempt to tell her what was stirring within him.
“Theodosia,” he whispered.
She looked at him, her eyes intrigued and suddenly uncertain.
“There…” Albemarle swallowed. No creative words, just the truth. “There is nothing in the world I want more than you, right now.”
Any lady would be shocked to hear such words, but Theodosia smiled. “I know.”
There was desire in her eyes—Albemarle could not mistake it. She wanted him, and his heart soared as he acted on instinct and instinct alone.
He moved closer, shifting slowly as though she was a fox in the wild, and he was hunting her. She did not move away.
And then she was in his arms, his lips on hers, and it was so heavenly, he almost cried out with the perfection of it. Theodosia was just as eager for him, pulling him closer with her arms around his neck. Albemarle could not think; he could only feel, and what a feeling!
Her lips parted, welcoming him in, and she moaned a little as he teased her tongue with his own, worshipping her. His hands were around her waist, pulling her closer, so she was in his lap in a moment, utterly his, only his, and would be his for the rest of their—
The carriage came to a juddering halt, and they broke apart.
“What the devil is going on?” Albemarle muttered wildly, looking out of the window. “Why have we stopped?”
“We have arrived,” said Theodosia breathlessly.
“Arrived? At your rooms?”
She nodded, shifting so she rubbed against his manhood, and he groaned and buried his face in her neck.
He wanted to go in with her. He wanted her to ask him in, for them to continue their kissing and for it to lead somewhere more. Somewhere with far fewer clothes on.
Always the Matchmaker (Never the Bride Book 8) Page 9