The Matchmaker

by Kay Hooper

  Julia sent her a puzzled glance, but before she could say anything Lissa was going on.

  “His servants are wonderful, aren’t they? Sarah went to one of the shops last night to get those nightgowns for us—I think Cyrus knows the shopkeeper, because he opened up after hours just so Sarah could get the nightgowns—and she and another of the girls got a complete list from me this morning before they went out shopping for us. Cyrus didn’t think you’d feel much like going out, so he asked me to tell them what colors you preferred so they could get what we needed for now—”

  “Wait.” They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Julia kept a hand on the newel post as she stood looking at her sister. She felt a little dizzy. “He’s buying clothes for us?”

  Lissa looked as if she’d had a feeling this wasn’t going to be easy, but her voice was matter-of-fact. “Our clothes went up in smoke, remember?”

  “But he shouldn’t. It isn’t right.”

  “Mrs. Stanton thinks it is,” Lissa said firmly.

  Julia felt even more dizzy. “Felice Stanton? I barely know her. How can you be privy to what she thinks?”

  “She called to see you this morning, and I talked to her.” Lissa eyed her sister for a moment, then said, “Her husband is Cyrus’s best friend. She said she was delighted he’d finally found a woman he could love, and that he’d make you a wonderful husband. Reformed rakes always do, she said. And she agreed with me that after Adrian was so cruel to you, you certainly deserve a wonderful man like Cyrus.”

  “Oh, my Lord,” Julia murmured, almost wishing she was still numb. This turn of events was utterly unnerving.

  Lissa looked a little guilty. “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so talkative, but she was nice. And she didn’t think there was anything at all bad or improper in us being here. She said that sometimes rules had to be broken, because under some circumstances they were idiotic. After all, nobody could doubt you’d been living with a lunatic, not after what Adrian did yesterday. So why should you wear black and refuse to marry anyone else for at least a year? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Lissa, are you busy spiking my guns?” Cyrus asked calmly as he crossed the entrance hall toward them.

  She turned to him with a questioning lift to her brows. “I’m not perfectly sure what that means,” she confessed naïvely.

  His gaze went to Julia’s face, then returned to Lissa’s. “It means a man likes to do his own proposing,” he told her in a wry tone. Before she could do more than look guilty, he added, “The parlor’s filled with packages; don’t you think you should go sort through them while I take Julia to the luncheon waiting for her?”

  “I suppose I’d better,” Lissa murmured.

  As Lissa walked to the parlor, Cyrus tipped Julia’s chin up and kissed her, very slowly and thoroughly. When he finally raised his head, she felt breathless and dizzy.

  “Good morning, love,” he whispered.

  Julia cast about among her scattered thoughts and chose one at random. “I have to flee the country,” she said.

  Undisturbed and apparently unsurprised by the statement, Cyrus took her arm and led her through the house to a small breakfast parlor near the rear. “Where would you like to flee to?” he asked politely. “I’m partial to San Francisco, but since that’s U.S. territory, I suppose you’d rather go somewhere else. London is nice. Or Paris.” He seated her at a cozy table, sat down on her right, and poured two cups of coffee from a silver pot.

  Julia had the strangest impulse to laugh, and chided herself with silent severity. This was not a laughing matter. She felt absolutely appalled that Lissa had talked so freely to Felice Stanton—even if the older woman did seem kind and wasn’t known as a gossip.

  She took a sip of coffee, then looked at Cyrus with wondering eyes. “You talk as if nothing’s happened.”

  “Nothing more terrible than shooting a rabid dog has happened,” Cyrus said with utter calm. “The poor brute’s out of his misery, and everyone around him is out of danger.”

  “I should feel that way, shouldn’t I?”

  “Why?” Cyrus took one of her hands and held it, his black eyes serious as they rested on her face. “Did you have one moment’s peace or pleasure in your marriage?”

  Julia didn’t have to think; she shook her head slowly.

  “Did Drummond ever show you even the barest hint of any sort of kindness, or do anything to make you sorry he’s dead now?”

  Again she shook her head.

  “Then why should you feel anything except relief? Julia, if you plan to live your life as others think you should, you’ll never be happy. Did it make your situation any easier to pretend your marriage was a successful one?”

  “No,” she murmured.

  “Then don’t pretend now. He was a brutal, demented bastard, and the only decent thing he ever did was to die.”

  She looked at Cyrus for a long moment and, slowly, a heavy weight lifted from her shoulders. What did the opinions of others matter? She valued Lissa’s opinion and, she realized, she valued his. What anyone else thought didn’t seem very important any longer.

  “Would you really flee to Paris with me?” She smiled.

  “Just say the word, and I’ll book passage on the next ship, love.” He was smiling as well, his velvety eyes warm.

  Julia was tempted. At the very least, Adrian’s death would be a nine-day wonder, with curiosity and speculation running rampant; removing herself, for a while at least, would be the most painless solution. But as she looked at Cyrus, she realized she didn’t want to run and hide—because of him. If she ran, it would be as good as proclaiming she was ashamed of her relationship with him because there was something wrong with it, and she couldn’t feel that way no matter her upbringing.

  Drawing a deep breath, her fingers tightening in his without her knowledge, she said, “Perhaps we can see Paris someday. I’d like that. But for now…”

  He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Good. Spring is the best time to travel anyway. Besides, we have a house going up outside the city, and you’re going to be very busy in the next few weeks choosing paint, wallpaper, and rugs, among other things.”

  “I am? But—” She broke off, staring at him.

  He looked at her gravely for a moment, then said quietly, “I know you haven’t had time to think, sweetheart, and I know I said I wouldn’t press you. But I’ve never felt more strongly about anything in my life. We belong together. Take a chance on me, please. Marry me.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I do. I know the idea of another marriage terrifies you. I know you’ve been hurt so much you can’t imagine not being hurt again. I know you dare not trust me, even though you want to. And I know I’m asking you to have more courage than you think you possess.”

  He did understand. She felt she was lost somewhere in those intense, beautiful black eyes, caught and held by a gentle grip she didn’t want to fight. Everything in her, every thought, instinct, and muted emotion felt the pull of him so strongly, it was actually painful to resist. A dull ache swelled inside her, growing moment by moment as she remembered the astonishing pleasure she’d found in his arms, his passion and gentleness, his care of her.

  “I love you, Julia. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” she said breathily, and the dull ache inside her immediately faded, replaced by a growing warmth. She was still frightened, still acutely aware of the risk she was taking, but her deep and certain understanding that she already belonged to him was too powerful to fight or deny.

  “Thank you,” Cyrus said huskily, kissing her hand again. “You won’t regret it, I swear.”

  A little bemused, she shook her head. “You have the most unfair eyes,” she murmured.

  He grinned suddenly, the first time she’d ever seen him do so, and his lean, handsome face revealed such delight, she couldn’t help smiling back at him.

  “Tate always said I was sired by a warlock;
maybe he was right. I’ve known for weeks it would take some kind of magic to win you, love.” He laughed softly, then released her hand and said, “If you don’t eat, Mrs. Stork will scold both of us.”

  Mildly surprised, Julia looked at her steaming coffee and the covered dishes that were no doubt still warm. It had been another of those interludes that had seemed to stop time, she realized, as if everything around them had waited patiently for Cyrus and her to come to an understanding. She thought it was peculiar. Very peculiar.

  She unfolded her napkin across her lap and sent him a slightly shy look. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “You have to eat to keep up your strength,” he said solemnly, a gentle laugh in his eyes. “You’re going to need it.”

  “Why?” she asked warily.

  “Because,” he said, sitting back and lifting his coffee cup in a toast, “I’m about to try to persuade you to marry me next week.”

  —

  All during the remainder of the day Julia had the strangest feeling she was being gently but inexorably carried along by forces determined to shape her life. Cyrus was only the beginning, very reasonably arguing against her scruples until her own arguments seemed weak and uncertain. He never once scoffed at her principles or belittled them in any way, he merely maintained that since her marriage had been a travesty and her husband a brutal lunatic, she owed no respect or consideration to either.

  It was difficult for her to disagree on those grounds, but she tried because she was frightened. Society’s condemnation was only a small worry, and one she had already decided wasn’t as important as she’d believed; marriage itself was what terrified her, and though she’d agreed to marry him, she badly needed time to get used to the idea. He knew that, she thought, but remained gently insistent she marry him as soon as possible. He didn’t demand an immediate answer, but at various times all day he continued to try to persuade her.

  She was kept too busy to pay much attention to the frequent rattle of the door knocker as the butler turned away newspapermen and other curious visitors throughout the day. Packages continued to arrive full of beautiful clothing for her and Lissa. No matter how strongly she protested to Cyrus that he shouldn’t be buying clothing for them, he just laughed and kissed her.

  He kissed her often. He touched her a great deal as well, touches that were casual and yet curiously intimate in their manner. He couldn’t seem to be near her without taking her hand, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, or putting an arm around her—and quite clearly didn’t care who happened to be present to witness his actions.

  Julia was a little stiff at first, but it didn’t last long. She couldn’t help feeling warmed by his affection and tentatively reassured by it. She even stopped blushing whenever Lissa, Mr. or Mrs. Stork, or one of the other servants happened to observe a kiss or embrace.

  She couldn’t quite bring herself to feel the unshadowed enjoyment Lissa obviously found in trying on new clothes, but she didn’t try to curb her sister’s cheerfulness. She tried on a few things herself when Cyrus went out after their late lunch, choosing that particular moment only because Lissa insisted she should and because Julia wanted to spend a little time alone with her sister in her—and Cyrus’s—bedroom so they could talk.

  The master suite itself was a little changed since morning, a fact that surprised Julia and gave her food for thought. She didn’t know the extent of Cyrus’s participation in making the arrangements, but a second wardrobe had been brought into the bedroom for her clothing, and a dressing table complete with satin-cushioned boudoir chair now occupied a prominent place in the dressing room. There was also a set of silver-backed brushes obviously for her, as well as a selection of perfumes and bath salts. Fresh flowers in delicate crystal vases graced the table by the window and her dressing table.

  Julia realized only then that Cyrus had been unobtrusively busy all day making her transition into his home as smooth and comfortable as possible for her. He had made certain she wasn’t disturbed by the shocked and curious world outside the house, and had kept her attention occupied with her sister and the activities of sorting through boxes and packages while he had dealt with other practical matters. She thought he had talked to the police again, as well as Adrian’s—and his—attorney, but she wasn’t sure.

  In any case, it was obvious he had assumed responsibility for her and Lissa’s welfare as well as making certain both felt entirely comfortable and welcome in his home.

  “Oh, Julia, look at this! Isn’t it beautiful?” Lissa had opened one of the boxes on the bed, and held up a stunning emerald green evening gown.

  “Lovely,” Julia agreed, hanging in the wardrobe the golden gown she’d just taken off. She was careful not to turn her back to Lissa except when buttons had to be fastened, and even then took pains to show as little of herself as possible; the scars were faint, she knew, especially on her upper back, but she didn’t want Lissa to notice them.

  “Sarah and Cathy have wonderful taste,” Lissa said, holding the gown up to herself as she stood before the dressing mirror in the corner and studied the effect. “And since Cathy’s a redhead like us, she knows what colors just won’t do.”

  “Nothing black,” Julia said almost to herself, suddenly realizing this as she gazed at the colorful garments hanging in the wardrobe and tumbled on the bed.

  Lissa turned from the mirror, her expression more serious than it had been all afternoon. “I told Cyrus I wouldn’t wear black for Adrian, and he said he didn’t want to see you do so either. So I told the girls not to buy anything black, not even a skirt.”

  Julia sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her sister gravely. “Something else for people to talk about,” she murmured.

  After a moment Lissa hung the emerald gown in the wardrobe and then returned to sit on the bed across from her sister. Her pretty young face was still sober. “Is that so important, Julia? I mean, I know it’s supposed to be, but is it? All those people who look and talk don’t know anything. They can’t. They didn’t live with Adrian. They didn’t see the life bleeding out of you because of him. They didn’t see you stay in bed for a whole day, so white and silent.”

  “Lissa—”

  “You think I haven’t noticed, since we’ve been in here, that you don’t want me to see your back? I—” Tears glittered in Lissa’s eyes, and her voice broke for a moment with an anguished sound. Then she was going on fiercely, “I hate myself for not realizing, for being fooled by him just like everyone else was! He hurt you so badly, and I didn’t know. You should have told me, Julia—you must have been terrified, and hurt so often—you should have told me—”

  Julia quickly went around the bed and sat down beside her weeping sister, putting her arms around Lissa gently. “I didn’t want you to know, honey,” she soothed. “There was nothing you could have done. It’s all right.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Lissa said huskily, dashing a hand across her eyes as she tried to get control of herself. “I should have known, but I was blind and I didn’t see what he was.”

  “No one saw,” Julia murmured.

  “Except you.” Lissa looked at her, the wet green eyes filled with an implacable loathing. “I’m glad he’s dead. I hope he suffered the way he made you suffer.”

  “Lissa—”

  “I mean it, Julia. I won’t even pretend to grieve for him. I won’t wear black, I won’t go to his funeral, and if anyone offers their sympathies to me, I’ll tell them I hope he’s burning in hell!”

  Chapter 10

  It occurred to Julia dimly as she looked into her sister’s hate-filled eyes that she herself hadn’t been able to release the wild anger and bitter loathing trapped inside her because she hadn’t even allowed herself to feel those emotions. Adrian had made her so aware of shame and humiliation, had branded them so deeply into her soul, she hadn’t been able to blame him for the pain he had inflicted on her.

  It was the worst thing he had done to her, and she realized it only then.
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  She drew a slow, deep breath, and her voice was both surprised and softly angry when she said, “You’re right, Lissa. I’ve done nothing wrong. It was he. He was an animal; that’s still the truth even though he’s dead. I hate him for what he did to me, and I won’t lie about that. I won’t pretend. Not for one more moment.”

  Lissa hugged her tightly. “And don’t let it be a secret you’re afraid to talk about. If nobody talks about such horrible things, how will decent people ever know that men like Adrian exist and have to be stopped?” She pulled back a little and stared at her sister intently.

  Julia felt a twinge of mortification at the idea of her bedroom door being flung open to the public—or any small part of it—but fought the emotion as hard as she could. “I did nothing wrong,” she whispered vehemently, struggling to convince herself. “I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Lissa agreed flatly. “Julia, if the people we know want to go on being blind to uncomfortable truths, let them. But don’t help them. Don’t make it easy for them to cling to their stupid, sacrosanct rules as if pain and suffering don’t matter as long as they’re kept behind closed doors.”

  Somewhat to her surprise, Julia heard a shaken laugh escape her. “I had no idea you could be so articulate.”

  Lissa looked startled, then rather proud. “Neither did I. But ever since we talked—gosh, was it only yesterday?—about how the laws are so hideously unfair to women, I’ve been thinking about it. Something has to be done!”

  “Maybe you’ll be the one to do it,” Julia murmured, realizing she had underestimated her sister’s intelligence. “But for now, why don’t you finish trying on your things while I put the rest of mine away?”

  “All right.” Lissa got up, then paused and looked almost pleadingly down at her. “Cyrus loves you, Julia, and that’s as real as anything you can touch. He’s…he’s a very special man, I think. He could make you so happy. Don’t run from the life he could give you because you don’t think you deserve it.”