A Matchmaker's Match

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Psyche frowned. “Not here.” So, even Miss Linden wished for a husband. Too bad, with a mother like hers she certainly had little chance of getting married. Poor thing. Pity stirred in Psyche’s heart. She knew what it was like to have the wrong kind of mama. Being Lady Linden’s daughter must be far from pleasant.

  “Things of a romantic nature,” Psyche explained, “usually occur in the suit of hearts.” She reached for the cards in the middle. “Perhaps one of these will indicate—” She turned it over.

  “A heart,” Miss Linden crowed. “The four!”

  “Which indicates the marriage of a close relative.”

  Miss Linden’s face fell. It was clear she wished for a marriage somewhat closer, like her own.

  Psyche turned over another card.

  “The king!” Miss Linden cried, clapping her hands. “Is that good?”

  Psyche nodded. “Very good. A blond man secretly admires you.”

  Miss Linden’s sallow face took on a rosy cast. “A blond man,” she breathed. “One more card. I do hope it’s a good one.”

  Psyche turned it over. “The five of hearts. You will take a long trip.”

  Miss Linden looked disappointed. Poor girl, Psyche thought, surprised by another surge of pity. “You will take this trip alone,” she continued, somewhat to her amazement extemporizing for the girl’s benefit. “Except, of course, for your maid. And on this trip you will meet a wonderful, wonderful man.”

  There! Psyche told herself. That should give Miss Linden something worthwhile to think about. And Lady Linden, too!

  Looking stunned, Miss Linden remained in her chair. “A trip,” she mumbled. “A wonderful man.”

  Aunt Anna bustled up, like some gigantic mauve tent bedecked with ruffles. “Come, my dear,” she said gently, pulling Miss Linden to her feet and leading her aside. “Psyche has many futures to read yet. Now who wants to be next?”

  “I do,” cried Georgie, from her place across the circle. Smiling at Gresham and the others, she bounced over to sit at the little table.

  As Psyche shuffled the cards and dealt them out, Georgie grinned. “So, Psyche, do you read good things in my future?”

  Psyche smiled. In spite of Georgie’s flirtatious attentions to the earl, they were still friends. Georgie couldn’t help her nature. “Indeed, I do.” It was easy to predict Georgie’s good fortune, even without the cards. Georgie was the kind who always landed on her feet.

  The first card up was the ace of hearts. “Lifelong happiness with the one you love,” Psyche said. “What more could you ask for?”

  “Nothing,” Georgie returned with a seductive smile at the earl. “Nothing at all.”

  Psyche stifled a sigh. That was Georgie, always flirting. But must she do it with the earl? Did she have to want him, too?

  She must stop this kind of thinking, Psyche told herself harshly. If the earl decided to marry, he--and he alone--would decide who the lady was to be. And no one and nothing could change that.

  When the reading of her cards was finished, Georgie tripped back to her seat. Beaming, she stopped to speak to Gresham, laying a familiar hand on his shoulder. “You’re next.”

  Gresham sauntered across the room, flirting shamelessly with Psyche, and ogling her up and down. The earl straightened in his chair. If he hadn’t known the man was besotted with Georgie, he might have really bristled. As it was, he still felt a sense of disquiet. Lady Bluestocking was his, even if she didn’t know it yet. He didn’t want other men flattering her, even in fun.

  Leaning forward, Gresham eyed Psyche. “Do you see yourself in my future, oh beautiful one?”

  Psyche chuckled and raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid not, milord. But your future looks bright.” She touched the ace of clubs. “This denotes great success socially.” She smiled. “Of course that’s no surprise—a man with-your silver tongue should have no problems.”

  Gresham preened a little, and ran a hand through his reddish hair.

  The earl forced himself to relax. Gresham was mad about Georgie. He was no threat.

  “Do go on,” Gresham said.

  “The ace of diamonds. You will achieve wealth by hard and honest work.”

  Both Gresham’s eyebrows shot up. “Work! Me? Impossible!” He put a hand over his extravagantly brocaded waistcoat, clutching dramatically at his heart. “I assure you I have never worked a day in my life!”

  Psyche laughed with the rest of them, the earl saw. But that light wasn’t shining in her eyes, the light that shone there when she looked at him. “Then perhaps,” she said, “your wealth will come from someone else’s hard and honest work.”

  Gresham chuckled, his round face jovial, his eyes merry. “That’s more like it. I am always willing to profit from someone else’s labor.”

  Chapter Seven

  One by one. Psyche read their fortunes—all but Lady Linden’s and the earl’s. Lady Linden pleaded a headache and went early up to bed, dragging her still dazed daughter after her. The others gradually drifted away, leaving the earl and Psyche alone in that part of the room.

  She gazed at him speculatively. “How is this? I thought you wished to have your fortune told, but you did not take your turn with the others.”

  He hitched his chair closer and took her hand. That was highly improper, of course. She sought to withdraw her fingers from his grasp, but he didn’t allow it. “Wait,” he said, holding them more tightly still. “I wish to tell your fortune.”

  “The cards are on the table,” she replied, a little stiffly because actually she did not want to withdraw her hand at all. It felt quite natural in his, as though it belonged there. “You must shuffle them first, though.”

  He shook his head, his dark eyes gleaming. “No, Psyche, not with the cards. I mean to read your palm,”

  A shiver sped down her spine, whether from the way he spoke her name or from the way he was holding her hand she couldn’t be sure. “I didn’t know— How did you learn to read palms?”

  He smiled at her. “When I was a boy, the Gypsies camped on our summer estate. I used to watch them read my mother’s hand. And those of the servants. It was great fun.”

  She tried to protest, tried to pull her hand away. “But that doesn’t mean--”

  “I know enough,” he said softly, turning her palm over. He traced a line down it with his warm forefinger. Another shiver afflicted her. This was ridiculous. She was no schoolroom chit to be thrown into the vapors by the touch of a man’s finger!

  “This, this is your lifeline,” he went on in that deep voice of his. “It shows your life will be long.” He leaned closer still and a certain giddiness overtook her, a longing to topple into his arms.

  Be sensible, she told herself. He’s merely playing with you, doing what he does best. But oh, if only he weren’t playing, if only he were serious.

  The earl tried to remain calm. He had reached her. She had that look in her eyes, that look that he knew preceded surrender. But this was no game of flirtation he was playing. This was the most serious thing in his life. She held his future in her hand, all right, but not in any lines. And it was still too soon. He dared not ask her yet.

  He hitched his chair a little closer. “And this is your love line. It’s very strong. I see marriage, one marriage, to a man you love.” If only he could tell her he was the man. How much longer could he bear to wait? But he must not make the attempt too early.

  Psyche threw him a hard look, and pulled her hand away. “Enough foolishness,” she cried. “I am too fatigued for this.”

  Across the room, Aunt Anna looked up. “You should be abed,” she cried, bustling over. “I’m sorry, my dear, I have been remiss keeping you up so late after your injury.”

  Perversely, now that she had an excuse to leave the others, Psyche found that she didn’t want to do it.”I--”

  “Psyche has not yet read the cards for me,” the earl told Aunt Anna, his eyes full of laughter. “Surely you would not deprive me of that pleasure?”


  Aunt Anna giggled. The earl had that effect on women, Psyche thought with some bitterness. No matter their age—or size—he made them act like green girls just out of the schoolroom.

  “Very well,” Aunt Anna said. “But then Psyche really must go up to her room. We can’t have her taking ill, you know.”

  The earl nodded. “Word of honor.”

  When Aunt Anna seemed disposed to linger, he turned his charming smile on her again. “I have waited till last,” he said softly, “because I wish for a private reading. You do understand?”

  Aunt Anna blushed rosy red. “Of course, of course.” And she bustled off.

  “Aunt Anna may understand,” Psyche said crisply when her aunt was out of earshot. “But I do not. First you wish your fortune told, then you don’t, then you do again.”

  He smiled at her, that smile that made her bones want to melt into nothing. “May a man not change his mind as easily as a woman?”

  Psyche frowned. “I suppose a man may do anything he chooses.”

  A faint hint of color rose to the earl’s cheeks and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Ah, so you dislike the way men run the world.”

  “I do, indeed!” Psyche leaped into battle. “Men have made a royal mess of things. Why, look at that Frenchman Bonaparte, attacking us, thinking he can conquer England.”

  “And how would you have things run?” the earl inquired dryly.

  Psyche shook back her curls. “By a woman,” she declared. “A woman like good Queen Bess. After all, in her time we stopped the Spanish Armada.”

  The earl smiled. “You’re right, of course. But come.” He picked up the cards and pushed them into her hands. “Shuffle, please. I am eagerly awaiting word of my future.”

  Psyche took the cards reluctantly. She didn’t know why her hands wanted to tremble. Reading the cards was a trick, an illusion, a ruse. She knew that. So did he.

  She shuffled the cards again and began to lay them out. The earl chuckled. “The five of hearts. Shall I take a long trip, alone of course, and meet a wonderful woman?”

  “I think not,” Psyche said, refusing to smile. “You have already made a long trip to get here.”

  “I see.” He beamed at her across the little table. Why must he be such a wonderful-looking man? A man who made her feel alive and happy. A man she would like to spend forever— Enough, she told herself sharply. It was foolish to dream of such impossibilities.

  She turned up the six of spades. “Your temper will get you in trouble unless you are careful.”

  “My temper,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “My temper is one of the evenest. Now your temper—”

  She refused to be baited. She refused to smile, too. He was only playing with her, sharpening his drawing-room skills on her. And only because she was Lady Bluestocking, and her poor opinion of men—and marriage—was so well known. If he ever suspected her real feelings, that at this very moment she longed to be in his arms . . .

  She turned up another card. “Six of hearts. Someone will do you a personal favor for which you must take care to express your appreciation.”

  He grinned brashly. “Are you quite certain this is my fortune you are telling?”

  “Quite certain,” she repeated, unable to meet his eyes. She was suddenly aware that she was being churlish. No doubt, as Overton had pointed out, the earl treated all women with this friendly raillery. Perhaps she had been too long in the country. It was foolish of her to take his actions so personally.

  She forced herself to smile while she reported on the rest of the cards and the earl accepted their interpretations in silence.

  Then Psyche reached for the first of the turned-down cards. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should stop now, leave well enough alone.”

  “Oh no!” She forced her voice to gaiety. “You must have your whole fortune read.” She turned over the first card. “The ace of hearts.”

  “The same fortune as Georgie’s,” the earl murmured, glancing to where she was flirting with Gresham.

  “Yes.” Somehow Psyche managed a smile, managed to get the words out. “Lifelong happiness with the one you love.” Fortune-telling was a ridiculous business. Just because his fortune was the same as Georgie’s— Just because Georgie looked at him that way— She turned over another card.

  “Three of hearts. A situation will soon arise in which you will have to choose between sentiment and business.”

  When he didn’t comment on that, she reached for the last card. “Queen of hearts. A blond woman secretly admires you.”

  She was watching his eyes, his dark, expressive eyes. They didn’t move away from hers, didn’t seek Amanda’s blond, youthful beauty across the room. Or Georgie’s more sophisticated allure. But the corner of-his mouth twitched and he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  Silently Psyche gathered the cards and returned them to him. “I find I am very tired,” she said. “Will you ask Overton to send a footman to help me up to bed?”

  “No, I will not.” His gaze didn’t leave hers. “You see I rather like the job. And I do not intend to give it up.”

  She was too tired to continue this game. “You will give Overton apoplexy if you continue to carry me about. To say nothing of what the Lindens will make of it.”

  He shrugged. “I have already carried you—to the horse, to the library, up to your room, down to the library, in to dinner, back from dinner— How can one more carrying do any harm? Besides, the Lindens have already retired to their rooms.”

  Psyche sighed. There was a certain perverted sense to his logic. Besides, perhaps being once more in his arms she could dispel these foolish girlish notions and remember that she was a mature woman who had promised to help Amanda Caldecott get the husband she wanted. “Very well.”-

  So, once more the earl gathered Psyche in his arms. He congratulated himself on his good fortune. He should thank his lucky stars for that mishap she’d had with the building stone. He would never have gotten this close to her otherwise, his prickly Lady Bluestocking.

  She fit so perfectly in his arms, his delightful Psyche, his acerbic Psyche. As perfectly as she fit in his heart. And he would make her love him. He must. Because now that he had spent time with her, he was more convinced than ever. He loved her. He wanted to make her his wife.

  He waited while she made her good nights, then moved toward the stairs, carrying his precious burden. The surgeon had assured him that her ankle was only twisted and that keeping off it would effect a cure. He didn’t want her to be incapacitated, of course, but he would dearly love the chance to carry her longer.

  Her head rested against his shoulder, her scent teased his nostrils. Had she been any other woman he would have succumbed to the temptation and kissed her, right there in the upstairs hall. But this was Lady Bluestocking—and he did not dare. Not yet.

  He suspected, indeed, he was almost positive, that her intense dislike of men and marriage had been a facade, erected to protect herself from the sort of suitors that her mother had pressed on her. Poor darling, to be so hard put to keep from marrying.

  And yet how fortunate for him. If one of them had succeeded, Psyche would be forever beyond his reach. Instead she was there, so temptingly there, in his arms.

  Chapter Eight

  Psyche woke to morning sunlight streaming into her room. She sighed and stretched. She had not spent a restful night. Indeed, with so much tossing and turning it was a wonder she hadn’t injured herself even further.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the night before, remembering the earl. After she’d made her good nights to the other guests, enduring Georgie’s raised eyebrow, Gresham’s knowing grin, and Amanda’s pained frown, the earl had dutifully carried her back up the stairs to her room.

  As she had promised herself she would, she tried very hard to rid herself of the strange feelings that being so near the man incited in her. When he lifted her from the sofa, gathering her again in his arms, she tried very, very hard. But no matter how she tried or how she warned he
rself that this kind of thinking was the most unutterable folly, she still wanted to be there, held in the earl’s arms, cradled against his waistcoat. It was sheer stupidity, but she simply couldn’t help it.

  The earl paused outside her chamber door, waiting till Curtis opened it for him. And Psyche wished that Curtis would, just this once, be remiss in her duties so that the moment might last longer. But alas, Curtis, as conscientious as ever, came at the first call.

  The earl carried Psyche to the bed, putting her gently down on the pink silken coverlet. He bent low, his handsome face only inches from hers. “Do you need anything else?” he asked softly. “If you do, I shall be glad to get it for you.”

  “No, no. You have—been most—kind.” Her tongue wanted to stumble over the simplest words and her heart had leapt up into her throat and was bouncing around there like a mad thing. “Thank you.”

  For another long moment he remained bent over her, his face close to hers, his mouth mere inches away. She felt his breath on her cheek, inhaled the hint of spice and leather. And then, when she thought she couldn’t bear another instant of this exquisite torture, he straightened. “Sleep well, Psyche. Good night.”

  “Good night.” She watched him go, his back so straight, his figure so manly, his stride so determined. And she sighed. Like the greenest schoolroom chit, she sighed.

  Curtis shut the door after him and scurried back to the bed, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Oh my, milady, he’s a real looker, that earl is. But,” she frowned, pulling off Psyche’s slippers and setting them side by side on the floor, “but I heard tell he’s quite a hand with the ladies. One of them ladies is always thinking she’s going to marry him, but ain’t none of ‘em managed it. And from the looks of him, they won’t.” She straightened, hands on hips. “That’s a man what’ll choose his own woman. And have his pick of ‘em, too.”

  Psyche finally found her tongue. “Curtis,” she said crisply, “we won’t discuss my cousin’s guests.”