A Very Matchmaker Christmas

by Christi Caldwell

  I don’t have time for this, he thought for the twentieth time this hour.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Around him, came the sound of voices, feminine laughter, the low buzz of conversation, more laughter. People were in jovial spirits with the exception of the naval captain, who was coldly raking Stephen’s friend with a visual broadside meant to sink. Maybe this evening would promise more entertainment than what might have been scheduled by the hostess, Tristan thought wryly.

  “The Marquess and Marchioness of Carlisle.”

  The butler’s voice droned on, and the milling crush in which Tristan was caught took a few steps closer to the great double doors to the dining room. He found himself engaged in idle small talk with Stephen’s friend, the tall, dark-haired fellow the naval captain had now pointedly turned his back on—“believes all that drivel that I’m a pirate, he does … Christopher Chance, glad to make your acquaintance”—and noted the twittering giggles of two young ladies trying to observe him, unnoticed, over their fans. The smell of something delicious was coming from the dining room. He found his attention drifting, even as his stomach sent up a plaintive growl that was drowned beneath the din around him. He was in no hurry to be announced; his bored pose and tamped-down urge to pull out his watch was not pretense, but a helpless reflection of how he felt. There was a slow, nagging pain building at the base of his skull, and he began to crave fresh air.

  Two hours, maybe three. That’s all the time I’ll need to invest in this tedious thing before we get to repair to some library for brandy and cigars. Two meager hours. I can do this.

  For the hundredth time since he’d set out from Norfolk, he wondered why he was here. Surely, it wasn’t just to see Stephen’s new horse, or to make Lady Weston happy by adding to the number of eligible bachelors. It was no secret that he was an eligible bachelor, but Tristan was hard-pressed to name any marriages—aside from the one his sister and her veterinarian-husband, Colin, enjoyed—that yielded happiness, mutual contentment, and an abiding, enduring, ever-growing love.

  You put so much into the estate, your inheritance, the Norfolk Thoroughbreds. Don’t you owe it to them to take a wife? To fulfill the requirement you owe that inheritance?

  Maybe, in some way even he could not acknowledge, he’d come here hoping to find a wife … even though he did not want a marriage based on necessity, practicality and the continuation of a family line, as so many ton marriages were. He did not want to pick out a wife the same way he would select new bloodstock for his farm; checking the teeth, assessing the physical beauty, determining intelligence and in the case of a prospective mate, her suitability for running his household. Most of the twittering bird-brains to whom he’d been introduced since he’d inherited the title had him bored within ten minutes, in almost physical pain after twenty, and he could not imagine spending his life shackled to such a person.

  No, when he married, it would be to a woman who shared his passions, his interests, and whose strengths and weaknesses complemented his own.

  He wanted a marriage like Ari had with her beloved Colin.

  Damn, damn, damn about that little lad who’d turned out to be an elusive female. He’d give his eyeteeth—hell, he’d even give Amir—to find out who she was. She was unique, spirited, intriguing, and she’d made him laugh. She loved horses. In his very bones, he knew that they would have had a lot of fun together, that life with one such as her would never get old, or dull, or unhappy….

  “The Earl and Countess of Portland, Viscount Munthorpe, and Lady Winifred Grisham.”

  The press moved closer to the door. Discreetly, he pulled out his watch and was just glancing at its face when again he heard feminine laughter coming from one of a group of young ladies about to enter the dining room. He looked up to peruse its source just as its owner, seemingly partnered with Captain Cold Eyes and chaperoned by an attractive woman of middle years, turned to look over her shoulder at the people milling behind her….

  Tristan dropped the watch.

  Their gazes collided across fifteen feet of space, past a half-dozen hungry guests waiting to be announced, and held.

  Breeches and a cap hiding glorious honey-brown hair … pert, lively sea-blue eyes, a full and impish mouth, and memories of a kiss that had not left him since she’d fled the stable in distant Norfolk….

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  But by the shocked, wide-eyed look in her eyes and the stunned “o” to her mouth, he knew that it was.

  “Viscountess Penmore, Captain Simon Ponsonby, and the Honourable Miss Letitia Ponsonby.”

  Letitia.

  Ledyard

  Lettie.

  And then she, still staring wide-eyed at him, was pulled through and out of their shared and momentary trance and into the dining room, leaving him feeling as though he’d just been kicked in the chest, his heart fighting to regain its beat, his lungs to reclaim their air.

  His pulse grew loud. Louder. So loud that he no longer heard the small crowd around him, the laughter from within and without, the chime of a clock somewhere off to his right. He retrieved his watch. His head buzzed with delighted shock and he suddenly forgot that he was bored, that he was lonely, that he had no time to be here and that this was the last place in the world that he wanted to be.

  In that moment, it became the only place in the world that he wanted to be.

  He became downright impatient to get into that room, to be near her, to make his claim on her from the naval captain … what had they said his name was? Did it matter?

  Lady Letitia Ponsonby.

  That was the only name that mattered.

  “The Earl of Weybourne.”

  The butler’s announcement shook him from his racing thoughts, kicked up his heartbeat even more, made a flutter of anticipation dry the back of his throat. He wiped suddenly damp palms on his coattails, made an unnecessary adjustment to his stock and walked boldly into the room.

  No.

  Yes.

  He was being directed to the empty seat beside her, the seating arrangement male, female, male, female….

  Oh, yes.

  He took his seat, leaned back as a footman splashed sparkling wine into his glass, and looked at the young woman beside him.

  “The Honourable Miss Letitia Ponsonby, eh?” he murmured, with a slow, warm smile meant to disarm. By the sudden flush that started at the base of her throat and spread upward to the roots of her hair, he knew he’d been successful in doing just that. “It is good, very good, to meet you again … Lettie. Though this is the last place I expected to find an errant lad whom I’ve spent the better part of the last week trying to find.”

  She was battling to control her blush, now grabbing at her fan and beating it madly to direct air toward her face. “You were looking in the wrong place, my lord.”

  “Why did you run off?” he demanded, for her ears alone. “Why did you not tell me who you were?”

  “Because if you knew who I was and word got out, my reputation would have been in shreds.”

  “Gentlemen never tell.”

  “I think I … need some fresh air,” she said, flustered.

  “And do you know what I think?”

  She swallowed hard and her fan beat a little faster.

  “I think this dreary, boring house party just got a whole lot more interesting by the very fact that you’re here and part of it.”

  On her opposite side the naval captain, his thick, glossy hair stylishly cut and hopelessly tousled, turned to look at Tristan with a penetrating gaze that could cut through fog. “I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance,” he said tersely. “Though it is obvious that you have made my sister’s.”

  His sister. Relief washed over him. Sister.

  Thank God.

  “Ah, you heard that, did you?” Tristan murmured, caught.

  “Keen hearing is a family trait.”

  Tristan reached around behind the lady’s back and extended his hand. �
��Tristan St. Aubyn,” he said.

  The naval captain’s grip was hard and firm, and a taciturn smile broke the tanned hardness of his face. “Simon Ponsonby.” His gaze cut to the back of his sister’s head and then to Tristan’s once more. “I am sure we have a lot to … discuss.”

  The implication was clear. Based on what he’d just heard, Ponsonby thought he’d played fast and loose with his sister’s honor and was expecting him to either meet him at dawn with swords or pistols—or make an offer for her.

  The lady herself turned to look at her brother, her eyes wide as she also caught the implication. “Simon!” she whispered fiercely. “It’s not what you think!”

  “Is it not?”

  Tristan took a sip from his wine glass. “Do not distress yourself, Miss Ponsonby. I will be quite glad to discuss certain matters with your brother. Perhaps after dinner, Captain?”

  The officer gave him a level stare. “You may depend on it.”

  Tristan inclined his head in assent. Permission to court the girl. They’d discuss that, and nothing more. At least, not yet. But would that be enough for Ponsonby? He didn’t need to make an enemy of the man, though in that moment the bright eyes of Lady Penmore, so like her daughter’s, met his from across the table and he saw the laughter brimming in their depths.

  “You must excuse my son,” she said, as one of several liveried footmen now serving the table placed the first course before her. “He forgets that battles really should be confined to the sea.”

  The naval captain might have rolled his eyes, but even he was not beyond the reach of maternal authority, and he raised his glass in a wry little toast to his mother before turning his silent, assessing gaze on Christopher Chance, the rumored pirate, who was seated a ways down the table.

  He might have let the matter go, but his mother did not. Lady Penmore’s approach was altogether different from her son’s, though her objective was obviously the same.

  “So it seems that the two of you have met,” she continued, eyeing Tristan with a mixture of assessment, delight, and cunning observation that she quickly masked with an overly open smile. “And where might that have been? I do not recall you being around for any of the recent Seasons.”

  “Indeed, my lady, I have not been.”

  “Why not?”

  Tristan’s gaze met hers across the table. Boldness and direct questioning seemed to be a hallmark of this family, and it was actually quite refreshing.

  He could give her the same respect.

  “I have not been in the market for a wife.”

  “And are you now?”

  “Mama!” hissed her daughter, going red with embarrassment once more.

  “I confess that it was not my intent to look for one when I accepted this invitation,” Tristan said carefully, wishing he could discreetly reach out and grasp Miss Letitia’s hand beneath the tablecloth in reassurance and simply for the pleasure of touching her, “but a fellow’s intentions are always subject to change.”

  She smiled, the gesture hinting at the cunning he’d glimpsed a moment ago, so briefly shown and so quickly disguised. He hoped to God she wouldn’t ask again how he and her daughter had met, because he’d pointedly not answered the question. If she did persist, he’d be obligated to tell the truth to one as discerning as he perceived Lady Penmore to be, and this was a situation that could quickly spiral out of his control if he was not careful.

  Especially with her son the naval captain just waiting for him to make a misstep.

  He was not in the market for a wife. He was too busy, and he didn’t have time to put down the relentless pursuit of amassing a fortune to court one—though in this instance, an exception could be granted. God knew he hadn’t been able to think of much else besides the woman he’d known only as “Lettie” anyhow, since that brief encounter in his stable….

  She was looking down at her plate, pushing the food around with her fork. None of it had made its way to her mouth. How mortified she must be, after the exchange that had just ensued.

  “So where is your Man with the Mole?” he murmured for her ears alone, and his cajoling tone had the desired effect of taking her mind off the recent conversation, of which she was the subject.

  “Oh, do not remind me of my plight! I have been wondering for the past few days what I can do to discourage his attentions once he arrives.” She made a little noise of desperation. “He is supposed to be here tomorrow. Mama has great plans for the two of us.”

  I have better ones.

  “You are very beautiful, Miss Letitia. I predict he will fall in love with you and sweep you off your feet.”

  She blushed all over again, but her eyes sparkled and she pursed her lips in a way that made him want to kiss them into open, parting submission. “I do not quite know what to say to such a complement, sir.”

  “‘Thank you’ would be a start.”

  “Thank you, then.”

  “And ‘yes, Lord Weybourne, I would love to take you up on your offer to go riding tomorrow so as to escape the attentions of Man with the Mole.’”

  “But you have not asked me to go riding.”

  “I was getting to that.”

  “Well, even though you have not asked, but are getting to that, then I feel compelled to give you my answer which, of course, is yes.” She glanced at her mother, who was conversing with Lady Weston, and lowered her voice. “How is Amir?”

  “He misses you. Tore a chunk out of Mick’s arm after you left.” He leaned close, catching a whiff of her delightful fragrance—lavender. “You should not have run away, Letitia.”

  “I … have not given you permission to use my Christian name.”

  “I’m sorry.” He put his head to one side and smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Ledyard.”

  “Shh!”

  “Does your mama have the same keen hearing that you and your brother share?”

  “Where do you think we got it from?”

  “So are you looking forward to going riding with me tomorrow? We can put the slip on Man with the Mole.”

  She laughed and took a sip of her wine. “Mama will be cross if she thinks I’m making a scandal when she has all but promised me to him.”

  “Perhaps, Miss Letitia, a little scandal is just what is needed to frighten him off.”

  “Perhaps,” she said slowly, her smile spreading, “you are correct.” And then, her eyes sparkling, “Would you be willing to help me create just a bit of a scandal, Lord Weybourne? A perfect Christmas scandal, so that Mr. Homer Trout will decide that I am not the woman for him after all?”

  “I would be delighted,” he murmured, letting his gaze drink in the beauty of her face, and he wished he could reach out and caress that pert upper lip, the full and pink lower one or better yet, claim those smiling lips with his mouth … his tongue. God, she was beautiful. How on earth had he let her get away from him back in Norfolk?

  “Homer arrives tomorrow. Meet me downstairs, early, and by then I will have thought of something.”

  Chapter Eight

  The main course was fish garnished with slices of lemon—flaky, perfectly cooked, and perfectly wasted on Letitia, who was aware of nothing but the fact that the handsome Lord Weybourne was here, in Leeds, at this Christmastide house party….

  And sitting next to her.

  Yes, there was fish and winter vegetables and rolls and mince pies and wine, lots of wine. There was a fire in the hearth, mistletoe on the mantel, the smell of evergreen and burning wax and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the great windows that held back the darkness outside. Laughter, toasts, someone who’d imbibed a little too much doing a drunken rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Winnie spilling her drink and being swept off her feet by the sudden, unexpected, and outrageously romantic entrance of Lord Trent Ballantine with a proposal of marriage. But Letitia was only dimly aware of it all. For her, there was only Tristan St. Aubyn and the deliciously warm tingles that skated over her flesh at his nearness, the sound of his
deep voice, the occasional discreet brush of his fingers against her own beneath the tablecloth. He was talking about something—horses, she thought—but she was only half-aware of what he was saying, instead thinking about the way his auburn hair had a rakish insouciance about it that mirrored his very character, studying the little crinkles at the corner of his intense gray eyes when he answered Mama’s questions, and wondering if he, like she, was dreading the one question she was sure Mama was going to make inevitable.

  “So tell me again, Lord Weybourne, how did you and my Lettie meet?”

  Leave it to Mama not to disappoint.

  Letitia’s stomach dropped somewhere down beneath the level of her hips and bounced back up again, taking her heart with it into her throat, but Lord Weybourne countered it with smoothness and ease.

  “We met over horses, Lady Penmore.”

  “I see.” Mama’s fork dropped to the lemon on her fish, pushed it gently aside with a barely perceptible flick of the tines, and sank into the tender white flesh. “And where was that, my lord?”

  Beside her, the earl smiled and said genially, “Do you really wish to know, Madam?”

  Letitia nearly choked on her own fish. Lord Weybourne had bottom, that’s for sure, to be challenging her mama so, but she also saw the touché in her mother’s smile and knew that Mama appreciated the earl’s attempts to not only safeguard her reputation, but to go hand to hand with her in a clandestine battle of wits.

  “Perhaps,” Mama said, smiling, “we will revisit this topic later. And in private.”