“What do I care that he has roving eyes?”
“Because a man with roving eyes often has roving hands, that’s why.” Mrs. Darden tutted fondly. “No need to fret over this. There’s too much love between you and your sisters to let squabbles get in the way. Especially not after all you’ve been through together, losing your mother the way you did, each of you so young.”
“And they—well, Ainsley more than Jacinda—treat me like I’m still that ten-year-old girl, as if time stopped for me.”
Mrs. Darden paused near the top of the stairs, glancing down at the runner. “It’s just that you look so much like your mother. I imagine it’s difficult not to think about her. Each of us remember how she slipped away and there was nothing we could do to stop it.”
Briar had surmised this long ago, but hearing it spoken aloud didn’t help matters. “Well, keeping me from experiencing life isn’t going to bring her back either.”
A rush of guilt clogged her throat the moment the words spilled out.
She missed her mother terribly, the pain of her loss even keener because no one liked to talk about her when Briar was in the room. Any reminiscence was cut short and usually accompanied pained glances, abrupt avoidances, and long awkward silences.
They didn’t speak of Father either, and most certainly never mentioned his other family—the one that had destroyed Mother when she’d learned of it. And Briar had often wondered about him and her half siblings, always having wanted to meet them. Yet, she didn’t even know how many other children he had. Every inquiry she made was forever redirected, as if it was an enormous secret and her family thought her too frail of heart to learn the whole truth.
“They only mean to protect you because they love you.”
In Briar’s opinion, there was no room for secrets or silence in love. Every topic should be open for discussion.
Mrs. Darden sniffed and gave Briar’s hand a pat. “If it helps to hear it, that tray was never meant for the count. It just so happens that I was on my way up to give it to you because we’ve another guest in the parlor. But then the count just barged in, all bluster and strife. So if you’re so eager to serve tea, there’s a polished tray waiting in the kitchen.” She gave her hand a final squeeze before bustling off, finishing her conversation over her shoulder. “I believe she said her name is Mrs. Teasdale. Peculiar woman, that one. Said she’d come here to do her knitting. Regardless, I’m needed upstairs to help Ginny with the linens.”
Briar went downstairs, a sense of futility driving her irritation. She was a grown woman, capable of handling herself. The problem was, no one believed her. This only made her all the more determined to prove that she could interview clients and make matches for them, too.
Below stairs in the kitchen, she poured fresh water into a white glazed pot, her ire still simmering as she went about putting together a tray.
While Mrs. Darden usually left them plain, with only the essential items—pot, cup and saucer, scone—Briar liked to add more. Even when she was angry, apparently, for she draped the silver tray with a square of blue gingham without thinking. Then with a huff, she artfully arranged a selection of scones and preserves.
After all, if she were coming to a matchmaking agency and nervous about taking such a monumental leap, would a sadly adorned tray put her at ease? And would it assure her that the agency planned to find her the best possible match?
No and definitely not. At the very least, the tea tray should tell their clients that the agency would go to the ends of the earth and back again because love had no limits.
She surveyed her handiwork and felt marginally better. Tapping her fingertip against her lip, she realized there was still something missing—more color. Spotting an orange-and-clove pomander on the windowsill, she placed it in a sweetmeat glass and tucked a few sprigs of rosemary around it.
She smiled, pleased with her efforts and no longer fuming as she made her way upstairs to their potential client.
In the yellow-wallpapered room, an older woman looked down at her knitting, the top of her head crowned with a twist of butterscotch brown hair, the severe part in the middle displaying a liberal stripe of gray strands.
“What lovely knitting,” Briar said as she set the tray on the low oval table. “I’m Miss Bourne and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The woman only glanced up from her knitting, the air punctuated by the harried click-clacking of needles. “You can call me Mrs. Teasdale. I decided to keep my third husband’s name. He was a better man than the fourth, to be sure.”
A startled laugh escaped Briar, believing it a joke. But when she realized the woman was serious, she cleared her throat and busied herself with pouring a cup of tea. “Are you looking to marry . . . um . . . again?”
“I’ve given it some thought, yes. I’ve never had luck with the number four, so I should like to make it five. Do you have any candidates for an old crone like me? Without any of that nonsense I read about in the newspaper, of course.”
Ah yes, Briar’s blunder was never too far away. She wondered if she would ever escape it. “Sugar?”
Mrs. Teasdale paid no attention to the request but continued knitting. “When a person gets to be my age, she wants a man with experience etched clearly on his face. Plenty of lines around the eyes and mouth to let me know he’s lived. A good-humored sort with a lust for life. And a lust for other things, too.” She looked up with a grin, a peach glow in her cheeks as she cast a wink to Briar. “Rakes have always been my downfall. One wicked laugh and my knees are clotted cream on a hot scone.”
“You married a rake?” Briar perked up at this, and suddenly found Mrs. Teasdale the most interesting person in the world. “How, precisely?”
“We fell in love, of course. There’s no other way to catch a rake.”
So there was no special secret? Briar was afraid of that.
“I managed to reform One—my first husband,” she continued with a smug waggle of her brow. “Made him think it was his own idea. Ah, but Three and Four were dreadful failures. Number two was highborn, a titled gentleman and all, but a bit of a temper. But as odds go, one out of four isn’t too bad. Though, I’d prefer two out of five.”
Apparently, marriage was a game of chance for Mrs. Teasdale. And perhaps she was right. Briar found herself instantly fond of the frank-speaking woman, and wanted to sit and listen to her for hours. Likely, she’d get an earful about all the things people didn’t speak about around debutantes. “If you’d like to continue knitting, I could take your application in here.”
“Before we do, let me ask . . .” She lowered her needles and squinted at Briar. “Have you ever had a client who filled out an application for her own son?”
“Mothers come in with their daughters all the time.” The all the time was stretching the truth like taffy since they didn’t have many clients of late. “After all, who would know how to achieve your son’s happiness better than you?”
At this, Mrs. Teasdale stopped her knitting and scrutinized Briar with a tilt of her head. “I like you, Miss Bourne, but you’re a bit young for my son. You’re not the eldest Miss Bourne, are you?”
“No. That would be my sister Ainsley,” Briar said absently. She didn’t want to bring her sister in on this just yet, if at all. “Is your son looking for a wife?”
“At two and thirty, I should think so.” Mrs. Teasdale scoffed and went back to her knitting.
Hmm . . . Briar always thought of Temperance whenever a new gentleman became a client. “And is he a particularly tall fellow, by chance?”
“Tall and handsome as a devil, like his father.” She beamed, then issued an impatient sigh. “I came here today because I have a need for grandchildren and he’s my only chance for them. At my fiftieth birthday last week, I decided that I was through waiting.”
Briar paused, uncertain if Mrs. Teasdale had all her faculties in order, or if she was a few pastries shy of a baker’s dozen. Though, with the current lack of new ap
plicants, she supposed beggars could not be choosers. “Just so I have this correct, you would like a husband for yourself and a bride for your son.”
Two potential subscriptions for the agency! Briar could hear the accolades now . . .
“And grandchildren, don’t forget.”
Briar cleared her throat. “Well, the Bourne Matrimonial Agency cannot guarantee those.”
“Oh, my son will do fine on his own. Just needs a little nudge in the right direction.” For effect, Mrs. Teasdale poked the air with one long needle and snickered. “Do you think his bride would like a stocking cap, too?”
Briar looked down at the slender length of scarlet yarn, the bottom edge pooling on the floor. How that creation would become a stocking cap was a complete mystery.
“Without a doubt,” she said, rising from the chair. “I’m just going to pop out for a minute and I’ll be back to fill out your application.”
“I’m not going anywhere, dear.”
In the corridor, Briar closed her eyes, flung her arms wide, and breathed in a deep victorious breath. She was a matchmaker reborn like the phoenix rising from the ashes of disgrace.
Glancing down at her attire, she took careful note of everything she was wearing. Yellow muslin with a border of blue flowers at the hem, and a new blue ribbon in her hair. Since she’d worn the dress many times before without much luck, she knew it had to be the ribbon.
Her lucky blue ribbon, which would be perfect to wear with her ballgown. If she ever received a voucher from Almack’s.
Around the corner, she saw her uncle dabbing a handkerchief over his brow, his gaze toward the stairs where heavy-footed stomping and a string of angry French words gradually receded. Then the door slammed—the Comte de Bardot’s signature exit.
Uncle Ernest expelled a sigh, then caught a glimpse of her and smiled. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Are yours aching from having to stare at the count’s abominable wig?”
“There is that,” he said, tucking his handkerchief into the pocket of his superfine blue coat as they walked together into his office. “Then there are so many other things that it would be impossible to list them all.”
“Uncle, by any chance, do you have additional paper in your desk, so that I might have a stack for applications?”
“Do we have a client waiting in our parlor?”
“We do,” Briar said, biting her lip. “But could you not mention it to Ainsley or Jacinda? I want to—no, I need to have this chance. Please, Uncle?”
“Very well.” He nodded, seldom able to resist pleas from any of his nieces. Briar may or may not have used this knowledge to her advantage a time or two.
She kissed his cheek. “You’re my absolute favorite uncle.”
Just then, Mrs. Darden came upstairs, holding a salver in one hand and a mending box in the other. The woman was a marvel at performing multiple tasks at once. Out of breath, she barely dipped into a curtsy before handing the salver off to Uncle Ernest, then disappeared around the corner.
“It seems there is a missive for you, m’ dear.”
Quickly turning it over, Briar looked at the seal and saw that it was from Nicholas.
Indeed, this was her lucky ribbon after all.
Chapter 14
“Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Nicholas had been right about the risks of confirming the rumor regarding the challenge issued to Briar.
Not a day had passed before a wager was on the books at White’s debating his marriage by year’s end. Those who knew him best had put their coin on the impossibility of such an event. Yet there were still a few who doubted the protestations from his own lips. This needled him, much like a thistle barb camouflaged in his trouser leg, catching and digging into his flesh.
There were other nuisances, as well. Invitations to afternoon teas, garden parties, stuffy dinners, enough to suffocate any man. With every penned refusal, he made sure to mention the fact that he had no intention of actually marrying, regardless of rumors.
Regrettably, it made no impact.
He kept telling himself he’d done it to ensure that Daniel would enter society once more, and to please Teense by having her friend here this evening. Yet there was one small voice in the back of his mind, telling him that he was a fool if he believed he’d done it for anyone other than Briar Bourne.
Well, he wasn’t a fool, and Nicholas was determined to prove that voice wrong by any means necessary.
By the time he arrived at Almack’s on Wednesday evening, the party was well underway, a veritable oven of bodies twirling around on the floor and pressed against the wall. The combined stench of sweat and perfume rivaled that of a brothel.
Ruddy-cheeked men in black coats and cinched, snowy cravats mopped their brows with handkerchiefs. Women kept their fans fluttering, creating the only breeze to stave off the sweltering evening air.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Daniel said from beside him. Beneath a sheen of perspiration, his face turned to a pale celadon green as if he were going to cast up his accounts at any moment. The same way he’d looked when Temperance had invited a friend—coincidentally from Briar’s list—to dinner the other evening.
And just like then, tonight, he’d changed his mind about attending three different times, lamenting that he wasn’t up to the task of making merry. In the end, and in no temper to coddle him, Nicholas ladled out a heavy serving of guilt by telling him how disappointed Temperance would be if he broke his promise.
“We are here, so better make the best of it,” Nicholas growled. “Now, find your sister.”
Nicholas had sent Temperance and his aunt in a separate carriage, knowing that they’d intended to escort Miss Bourne. At the very least, he wasn’t going to make Briar miss her long-awaited evening.
He scanned the periphery of the room, where wallflowers and his cousin were known to linger. Surely if he could spot Temperance then he’d find Briar as well. But when there was no sign of either, a cold frisson of worry skated down his spine as he eyed the rows of shiny-faced debutantes gathering between potted palms and columns.
“I . . . I can’t. This is all too soon,” Daniel said, stepping in front of him, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the edge of his cravat, his eyes so wide they looked like pennies in spills of milk.
“What about your promise to dance with Temperance?”
“I’m sure she’ll understand. She’s always been a good sort. And what’s one dance?”
To a young woman who’d confessed to having few partners other than her own family, one dance was quite a lot. Nicholas gritted his teeth. “You also asked Miss Bourne to dance. Now turn around and look for your sister.”
Daniel’s head wobbled in a nod and he drew in a deep breath before facing the crowd. “You’re right. I just need to push onward for a few hours. This is about Temperance’s enjoyment and Miss Bourne’s, not mine. And if I make a complete and utter fool of myself, then I should only hope that I expire from heat exhaustion, there on the ballroom floor.”
Nicholas told himself to be patient. After all, his cousin wouldn’t be in this mess if not for him.
Guilt gnawed at him every day. The only cure was to find Daniel a bride, to make him forget about Miss Smithson, but the process was taking too long. Daniel was shy and awkward and broken and Nicholas wanted to fix him. Now. He didn’t want to wait.
Sometimes he wondered if confessing all of it would ease the burden for both of them, like sloughing off dead skin after a burn. Yet there was too great a chance that Daniel would never forgive him, and that their bond would be severed forever. Doubtless, such cruel honesty would only bring pain, and Nicholas didn’t want to cause any more of that. So he would keep trying to wait through the process.
Unfortunately, patience had never been one of his own virtues. Then again, he wasn’t partial to virtues of any sort.
“Ah. There is my mother,” Daniel offere
d, gesturing toward one of the curved balconies above the dancers. She was pointing the tip of her fan toward the ballroom floor, beaming with pride.
At first glance, Nicholas hadn’t even seen Temperance among the dancers. But there she was, looking lovely in the new apricot gown she’d showed off earlier this evening, her partner a good two inches taller. As the music came to an end, only then did he see Briar emerge from behind a rotund gentleman, who’d completely eclipsed her from Nicholas’s view. And considering how breathtaking she was beneath the glow of the chandeliers, that was a criminal offense. Briar should never be hidden.
As the gentlemen escorted her and his cousin to the side, Nicholas moved forward, his eyes never leaving them. He took a moment to admire his pupil in a sheath of summer blue that molded over the curves of her body as if the garment had been handstitched over her bare skin.
Most women were struggling with the humidity, shifting restlessly, surreptitiously tugging on their stays and ruffling their skirts to cool themselves. But Briar seemed to embrace the heat, cheeks flushed, skin aglow. She moved with unhurried grace, her steps like a dance of their own, accentuated by the smooth glide of the pearl-handled fan in her grasp. And even though he was steps away, he could have sworn he caught the scent of fresh linens baked in sunlight.
As their escorts left, Briar turned her head to Temperance and those cheeks lifted, her eyes bright as they shared a laugh. Then her gaze drifted over the crowd, clearly searching, and suddenly alighted on him. When their eyes met, a jolt burned through him, hot and expectant.
Dangerous, he thought, knowing that there were likely dozens of people observing him right this instant.
Arm in arm with Temperance, chatting merrily, she gradually made her way to him and Daniel. “Are you certain part of my face hasn’t melted off? When you warned me of his bad breath, I did not think you meant rancid. Clearly, he has eaten something that died most cruelly.”
“And is haunting us!” Temperance laughed and stopped in front of them. “Good evening, brother and cousin. I see you have finally arrived.”
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 14
