Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking)

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Of that, I have no doubt, but your matchmaking efforts do not frighten me.” He chuckled.

  Then his gaze caught on the bit of scone she pinched between her thumb and forefinger and brought to her lips, the tip of her tongue darting out to capture an errant crumb. He shifted in his chair, half of him wishing he could watch her nibble on the rest of it, and the other half ready to beg her to stop.

  “Then it’s as I feared. You still believe I am so susceptible to your charms that I have spent these many days pressing kisses into my pillow and whispering your name.”

  “At last, you admit it,” he said on a hoarse breath, his mind conjuring that very thing. But in his scenario, it wasn’t her pillow—it was his. And the sounds from her lips weren’t whispers—they were wanton pleas.

  She tilted her head, studying him closely, and likely noting his high color and the sheen of perspiration on his brow. “Are you coming down with a cold? Is that the reason you’ve enforced this unanticipated sabbatical from my lessons?”

  “Perhaps I’m teaching you about anticipation.”

  “Are you saying you want me to think about you, Nicholas?” she teased, her voice whisper-soft, a slow grin curling her rose-petal lips. “That must mean you’re thinking of me, whiling away the hours of your days—and for a man of your years those are too precious to waste. I must say, I’m quite flattered. But it would never work out between us.”

  Unable to help himself, he played along. “No?”

  “I am already married to my calling as a matchmaker. You’ll simply have to wait until I find your perfect counterpart.” She broke the remainder of the scone in half and passed it to him. “And she’s out there right now. Not a naive debutante who knows nothing of the world, but one who has sampled a bit of it, for you would want someone more likeminded, I’m sure. Someone who’ll not only gift you with children—though seven might be a bit conservative—but will be your partner, sharing your likes and dislikes, introducing you to new things, surprising you.”

  “I’m not fond of surprises,” he stated around a mouthful of buttery scone.

  “With her it will be different. And since you’re always so busy—running afternoon errands in town, digging trenches in the country—you’ll need someone to help you relax.”

  “Endless holidays? Trips to the bank to clear out my accounts?”

  “Not her. She won’t have any grand notions of touring the continent and spending your fortune. All she wants is a honeymoon beside a lake, alone with you. And there, you’ll discover that there is more to her than you could have anticipated.”

  “Like the fact that she has six toes on both of her hairy feet?”

  She giggled, but then tsked at him. “Not all surprises are alarming. Perhaps you’ll learn . . . oh, I don’t know . . . that she is a remarkable fisherman.”

  “Not squeamish, hmm?”

  “She always puts the small ones back,” Briar said quietly, her cheeks softly flushing to pink. “She’ll also have the forethought to prepare a picnic, complete with a blanket so that you can lounge in the sunlight, listening to birdsong and the buzz of dragonflies over the water, while she collects fish after fish.”

  His wry humor faded as he found himself oddly entranced by this scenario, and Briar’s ability to create something he never would have imagined for himself. He drew in a breath, half expecting to catch the scent of the lake and the warm sweetness of sunbaked earth and cool grass.

  Relaxing back into the chair, he swallowed down the last morsel. “And would this picnic contain any of Mrs. Darden’s scones?”

  Briar settled back into her chair as well, a sliver of sunlight stealing through the shade overhead to brush her lips as she smiled. “Perhaps I could convince her to share the recipe as a wedding gift to you.”

  “Now that, Miss Bourne, might be the only inducement for marriage.”

  Yet it wasn’t just the scones that made the vision appealing. It was all of it. And worst of all, he could almost picture the woman on the blanket beside him.

  Thankfully, before he could muse over it any longer, Temperance and Daniel returned, the former all smiles.

  “Briar, your uncle has consented! We’re all going to the opera.”

  Chapter 17

  “. . . that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest . . .”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  “Miss Bourne, you look lovely this evening,” Daniel Prescott said as he handed her down from the carriage, his face slowly saturating with red blotches above a high-necked cravat. “Of course, I did not mean to imply that it is only this evening but . . . that you are always . . .”

  Stepping onto the pavement in front of the opera house, Briar smiled and quickly put him out of his misery. “Thank you, Mr. Prescott, and you look rather dashing yourself.”

  And so did Nicholas. He was rakishly handsome in his superfine black wool with brushed velvet lapels. With his hair swept away from his forehead, it drew attention to the sharp angles of his features and the bold slashes of dark brows.

  As he waited to hand down his aunt, his gaze drifted to Briar. Those onyx irises darkened as they descended down her length of white satin, to the tips of her slippers, and back up to her fitted bodice and the flared sleeves perched on the very crests of her shoulders. She’d left her neck unadorned and her hair up in a twist with Mother’s silver-and-pearl combs. If the warmth in his gaze was any indication, she believed she’d chosen wisely.

  A rush of eager expectation filled every thrumming pulse. Her first night at the opera. Moonbeams were shooting out of her eyes and the tips of her fingers.

  Temperance couldn’t hold back another small clap, the happy sound muffled by her long milk-white gloves. And she looked breathtaking in a pale blue gown with gold netting, her eyes resembling topaz gems, faceted to capture every bit of light.

  Even Uncle Ernest and Mrs. Prescott were dressed to the nines, the former handsome in storm-cloud gray and the latter in a lovely rich burgundy and looking ten years younger with the glow in her cheeks.

  Once they were inside, Briar gasped at the splendor of the vast house. Beneath the domed ceiling, a tower of balconies was illuminated by chandeliers and flickering sconces. Rounded archways were adorned in gilded plaster moldings, and scores of society’s elite were dressed in lush finery and glittering jewels. It was like standing inside a treasure chest.

  “I feel that way, too,” Temperance said from beside her, stepping away from the rest of the party. “Four Seasons and I’m still awestruck every time I attend the opera. This alone almost makes me want to beg Nicholas to fund a fifth.”

  “You won’t need it. You’ll be married by year’s end. We just to need to find a handsome bachelor who holds a box here.”

  “Indeed, you make it sound so simple, as if I could point to the box with the best view of the stage and fall in love with the man who owns it.”

  “Love should be that easy. Close your eyes, point, and when you open them again, you’ll see sparks.” Briar pantomimed her words as she spoke, but felt the tip of her finger make contact with something hard and warm. She opened her eyes with a start, an apology on her lips, and saw Nicholas.

  For an instant, the glimmer from a dozen sconces danced before her eyes.

  He smirked down at the finger pressed to his chest. “Are you pretending to be a compass to find your way to where we’re sitting?”

  “No, Briar was looking for a husband,” Temperance supplied helpfully.

  Briar drew her hand back quickly. “For your cousin, of course.”

  “Is that the preferred method of matchmakers—point and seize? It seems rather primitive, if you ask me. I might have been able to manage this for her, if I’d have known it was socially acceptable. Very well, Teense. Point to your husband and I’ll have him trussed up and waiting at the altar.”

  “Cousin, you are a true romantic,” Temperance said dryly. “I should like to be wooed. No, I deserve t
o be wooed. And if said wooer happens to hold a box at the opera, then all the better.”

  Nicholas appeared to consider his cousin’s request, glancing out toward the stacks of curtain-swathed, lamplit compartments. “I hadn’t thought of this until now but an old friend, Lord Hulworth, holds the box next to mine. He is unmarried, but I do not know if he is looking for a wife.”

  “Did you say . . . Lord Hulworth?” Briar stammered, her expression caught between astonishment and hilarity.

  “Yes. Are you acquainted?”

  “No, but once upon a time, last year in fact,”—she gave a pointed look to Nicholas, hoping that he would remember—“I thought making his acquaintance would be the key to my becoming a matchmaker.”

  His brows gradually lifted. “Is that so? Had I known, I might have been able to assist you. He is a rather elusive bachelor, as I recall.”

  “Quite.” Briar pressed her gloved fingertips to her mouth to suppress a laugh.

  Temperance hummed thoughtfully. “You should arrange an introduction, cousin.”

  “Perhaps when he is next in town,” he said without much conviction. Briar would have teasingly pressed the matter if the others had not joined them just as the musicians began to tune their instruments. The opera was about to begin.

  Their party filed forth with Mrs. Prescott on Uncle Ernest’s arm. Temperance snaked her arm through her brother’s, leaving Briar to take Nicholas’s. And she did, with an embarrassing lack of hesitation. However, before they’d made it to the stairs, Nicholas was hailed by a beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed in green organza.

  “Lord Edgemont, what a pleasure to see you again,” the woman said, smiling broadly.

  Beneath her hand, Briar felt the solid muscle of Nicholas’s forearm contract, tensing, and she wondered how he knew this woman. Observing him, she noted his outward ease and charm, his gaze settling with familiarity on the woman’s face. And looking to the woman, she observed the same, along with the way her head was tilted and her eyes rested fondly on Nicholas.

  The matchmaker in Briar might see this as an opportunity to learn more about how they were acquainted. However, a strange new part of Briar emerged, edgy and anxious to excuse herself and go on with the rest of their party.

  But Nicholas laid a hand over hers, keeping her at his side.

  “Lady Elston, you’re looking well. May I present my cousin’s friend, Miss Bourne.”

  “Ah, so this is the young woman I’ve heard so much about of late.”

  Briar had no idea what she could mean. What had she heard? The only thing that came to mind was her blunder from weeks ago, but surely that would not cause someone to gaze at her with such rapt fascination and—even more peculiarly—friendliness. It was as if she’d been eager to meet her for some time.

  Uncertain, Briar stiffly curtsied. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Elston.”

  “My dear, I wish we could have met at Almack’s a fortnight ago, but I had been privileged to attend the Duchess of Holliford’s dinner, where I’d learned that you had left a vacancy. An amusing coincidence, is it not? And that evening, Her Grace regaled us all with the many accomplishments of the Bourne sisters, you in particular. I must say, my curiosity mounted and I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I was honored to have been granted a voucher.”

  “Please, you must call me Elise,” she said, reaching out to briefly press Briar’s free hand, her gaze flitting warmly to Nicholas. “Edgemont never asks for favors, and considering he’s an . . . acquaintance from many years ago, it was the least I could do.”

  With sudden clarity, Briar understood how Nicholas had made her evening at Almack’s possible. But could he not have asked the favor from another person who wasn’t quite so beautiful and showed such an obvious fondness for him as if they’d been—

  She couldn’t finish the thought. Another wave of strain trundled through her, tightening every joint in her skeleton, fixing every vertebra into a stiff line.

  Elise lifted her hand to wave to someone out of Briar’s line of sight. “Oh, my husband is beckoning me to his side, I must be off. I do hope we can chat more in the future, Miss Bourne.”

  “I should like that as well,” Briar said, helplessly polite, her smile frozen. Then once left alone with Nicholas, she slid him a perturbed glance. “Acquaintance?”

  “Yes, Miss Bourne. It should come as no surprise that I have enjoyed friendships with a variety of individuals.”

  She scoffed, ignoring the dark look he gave her in return. “Do you often enjoy these friendships with married women?”

  Without answering, Nicholas led her toward the stairs, a muscle ticking along the hard ridge of his jaw. As they climbed, so did the palpable tension between them.

  It was only after they traversed a series of corridors, lined by curtained alcoves, that he deigned to respond. “I don’t see that it is any concern of yours.”

  “It is very much a concern of mine,” she hissed under her breath, not wanting to be overheard by those in the boxes they passed. “If you are a philanderer, so ruled by baser impulse that you would think nothing of seducing another man’s wife, then I would have to end our association immediately.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and then pulled her into an alcove. Before she could gasp, the curtains fell back in place behind them, immersing them in shadows, and he leaned in until his lips were near her temple, his hot breath fanning over the whorls of her ear. “Stop acting like a jealous harpy or you will incite rumors.”

  “Oh, now who’s conjuring wild scenarios? Jealous, indeed. It just so happens that my family holds a firm abhorrence for adultery and it is something which I cannot abide.” She huffed, unintentionally inhaling his scent—that earthy essence of warm leather and autumn leaves. Drat. Why did he have to smell so good?

  He crowded closer, the opening score of the opera growing louder on a rumble of drums. “We share that same sentiment, and it is only for that reason that I will tell you she was a young widow when we were acquainted. Many years ago.”

  “Well, perhaps I would prefer not to meet someone with whom you shared such an intimate acquaintance. Did you ever think of that?” By accident, her nose slid along the underside of his jaw, her lips near the top fold of his starched cravat. All at once she was fully aware of their close proximity, the rise and fall of his chest, not even an inch apart from her own.

  “I never hid that part of my character from you. From the beginning, you knew who I was.”

  Briar huffed again, but not in indignation. She felt a sudden, aching need to draw in heaping lungfuls of him. How had she been able to withstand days without this scent? Air was so plain in comparison, like a brown homespun dress. A petal-less flower. An empty pod of chocolate. How had she lived most of her life without knowing how to fill her lungs properly?

  “Yes. I’ve always known who you are,” she whispered, shuffling closer, her nostrils flaring for another greedy breath. Lightheaded and lungs close to bursting, she looked up at him in the dim shadows, glad they’d reached an understanding.

  Yet the tension remained between them, wrapping around them tightly, forbidding either of them from moving apart. So, she did the sensible thing and placed her hand on his waistcoat, splaying her fingertips over the hard plane of his chest as the heavy whump-whump of his heart met her palm. In response, his hand settled into the curve of her waist in strict violation of the rules. But she didn’t say a word. Instead, she twined her arms around his neck, and felt his other hand snake around to the small of her back, hauling her flush.

  “How long does a lesson in anticipation usually last?” she asked, burying her nose in his shirtfront, and thinking crazed thoughts like wishing she could coil herself around him like a corset he could never peel off.

  “As long as it takes,” he growled, his voice strained.

  “Well, it seems that this one is taking quite a long time.”

  “Far to
o long.”

  “I was hoping you would say that,” she said, barely breathing the words before his mouth descended on hers.

  This was no tentative brush of the lips, but a hard, incinerating kiss designed to turn bones to liquid and melt her body like candlewax. She molded against him with a sigh, settling into the groove of his mouth, the nook of his nose.

  Oh, she loved it here—but no, she reminded herself, you cannot reveal how much you like his kisses. Or how every cup of chocolate had gone bland since that second kiss. He’d done that to her—the chocolate thief.

  She should be furious. But it was easy to forgive him now as he nudged her head back, easing her lips apart, delving deeper. His breath filled her mouth, hot and damp. Better than chocolate steam. Better than froth. His tongue moved in a slow, languorous slide against hers as if she was the food he’d been craving for days and he had no intention of leaving until he’d had his fill. Somehow, she’d become his chocolate, too.

  He wasn’t nearly close enough and she had to hold him tighter, her breasts crushed against the firm expanse of his chest. He nipped her bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth as if to reprimand her for being so bold. But then he hitched her high against him, his hand coasting down the curve of her bottom, lifting her.

  He wasn’t reprimanding her at all, but rewarding her, his tongue teaching her lewd, wondrous things. Her body yielded sweetly, hips arching, getting a better sense of him, and a much better sense of what drew men and women together.

  Satin skimmed over warm wool.

  Softness molded to hard planes and ridges.

  She marveled at how wonderful it felt to tilt her hips and slide against him. So she did it again. Kiss, tilt, and slide . . . Kiss, tilt, and slide . . . Mmm . . .

  But then he broke free, pressing his forehead to hers as he shook his head.

  She nodded, but in disagreement. He couldn’t stop now, not when it was just turning into the best kiss they’d shared. Trembling with need, she arched forward and whispered, “More. Just a bit more,” against his lips.