Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking)

by Vivienne Lorret

  He growled, low and hungry, but then set her on her feet. His hands, however, lingered on her hips. He gripped her as if he wasn’t sure how she was put together—splaying fingers to check the curve of her waist, gripping the flare of her hips, gliding thumbs along the angled bones, gripping again. Then after a staggered breath, he released her. Apparently, all of her parts were as they should be.

  “Purely academic?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  She grinned in the dark. “What can I say? You are an exceptional tutor.”

  Chapter 18

  “The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  If Briar had known that the kiss at the opera was her only reprieve from chaos for an entire week, she would have done her best to keep Nicholas in that alcove. Perhaps even tie him up with the tasseled curtain cords. Hmm . . . now there’s an idea.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have time think up a scenario for that. She’d become far too busy, never short of tasks.

  The agency was suddenly a bustle of activity. Debutantes seemed in a frantic rush to find their matches before retiring to their country estates for the summer. From these new patrons, Briar received a few passing comments, remarking on having seen her at Almack’s or at the opera on Lord Edgemont’s arm. However, since the memory of both those evenings tended to make her blush—but for different reasons—she skillfully diverted the topic of conversation, asking about their interests and activities. From there, she kept her demeanor affable and professional.

  There was a great deal of interest in Lord Edgemont. A bit too much for her tastes. So to every inquiry made, Briar always responded with a shrug. “I’m afraid I’m not well enough acquainted with his lordship to know the answer.”

  Yet, all the while, she wondered if perhaps the rumor of the challenge she’d accepted had somehow found its way to an eager ear, or two.

  She sincerely hoped not. It would be much better if the cause were merely a sudden plague that struck the debutante population all at once, each one of them overcome with a case of spinster-itis. That would certainly be preferable to the possibility of Ainsley overhearing the rumor.

  But Briar tucked her worry in her corset and kept to her work. She was filing more applications and serving more tea in the parlor than ever before. In fact, there were days when Mrs. Teasdale and her knitting did not have a place to sit. So, she’d taken it upon herself to wander in and out of the offices under the guise of tidying up when, in truth, she was eavesdropping. Uncle Ernest found her a nuisance, but Briar appreciated the inside information that she would provide about these new clients. And surprisingly, both Ainsley and Jacinda had warmed to her. There was even talk of inviting her to dinner, but Uncle Ernest quickly put an end to that.

  Being so busy should have made Briar elated. The Bourne Matrimonial Agency had finally arrived!

  Yet it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. She had matches of her own to make.

  She was struggling to find spare moments to go to the newspaper office. Not alone, of course. When she’d submitted her adverts last week, she had gone with Uncle Ernest, sharing part of her plan and begging him not to mention anything to Ainsley. Thankfully, he’d agreed.

  After the adverts had run for a single day, Briar had received more than a dozen correspondences. But she wanted more, already planning a small gathering among the best candidates. There might be a dozen more letters waiting, yet now, Uncle Ernest was usually too exhausted at the end of the day to take her back.

  In fact, they were all tired. Mrs. Darden was usually covered in a fine mist of flour from making so many scones. Ainsley hadn’t time to harp on Mr. Sterling and seemed to be growing a bit testy because of it. Jacinda was yawning a great deal and looking a bit peaked. And Uncle Ernest, who’d actually been called upon to take applications instead of spending his day flirting and writing sonnets, seemed to be going through love-letter withdrawal. Just this morning, Briar had caught him staring distractedly at the empty salver on the edge of the desk and heard him sigh.

  The day could not end soon enough.

  * * *

  Her hopes were answered later that afternoon when Briar managed to convince Uncle Ernest to go for a quick jaunt about town. They stopped at the newspaper office.

  Uncle Ernest, however, lingered at the flower cart across the street, where there were a handful of women to flirt with. This would surely lift his spirits.

  As for Briar, she continued on and stepped through the door, the bell jingling overhead. The stuffy boxed room was lined with postings pinned to the paneled wall, along with rows of square shelves that reached from the floor to the low ceiling. A large burled desk took up far too much space in the middle of the room behind a half wall, bisected with a swinging gate.

  Standing ahead of her was a tall man, and the matchmaker in her took note of his neatly trimmed dark blond hair, brown coat, and polished Hessians, a brushed John Bull hat in his grasp. A gentleman by the look of him. Absently, she wondered if he might be married or interested in finding a bride. After all, the agency could use a few more gentlemen applicants to meet the recent demands of their female clients. But her plate was rather full at the moment, so she quashed the impulse to casually inquire.

  “No letters since yesterday,” the editor barked, the nub of a pencil clenched between his teeth. He never took his eyes off the stack of pages in front of him.

  The man in the brown coat took a coin from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “I’d be obliged if you could run the advert another week.”

  “Can’t. Pages are full up. I’d be glad to keep taking your coin, but after a month you’re just wasting your time. Go on and buy the girl a new dog and be done with it.”

  Briar’s heart went out to the gentleman who would go to so much trouble to find a lost dog in this city. He turned away from the desk. Seeing Briar behind him, he tipped his hat in an automatic gesture.

  Then strangely, he stopped cold, his eyes widening. “Miss Bourne.”

  As far as Briar knew they’d never met. Yet there was something familiar about his handsome countenance, and in the shape and color of his brown eyes. They almost reminded her of Ainsley’s . . .

  All at once, tiny hairs on her arms stood on end, gooseflesh scattering over her limbs.

  “Mr. Cartwright, your coin,” the editor barked.

  “Cartwright.” All the breath left her body at once.

  Of course, that was why he looked familiar. He was her father’s son. But . . . he was much older than she’d ever thought. He had to have been at least six and twenty. Ainsley’s age. Which could only mean that their father hadn’t started another family after Briar was born—as she’d been led to believe—but had kept them from the very beginning of his marriage to Mother.

  She wondered if Ainsley knew . . . But of course she must. Likely, everyone else in the family knew.

  Briar felt a twinge of pain, wishing she would have known, too. Whenever she’d imagined meeting her half siblings, she’d always been warm and affable. Instead, she found herself silent and stunned, with so many thoughts rushing through her head that she could hardly take hold of one and examine it.

  Mr. Cartwright—and she didn’t even know his first name—removed his hat and placed it over his heart. “Forgive me. I never meant for us to meet like this.”

  “H-how did you recognize me?”

  “I saw a miniature of you among my”—he cleared his throat, shifting from one foot to the other—“our father’s things.”

  “Oh.” That one final puff of air left her deflated. The miniature wasn’t likely of her, but of Mother. As far as Briar knew, the only likeness Father possessed of her was from a dozen years ago.

  In fact, she had been so young when Father had left that he’d seemed like a storybook figure. And when Mother had died, he’d been the villain. Since Briar never liked reading stories about villains, she’d kept that
one closed inside her heart. But now part of the reality of the episode that had led to her mother’s death stood in front of her, in flesh and bone.

  For an instant, Briar was transported back in time, her mother going frighteningly pale as a letter fell from her grasp.

  He gave them all his name, she’d said on a broken sob, and they’re living in our house as if we never existed.

  Alarmed, Briar had tried to catch her before she sank to the floor in a boneless heap, but they’d both ended up tumbling together, legs and skirts twisting. Who, Mother?

  Your father and his . . . no. This is all a bad dream, nothing more. I just need to lie down for a spell.

  Yet, Mother had rarely left her bed after that. Until, gradually, she’d faded out of existence.

  Behind her, Briar heard the bell chime above the door. Believing it was Uncle Ernest, she waited for him to come to her side and make conversation for her. To remove her from this awkward introduction.

  But it wasn’t her uncle after all.

  “There you are, Briar,” Temperance said, scuttling into the office and sidling up to her. “I knew that was your uncle’s carriage out front, and I begged Nicholas to stop so that we could bid you a good day and perhaps even take you and your uncle to Berkeley Square for ices.”

  Still mute, Briar turned her head and witnessed the precise moment her friend’s gaze collided with Mr. Cartwright. Temperance went utterly still. A wash of deep rose flooded her cheeks and her eyes glimmered as if a random ray of sunlight were caught in their amber depths. And Briar had a sinking feeling that she’d just witnessed the elusive spark.

  No, please no, she first thought, but then felt inordinately guilty for it.

  Coming out of her stupor, she had the semblance of mind to make an introduction. “Mr. Cartwright.” It felt strange to say his name, as if the syllables were glued to her tongue and had to be pried off. “This is my friend, Miss—”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Temperance interjected eagerly, even before the introductions were finished.

  “Prescott.”

  Clearly too dazzled to make the connection, she held out her gloved hand, beaming.

  He bowed over it. “John Cartwright, at your service.”

  John. Her brother’s name was John. Briar knew nothing else about him. Then she recalled the lost dog and wondered if it belonged to his daughter. If she had a niece as well. “I happened to overhear that you are looking for a lost dog that belongs to your . . .”

  “Sister,” he supplied, chagrined.

  She had a sister. Another sister. Though, how would she have known it? It wasn’t as if Father had ever sent a note to tell her, or ever once bothered to inquire about her or her sisters. He hadn’t been present for Mother’s funeral, or for the years leading up to her death. He’d simply vanished from their lives like a carnival magician, only without the poof of smoke and scent of sulfur lingering in the air.

  Michael Cartwright, Lord Frawley, left nothing of himself behind. Aside from his children.

  Now as she looked at her half brother, she wanted to ask him how often he saw their father. Did they live in the same house? How many siblings were there in all?

  But none of those questions were appropriate to ask under the circumstances.

  Thankfully, Temperance filled in when Briar could not find the words to continue. At least, not the right words. “How kind of you to take such measures to find your sister’s dog. My neighbor’s spaniel recently had a litter of eight. And they are as adorable as you could imagine, with soft wavy fur and wet noses. Once they are weened, I’m sure Lady Penrose will be seeking homes for some. If you’d like, I could inquire. Oh, but I do not mean to sound dire when tragedy might very well be on your doorstep. It would be far better if you found your own dog. Alive, of course. And I very much hope that you do.”

  Then again, Temperance wasn’t finding the right words either. If possible, the encounter had just turned even more awkward. Now they had the potential demise of a dog between them.

  “Thank you, Miss Prescott. I should like nothing more than to continue our conversation, but I have an appointment at present. It was, indeed, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” John bowed once more. “And to you, Miss Bourne, I hope we can meet again. But if you are in like-mind with your sisters and would rather not, I understand.”

  It was worse than she thought. Not only did her sisters know about him, but they’d also made the decision for Briar not to meet him. As if she were a child.

  Briar didn’t hesitate before she nodded. He was her brother. They were already connected by blood, even if only now acquainted. “I should like to.”

  “Good. Until then,” he said, settling his hat on his head and striding out of the office.

  At the same moment, the bell above the door chimed and Nicholas appeared. The two men maneuvered past each other, one leaving and the other entering.

  Then Nicholas’s gaze locked on Briar, searching as if he could sense something altered about her. And there was. She was angry and hurt, and yet somehow, it felt like there was less of her now. As if the certainty of who she was had been subtracted from her overall person like counterweights from a scale.

  Reflexively, her feet shifted on the floor, poised to go to him, knowing that if anyone could set her back to rights it was Nicholas. He was always so confident and secure, and she had the overwhelming urge to cross the short distance and find comfort in his arms.

  But he came forward instead and stopped at her side. “Good day, Miss Bourne. Are you”—he paused, his brow drawn into furrows above the bridge of his nose, his voice low—“unwell or in need of assistance?”

  She was oddly glad that he would ask, that he would let her decide whether or not she needed assistance, unlike her family. “I appreciate the offer, more than you can know, but I am well enough.”

  Then Temperance, who had moved over to the window to watch Mr. Cartwright walk past, swept back to them, her gloved hands pressed to her bosom. “He was the most handsome gentleman I’ve ever met. Ever so kind and cordial. Briar, please tell me that you are not in love with him.”

  “I am not. We only just met.”

  “Splendid!” She inhaled all the air in the room, then expelled it in a gusty sigh, her expression bright and eager. “Nicholas, you could have stopped him from leaving. After all, you promised to truss up the gentleman I pointed to and drag him to the altar. Well, I’m pointing.”

  Nicholas was still looking at Briar, his frown deepening. “Who did she just meet?”

  “Mr. John Cartwright,” Temperance supplied dreamily.

  In the same instant, Briar said, “My brother.”

  * * *

  Nicholas had taken everyone for ices in his open landau, the hazy sunlight beaming down on them. What had been a party of three with himself and his cousins now included Briar and her uncle. Yet after the news of Briar’s unexpected encounter with her brother, she was not full of her usual cheer.

  The curve of her lips might fool others into believing that the shock of her experience was over and she was eager—as she claimed—to enjoy the afternoon. But Nicholas knew her better.

  He felt the absence of her vibrancy as if a pint of his own blood had been withdrawn, drained into a leech’s bowl. Though it wasn’t as if she was always bubbly and full of sunshine—that would have annoyed him to no end—but she did have an innate talent for brightening a room. Her usual inclination was to put others at ease, instead of thinking about herself, and he wanted to do the same for her.

  His first instinct had been to lavish her with sweets, knowing how fond she was of them. After ices, he’d gone to a confectionary shop, purchasing a parcel of comfits for her, and also for Temperance. That had earned a squeal of delight from his cousin, but only a polite grin from Briar and a murmured thank you. Her infectious smile remained absent, replaced by a still-life replica, her blue eyes lusterless and distant.

  Now they were touring the park, ambli
ng beneath a long stretch of shade trees. Time was turning toward twilight, well past the fashionable hour that brought crowds here, and the absence left their party with the illusion that they were walking the private grounds of an estate.

  Nicholas had sent Adams up ahead to wait for them with the carriage. Daniel and Eggleston had found a common bond in poetry and had been discussing passages most of the afternoon, oblivious to the trio that lagged far behind and around the bend. Temperance, who was the most relieved that Briar was “not unsettled in the least” over meeting John Cartwright, stopped occasionally to pick flowers and sigh over them, too caught up in her new infatuation to realize her friend’s light had been dimmed.

  “You didn’t have to ply me with sweets to cheer me,” Briar said quietly, her unhurried steps in time with his on the path. “I told you I was not troubled by what occurred at the newspaper.”

  “Never doubted you.”

  She slid him a perturbed glance. “Do not do that to me—say things you clearly do not mean. I can hear your true thoughts in the tone of your voice.”

  “Then do not attempt to fool me either. I know better. Even though I’m only aware of the portion you’ve shared with me, regarding what you and your sisters experienced after your father left and your mother passed away, you still have every right to be bothered.”

  “But I am not,” she insisted, enunciating each syllable. “The fact that my sisters never saw fit to discuss this with me is hardly a new development.”

  “Perhaps they were trying to protect you. To keep you from the pain they knew you would suffer.”

  “I’m certain they think so. But my family should have respected me enough to tell me the truth, allowing me to decide how I would feel instead of keeping me in the dark. And as for you”—she waved an angry hand in the air between them—“I certainly don’t need you to pacify me with sweets as if I were a child.”

  “If I want to buy enough ices and comfits to fill the entire carriage—with the smallest chance that it might bring a genuine smile to those lips—then I will,” he growled, without knowing why he was suddenly so irritated. This was not what he’d intended at all. He wanted to comfort her, not argue with her. Hang it all.