Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking)

by Vivienne Lorret

Then they both burst into laughter.

  Shortly thereafter, she learned that Daniel had chosen to linger alone in the library after enduring a quick introduction to the women in the garden.

  “The advert-answering women were quite . . . eager,” Ainsley told her from the doorway as they watched Daniel and Temperance’s carriage trundle away.

  Briar was afraid to ask. “How eager?”

  “The words ravening horde come to mind.”

  Oh dear. Perhaps adverts were not the way to go after all.

  Briar hoped that Nicholas was having better luck with the list of names she’d given him.

  * * *

  Nicholas stood in the foyer, skimming through the letters on the salver, when his cousins strode in. One look at Daniel’s white complexion, crooked cravat, and disheveled hair, and Nicholas surmised that the afternoon at the agency had not gone to plan.

  A sense of desperation rolled through him, guilt leaving a bitter taste on the back of his tongue and churning in the pit of his stomach. The Season was nearing a conclusion and, as of yet, none of the dinners Nicholas and Temperance had arranged, or even the few accidental encounters in the park, were working.

  What more would it take to find Daniel a bride so that they could all forget the Miss Smithson episode for good?

  “It is an utter madhouse over there.” Daniel puffed as if he’d just escaped an angry mob. “I don’t see how Miss Bourne can maintain her cheerful disposition, nor her sanity, when visited by such clients. Why, they’re practically wild creatures, London’s own form of cannibals.”

  “You’re being dramatic. It couldn’t have been that bad. After all, you weren’t in the parlor with me,” Temperance chimed in, rolling her eyes.

  Daniel raked a hand through his hair. “No. I am understating the event out of deference to your maidenly ears. Believe me when I say I would have rather dealt with a dozen Sweet Williams than the horror I faced. I’m covered in so much perfume and powder that I could open a shop. I need a change.” And without waiting another moment, he sulked off toward his rooms.

  Nicholas was caught between confusion and disappointment. “Sweet William?”

  “A long story, one which I’ll explain later.” Teense waved her hand dismissively, peering over his shoulder to the mail in his grasp. “Oh, that one’s for me, I’m sure.”

  Nicholas looked down at it and saw that it was from none other than Mr. John Cartwright. He frowned, his thoughts on Briar.

  Temperance took it and turned it over, her countenance changing from merriment to wonder as she, too, saw the sender’s name.

  “It is from him.” She wasted no time in breaking the red wax seal and opening it, consuming every word in a flash, grinning, and then reading it all over again. “A very good letter. Such a splendid, bold hand.”

  “A very good letter? There are no more than six lines.”

  “Some men make brevity an art,” she all but sighed. “Indeed, a most excellent letter.”

  “And what does Mr. Cartwright want?”

  “To whisk me off to the Mediterranean and feed me olives.” She tucked the note behind her back when he reached out to snatch it, and grinned slyly. “He only wants an introduction to Lady Penrose, in case she would like to sell him one of her new puppies.”

  “Ah.” He felt marginally better at this news. Still, he worried that the association had the potential to unsettle Briar’s spirits, and wanted to shield her from the pain she’d experienced the other day. “Since Lady Penrose is my own neighbor, perhaps I should pen a note in response.”

  Teense tilted her head in puzzlement. “Whyever would you do that when you were not even introduced to him? He wrote the letter to me. Surely you cannot object to one simple exchange.”

  “No, I cannot. I was merely thinking that you would require a few moments to change for dinner this evening. Your friend is coming, is she not?”

  Nicholas already knew the answer. He’d been anticipating this evening with Briar all week, turning into a clock and calendar watcher. But he was apprehensive about the trip to the coffee house later as well, uncertain that any costume could make her resemble a man.

  “She is, but Briar has been here dozens of times. Tonight is hardly any different, and Mother has already approved the menu and table settings.” She gave an absent shrug before gliding toward the staircase, the letter firmly in her grasp. “Therefore, I have plenty of time to send a missive to Mr. Cartwright.”

  Nicholas had a sinking suspicion that this would be only the first of many to come. But he would not be the one to tell Briar. Especially not tonight.

  Chapter 20

  “There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  As soon as she changed into her costume, Briar couldn’t wait to take her trousers off. The wool scratched at tender skin usually accustomed to soft cambric and muslin. And they fit too snugly.

  Her waist had narrowed from girlhood—when she’d last worn them—to womanhood and, when she’d made the alterations, she’d forgotten to account for the voluminous tails of the shirtwaist. Tucking in the folds caused a tight cinching over her midriff and against the rounder shape of her hips.

  Of course, it mightn’t have been so terrible if she hadn’t gobbled up a large portion of steamed pudding at dinner tonight. Now, every brandy-soaked currant turned to the size of a stone at the bottom of her stomach.

  Nerves had gotten the better of her appetite. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Apparently, it had seemed like a good plan to avoid thinking about disguising herself as a man by eating like a half-starved wolf in a sheep’s pasture. And all because she wanted to learn their innermost thoughts.

  Slouching on the red velvet bench—men were notorious slouchers, after all—Briar rubbed a hand over her waistcoat, feeling the small bulge of overindulgence. Her own little pudding infant. Giving it a pat, she giggled at the notion.

  And that was how Nicholas found her.

  He stalled briefly in the open carriage door, the lanterns illuminating the shadows beneath the brim of his hat, nose, and jaw. He said nothing as he slipped inside, shutting out the light. And he didn’t utter a single syllable after he tapped on the roof and the carriage set off.

  She sat up, bracing her hands on either side as Adams rounded a corner. “Aren’t you going to tell me if I look convincing?”

  Nicholas lit the lantern inside, keeping the flame low. But it was enough to illuminate his warm gaze, roving the length of her. “Quite fetching, Miss Bourne. Those trousers are so snug, you might as well be wearing nothing at all.”

  She blushed, suddenly aware of every woven stitch on her skin. Shifting, she made an attempt to look unaffected, even confident. “You’re supposed to tell me that I look like a man, you cad.”

  A man dressed in everyday attire. But when his gaze drifted up to her breasts, and her nipples grew taut beneath her layers, she felt very much a woman in revealing clothes. Even though she’d bound her breasts in a strip of linen, the fitted waistcoat barely concealed the swells.

  “That, I cannot do. A young dandy, perhaps, if the room is dark enough and if you do not speak. Though in truth, every delectable inch of you is feminine. But who tied your cravat?”

  “I found a book on different knots in my uncle’s library and I’ve been studying them.”

  Widening his legs, he leaned forward and tugged her to the edge of her seat across from him. Without a word, he began to untie her knot, deftly undressing her. Sure, it was only a cravat, but the action was so intimate that her stomach clenched sweetly at the mere thought of what it would be like if he kissed her while doing this.

  She wet her lips, her tongue meeting the acrid flavor of the face paint she’d used to hide their color. Intent on his task, he didn’t seem aware of the swift rousing of her imagination.

  He bared her throat, the air warm and damp against her skin. He hesitated for an instant, keeping her exposed. Then his fingertip brushed the pulse
that fluttered beneath her jaw, making her conscious of every rapid beat. The tender touch coasted downward in a slow simmering path along her neck, tracing the vulnerable niche, skimming inside.

  “You are far too soft to be a man,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes gleaming black and hungry.

  A thrill raced through her as she recognized that look. “Am I?”

  “Therefore”—he cleared his throat—“you’ll need to wear your cravat higher to conceal your lack of an Adam’s apple.” Then without delay, he adroitly rearranged the folds until her bare flesh was completely covered.

  A disappointed breath stuttered out of her. Of course she wasn’t hoping to be ravished here in the carriage, but there was nothing wrong with sharing a small illicit moment, like the one they’d shared at the opera. Was there? “And I thought rakes would only be skilled at removing clothing, but you would make an exceptional valet.”

  “Not if I were your valet, love,” he said darkly. The crook of his fingers grazed along her jaw to a finely angled patch of stubble she’d applied to give herself the appearance of side whiskers beneath her uncle’s borrowed wig. “And what is this?”

  “A whisker paste I concocted. It was inspired by the fine powder left behind on the work table after Mrs. Darden had finished chopping walnuts. I combined them with a bit of egg white to make it stick.”

  “Yet another of your accomplishments—to see potential where others would only see rubbish.” He smiled, the night turning his irises a deep, velvety cocoa as he pressed a brief kiss to her forehead.

  “I have a hopeful nature,” she said, closing her eyes to savor this moment, eagerness for the night to unfold swimming inside her heart. And it was all possible because of Nicholas.

  In this—what she considered lesson six—she learned that rakes could be quite sweet. He listened to her and supported her endeavors. He treated her as if her own aspirations mattered to him as well. Precisely the qualities that one should seek in an ideal counterpart.

  Briar couldn’t have asked for a better tutor. Was there another man who would have gone to such lengths? She was certain there wasn’t. Without a doubt, he would make a fine husband.

  She truly ought to begin an earnest search for his potential bride, one of these days.

  Just then, the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the coffee house.

  Briar made a fuss of fitting her hat onto her wig, with her head turned so that Nicholas wouldn’t see how nervous she was. “Remember, no coddling me or shielding me. I’m a man, after all.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “And no words of encouragement either,” she said, hoping he didn’t hear the tremor in her voice. “Just a slap on the shoulder will do.”

  Nicholas just looked at her for a minute, the brim of his hat shielding his eyes so that she couldn’t see what he was thinking. Then he reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and slipped out of the door.

  Inside the coffee house, it was dark and crowded. A thick haze of smoke and the bitter scent of burnt coffee perfumed the air, and she could barely hear herself think over the low roar of conversation. It was absolutely perfect.

  Nicholas shouldered his way through and found a place at one of the long tables. Briar followed close behind, bumping shoulders without the slightest wince, even though her arm might very well fall off before she made it to the table. She was a man, after all, capable and confident, not given to gasps and whimpers, not even when she took an elbow to the breast. But drat it all, that had hurt!

  Sinking into the chair beside Nicholas, she noted the hard, unforgiving lines of his profile, the muscle ticking with agitation near the hinge of his jaw, belying his usual easy manner. He looked fierce and ready for a fight. She clenched her teeth, hoping that by some miracle she had a jaw muscle, too.

  Nicholas lifted his hand for a serving wench. It wasn’t until then that Briar suddenly remembered she’d forgotten her money. She’d left her reticule in a satchel in the carriage. Of course, the canary yellow silk bag would never have looked smart with this burgundy coat, she thought, as a rise of nerves nearly erupted in giggles.

  He glanced at her sharply and laid two pennies on the table. The serving wench swiped them up summarily and left two dishes of coffee.

  Briar wrinkled her nose at the foul-smelling brew. An entire penny for this? Since they were here, couldn’t they at least have chocolate? But when she lifted her gaze to Nicholas, he must have known her question for he shook his head, the hint of a smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth. Reluctantly, she took a sip of coffee, and shuddered as it went down.

  “And who is your friend, Edgemont?” The question came from a short gentleman with a booming voice, and a raised pint. He looked as if he’d had a few already, considering the way he raised his other hand to hold his hat to the crown of his head.

  Nicholas greeted him with an offhand nod. “Roderick, this is Mr. Barret, steward of my cousin’s estate, visiting London in the hopes of finding a wife.”

  Roderick sketched a bow with his pint, still holding firm to his hat, and making her wonder if there was an epidemic of hat thievery here. “Sir, what news have you from Tripoli?”

  Briar fought the urge to look to Nicholas for a clue to what she should say in response. Tripoli? Instead she squared her shoulders. Then with a few coughs, as if she’d lived with a pipe between her teeth since infancy and it had worn away the lining of her throat, she adopted the bluster she’d used in the play. “News, sir? It is dry and hot.”

  The men around her chuckled and she felt a measure of relief.

  Unfortunately, Roderick wasn’t done with Mr. Barret.

  “Are you referring to the weather or to your bride hunt?” he asked, earning a low rumble of laughter. “If it is the latter, perhaps Edgemont here can offer a fair bit of advice. Rumors abound that he could be married by year’s end.”

  A great cheer rose through the hall and someone slopped a pint of ale in front of Nicholas, while others slapped him on the back.

  Nicholas kept to his dish of coffee. “I can confirm that the rumors are wholly false.”

  “There are reports that you were seen at the opera, escorting a certain young woman who is the niece of an infamous matchmaker. Do you deny it?”

  Beside him, Briar held her breath. The association was a bit too close for comfort for either of them. If anyone peered closely, she might very well be ruined.

  Even so, part of her was squealing with glee on the inside. How wondrous was it that the agency was mentioned in the coffee house! She almost wished she could put up an advertisement or leave her card . . .

  “It seems to me that Roderick has so much to say on the topic of matrimony that we all must wonder why he is not home with his wife,” Nicholas quipped, gaining hearty laughs and comments about how Roderick should worry about satisfying his own.

  Not short of the need for attention, apparently, Roderick altered the topic to politics, and it rolled through the crowd, picked up by supporters and naysayers.

  Briar expelled a sigh of relief.

  Now with the crisis over, she took in the room with the intention of memorizing every detail. In the far corner, three men were shouting lines of Shakespearean insults at each other in some sort of a game, proclaiming a merry “What ho!” every time they took a hearty swig of ale.

  A few paces ahead, a man with a pencil nub behind his ear was reading poetry aloud from a pocket ledger, but only a few words were discernable by the time they reached her. Nevertheless, hearing sunlight and beauty, followed by far sight and duty gave her the impression that it was a love poem.

  Next to him was a man whose fingers were as black as the charcoal in his grasp. He was angled away enough for her to see that he was drawing a sketch of a woman with lovely long hair and—oh—bare breasts as well.

  She looked to Nicholas and he turned his head to meet her gaze. He had not shielded her as if she were too fragile for such an adventure. He had not changed his
mind or decided to rush her out the door. Instead, he treated her like a fully-grown woman, one capable of making her own decisions and experiencing life’s pleasures.

  A swift rush of warmth and lightness filled her, too great to be contained. She was sure her heart would burst at any moment. “It’s all just as grand as I thought it would be. Maybe even more.”

  Nicholas offered a short nod and nudged the pint in front of her. “For you, Barret. You’ve earned it for surviving your first verbal fencing match in a coffee house.”

  Briar gripped the cup with both of her black-gloved hands. “Thank you, Edgemont.”

  Her upper lip tingled as it broke through the fragrant head of foam, and she hummed in delight as she took a long pull of the warm, yeasty brew, thinking that lesson seven might have been her favorite of all. Her tutor deserved an exceptional reward. And she couldn’t wait to submit her payment.

  Chapter 21

  “I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Nicholas checked over his shoulder one more time, nerves frayed, muscles coiled tighter than a spring.

  The past half hour had been hell. With Briar disguised as a man, he’d been on constant guard, ready for accusations or attacks. Ready to defend her honor. Ready to fight for her if someone discovered her true identity. No matter what he had to do, he would have done it.

  He let out a disbelieving breath when he realized they were not being followed. How could they not have seen her every blush, every luscious curve? Those men were all blind idiots. And one thing was for certain, Nicholas would never put himself through the agony of having her so vulnerable and exposed again. This was the last adventure for Miss Briar Bourne that he would be party to.

  Intending to tell her that very thing, Nicholas climbed into the carriage after her. But he barely had time to close the door before Briar launched herself into his arms.

  “That was the most excellent night of my life!”