Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking)

by Vivienne Lorret

  But he was not in the carriage alone with Briar. He was in the music room, and inappropriately aroused. This wasn’t even the first time he’d been in such a state in this very room in Briar’s company, and the memory of that first kiss did nothing to cool his ardor.

  So he thought of the one thing that always worked to dampen any and all desires—his inescapable wedding day, the blatant loathing in Marceline’s eyes as he clumsily tried to secure the ring to her finger, the impatient tapping of her foot on the stones of the church floor, hissing, Can you do nothing right, Nicholas beneath her breath.

  And that was all it took. He was, at once, recovered.

  Even so, and as a matter of precaution against any further lapses, he rose and made his excuses to depart. His godmother patted him fondly and begged him to visit Holliford Park.

  “I shall consider it,” he lied, knowing that part of his reason for leaving London was to escape temptation. It would be folly to seek it out at Holliford Park.

  She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and then looked to Briar. “Dear, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you walk him out on my behalf? I see that Mrs. Fitzherbert is preparing to leave as well and there is a matter I should like to discuss with her.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” Briar rose and led the way out of the music room. Once they were in the empty corridor, she said, “I am glad to have a moment alone because there is something important I wanted to tell you.”

  He slowed his steps, his thoughts on their last encounter yet again. “Is this a conversation we should have in private?”

  She shook her head, but the crests of her cheeks were tinged pink, and he knew they were both thinking of the carriage now.

  “I just want you to know that I was sincere earlier . . . about giving up the challenge.”

  He frowned. “And why this sudden decision?”

  “Lately, I’ve realized that I’ve become distracted by the lessons without ever putting them to their intended use.” She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Therefore, you can rest assured that when you return to London you will not have to endure my futile and foolish attempts.”

  “I never thought you were foolish.”

  Briar’s gaze flitted over his features, that new smile on her lips. “Then you are very kind. I shall add that quality to the unwritten list I’ve been making, the one that will never go on an application at the Bourne Matrimonial Agency.” Then she looked away, her attention on the runner beneath their feet. “Besides, you already found your irresistible bride once. The odds aren’t likely even I—born matchmaker that I am—could find another.”

  He didn’t correct her. He was too perturbed by the self-mockery in her tone. Where was the self-assured Briar that he knew? The one who teased him incessantly on this topic? The one who’d conjured seven children and twenty-eight grandchildren for him? And a honeymoon by a lake?

  “You’re giving up without even discussing it with me?”

  “Not entirely. I will honor my part of the bargain.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?” he asked, not disguising the irritation building within him, tightening his jaw, hammering away at the pulse in his throat.

  She stopped near the stairs and laid her hand over his sleeve, her soft gaze imploring. “Please don’t be cross with me. I know how much it means to you to ensure your cousins’ happiness, and I won’t rest until I find their perfect counterparts.”

  That wasn’t why he was bothered. She just didn’t understand.

  Then again, he wasn’t sure he did either. Yet he suspected there was something she wasn’t telling him, so perhaps that was the crux of his irritation.

  The darkened doorway of the parlor stood just behind her and he steered her through it, leaving the door ajar for the sconce light to illuminate her face. He needed to see what she wasn’t saying aloud.

  “There, now you can tell me what this is about. If you are feeling shy because of—”

  “Not with you. Never with you,” she said with a quick shake of her head, lifting her hand to his cheek. “And perhaps that is part of the reason.”

  “It needn’t be.”

  Her quiet laugh was edged with exasperation more than humor. “I truly thought you would be pleased by my announcement, not question my every word. Which confuses me all the more because you are leaving as well.”

  “And I came here to tell you.” When he felt her pull away, he covered her hand with his, keeping her there.

  “It is better that we end the part that was our kissing bargain while it still rests very fondly between us. There is no need to continue, for it would turn our encounters awkward when I visit Temperance in the future. I would not wish that for us.”

  Us. He swallowed. “Awkwardness should never come between us.”

  She nodded once. “Because of you, I’ve learned more about making matches than I’ve dreamed. And more about myself, too. You taught me how to watch people more closely, taking account of the subtle nuances of posture to see what they are really saying. Lesson two about unattractive men . . . well, I suspect it may not be entirely true. In lesson three, I learned that not all rakes think alike, as I was told.” She paused, her mouth tilting in a rueful smirk. “The results of which led to lesson four and how attraction can also feel like a desire to murder. Lesson five taught me that anticipation combined with jealousy should be handled with care or else it can overcome a person in unexpected places . . . like the opera.”

  He saw the memory of it glowing warmly in her eyes. Yes, that was one of his favorite lessons, too.

  “In the next lesson, you proved that a person deserves to find someone who supports them in their endeavors, even if it is to dress up like a man in order to steal into a coffee house. Then, I learned more about myself, and also what happens inside of carriages when the shades are drawn.”

  “That’s only seven,” he said, reaching up to brush his fingertip over the flush of color on the apples of her cheeks. “I have not fulfilled my part of our bargain.”

  “Tonight, you offered two more. The first was one that you’ve been trying to teach me from the very beginning—that some men aren’t inclined to change their minds, no matter how fervent the attempts are to persuade them otherwise. And the second was that a man will always seek what he wants, and nothing will stop him.” She studied him, her gaze searching, imploring.

  All at once, he was tongue-tied and uneasy, his thoughts scrambling to come up with another lesson. They couldn’t leave it this way. He was supposed to give her one more. Leaving their bargain at nine felt too unfinished, too raw.

  “No one else could have put me at ease or made me feel so alive. I’ll always cherish our brief . . . friendship,” she said with a sigh, closing her eyes briefly. Then she slipped her hand free. Briefly, she rested it on his shoulder and, lifting up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Goodbye, Nicholas.”

  Chapter 24

  “With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life . . .”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  For the next fortnight, the sprawling brick manor of Holliford Park became something of a home to Briar once again. Everything around her held memories—Ainsley collecting flowers in the garden, Jacinda climbing the ivy-shrouded trellis to free a kite, Briar floating aimlessly in the rowboat on the lake.

  As a girl, she’d painted watercolors of the green countryside, the rolling hills and clouds for hours on end. She’d lain in the hammock, lazing the days away while woodlarks warbled from the leafy boughs of the trees, and dreaming of when she would finally reach the age of one and twenty and become a woman of the world.

  She didn’t know why that age, in particular, had meant so much to her younger self, but here she was, nonetheless.

  Though, perhaps, she could consider herself a woman of the world now. After all, she had appropriated a rake’s carriage and drunk a flas
k of his driver’s whiskey. She’d accepted an outrageous challenge from a strange woman in a retiring room. Agreed to a kissing bargain with an irredeemable rake. Entered a coffee house disguised as a man. Enjoyed wicked things inside a carriage with the curtains drawn. And . . . she’d fallen in love.

  All things a woman of the world would do. Her younger self likely would have been immensely pleased, if not a bit scandalized.

  Current-day Briar, however, was not pleased or content in the least. She was restless.

  She’d been unable to stay still for two solid minutes at a time until nightfall, only after she’d stirred herself into an exhausted sleep. But even then, her dreams kept her from feeling refreshed.

  Since leaving London she’d been plagued by the same recurring image, of saying goodbye to Nicholas and watching him let her go. And when she awoke each morning, Nicholas was still on her mind.

  She’d tried to stop falling in love with him. Unfortunately, falling in love was like catching a cold—once the symptoms began to present themselves, one was already stricken with the ailment. And she had none of Mrs. Darden’s chicken broth to cure her.

  So she did the next best thing. She’d immersed herself in matchmaking, of course.

  From the very first night here, Mr. Woodlyn had been invited to supper. He came around for tea each afternoon as well. And sometimes, he simply stopped by to ask if anyone staying with the duchess would care for a quick jaunt down the lane in his curricle.

  Since the duchess had mentioned her wish for Mr. Woodlyn to find a bride on several occasions, Briar felt it was her duty to secure one for him before she returned to London. And she already had the perfect candidate in mind: Temperance.

  This time, Briar was taking her time in getting to know everything about Mr. Woodlyn, his family, and his interests.

  Every day, she wrote to her friend to tell her about the handsome young man, describing his blond hair and tall frame in such detail as to arouse her friend’s curiosity. Though, when Temperance’s responses only showed halfhearted interest, Briar doubled her efforts, filling page after page of the insightful things he would say on occasion. And sometimes she would embellish these because, for a cleric, Mr. Woodlyn wasn’t that inspiring.

  Often, Briar had to pinch herself to pay attention and not let her thoughts drift to imagining what it would be like if she were here with Nicholas instead. There would be kissing, she was sure. Lots of kissing.

  But not with Mr. Woodlyn. With him, she kept on her task. When she ran out of questions to ask about his life, she began to tell him about her wonderful friend, listing every single one of Temperance’s fine qualities without the need for a single embellishment.

  “Another letter for Miss Prescott, dear?” the duchess asked as Briar skipped down the stairs and laid the folded missive on the salver.

  Immensely proud of her efforts and believing they would come to fruition, she beamed. “I’ve endeavored to write each day to keep her abreast of all the happenings at Holliford Park.”

  This time, to ensure she ensnared Temperance’s interest, Briar wrote, “such a classically handsome cleric might even make some young woman a very fine husband one day.”

  That should do the trick.

  “I did not realize it was such a thrilling place to be. Though, I suspect Mr. Woodlyn has something to do with that. I think I hear his curricle coming down the lane even now.” The duchess went to the window and looked past the butler who was sweeping the stones beneath the wide portico. “Indeed, it is, and it appears as if he has brought flowers for someone.”

  Stepping up behind her, Briar peered over the top of her dove-gray coiffure to see Mr. Woodlyn holding a bouquet of drooping daisies in the hand where he held the reins. “I wonder why he would do such a thing when you already have flowers aplenty, both in the garden and in every room of the house.”

  After all, it wasn’t as if he was courting anyone. There was no unattached woman here even close to his age other than . . .

  Oh bother.

  * * *

  The instant the post came, Temperance dashed into the foyer, sliding on the hardwood floor and stopping just short of colliding with the milieu table. Eager, she scooped up the letters, shuffling each one behind the other before taking two from the stack.

  If the past fortnight had taught Nicholas anything, he knew one was from Mr. Cartwright and the other from Briar. But he wasn’t sure which one bothered him more.

  Temperance’s growing fondness for Briar’s brother caused a contradiction of emotions within Nicholas. On one hand, he was thrilled to see his cousin’s happiness. Yet, on the other hand, he was worried.

  Temperance had confided in him that she had yet to mention this involvement to Briar and had even omitted using his name in her letters, citing the reason that she was waiting to tell her. Waiting for what, she did not say, but he had his suspicions that the relationship was now of a serious nature.

  Nicholas didn’t think it was possible for two people to fall in love merely from exchanging letters. At least he hoped not, for Briar’s sake.

  Though why he felt any pangs at all for Miss Bourne’s spirits was a mystery to him. After all, as far as her letters to Temperance sounded, she was involved in a romance of her own.

  Mr. Woodlyn featured very prominently in every . . . single . . . correspondence. In fact, he wondered if Briar ever spent a moment out of this young upstart’s company.

  Gritting his teeth at the thought, he absently shuffled through the stack of letters. Of course, he did not find one addressed to him from Briar.

  No, indeed. She’d said her goodbye and clearly had meant it.

  He should feel relieved. He was free of the burden of her company and wistful smiles. Free of the plague of her cornflower blue eyes and the way she hiccupped when she laughed. Free of her romantic scenarios, soft sighs, and cup of chocolate kisses.

  Which she might very well be doling out to Mr. bloody Woodlyn . . .

  “Will you stop your growling? You make it quite impossible to enjoy a good letter,” Temperance said from where she sat on the stairs. She was always too eager to read her mail to even make it beyond the foyer.

  “Good letter, hmm?” He wanted to kick himself as soon as the words came out. Could he be any more transparent?

  She murmured a response, flipping the page over and reading the other side. Casually, he moved closer, resting his forearm on the curled handrail. At a glance, he saw that this letter was from Cartwright, the handwriting at a severe leftward slant. He knew this, of course, because Temperance had dreamily mentioned that Mr. Cartwright was left-handed. Apparently, that simple fact put him on par with Greek gods.

  When she finished, she sighed and pressed it to her bosom, in no hurry to open the next letter. Hang it all.

  “Ah, there you are, Nicholas. I’ve been looking for you.” His mother strode in from the east wing, her grizzled hair set in a heavy twist at her crown, her dark eyes faintly creased at the corners, but not from smiling. He was sure she hadn’t smiled once since his brother’s death.

  He spread his arms, preparing for an embrace he would not receive, but it was more of a jest between them now. “And so you have found me.”

  She arched a thin brow and lifted a letter. Another letter, oh good. His life seemed to be centered around them these past weeks.

  “Mrs. Lake has returned from town. You remember her, do you not?”

  “Yes. Her husband’s hunting cabin was on the far side of the village.” And James and Marceline used to go there during their supposed trips to the market. Nicholas had only learned of it after the accident, however.

  “Precisely. Well, she has stopped there on her way to Northumberland, and has agreed to have dinner with us.”

  Nicholas felt that there was a catch coming next. His mother did not disappoint.

  “She has a daughter, newly out. Lovely girl.”

  “I’m not interested in marriage.”

  “According to the rumors fro
m town, you are considering it.”

  “Since when do you start listening to rumors?” Like the ones surrounding James and Marceline. The ones she’d completely dismissed.

  When Nicholas had confronted her with the irrefutable knowledge he’d received on the day of the carriage accident, Mother had not shown the least ounce of shock. She’d known all along. Then she’d told him, for the sake of his brother’s widow, never to mention it again. And that was what Nicholas had done.

  He was an expert at that—hiding the truth. He was so good in fact that he had yet to confess his own indiscretion to Daniel, and the reasons he’d sent Miss Smithson away. He wanted to explain everything to his cousin. The weight of guilt now pressed on him every single moment, growing heavier each day, and he ached to relieve himself of the burden.

  But something else was also increasing—his fear that Daniel wouldn’t forgive him. That too much time had passed and he’d lost his chance to make amends. And worst of all, that their relationship would be ruined.

  Mother gave him a hard look, clearly not in the mood to reminisce. “Miss Lake is coming to dinner tomorrow evening. I’ll likely invite them to stay until morning.”

  He inclined his head, ready to bid her to do as she wished and that it would change nothing. But then Temperance shot up from the stairs with a gasp and he could think of nothing else.

  “Dear heavens! I think Briar is getting married!”

  Chapter 25

  “Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  From the window, Briar watched the two carriages trundle down the lane toward the village. She wasn’t feeling well enough for a church picnic. At least, that’s what she told the duchess earlier this morning. But the truth was, she couldn’t face Mr. Woodlyn quite yet—not after he’d declared his intentions yesterday.

  Drat it all, but apparently, she was being courted.