The Matchmaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  Frustrated by this new complication, Neville shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled down at his boots. He was no good at moving about in proper society anymore. He should have stayed at Woodford Court, far from the social circles he’d abandoned four years ago. There he could drink himself into oblivion every night and not care whom he insulted with his crude manner.

  But Woodford Court was in dire straits and its people relied on him to improve their lives. It was the one thing that kept him going. He’d failed everyone else in his life, but the people of Kelso still needed him, and he was terrified of failing them too. That’s why he’d ventured down to the races at Doncaster with its large purses and so many wealthy nabobs in attendance. Success with the stables was the fastest way to accumulate the funds he needed to increase the productivity of his people. And putting the fallow fields of Byrde Manor to good use was the surest way to keep them productive.

  “I’ve saddled Robin for you,” Bart said, coming up behind him. “I’ll bring Kitti around shortly.”

  Neville turned to his trainer and took the reins of the spirited bay gelding. “Good. Good,” he repeated. “Today the trial runs. Tomorrow the first of the races.”

  But tonight … tonight would be his trial run, his first test. For Miss Byrde and her mother were certain to attend the reception and ball the Cummingses had planned to kick off the week of festivities at Doncaster. He could either continue to act like the crude oaf he was, or he could call on the manners his own mother had so long ago drummed into him and behave as he knew he should. For that, however, he might have to swear off drinking, and the very thought chilled him.

  “Business first,” he muttered. “You can drink yourself blind once you return home.”

  “What’s that?” Bart said, coming out of the stables leading the racehorse.

  “Nothing. Just … Just a prayer. For success,” he added, knowing his devout trainer would approve.

  “Aye, a prayer for success for our noble Kitti,” Bart said, smoothing the mare’s forelock.

  But Neville felt no compulsion to pray for Kitti. She was a natural racer and her success was ensured. It was his own that worried him. And though it should not, Miss Olivia Byrde’s unsettling entrance into his life had somehow made it seem much more difficult.

  Olivia spent the morning seething. She’d barricaded herself in the library, even going so far as to lock the door. But Neville Hawke had hot followed her this time. He’d been every bit as crude and insulting as before, but at least he’d not followed her.

  How was she possibly to keep these two incidents to herself? It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t going to be cast in his path again. But they were guests in the same household, come to Doncaster for the same purpose, and bound to encounter one another at all the same social and sporting events.

  Her stomach let out an unbecoming growl and she halted her pacing. She hadn’t gone in to breakfast for fear of finding him there. The fact that she’d spied him and another man riding out with several horses a half hour ago hadn’t been sufficient to draw her to the dining room either. For her mother and Penny Cummings must be up by now, and she had no particular desire to face them. She was that angry and unsettled by the awful Lord Hawke.

  Her stomach growled again and she flung herself into a chair. She flipped her journal open and ruffled through the pages. How could he have thought her that sort of woman? What in her writing could possibly suggest that sort of lewd behavior?

  “He needs no such excuses,” she muttered. “A coarse mind such as his could create filth in anything.” Still she searched. Keeps a fine stable. She turned a page. Rather an earthy sort. Generous natured. She flipped to still another entry. Excessively attached to his mother.

  What was there to misunderstand in any of that? Then she turned to a blank page and reached for the pen and inkwell she’d located in a desk drawer.

  “Lord H.,” she began, saying the words out loud as she wrote. “Drinks too much. Ill-mannered and altogether too bold.” She tapped the feather end of the quill against her chin. “Though rough-edged, he is tall and reasonably handsome,” she continued, pursing her lips in disapproval. “But he proves the rule that looks can be deceiving.”

  Ill-suited for marriage, she added, underlining it twice.

  She would write more about him later, she decided. It would be interesting to see whether he tried to correct her initial reaction to him. As for herself, she meant to stay aloof and distant from him. Very distant. Under no circumstances would she allow herself to be caught alone with that man again. But she should not appear so rude as to arouse her mother’s suspicions. That would never do. Fortunately Lord Holdsworth would capture most of Augusta’s attention.

  Olivia blotted her entry with a bit of felt then closed her book. Only four more days, then she would be gone from here, never to deal with the awful Lord Hawke again.

  God grant her the strength to endure it.

  Neville was elated—and he wanted a drink to celebrate. He wanted it in the worst way. But he had set himself a test and he was bound to pass it. No drinking until tonight’s ball, and then only watered wine.

  “She’s a mover,” Holdsworth admitted, clapping him on the back. “How many years will you run her before breeding her?”

  “A season or two on the courses is all I expect of her.”

  “I want her first foal—colt or filly, it matters naught. I want her first foal, Hawke, unless you will change your mind and sell her to me now. The offer I made earlier still stands, and I’ll match any other offers you might receive.”

  Neville nodded and winked at Bart. Kitti had placed first in the trials today, outshining several very good animals. As such she would have the coveted inside position for tomorrow’s race. His blood roared, pumping exhilaration throughout his body. Bringing the horses to Doncaster had been a good decision. Though he’d dreaded it, perhaps all would work out as he’d hoped.

  “I’ll keep your offer in mind,” he said. “There’s still tomorrow’s race to be run.”

  “When will we see your other animal put through his paces? He’s a fine-looking one.” Just then Holdsworth was jostled from behind and the tumbler he held sloshed whisky over the side.

  Neville inhaled the sweet pungent scent of it. “Soon. Soon enough,” he said, staring hungrily at the amber liquid.

  Cummings had invited his houseguests plus a few locals for an end-of-the-day drink at the Eel and Elbow, Doncaster’s finest public house. So far Neville had avoided spirits, only a mug of ale to assuage his thirst. But he could feel the siren call of the stronger stuffs.

  Bart nudged him. “D’ye want to check Kitti’s leg before I take ’er back to the stables, milord?”

  Neville glanced at him, relieved at the interruption. Did Bart see how hard temptation rode him? He grimaced, but without rancor. Bart and Otis knew him better than any other men. They’d seen him roaring drunk one night, and deathly ill the next morn. They knew he sat up at night and slept until early afternoon. If they disapproved of the choices he sometimes made, they did not say. The common link they shared was the stables at Woodford, and the horses.

  “I’ll see the rest of you this evening,” Neville said to his other companions. “I’ve horses to tend.”

  “Hold on a minute! Here’s a toast to the fillies,” Cummings said, raising his glass.

  “And to the fillies we shall encounter at the ball,” Holdsworth added, hoisting his glass high and grinning. “We shall need our dancing shoes tonight, lads.”

  Neville raised his empty glass with the rest of the happy crowd. Then with Bart behind him, made his escape from the tavern.

  They rode the one mile out of town in silence. It had been a good day, a good beginning, and he breathed deep of the warm afternoon air. The smell of drying hay and warm horseflesh added to his contentment, as did the sun lingering late in the clear August sky. Soon enough the cool winds would arrive, and behind them the winter. By then he would be back among his peop
le, hunkered down for the season with only his chores and the breeding mares to tend.

  But if it was difficult to abstain from drinking now, it would be more so then. He rubbed one knuckle along the scar on his jaw. He knew from experience that he did his heaviest drinking during the long dark months of winter. It would be nearly impossible to fight his night demons without the numbing effects of whisky. He wasn’t certain he could succeed. The whisky deadened his nerves, keeping the awful memories at bay, memories of a night spent in hell, a night thick with screams and death, and swimming with blood.

  He swallowed hard. A night he could have prevented if he’d just stayed awake.

  He shuddered, suddenly overwhelmed by the need for a drink. What did it matter if he drank himself sick? a resigned voice in his head whispered. After all, he had no one to impress with his sobriety—or lack thereof.

  Then an image of Olivia Byrde flashed unexpectedly through his mind and he clung to it in relief. She would be there tonight, tempting him almost as fiercely as would Cummings’s fine stock of brandies. He ran a hand through his hair. No doubt she would work very hard to avoid him. But so long as he remained sober, he could think of no good reason to let her succeed.

  “No drinking,” he said out loud.

  “Very good, milord,” Bart agreed.

  Neville gave him a sidelong glance. He’d nearly forgotten the man’s presence. “No drinking,” he repeated, shifting in the saddle. “But I will see if I can remember how to dance.”

  Augusta adjusted the curl that lay against Olivia’s cheek. “You will break hearts tonight, my dear. Why, just look at you. Normally I would not care for that particular shade of coral. Too much orange for my delicate complexion. However, I must say Madame Henri was correct, for it suits you so very well. You look absolutely stunning. Even your eyes seem to sparkle with more color than is their wont.”

  “Do you think so?” Olivia stared doubtfully at herself in the mirror. To be sure, her new gown was lovely, and such a pleasant change from the pastels her mother insisted she wear in town. Also, her hair was being most cooperative this evening. That new lavender rinse must be the reason it looked so soft and shiny.

  But what accounted for the flush of color in her cheeks, and the glints of emerald and gold in her eyes? She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. She hated to think that nervous anticipation about encountering the awful Lord Hawke might actually enhance her appearance.

  “It must be the country air,” she said, turning away from the looking glass. “I told you I was weary of the crush in town.”

  “I feel obliged to warn you, then, that there should be quite a crush tonight. According to Penny, her ball is one of the biggest events of the year in Doncaster. There will be all sorts of new gentlemen here, not just the town society which you seem uninterested in of late, but at least one viscount, and several very wealthy squires.”

  Augusta removed her pearl earbobs and screwed on her favorite opals instead. She twisted her head from side to side, admiring the way they dangled and swayed. “By the by,” she continued. “Did you hear? That Hawke fellow that we’ve yet to meet, he is actually Lord Hawke, Baron Hawke of Woodford Court. You won’t remember, but Woodford Court is just a mile or so from Byrde Manor.”

  At that bit of startling news Olivia spun around, one of her gloves tugged but halfway up her arm. “Are you certain?” she asked, her voice high-pitched and strained.

  “Oh yes,” Augusta blithely continued. “We didn’t know them well, for they were abroad quite often while your father and I were in Scotland. But I did meet them once or twice. Lovely family. He was just a lad then, twelve or so, I’d say. Away at school most of the time. I’m told that the rest of his family is dead now. His parents and his brother.”

  Augusta paused. “Did I mention that he’s unmarried?” she added, her voice rousing from its somber musing. “Baron Neville Hawke of Woodford Court, never wed and nearly thirty. Tsk, tsk. Well, here’s your opportunity, Olivia. You’ve been complaining about the gentlemen of the ton. Unless Lord Hawke is one of those awful Scottish bumpkins, bearded and too robust for proper manners, you may find him quite to your tastes.”

  Olivia listened to her mother with growing dread. That man was her neighbor? An odd shiver marked its way up her back. God help her if her mother took a liking to Lord Hawke as a son-in-law. “Are you so eager to marry me off that you would consign me to the wilds of Scotland, you who have ever found excuses to avoid visiting Byrde Manor?”

  “I have nothing against Scotland, Olivia. Nor against Byrde Manor. In truth, the years I spent there were the best part of my marriage to your father. It was only in town—” She broke off and waved her hand. “Never mind all that. I enjoy country life and town life. It’s only that Byrde Manor is a little too remote for me. However, your tastes differ from mine. I believe we both can agree on that. Come now,” she added, tugging the scooped neckline of her bodice down another half inch. “Tis time for the two of us to make our entrance.”

  Entrance indeed, Olivia fretted, tugging her own bodice up. She did not want to see Lord Hawke, her neighbor. She stifled a muttered oath. If that man ruined her visit to Byrde Manor with his maddeningly arrogant manner—if he so much as raised one of his arrogant brows at her or smirked a mocking smirk—

  She jerked the door open and started out. She didn’t know exactly what she would do. But she knew she would not let him get away with it.

  Neville had positioned himself in the entry hall with a clear view of the stairs. He’d finally introduced himself to his hostess earlier in the day and resolved to be on his best behavior tonight. It had not been difficult to charm Penelope Cummings, and when she spied him now, she hurried toward him smiling.

  “Lord Hawke. How fortuitous that you are downstairs. I thought that you, Lord Holdsworth, and Lady Dunmore, as our ranking guests, might agree to stand in the receiving line with Mr. Cummings and myself.”

  He gave her an admiring glance, then bent low with a gallant flourish. Were it not for her annoying voice and nervous, fluttering manner, he might consider her a handsome woman. “I would be honored.”

  “Very good.” She coyly patted his arm with her fan. “I don’t believe you’ve met Lady Dunmore yet, nor her daughter, Miss Olivia Byrde. Ah, here they are now.”

  Neville straightened at once and stared up at the dual curving stair that led from the warren of rooms that made up the upper levels of the Cummingses’ manse. Two women paused at the head of the rosewood stairway, two women equally lovely, but without the least similarity between them, he saw. Lady Dunmore was exquisite. Small and fair, she looked hardly old enough to parent the young woman at her side. Then he turned his gaze intently to the daughter.

  Olivia Byrde was taller and more curvaceous then her mother, and her coloring was that of a Scotswoman, tempered only marginally by her English heritage. Auburn hair instead of red; hazel eyes instead of green. She had patrician features, yet colored with an earthy palette. He’d berated himself for mistaking her for a harlot, but he could understand now why he’d done so. Any number of women could be termed beautiful. But this particular one possessed also an innate sensuality. She was the sort of woman any man would desire. He most certainly did.

  The two began their descent, the mother clearly conscious of the entrance she made. Olivia, however, appeared less self-assured. Was it on account of him?

  One corner of his mouth turned up. He certainly hoped so.

  “… my particular friend,” Mrs. Cummings nattered on as the women reached them. But Neville only had eyes for Olivia. And she, to his great pleasure, stared fixedly at him.

  Did the glint in those lovely eyes bode good or ill for him? Whichever it was, he meant to turn it to his advantage. He would charm Miss Olivia Byrde and her mother, and gain those land leases no matter what it took. And perhaps, if he was lucky, he would take a little pleasure in the process as well.

  Chapter 6

  “May I have this dance?”

&n
bsp; Olivia steeled herself against the beguiling darkness in Neville Hawke’s voice. She’d been anticipating this moment all evening, ever since he’d bent so gallantly over her hand at their introduction. Since then he’d played at being a perfect gentleman. She knew because for the past two and a half hours she’d surreptitiously watched him.

  He’d stood in the receiving line, so incredibly handsome and well mannered she could hardly credit that he was the same man with whom she’d already had two unfortunate runins. Then he’d circulated, speaking amiably with the men and dancing with his hostess, as well as several other women. It seemed now that she was next.

  “Thank you,” she answered, her voice cool, her expression bland. “But I am not keen on dancing.”

  He gave her a half-smile that was wholly masculine—and wholly dangerous. “You’ve accepted invitations from three other men. If you turn me down, you will hurt my feelings.”

  “How that shall worry me,” she quipped. “I doubt you have any feelings,” she added, though not so loud that anyone else might overhear.

  “You will hurt my feelings,” he repeated. “And you will rouse your mother’s curiosity.”

  Olivia glanced swiftly to the circle around her mother. Sure enough, Augusta was staring at her and Lord Hawke. When Augusta smiled and waved, Olivia gave her an answering nod, then looked away. She raised her chin a notch and glared at him, all the while tapping her fan against her palm. “I thought we had an agreement.”

  “Yes. An agreement to be civil. And I, for one, think it would be grossly uncivil of me not to invite the most beautiful woman in the room to dance.”

  Olivia averted her eyes. She was accustomed to effusive compliments from gentlemen, and she was adept at separating the sincere from the perfunctory and from the out-and-out false. Still, she had to force herself not to gape at his words.