The Matchmaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  “Too? Who else is in love with him?”

  “Why, Olivia, of course.” Augusta gave Sarah a kiss upon her freckled nose. “She just doesn’t want to admit it.”

  Chapter 13

  They departed the next morning, a scant hour after dawn. Mrs. McCaffery, Sarah, and Olivia rode in the traveling coach with the trunks strapped behind and a guard in the front box with John, their driver. Lord Hawke, his trainer, and his jockey rode alongside, leading Kitti, Kestrel, and one other horse. They’d sold all their other animals.

  In the forecourt Olivia had greeted Lord Hawke curtly, rattled to the core by the very sight of him. She climbed straightaway into the coach while Sarah and Mrs. McCaffery lingered with Augusta, who introduced them to Lord Hawke.

  The conniving snake, Olivia fumed. He knew she did not want him to accompany them, not after that kiss. Every time she thought about that kiss she wanted to die, and seeing him … Seeing him even as briefly as she did unnerved her completely.

  She perched on the forward seat and tried to compose herself. Neville Hawke was a snake and he should never have taken her mother’s obvious bait. But that was precisely why he’d made the offer to Augusta to accompany the carriage. He was a snake and a rake, and he knew how profoundly that kiss had affected her.

  Olivia threw her bonnet on the seat opposite her. He’d made the offer because he’d known Augusta would accept, and that Olivia would object.

  Now as they pulled out of the long gravel drive and turned onto the York highway headed north, Olivia struggled to maintain her calm. It was a good day for traveling, she told herself. Cloudy and hopefully not so hot as it had been of late. The traces jingled in the quiet morning air. The horses’ regular hoofbeats and the rhythmic swaying of the well-sprung coach should have added to her contentment, for this was a journey she’d longed for these several years and more.

  Yet try as she might, Olivia could not work up the anticipation she should have felt. They would be three long days getting to Byrde Manor. Three days in Neville Hawke’s constant proximity. She wasn’t certain she could endure it.

  Mrs. McCaffery dozed off and on all morning. Sarah read the novel Olivia had brought for herself, laughing out loud at Emma’s matchmaking antics. “You should have read this before you tried to match up Lillian and Mr. Chelton,” she remarked. She laid the book down and yawned, then eyed her older sister. “I bet you could write stories like this, Livvie. Perhaps we could write one together.”

  Olivia only gave her a halfhearted smile, then turned back to the window. If she were inclined to write anything at all, it would be a book of advice and instruction to warn unsuspecting women of the terrible attraction of handsome rogues—and the terrible, terrible danger.

  Sarah fell asleep against Mrs. McCaffery’s ample bosom. The carriage rumbled on through the pretty Yorkshire countryside and Olivia stewed glumly over her unhappy circumstances. That she did not once lay eyes on Neville Hawke was both a relief and an irritant. He and his entourage rode ahead of them to avoid the dust the heavy carriage raised. By the time they stopped outside of Selby to water the horses and refresh themselves, Olivia had worked herself up into quite a state. Just let Neville Hawke say one provoking word. Just one.

  As they alighted he and his men were releasing their horses in a small corral. Sarah, impulsive as ever, made a beeline for their side, and Olivia could have cried. She did not want to deal with Neville Hawke. Not now, not ever. But there was no way to avoid it. So gritting her teeth and stiffening her resolve—and ignoring the violent thudding of her heart—she marched in her sister’s wake. “Come along, Sarah. We have little enough time as it is. You must not waste it hanging about the stables.”

  But Sarah’s attention was firmly fixed upon Neville, “I’m a very good rider. Just ask Olivia. She says I have a natural seat.”

  After a brief glance at Olivia, he turned to the child. “Have you started to jump yet?”

  “Oh, yes—”

  “When?” Olivia interrupted. She had a sneaking suspicion where this was heading. “When have you begun jumping?”

  Sarah slanted a look and a smile at her sister. “James started me this spring, when you and Mother were preoccupied. Remember?” Her eyes sparked with mischief. “You had turned down Harold Prine’s proposal and Mother was so disappointed she took to her sickbed and demanded you tend her.”

  “Poor Mr. Prine,” Lord Hawke remarked, arching one brow at Olivia. “Did he also take to his sickbed in disappointment?”

  Olivia glared at him but did not bother to answer. Sarah, however, laughed out loud. “Probably. He’s just the sort that would.” Then spying Olivia’s angry countenance, she added, “Don’t worry, Livvie. I’m relieved you didn’t marry old Harry. He kept a terrible stable. Nothing like Lord Hawke’s handsome animals.”

  “You think you’ve succeeded in changing the subject, Sarah, but you have not. You know how Mother feels about you jumping too early. And our ne’er-do-well of a brother knows it too.”

  “You can hardly call it jumping,” Sarah protested. “Only one bar. Not even knee high, Livvie.”

  “Do you jump?” Lord Hawke directed his question at Olivia, and also his unnerving gaze.

  She met it, determined not to let him know how profoundly unsettled he made her. “Yes, I jump. But I did not begin until I was nearly fourteen.”

  “But you wanted to jump sooner,” Sarah threw in. “You told me that once.”

  Olivia resisted the urge to sigh, for Sarah made a very good point. Their mother was an indifferent rider and tended to be excessively cautious about her daughters’ interest in horses. That made it very hard for Olivia to argue Augusta’s position, for she did not entirely agree with it. “Yes, I did chafe at Mother’s restrictions,” she finally admitted. “But I was subject to her wishes then, as you are now. Come.” She caught Sarah by the hand. “Let us get our dinner so we can continue on.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Sarah grumbled, reluctantly giving in to Olivia’s demand. “I spent the last two days in that carriage, and now today. I’m tired of being cooped up like that.”

  “Would you like to ride with me?”

  Olivia and Sarah both looked up at Lord Hawke’s offer. Though the invitation was clearly meant for Sarah, it was at Olivia he stared. “I’ll take very good care of her,” he added. “Absolutely no jumping.”

  “Oh, please, Livvie. Please?” Sarah bounced up and down, clinging tightly to Olivia’s hand. “Please let me ride. I’ll be very good. I promise. Please?”

  Olivia gritted her teeth. She was trapped, just as she’d feared she would be. Though only twelve, Sarah was turning out to be every bit as manipulative as their mother. No doubt this was precisely what the girl had been angling for from the moment she’d stepped down from the coach. And unfortunately, Neville Hawke had once again taken the bait.

  Now she was caught in the position of either being an ogre to her sister or else opening herself to the exact sort of camaraderie between herself and Lord Hawke which she had meant assiduously to avoid.

  She tightened her hands on the strings of her reticule, determined not to be swayed by Sarah’s pleading. But it was oh, so hard. How clearly she could remember her mother’s strict rules—and her stepfather’s many welcome interventions.

  “Perhaps you would like to ride with us as well?”

  At Lord Hawke’s offer Olivia stiffened and shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “But I can go?”

  Sarah’s voice was simply too hopeful to deny. With a sharp exhalation, Olivia conceded the fight—not the complete battle, just this one particular little skirmish. “All right. If Lord Hawke is willing to have you as his companion, you may ride a while with him. But not all afternoon. Just an hour or so.”.

  The last of her words was drowned out by Sarah’s whoops of joy.

  “Really, Sarah. Such behavior in so public a place would shock our mother.”

  “But not you, Livvie.” With an effort th
e girl schooled her features into a more sedate expression. But her sparkling eyes could not hide her excitement. It struck Olivia that she had not seen that sort of brightness in her sister’s eyes in the two years since the child’s father had died. As quickly as that any lingering objections about Sarah’s ride fled. What real harm was there if the child rode with the man?

  Still, Olivia did not want Neville Hawke to assume anything from her capitulation. He’d already presumed far too much with her. “Now, then.” She folded her hands primly. “If that is settled, may we adjourn to our dinner?”

  Olivia kept Mrs. McCaffery close in the private dining room they took. Somehow the older woman’s presence kept their small party from feeling too intimate. Sarah’s enthusiasm for horses found a ready match in Neville Hawke, freeing Olivia to consume her chicken pie and creamed potatoes and observe him—while all the while pretending to ignore him.

  Unfortunately she found the afternoon portion of their journey even more trying than the morning portion.

  Though she had more space in the carriage and more privacy—for once again Mrs. McCaffery slept—Olivia was more restless than ever. Neither her novel, nor a knitting project she’d brought along, nor even the beauty of the passing countryside could hold her interest. What matter the brilliant purple of the heather just coming into flower, or the quaint streets of York? At another time her face would have been pasted to the window, savoring every sight, noting crumbling Roman walls, grand country estates, and towering church spires. This was a part of England she did not know well, but certainly wished to. Only she was too distracted—and she knew why.

  But that just annoyed her all the more.

  Across from her Mrs. McCaffery stirred, then blinked and pushed herself upright. “Ach. ’Tis still midday,” she complained.

  Olivia smiled at the older woman’s fuzzy expression. Mrs. Mac, as they called her, could have remained in town, queen of her domain. But where Augusta and her children went, so did she, albeit grumbling as she did. Despite the inconvenience of Augusta’s gadding about this summer, Mrs. McCaffery had been determined to brave the lengthy journey north.

  “Is your lumbago acting up?” Olivia asked as she handed her a pillow to prop herself up with.

  The housekeeper twisted a bit, trying to get the pillow in just the right spot. She winced when the carriage jounced over a rocky patch of roadway. “Me burn is numb. And I don’t aim to be entertaining you with me rhyme.”

  Olivia suppressed a grin. “If it makes you feel any better, we should come upon Eisingwold very soon. John Coachman tells me that Thirsk is less than three hours beyond there.”

  “Humph.” Mrs. McCaffery shifted again, fitting the pillow at the small of her back. “And is Sarah still riding with Lord Hawke?”

  Olivia kept her expression determinedly noncommittal. “She is.”

  The housekeeper peered past the open window. “That little hoyden is going to be sorry tomorrow, for she’s not accustomed to spending so much time riding. Why haven’t you called her back to the carriage?”

  “And listen to her constant complaints?” Olivia rearranged her skirts, then took up her fan and began forcefully to ply it. “I certainly hope it’s cooler in Scotland than it is here.”

  Mrs. McCaffery eyed her shrewdly. “D’you wish to explain your animosity toward Lord Hawke, child?”

  Olivia forced a smile. “I should think it immediately obvious, especially to you.”

  The housekeeper’s nearly nonexistent brows rose, furrowing her forehead. “Has he behaved too boldly with you? Is that it?”

  “No.” There was no reason for such a lie, but Olivia could not bring herself to discuss with anyone the unsettling effect Neville Hawke’s kisses had on her. “Don’t you notice a resemblance between him and someone else?” she said, to steer the conversation elsewhere.

  The older woman’s broad face creased in concentration. “Someone else? Who? One of the other suitors you dismissed?”

  “No, no.” Olivia heaved a sigh and clenched her jaw. “My father. He’s just like my father.”

  “Pish. He looks nothing like your father. Cameron Byrde had hair the color of fire and he was—”

  “Not in looks. In manner.”

  When Mrs. McCaffery just blinked at her, Olivia shook her head. “He’s too charming. He dances too well.” She ticked his faults off on her fingertips. “And he has a propensity to overimbibe in spirits.”

  The woman eyed her closely. “I hadn’t heard that about him. Indeed, from what your mother tells me, it’s more like he’s too good to be true.”

  Olivia swayed with the coach, all the while praying for patience. “Yes, and we both know she hasn’t got the best judgment when it comes to men. Certainly my father was not nearly so good for her as he appeared. All that charm hid the truth of his selfish nature.”

  “On the other hand, she chose to marry Humphrey Palmer,” Mrs. McCaffery pointed out. “He never once raised a hand to her nor gave her any cause to weep—save dying in his sleep. A better man than him you could not find.”

  The woman laid a warm hand on Olivia’s knee. “I fear you are too hard on your mother, child. As for your father, it’s true he had a charming manner. But he also had a cruel temper. If he hadn’t drowned himself in whisky, then fallen off that pleasure barge and drowned in the filthy Thames, I might have been forced to smother him in his sleep.” She tugged at her high neckline in agitation. “He caused your poor mother considerable grief. Considerable. But there’s many a man less handsome and less charming who has made just as bad a husband as him. More’s the pity. My point is, you cannot assume this Lord Hawke is of a kind with Cameron Byrde simply on account of his charming manner. You must give him more time, child.”

  Olivia resisted the urge to squirm. “There are other reasons as well,” she muttered.

  “Oh?” When Olivia did not respond, the older woman folded her hands across her ample bosom, watching her carefully. “Your mother likes him.”

  “So?”

  “Sarah likes him as well.”

  “He bribed her with his horses.” Olivia stared resentfully at her. “And you? Do you like him? Has he charmed you too?”

  Mrs. McCaffery only shrugged. “I don’t know the lad well enough yet to say. I’m sure, however, that I’ll have sufficient time to form an opinion of him in the weeks to come.”

  “Yes. Well, I doubt we’ll be seeing much of Lord Hawke. Once we reach Byrde Manor we’ll be much too busy refurbishing the house. Besides, he has his own estates to manage.”

  The other woman snorted. “Do you really think that your mother will not invite the nearest peer to come calling? Your brother, too, is likely to invite him to join his shooting parties.”

  Olivia closed her fan with a snap and glared suspiciously at the housekeeper. “Botheration! Has Mother instructed you to push him on me, Mrs. Mac? Has she? For I will not have it.”

  “Tsk, tsk, child. Surely you know me better than that. I love your mother dearly, like the daughter I never had, and you three my own grandchildren. But my mind is my own, and my opinions too. You need a husband, never try to deny it. And you’ve been picky, to my great satisfaction. If Neville Hawke is not the right one for you, so be it. All I’m saying is, don’t be too quick to compare him to your father.”

  “Very well, then.” Olivia jutted her chin out. “I’ll compare him to Humphrey, Humphrey who was steady, reliable, and kind. It has long been my intention to marry someone just like him, and so until I find such a gentleman, I shall enjoy my life as it is and do everything I can to discourage any other men who come calling. Especially Neville Hawke.”

  To Olivia’s relief, Mrs. McCaffery allowed her the final word. Yet Olivia took little comfort in it. For despite her vow to ignore the man, she suspected that Neville Hawke was going to remain a thorn in her side.

  As the carriage rocked on through the lovely vale of York, she could not escape an even harder truth which she could admit to no one else. Neville
Hawke was going to be a problem, not because he persisted in pursuing and taunting her but because of her perverse reaction to him. Like a traitor her body betrayed her with him. Her mind rightly said no to his appealing manner, but her body quivered shamefully with anticipation every time he turned his dark gaze upon her.

  She let out a muffled groan. Even now, just remembering the way he’d kissed her made her stomach tighten in the most wanton manner. She plied her fan more vigorously, trying to cool the flushed skin of her neck and face. The peace she sought in the cool Scottish hills seemed more elusive than ever. But she comforted herself with the reminder that at least she would have Byrde Manor to occupy herself. In just two days she would take physical possession of her childhood home. With so much to prepare prior to the arrival of their guests, she would not have time to even think about Neville Hawke, never mind exchange any words with him—or kisses.

  She grimaced at that last perverse thought, then closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the squabs. Two more days, she told herself. Just two more days. Surely she could control her unruly emotions that long.

  The Mill House Inn just beyond the market town of Thirsk was a neat, prosperous sort of place. But it was small, with only four private rooms to let. Olivia, Sarah, and Mrs. McCaffery had to share one bedchamber while John Coachman and the guard took beds in the common room in the attic.

  Where Neville Hawke and his men slept Olivia did not know. Nor did she know where he dined, for she rather rudely took a small dining room for the exclusive use of the women. After a plain but substantial meal of roast beef, roasted potatoes, and roasted vegetables, they retired promptly to their second-floor chamber.

  But as she followed Sarah and Mrs. McCaffery toward the stairs, Olivia glanced into the big taproom in the front of the inn and spied him sitting companionably with his man Bart. Her lips pursed in disapproval. Drinking, of course. When a pretty blond serving girl leaned over to whisper in his ear, Olivia’s expression grew even more dour. Drinking and wenching. But then, what else should she expect?