“Father told me. Said he’d saved you. He told me the story when he explained the curse to me. He didn’t want you near her, Neal.”
“I’m not near her out of attraction,” Neal responded.
“No, now she is a matchmaker. Don’t be naive, brother. About her or yourself.”
Now Margaret was awake. “Lady Thea is the Mrs. Martin?” she whispered. “I’ve heard of Mrs. Martin. She’s put together several interesting matches when everyone had given up hope. Please, no, Neal. We discussed this. I thought we had a pact. Let it stop with us.”
“Be like me, brother,” Harry said, obviously happy now that he’d found an ally. “Women are fine. They are adorable, enjoyable, lovable—all the ‘-bles’—but don’t marry. Don’t carry this curse farther.”
“Maybe I’m ending the curse,” Neal muttered, pushing past his brother. “Father almost made it. If the curse doesn’t claim one of us, then perhaps it will be broken. Certainly, I do not want to do as Father did and lose my head over some opera dancer.”
“You poor, sorry soul,” Harry said with his customary disdain. “You are already lost, and you didn’t even realize it this evening. The two of you practically had an invisible cord around each other.”
“That was the concern of old friendship,” Neal shot back. “In your bullheadedness, you are fabricating what is not there.”
Harry ha’d his disbelief and took a healthy swig of the port straight from the bottle.
“Neal, what is he saying?” Margaret asked, worry in her tone.
“Nothing that he knows anything about,” Neal replied. “Nothing at all. Don’t worry, Margaret, I will be careful.”
“Men are never careful,” she answered. “Your sex doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I’m not like the others,” Neal said. This was an old argument between them. “And contrary to what my tomcat brother thinks, I’m not the village idiot about women.”
“We can’t beat the curse, Neal,” Margaret said sadly. “It isn’t possible.”
His response was to go to his room and shut the door.
For a moment, he leaned his back against the hard wood, every fiber of his being shouting that she was wrong. There was a way to beat this curse. There had to be.
He could hear Margaret and Harry talking in the hall. They were probably plotting against him and his desire to take a wife, but they were wrong if they thought he didn’t know what he was doing.
Wrong.
And he would keep his distance from Thea . . . because his father had been right all those years ago. There was something about her that drew him, something he dared not explore.
But one thing he’d learned this evening is that they were two very different people now. He could keep the attraction at bay, he told himself.
He had to.
And yet he couldn’t wait until he saw her again.
Chapter Five
“He moved you into one of his houses?” Mirabel, Lady Palmer, said and gave a small, glad squeal of happiness. “Oh, this is wonderful. This is more than I could have ever hoped for you! Lord Lyon. My dear, he is the prize, and you have bagged the prize—”
“No, wait, you don’t understand,” Thea protested. She’d been sharing with Mirabel the story of her adventure the other evening with Lord Lyon.
Mirabel brought her finger to her lips. “I understand perfectly and shall keep mum. Mum, mum, mummmm. . . .” She drew the last word out with delicious pleasure.
They sat in Mirabel’s morning room, which overlooked the town house’s garden. It was a small plot but done up with Mirabel’s style so that it outshone almost any other garden Thea had ever seen—including her own father’s. Mirabel did most of the work herself, claiming to adore puttering around in mud and dirt.
The boys were there now, galloping on imaginary horses around the flower beds, playing a game of Horse Guard. Thea had broken up one strong argument—both boys wanted to name their steeds Ajax—and now her sons had settled into happily entertaining themselves.
Mirabel was twenty years older than Thea, her hair still a pale, sunny blonde. She was tall, and thin, and very fashionable, and her deep blue eyes were always brimming with laughter.
When Thea had first returned to London, Mirabel had been the only one who had opened her door to her. Everyone else had been too intimidated by the duke of Duruset’s power and his threats. But as Lord Palmer’s wealthy widow, Mirabel hadn’t cared.
And it had been Mirabel who had suggested Thea trade on her background as a duke’s daughter and knowledge of society and marriage to offer a discreet but important service as a matchmaker.
Thea had rejected the idea at first, but as her situation had grown more desperate, she’d realized Mirabel was right. She did have a good understanding of the ton. She’d not made a good match herself, but she had discovered that she could be very clearheaded in what would be good for others.
Furthermore . . . she was the current duke of Duruset’s scandalous sister, and that served her well. So far, the people who had contacted her for assistance had been the minor gentry—a squire with a beautiful daughter and no dowry, Sir James’s challenging nephew, and a few aristocratic sons and daughters of middling fortune and unexceptional, sometimes even unfortunate, looks. Every one of them had mentioned her connection with the powerful duke of Duruset, and though most had known that she’d been disowned, that hadn’t stopped them from engaging her services. They’d all been too desperate to find decent spouses for their family members.
Besides, amongst the ton, everyone liked connections, even Mirabel.
Indeed, Thea sometimes suspected her friend would give all she owned to be accepted into the first circles of society. She knew all of their names and ranking of importance. Thea had grown up with these people, and she could have told Mirabel there was nothing special about them. She far preferred Mirabel’s happy spirit to their self-important ones.
“Lyon and I are friends,” she now stressed to Mirabel. “Nothing more. We knew each other in childhood.” She wasn’t about to share Neal’s confession of having feelings for her at one time.
“Oh, I bet there could be something more,” Mirabel speculated, wicked glee in her voice. She was arranging a vase of flowers on a table, and she placed a peony amongst the white roses she had purchased from a hothouse. Thea sat at the same table, drinking tea, ink, pen and a list in front of her.
“Men are not generous without a reason,” Mirabel assured her. “Ever.”
“Well, this one is. And it isn’t generosity,” Thea insisted. “I’ve paid for a lease.” She actually hadn’t. Mr. Givens, Lord Lyon’s man of business, had offered her a period of grace until the beginning of the month before she needed to pay a rent, which Thea had thankfully accepted. In truth, she was quite pleased with the modest home with decent furnishings. It was a vast improvement over where she had been living, and she’d enjoyed the two days she’d taken to move her small family into it.
“Besides,” Thea continued, “if your suspicions were true, I would have seen him by now. Over the last three days since he took us to the Clarendon, there hasn’t been a word from him.”
“No, just his servants to help you move,” Mirabel countered with a sly smile.
Thea made a dismissive sound and poured a heaping spoonful of honey into her tea. “You are exaggerating. However, I have a larger problem. I must choose women for Lord Lyon to meet. I’ve been working on the problem in my mind. His wife can’t be just anyone.”
“What does he want in a wife?” Mirabel said, moving the vase of arranged flowers over to a side table.
“Someone he can’t abide,” Thea said.
Mirabel sat across the table from Thea. “What do you mean ‘someone he can’t abide’?”
Thea sat back in her chair. She studied her friend a moment, then pushed the list of names over an inch befo
re asking, “Do you believe in superstitions?”
“Superstitions?” Mirabel shrugged. “I do not like spilling salt, and if I wager, I always chose the number seven because I usually win with it. Do you believe in superstitions?”
“No.”
“That was very blunt of you.”
“I feel that strongly. I believe we create our own fate. There is no hand of God directing us or supernatural beings pushing us to do their whims. We have free will.”
“Very well,” Mirabel said, reaching for the teapot, “but what does that have to do with finding a wife for Lord Lyon? And why would you want to saddle him with a woman he can’t abide?”
Thea hesitated a moment. She had to talk to someone about this, and she trusted Mirabel. “I asked about superstition because Lord Lyon believes he is cursed.”
That grabbed Mirabel’s attention. “In what way?”
Thea leaned across the table. “You mustn’t breathe a word of this to a soul.”
“I promise. What do you mean?” Mirabel vowed and demanded without taking a breath, her eyes wide with anticipation.
“He said there is a curse handed down upon his family from a Scottish witch. When a Chattan male falls in love, he dies—which is why Lord Lyon wants a woman he can’t fall in love with.” She felt silly just repeating it.
“Well,” Mirabel said, sitting back and reaching for the honey pot, “no wonder you are denying there is anything between you. He’d fall in love with you.”
Heat stole up Thea’s neck. “He would not.”
“Of course he would. Thea, I wish you would see yourself as others do. You are an attractive woman . . . and if Lord Lyon didn’t fall in love with you, he would fall in love with your sons.”
“There you are correct.” Thea looked out the window to the garden, where the boys were now busy building something out of twigs and leaves and whatever rocks they could find. “He wants children.”
“Most men do. Otherwise they would never settle down,” Mirabel observed.
“You and Palmer didn’t have children,” Thea observed.
“I said ‘most.’ Palmer had me. I was child enough for both of us.”
Thea smiled. “Everyone knows the two of you lived for each other in spite of being opposites—” Her voice broke off with sudden realization. “That’s it.”
“What is it?” Mirabel echoed.
“Lord Lyon needs a regal wife. One with excellent bloodlines.”
“Like yourself?”
“Mirabel, if you insist on speaking this way, I shall leave,” Thea said without any heat in her voice.
“No, don’t go. I’ll behave, at least as much as I can,” she promised. “What is your brilliant idea?”
Thea tapped the list she had been making. “I have very nice women here, but they are all boringly pleasant. He needs spirit. Vitality. Independence.”
Mirabel stirred her tea pensively. “Yes, independence. One who will go her own way.”
“And independence is also selfish,” Thea pointed out. “And selfishness keeps a man at arm’s length, no?”
“I’m selfish,” Mirabel argued, twisting one of her blonde curls around a finger. “And men have always been after me.”
“You are not. You are the most generous woman I know. And the very best friend. No, the person I’m thinking of is one who has been hard to marry off because she is almost masculine in her manner, and yet she is a woman—”
“Lady Lila Corkindale,” Mirabel said, guessing accurately.
“Exactly. She’s beautiful but a man-eater. However, I’ve heard rumblings that she needs to marry. She is the sort who wants only the best.”
“And Lord Lyon is the best.”
“Furthermore, she is so bold, I can’t imagine any man loving her. She is not that sort of woman. However, no one could call her cold. I hear she has a temper.”
“I think you have hit upon a match,” Mirabel agreed.
“Perhaps,” Thea hedged. Did she really want to see Neal saddled with Lila Corkindale for the rest of his life? A shudder went through her even as she reached for the silver inkstand, dipped the pen nib in ink and wrote Lady Lila’s name to her list. “Now, who would be a tad tamer than Lila Corkindale?”
Before Mirabel could answer, her butler, Osgood, knocked on the morning room door. He held a silver salver in his hand. “My lady, Lady Montvale and Mrs. Harrison Pomfrey have come to call.”
“Vanessa Montvale and Sarah Pomfrey? Here?” Mirabel repeated in disbelief with an incredulous look at Thea. The two women were the most fearsome hostesses of the ton. They only associated with “those who mattered.”
“I do not know their given names, my lady,” Osgood answered. “However, here are their cards.”
Mirabel was up in a flash. She read the cards, turned them over as if expecting a hoax. She faced Thea in a panic. “What do they want here? They’ve always turned up their noses at me.” Mirabel had married Lord Palmer, a man decades older than herself, to save her father from debtor’s prison. Since Lord Palmer’s first wife had been very popular and he’d married Mirabel with undue haste, she’d never been truly accepted in many social circles, even after all this time. “When my path crossed Lady Montvale’s last year in Madame Regina’s, she gave me the cut direct. Looked right past me as if I wasn’t there. And neither accepted my invitation to the charity rout I held last year for St. Agnes’s orphanage. I did my best to convince them to come. Oh, the toadying dance I had to jig for them—but they both turned me down flat.”
“They probably didn’t want to offer money to the cause.” Having once been one of the upper echelon, Thea was more jaded about the likes of Lady Montvale and Mrs. Pomfrey. “They are shallow, Mirabel. They are only interested in their own gain.”
“That may be true, but what gain can they have paying a call on me?”
“Go to the receiving room and find out,” Thea suggested. “The boys and I will slip out the back gate.” Thea knew both women were friends of her brother. She had no desire for a meeting.
“Stay right there,” Mirabel ordered, rising to her feet and putting her hand on Thea’s arm to block her way. “You are my friend. No one chases my friends away.” She made the pronouncement with her customary dramatic flair. “Osgood, I will receive my guests here in the morning room.”
“Yes, my lady.” The butler left.
“Mirabel, this is a terrible idea. I know how these women think. You don’t want me here.” Thea had already come to her feet and gathered up the list. She reached for her reticule.
“I absolutely do want you here,” Mirabel declared, moving to stand in front of the door. “I don’t have many friends, but the ones I have, I value.”
Her words touched Thea’s heart. “You are so special, Mirabel. There isn’t anyone in London who can hold a candle to you.”
Steps echoed on the black and white tiles in the hallway. Mirabel’s eyes widened. “Oh. Dear.”
Thea crossed to her side, turned her to face the door and took her arm. “Relax. They are calling on you. This meeting is under your roof. Everything will be fine.”
“But why are they here?” Mirabel repeated before plastering a welcoming smile on her face.
Osgood appeared in the doorway. “Lady Montvale and Mrs. Pomfrey,” he announced in his most sonorous voice.
Mrs. Pomfrey sailed into the room ahead of her companion. She was a tall, thin woman with impeccable taste. Her graying brown hair was cut in the Juno style, and her dress of burgundy muslin trimmed in ivory lace had to have been a creation of Madame Avant’s, the expensive couturier off Bond Street.
Lady Montvale wore a deep green day gown, trimmed in yellow velvet ribbon, also probably a creation of Madame Avant’s. She was a petite woman with a giant attitude and a scowl made more fierce by her thick eyebrows.
Thea ass
umed she would receive a scowl. Instead, she was stunned when both women gave perfunctory greetings to Mirabel, then charged Thea like hounds after a rabbit.
“Mrs. Martin,” Lady Montvale said, “what a pleasure to find you here!”
“We had not expected it,” Mrs. Pomfrey chimed in, pulling off her lace gloves as if preparing to have a cozy chat. “We were hoping that dear Lady Palmer would have some knowledge of your whereabouts, but how fortuitous to find you ourselves.”
“Yes, fortuitous?” Thea repeated. She cast a glance of confusion at Mirabel, who shrugged. She was as surprised as Thea.
“I was a friend of your dear mother,” Mrs. Pomfrey said, “God rest her soul. I feel . . .”—she paused, stared hard at Thea and released a long breath before saying—“sad that I had lost touch with one of Violet’s daughters.”
Thea could not remember her mother ever mentioning Mrs. Pomfrey, but then her mother had died almost fifteen years ago, when her youngest brother had been born.
“I, too, was a friend,” Lady Montvale echoed. “We were close.”
“That is so good to know,” Thea murmured with sincerity she didn’t feel.
“Please, sit down,” Mirabel said, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “We were having my dandelion tea. A fabulous elixir. So good for the nervous system. I’ll have Osgood—ah, here is Mrs. Clemmons with the tray now.”
Mrs. Clemmons was Osgood’s wife and Mirabel’s housekeeper. She was a narrow, efficient woman. She carried in a tray that also held plates of small sandwiches and slices of Mirabel’s favorite cake. Osgood and Clemmons were Mirabel’s only two permanent servants. She hired a cook and an upstairs maid for when she was in town. She liked her small household, although when she went to her country estate, there was a host of servants and retainers. “The locals depend upon me,” she would often complain to Thea, who knew Mirabel was quite right. Her father’s estates had employed whole villages.
The housekeeper set the refreshments upon the table and informed Thea, “I took the liberty of preparing a tray for Masters Jonathan and Christopher.”
“Thank you,” Thea murmured, still undecided if she should stay. Mrs. Pomfrey and Lady Montvale had already taken their places at the table. She noticed she’d left the list of names on the table, and she swiped it up, folded it and made it disappear into her reticule.
Lyon's Bride: The Chattan Curse Page 7
