Always the Matchmaker (Never the Bride Book 8)

by Emily E K Murdoch

“Please, Lenskeyn, be serious,” she said, still smiling. “We have much to go through in the topics of charming and courting.”

  She had thought he would join in with her laughter after making such a ridiculous pronouncement. But the earl was looking at her carefully, examining her features.

  “Is it so strange to think a gentleman would be interested in you?” he spoke quietly, but for the first time that day, with sincerity. “So strange you would laugh?”

  Theodosia shook her head. “Now, really, Lenskeyn, I admit you are clever with a joke, but we need to push on. Now, when it comes to charming—”

  “I know you have instructed me not to interrupt, but I cannot help it.” Each word was chosen with care, and that earnest look had not disappeared. “Theodosia, and I will keep calling you Theodosia, because it is a pretty name, and you are quite pretty. And fierce. By God, I like you.”

  She stared, flickers of confusion racing through her heart as her entire body felt as though electricity had been forced through it.

  He was jesting, of course. But there was no look of jollity on his face, those handsome lines still in the position of complete sincerity.

  “Y-You cannot mean that,” she said aloud, hating how foolish her words sounded.

  The Earl of Lenskeyn, her client, consider her pretty? Every inch shivered at the very thought.

  “Fierce and pretty,” he said, his handsome face creasing into a grin. “Damn woman, I never thought I would say this, but I like you. Yes, I will have you.”

  Theodosia could hear her pulse. “You will have me?”

  Lenskeyn nodded with a look of total satisfaction. “Yes. Well, if I have to marry, and I can see why Mother makes such a fuss of it now Elmore is gone, God rest his soul, why not marry someone I can bear to speak to for more than five minutes at a time?”

  He appeared to be in earnest. The thought shocked her—the shock quickly followed by panic and then a strange desire to laugh.

  This cannot be happening. Not again.

  “B-But I—you cannot…” Theodosia swallowed, tasting the panic in her throat and breathing in deeply. She would not lose control. “You simply cannot mean that, my lord. I am here to find you a match, for that is what a matchmaker does. It would be most improper for the matchmaker to get married!”

  What she did not say, because she would not lie, was that she did not wish to marry him.

  The very idea was ridiculous, and she would only entertain it here, in the solitude of her thoughts.

  But…well. He was a handsome man, and she was certain she could tame him. Albie Howard, the dashing gentleman who paid no heed to the rules and little heed to society. To be free of expectations, of work, of daily counting her carefully saved pounds. What a wild life she could lead as the Countess of Lenskeyn.

  Before she had another chance to speak, Albie—the earl, she hastily corrected herself—had risen and was now seated beside her.

  Heat rushed through her body, and her fingers twisted in her lap.

  So close.

  “You have never thought,” he said in a low voice, “of making a match for yourself?”

  Theodosia swallowed. Had he noticed her response to him? Had she been so unguarded in her…admiration, not attraction, that he had noticed?

  “No, of course not,” she said hurriedly, avoiding his gaze. “That would be most indecorous.”

  Albie had taken her hand in his and held it tightly. The skin to skin contact was intoxicating.

  “Theodosia, you are missing something precious. Something delicious. Something I would happily—”

  “My lord, you are most playful today,” she managed to say as she pulled her hand from his. “I think we should—”

  “Call me Albie.”

  Theodosia gave in to temptation. She tilted her head and looked into his eyes.

  From that instant, she was utterly transfixed. How could she look away? There was something intoxicating about him. Wild, yet tamed. Rude, and yet the arrogance was not selfish. Bold. So sure of himself that he would say anything, do anything, be anywhere he wanted.

  Her hands were somehow in his again. “Do not be ridiculous, Lenskeyn.”

  He raised an eyebrow. His warmth was radiating into her, his hands encircling hers in a way that was…that made her feel…

  “Albie…” she whispered. It felt right. The fear of intimacy was gone—how could it stay, her hands in his, with her eyes locked into his own?

  Saying his name felt rebellious and extraordinary. She wanted to repeat it, but she would not. She had to stop this. This had gone on long enough.

  “Your games are not going to work on me,” Theodosia breathed.

  He smiled wickedly. “Really?”

  His lips met hers before she knew what was happening, and while Miss Ashbrooke, matchmaker, knew she should push him away, Theodosia would call him Albie until the end of her days.

  It was exquisite. It was wonderful. He was passionate yet respectful, worshiping her with his mouth as she melted into him, unable to prevent her body’s response.

  Perhaps it was time to throw caution to the wind. His hands released hers, but only to pull her closer, and Theodosia found her hands, now free, were able to push him away.

  They did not. Instead, inexplicably, they found themselves tangled in that wild mane of hair, pulling him closer as her lips parted, and his tongue started to tease her own.

  She had not been kissed like this since—well, she had never been kissed quite like this. Albemarle was everything in that moment, everything in the world. This moment could never end.

  “You have never thought of making a match for yourself?”

  Could his offer have been in earnest? Could she engage herself to a client?

  The thought was enough to break the kiss finally. Pulling away from him and standing, she coughed and smoothed down her gown.

  “Very—very good, my lord, I can see you were right.”

  She allowed herself a glance and saw with just a hint of pride, he looked dazed.

  “I am right?”

  Theodosia nodded. She had to keep talking—anything to slow the frantically beating heart that was threatening to burst from her chest.

  “You do not need training in charming and courting after all,” she said, picking up her reticule and ensuring her notebook was inside. Anything to avoid his gaze. “I will see you at Lady Romeril’s card party this evening, eight o’clock prompt, so you can continue to practice your new skills.”

  She had almost reached the door to the hallway before Albie had risen to his feet.

  “Now, wait a moment!”

  “I am sorry, I have another appointment,” Theodosia lied hurriedly.

  “Another appointment be damned,” he said fiercely, reaching for her. “I would rather practice kissing now, here, with you.”

  Despite her desire to be touched by him again, kissed by him, pulled into his arms, Theodosia’s instincts were stronger. She would not allow herself to fall down into this trap again.

  He was only teasing, after all. No earl would seriously consider her as a marriage prospect. She knew that now.

  “I think you are teasing me,” she said aloud, “and attempting to irritate your Mother. Eight o’clock, my lord.”

  She only just managed to leave the drawing room—but within a minute, Theodosia was halfway down the street with her pelisse over one arm and a confused heart frantically beating.

  Chapter Six

  Laughter echoed around the room, carried by the smoke rising from cigars. The sound of coins hitting the tables and giggles from ladies rose above them all.

  Lady Romeril always hosted the best parties, yet she was a difficult woman at times. There was a reason that her invitations were coveted by all in society. Punch and wine flowed, there was merriment everywhere one looked, and Albemarle was bored to tears.

  “Fold,” he said listlessly, placing his hand onto the table.

  “Why, my lord, what an interesting choice!”
Miss Lymington’s voice grated on his nerves, and she giggled. “Why, you did not even look at them.”

  Albemarle shrugged without answering. What did it matter? He had not come here for Lady Romeril’s approval, nor to be seen by society’s greats, nor to win at cards.

  He had only come to the damn card party because Theodosia was supposed to be here.

  He almost laughed. Attending one of society’s most important events in the first place was a strange one for him. There had been nothing like this in Greece. Even his brief visits to Paris had not been like this. All feathers and fans, hoping to attract, preening, and shoving.

  It turned his stomach. This was precisely the reason he had left Bath, left England, in the first place.

  He had only been thirty minutes late.

  “I will see you at Lady Romeril’s card party this evening, eight o’clock prompt, so you can continue to practice your new skills.”

  A smile unconsciously crept across his face. Well, he had done his best, but almost forty years of bad habits could not be entirely undone in mere days.

  Still, he was here, and she was not. It was almost half-past nine now, if he could make out the clock on the other side of the room clearly. Had he missed her? Had she arrived at eight and left after seeing he was not here?

  “Well, how intriguing,” Miss Lymington simpered.

  Pretty, in a way, and an heiress, he had heard. He was sure Theodosia would consider her an excellent match for him.

  But she simply could not compare to the real thing. To Theodosia.

  His whole body shivered as he recalled the impetuous kiss he had stolen just hours before.

  “Come on then, Miss Lymington, play your cards,” Viscount Braedon said with a grin. “Leave the stuffy old man to his thoughts.”

  Albemarle did not take offense at the jest. He did want to be left alone with his thoughts, with the memory of Theodosia Ashbrooke in his arms.

  God, but she had been sweet. He had only intended to tease her—at least, at first—something to entertain and to distract from the boredom of her ridiculous training.

  The teasing had ceased the moment his lips had touched hers.

  In that instant, Albemarle had thrown aside all thoughts of teasing this determined woman and instead embraced her as she needed. As she deserved. As he wanted.

  He had kissed plenty of misses in his time, all over Europe. He was no stranger to the first kiss, the way one’s body yearned for another’s, and the sweet release of tension as lips finally met.

  This had been different. Theodosia had been different.

  He was here, as Theodosia—his matchmaker—had demanded. So, where was she?

  “And that’s the hand that wins the spoils!” Braedon threw down his cards and laughed as the rest of the table groaned. “Now, what did I tell you? I never bluff—if I raise, then ’tis because I have the cards. Come on, pay up, Wynn.”

  Viscount Wynn was not going to consent without grumbling. “I still do not understand how the cards continue to favor you.”

  Braedon shrugged with a mischievous grin. “Do not blame me, blame Lady Luck! Goodness, you look serious, Lenskeyn. What are you thinking about?”

  Albemarle smiled but was unable to answer before Miss Lymington leaned forward eagerly. “I think he is waiting for someone!”

  She smiled coquettishly, her eyelashes fluttering.

  He smiled mechanically. “And why do you say that, Miss Lymington?”

  “Why, ’tis obvious!” She fluttered her fan now that her cards were played, her eyes fixed on his own. “You keep looking at the door, my lord, and you have spared nary a moment of your concentration on the game. Who is she?”

  Damn and blast it. The woman was not just full of hot air. She had been watching him for some time.

  Miss Darby, the fifth at their table, had wide eyes. A pleasant enough girl, Albemarle had thought within moments of meeting her, but not bright.

  “Everyone in Bath seems to be here,” Braedon said, pulling the cards toward him and starting to shuffle the deck. “The Duke of Axwick is not here, although I suppose that is to be expected.”

  “I had hoped to meet the Earl of Marnmouth finally,” said Wynn ruefully. “I thought he would be here.”

  Braedon snorted as he dealt the next hand. “Old Marnmouth has gone into hiding, now that he and Miss Tilbury have parted ways…”

  Albemarle smiled. Braedon could not help but follow the gossip whenever it touched Miss Emma Tilbury, the former mistress of Marnmouth. There had been talk that they would reconcile, but that had passed into nothing.

  “—thought Miss Ashbrooke would be here, too,” Wynn said as he looked irritably at his cards.

  He must control himself. He must keep his interest in the woman under wraps.

  It would never do to start a rumor of his own.

  “Oh?” he said as casually as he could manage. “The matchmaker?”

  Wynn nodded as Miss Darby made her first bet. “Yes, the very one. You know, I heard she was wrapped up in the Orrinshire and Seton business. You must have heard about it, even from the depths of the Continent. From what I heard, he practically jilted his first engagement.”

  There was a gasp from Miss Darby and a tut from Miss Lymington.

  Well, really. Albemarle tried not to roll his eyes as he looked at his cards. Two kings and a nine. Ladies did make a mountain out of a molehill. So the man did not wish to marry someone? He could hardly blame him.

  “I heard much the same thing,” said Miss Lymington in a whisper designed to encourage him to lean closer. He did no such thing. “It was a wonder the scandal was hushed up. Miss Ashbrooke did well there.”

  Despite his indifference toward her, Miss Lymington had now finally piqued Albemarle’s interest.

  “Oh, you know her, then?”

  Miss Lymington laughed as Miss Darby said earnestly, “Oh, yes, everyone knows Miss Ashbrooke.”

  “And everyone has a story to tell about her,” Miss Lymington interjected with a grin.

  Albemarle smiled mechanically. It was too bad he outranked poor Braedon, who looked like he could do with a little flattery from Miss Lymington.

  “Indeed,” he said, placing down his bet. “And have you been desperate enough to pay for her services then, Miss Lymington?”

  It was a rather callous remark, he would admit, but it washed over Miss Lymington like water off a duck’s back.

  “Oh, no, I am fortunate enough not to require Miss Ashbrooke’s services,” she purred. “And yet, I will admit, for many, it is not desperation. It is in search of true love.”

  Braedon snorted. “True love?”

  “You do not believe in such a thing?” Wynn asked, peering at his cards with a shake of his head.

  Albemarle shot a warning look at Braedon, but he was too immersed in his cards to notice.

  “I am not saying good matches do not happen,” he said, ignoring the growing irritation on his companion’s face. “I am just saying I do not believe in true love, that there is merely one person you can experience the joys of life with.”

  Albemarle could see an argument was about to break out between Braedon, the blustering, well-meaning fool that he was, and Wynn, who from memory had recently married.

  He was not the only one to notice.

  “Oh, is it my turn?” Miss Darby said more loudly than strictly necessary. “Yes, Miss Ashbrooke is marvelously talented. She can find anyone a partner.”

  “I think I will fold,” Miss Lymington said, leaning to place the cards on the table and allowing Albemarle rather more view of her breasts than was strictly acceptable in public. “I am surprised you have not heard of her prowess before, my lord. My sister—my twin sister, Isabella, you know—was matched by Miss Ashbrooke only last year. They marry in a few months and, by all accounts, will be very happy. ’Tis a long engagement, I suppose.”

  Intrigue rose in his heart. Theodosia had an excellent reputation. A perfect match, one’s true love, someon
e ideally suited…

  It did not seem possible, and yet time and time again, she had done it.

  “How?” he asked.

  Miss Lymington, evidently glorying in his attention, shrugged. The movement made the diamonds around her neck catch the candlelight, and Albemarle could not help but glance down at the way they nestled into her breasts.

  “How would I know?” she said with a smile. “She is the matchmaker. She makes it happen.”

  Wynn laughed as he raised the stakes. “Come on now, Lenskeyn, you know better than that. Do not ask a magician how they perform their tricks!”

  “I think it incredible how she manages it,” said Braedon, brow furrowed as he concentrated on their game. “So many people never find a partner at all, and yet she manages to not only encourage people to get married but stay married!”

  Albemarle glanced at Miss Darby. She was the quietest at their table, quite unlike what Braedon had warned him about. She was known, apparently, for her chattering nature.

  He had thought at first she was devoted to Braedon. Now, however, he saw her look just beyond the viscount’s shoulder.

  A tall, dark, and miserable looking man was standing across the room. He looked over to their table, and Miss Darby looked away quickly, her cheeks reddening.

  “You remember Miss Coulson?”

  Everyone around the table laughed, even Miss Darby.

  “Sorry, was I supposed to laugh?” Albemarle said, irritation seeping into his voice. Just another reason why he had left this damned country. So many jokes that one had to know to join into polite society.

  “Apologies, old thing,” Braedon said with a good-natured grin as he raised in the final round. “But it was so talked about across Bath and London, I assumed you heard.”

  “I have not been in society much, if at all,” Albemarle retorted, trying to keep his irritation down. “Who is this Miss Coulson, and what has she done to elicit such laughter from you all?”

  “We should not laugh, really,” said Miss Lymington hurriedly. “There is no harm in her, and she is a delightful thing, but…well. Her topics of conversation are rather limited.”

  “Rather limited?” Wynn grinned as he displayed his hand—a full house, which made the table groan. “Come on now, everyone, ’tis just a game, no need to be so sore.”