Worse, why did she feel so intensely jealous of a woman who was twenty years older than her and already married, to boot!
It was foolish. It was childishness of the worst kind, and Theodosia knew better than that.
At least her mind did. Her heart had a life entirely of its own, and it was furious at him for treating her no better than a simple voyeur of his conversation with Mrs. Lymington.
After the woman had accepted the pretty compliments of the earl, he said, “You must excuse me, Mrs. Lymington—I wish to hear so much more, but I am parched and must help myself to a cup of tea.”
He rose, bowed—causing a giggle from the matronly woman—and strode across the room to where the tea things had been left.
In an instant, Theodosia had joined him.
“And what do you think you are doing?” she hissed under the noise of pouring tea.
Albemarle grinned as her stomach swooped. “This is what you wanted, Miss Ashbrooke. You wanted me to find a woman, and that is what I am doing.”
“But…” she spluttered. “This was not what I meant! Mrs. Lymington?”
He carefully dropped four sugar cubes into his cup and started to stir. “If you had accepted me,” he continued in a low voice, “you would not have to watch this. I asked you to marry me, and you said—”
“Nonsense, that wasn’t a real proposal!”
“Wasn’t it?” He stared with fierce eyes, and Theodosia found herself unable to speak. “You trained me to find a wife. You encouraged me to go out and charm ladies. If you do not like it…”
Theodosia swallowed. She did not like it. She hated it—but to admit why would be to give him power she simply could not accept.
She would not be the fool again.
“And despite being ‘not to everyone’s tastes,’ as you so delicately put it, I think a few women find I do have some charming points,” he said in a low voice as he piled biscuits on his saucer. “Remember, Miss Ashbrooke, I am busy finding a bride. At your insistence.”
Before she could think of what to say, he was gone.
“Now tell me, Mrs. Lymington,” he said loudly, ensuring she could hear every word. “You have more than one beautiful unmarried daughter, do you not?”
It was impossible to watch. The irritating man was not only demonstrating he could be charming, but his words were ringing in her ears.
“I asked you to marry me, and you said—”
“Nonsense, that wasn’t a real proposal!”
“Wasn’t it?”
If he was in earnest…if he had indeed meant that proposal…
Theodosia moved with her cup of tea back to her seat, close enough to hear every word the earl and Mrs. Lymington exchanged.
Had she been rash to think he would not consider her a suitable wife? Had she been foolish to ignore him, consider him jesting when he had said he wanted to marry her?
That kiss. Those kisses in the carriage, they were burned into her memory.
“Yes, I have my very own matchmaker,” said Albemarle with a smile, glancing at her. “She works hard on my behalf to find ladies suitable for me to marry, but I think I have done far better than her so far.”
Theodosia smiled and inclined her head. Well, she may be a matchmaker, beneath many of those in society as far as they were concerned, but she was educated, charming, and had more connections in the ton than anyone.
Two could play at this game.
Chapter Ten
“You absolute rascal! You dog, Braedon—I am not sure whether you’re allowed to make that sort of joke in polite company!”
Albemarle laughed heartily, feeling the chuckle right in the depths of his bones as the three gentlemen finished a round of cards in Boodle’s, their club. Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon, had just told the most raucous joke—one that even he had never heard before, and he ten years the man’s senior—and their chuckles had raised some eyebrows in the place.
Braedon grinned. “I was not aware I was in polite company!”
Albemarle laughed again, reaching for his glass of wine that was far emptier than it should have been. Shrugging, he threw the final dregs down his throat and reached for the bottle.
It was empty.
“Damn and blast it, is that another one gone?” he said mildly. “Nothing for it but to open another one.”
As if by magic, a footman appeared at his side and proffered another bottle of the most excellent vintage that Montague Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, had chosen at the beginning of their evening.
Albemarle nodded, but Braedon looked a little hesitant.
“Now then, steady on chaps,” he said awkwardly. “The 1749, again? I mean, my pockets aren’t lined with gold like yours…”
Money was not something Albemarle had ever concerned himself with, and though these two gentlemen had been friends for a while, it was still a topic rarely breached.
“Think of it as a gift, old boy, and one that you have well-earned,” said Devonshire with a hearty laugh. “One from me, an old married man, to you two rapscallions who are unwed and unshackled!”
The footman nodded and pulled out the cork and offered it to Devonshire to taste, but the man waved it away.
“I am sure Boodle’s would not offer me corked wine,” he said airily. “And grab another bottle of it, too. I have the feeling we may need it sooner than we think.”
Braedon’s anxious face relaxed immediately. “Why, thank you, Devonshire—and fear not, I will attempt to rob you of some coin so I can pay you back!”
The three men laughed as Devonshire started to deal out the next hand. Albemarle leaned back, his shoulders relaxing. Well, it was certainly a spot of luck finding these two. He had hoped there would be a few gentlemen he could sit with at his club. He had been a member for years, despite living on the wrong Continent to just pop in for an afternoon nap.
And here were Braedon and Devonshire, two gentlemen of good family, good repute, and sufficient funds to be members of this hallowed ground, even if Devonshire was rolling in more gold than he knew what to do with and Braedon was obviously a little short at times.
They were delightful company, and right now, that was all that mattered. He was tired of ladies, of society primping and preening, of always being watched, measured, and sized up for so-and-so’s daughter or the niece of what’s-her-name.
Here, in the club, he could retreat from polite society and play a few hands of cards without being concerned about marriage, or Theodosia, or…
He groaned as he picked up his cards.
“Careful, old chap, or you’ll be giving away your hand before we’ve even started!” Braedon chuckled, throwing down a shilling as his opening bet. “And you’ve had such a good poker face until now!”
Albemarle smiled mechanically and matched with a shilling of his own. No, it was not the cards that had caused such a heavy sigh. Despite all his finer feelings, he had still managed to think about Theodosia.
What was that—the fifth time in the hour? A quick glance to the grandfather clock told him it was, and the minute hand only just starting to rise toward the hour.
Theodosia. What a woman, a fiery thing when riled. He could not help but smile as he remembered how he had teased her when making that disgusting cup of tea, pouring in more milk and sugar than could be stomached, just to prolong their conversation.
“Nonsense, that wasn’t a real proposal!”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Come on now, Lenskeyn, you need to pay attention if you want to win this hand!” The reprimand was kindly spoken by Devonshire, who had evidently raised the bet and was eagerly looking to see if the older man would match him.
Albemarle folded. He could barely concentrate anyway. His mind was utterly transfixed on the memory of Theodosia.
Her frustration had been palpable—anything to force a reaction from her. Theodosia was a block of ice most of the time, and he still had no idea how they had ended up kissing in his carriage after Braedon’s ba
ll.
Polite company separated them, her own finer feelings kept them apart, but when all the rules and restrictions were removed, Theodosia was just as wild, just as passionate as he had imagined.
He shifted in his seat, his body reacting to the mere memory of that moment. Theodosia, in his lap in the carriage, kissing him as though her life depended on it.
It had been agony to see her at his sister-in-law’s, all restraint and respectability.
He really should go and thank Lady Howard at some point for permitting him to stay. Widowed only a month ago, and he had barely gone to see her to make sure she was managing.
Especially if the rumors were true and she was pregnant. An heir to the Lenskeyn line. It would remove all need for him to marry, change the shape of everything in the family. His mother would be thrilled.
A jolt went through him. If Lady Howard was pregnant, he would no longer need a matchmaker. Theodosia would be released from his services. Could he then court her, as a woman, as she deserved?
“I said, are you ready for another round?”
Albemarle started, finding both gentlemen staring at him. “W-What?”
“You have not been paying attention,” said Braedon with a grin, pulling a pile of silver and a few gold coins toward him. “This blaggard was convinced I could have nothing greater than two pair, and so foolishly overbid his hand. Now, how much was that bottle of wine, Devonshire?”
“Oh, think nothing of it,” Devonshire shrugged. “I certainly won’t.”
Was it Albemarle’s imagination, or was there a hint of frustration in the viscount’s face as the richer man shrugged off the debt as inconsequential?
What a strange world, he mused. When two gentlemen right at the pinnacle of society, admired by many, considered equals save for mere differences in title, can be friends and yet have a sense of discomfort around money.
Money. He had never been concerned about it. The Lenskeyn estates were plentiful and bountiful, and it cost very little to live abroad. He was probably richer now than he would have been if he had stayed in merry old England.
“Well,” he said aloud to clear the tension in the air, “if you are both ready to lose a little more money, I am willing to take it from you.”
Braedon, flushed with his recent victory, said, “You believe your luck can hold? You were bound to lose on the last round. You folded so quickly!”
Albemarle said nothing but reached forward and revealed his cards. A straight flush.
Devonshire chuckled as Braedon said, “B-But…but you would have beaten me, Lenskeyn! Why in the devil’s name did you fold?”
He shrugged. “I was not sure whether my luck would hold.”
“Your luck does not seem to be holding with the ladies, at any rate,” said Devonshire with a grin. “That’s what Harry tells me, and she is never wrong.”
Albemarle frowned. “Harry? She?”
“His wife,” supplied Braedon as he dealt again. “Lady Harriet Stanhope, as was. ‘Harry’ to her friends. ‘Her Grace’ to us plebs.”
“Oh shut up, you’ve known Harry since the Ark,” Devonshire said, looking at his cards and rearranging them in his hand. “I heard you had engaged a matchmaker, Lenskeyn, but she too is finding it difficult to find anyone who will put up with you!”
The two gentlemen guffawed, and Albemarle joined them with a smile. He could hardly disagree with them. Not even Theodosia would agree to marry him, and she was the one who was supposed to be championing him to the women of society!
“I am just biding my time,” he said aloud, knowing the two gentlemen would continue to jest until he responded. “I have already found the woman I want, and so it is just a matter of time before I convince her. Why else do you think I am able to relax this evening with the two of you?”
Braedon laughed as he threw down half a guinea. “God’s teeth, that is bad news.”
Albemarle frowned as he matched the bet. “Bad news?”
The viscount nodded with a smile. “Well, think about it, Lenskeyn. If a gentleman such as yourself, with titles, connections, wealth, and the maturity and wisdom of years, struggles to convince a girl into marriage—well, what hope have the rest of us got?”
“Now, are we playing cards, or aren’t we?” interrupted Devonshire, who had an eager look on his face. He must have a good hand, Albemarle thought. “Remember, aces are high, and sevens are wicked, and anyone with the queen of hearts, in honor of our newest friend, takes all.”
“The queen of hearts, you say?” said Braedon delicately with a knowing smile.
Albemarle worked hard to keep his face straight. Braedon was a fool, but a young fool, so he was likely to grow out of it. His bluff was pathetic, really—or at least, it was when Albemarle was looking at the queen of hearts in his hand.
“Well, if Braedon has the queen, I suppose we should just fold,” he said airily.
“No, let’s continue,” Braedon said hastily. “I shall not play it unless in a run. Agreed?”
Devonshire looked shrewdly. “You promise not to play the queen?”
Braedon nodded, and Albemarle had to stifle a laugh with a swig of red wine. Really, it was too easy. When the pups were at least a decade younger than him, they had much to learn when it came to bluffing. They could bet themselves into a frenzy, and then he would swoop in with the queen and take it all.
“Right, in that case, I bid another half guinea,” he said loudly. “Will you chaps match me, or…”
His voice trailed away—it was that or start to shout. There was a commotion occurring in the adjoining room at the club, and so many people were starting to gasp, shout, or yell, that it was quite impossible to hear each other properly.
“What the devil do you think is going on?” Braedon managed to shout across the tumult.
Albemarle shrugged. Finally, a hand he knew he could not lose, and they were getting distracted by a mere scuffle in another room. “Match my half guinea?” he roared.
But Devonshire was not paying attention. He had turned in his chair and was peering across the room to see whether he could make out what was going on.
As the noise quieted down a little, he said, “What do you think is going on through there?”
“Probably someone has dropped an expensive bottle of wine,” said Braedon with a laugh. “And now the damned fools are arguing over who should pay for it.”
Devonshire chuckled, but Albemarle was far more focused on the game than on the noise. As that very thought crossed his mind, he heard a voice emerge over the outcry.
It sounded like…
The door to their room burst open, and a few gentlemen seated closer to it cried out in shock and surprise. It was a woman—a woman at Boodle’s! The club had never admitted ladies, and never would.
But this was not just any lady. It was Theodosia Ashbrooke, and a Theodosia that Albemarle hardly recognized.
Gone was the drab gown, carefully chosen to fade into the background. Gone was the delicate but simple hair, the lack of jewelry, and the smart but practical pelisse.
This one was attired as though for a ball at St. James’s Court. Her gown was a light, cream silk that shone in the candlelight, small pearls embroidered across the bodice and the sleeves. Pearls hung in flowing strands down her front and were pinned into her hair, which had been curled and dressed in the latest style.
But perhaps most surprising of all was her expression. Whenever Albemarle had seen Theodosia, she had either been glaring at him, smiling at ladies she was introducing to him, or…well, kissing him.
She smiled, a mischievous lilt to her lips, looking utterly possessed in a sea of gentlemen calling for her to be removed.
“Hello, my lord,” she said softly.
Albemarle laughed. What had he got into with this wild woman? Beautiful beyond compare, fastidious to the point of death about the rules of society, and here she was, breaking all of them.
And she knew it. He could see it in the high color of her cheeks
and the way she resolutely looked at him and no one else.
For all her talk of society’s rules, she knew how to make a scene.
“My God, a woman!” Braedon said, his mouth open, his eyes dancing with mischief. “We can’t have that. Where will it end! You’re not permitted to be in here, woman!”
This last sentence was directed toward Theodosia, who raised an eyebrow majestically. “Really? How interesting.”
Not another single syllable passed her lips as she delicately walked across the room, ignoring the gasps and mutterings from the other gentlemen, and sat herself down in the empty seat at the card table—right beside Albemarle.
“Hallo, Miss Ashbrooke,” said Devonshire with a grin. It was clear he had no fear of the matchmaker, nor any interest in the spectacle coming to a quick end. “Careful, if my wife gets wind of this, she’ll be here before you can say lickety-split. She always said the rules were archaic.”
“I always knew Lady Devonshire had excellent taste,” smiled Theodosia, her body resolutely turned toward Albemarle. “But I am afraid I have not come here to make a scene. I am merely here on a matter of business.”
“Business?” Albemarle had managed to hold his tongue until this point, but he could not bear to be left out of the conversation any longer. Damnit, she was his Theodosia, his matchmaker, his woman, if only he could convince her. “With whom?”
“Why, you, your lordship. Was it not you who reminded me that ours should be a business relationship? You conduct business, do you not, here at the club?”
Albemarle glanced around the room. Two footmen were standing in the door, watching him carefully. Some gentlemen had already disappeared into newspapers, but most watched avidly.
Damnit, but she was bold. Bold, and brash, and determined, just like him.
His perfect match.
But this could not continue. He had to take back control, somehow, of this conversation. Even if she did make him physically weak at the knees.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he assented. “Well, what business do you have in mind?”
“You are not going to allow this?”
Always the Matchmaker (Never the Bride Book 8) Page 11
