A Matchmaker's Match

by Nina Coombs Pykare

The earl regarded her seriously. “Overton tells me he’s asked you to manage his ward’s come-out.”

  Trust Overton to blab the thing about. He should have kept quiet till he had heard her decision. Psyche glanced toward Aunt Anna. “Yes. But I have not yet agreed.”

  The earl smiled and for some strange reason the room seemed suddenly brighter. “I think you should do it,” he said.

  Surprise made her stare at him. “You do? But why?”

  He took her gloved hand in his. “If I may—”

  Slightly shocked but fascinated, she nodded assent. “First,” he touched her index finger with his, “you can obviously do a better job than — That is, it takes a younger—”

  She chuckled. “There’s no need to skirt the obvious. We all know Aunt Anna does not manage well.”

  He smiled again. “Lovingly put. So you must step into the breach.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And second,” he touched another finger, “and more importantly, London should not be denied your presence.”

  The compliment took her quite by surprise; it was done so skillfully. She mustered her defenses, terribly conscious that her hand still rested in his, and that she was reluctant to withdraw it. “You’re very kind, milord. But there are definite disadvantages to my undertaking the task.”

  His eyes grew warm—oh, he was a master at this kind of verbal repartee. “Strange,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “I cannot think of a single one.”

  She forced herself to frown. “You forget who I am.”

  He shrugged. “You are Lady Psyche Veringham.”

  She gave a little gasp—he had pronounced her name the Greek way—See kay. No one but Papa had ever done that.

  “You know classic Greek?” she asked.

  He nodded, the end of his mouth curling up again. “Oh yes, a little. And I know your name means ‘soul.’ I am much interested in antiquities, you see.”

  “Indeed.” She was hard put to understand why this news should set her heart to racing. Or perhaps that was because he was still holding her hand. Regretfully, she withdrew it.

  “So,” he went on, “you have not told me why you are unfit for this task.”

  “I am—” But perhaps he didn’t know. She hesitated, reluctant to face the old trouble.

  “You are Lady Bluestocking,” he said cheerfully. “I know that. Though I was in Spain at the time of your escapades, I heard all the tales.”

  “So you must see—”

  He shrugged, his expression nonchalant. “Surely there is no scandal in refusing to wed. The world knows you could have had offers enough.” His eyes narrowed. “And yet you took none of them. I wonder why.”

  She did not consider evading his question. “The thing was—I wished to marry for love.”

  “And?” His eyes seemed to bore into her very heart.

  “And I did not find it.”

  “I see.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “A pity, that. A lovely woman like you.”

  Psyche smiled. “Really, milord, your style of compliment is excellent. But aren’t you doing it up rather brown?”

  He sighed in exaggerated fashion. “Alas, they were right. They told me you had a wicked sharp tongue.”

  She couldn’t help herself, she had to ask him. “Who? Who told you that?”

  He grinned, looking suddenly much younger, and even more attractive than he had before. “Why, the Lindens, of course. The inestimable and excessively ample Lady Linden and her stickish daughter.” He frowned. “They have already revived stories of every Lady Bluestocking escapade—and probably added a few of their own devising.”

  She regarded him seriously. “And yet you urge me to return to that?”

  The earl shrugged, a gesture that automatically took her gaze to the breadth of his shoulders. “Yes,” he said dryly. “I urge you to return to town and live down this Linden-induced infamy.”

  Psyche had to return to London, otherwise how would he be able to win her? He wished he could ask her then. But he would have to go slow. In a sense, she had fought her wars, too. With her addlepated mama pressing foppish witlings or doddering old lords on her just because they had titles. And with the tattle-bearing Lindens and their ever-present innuendoes making her life unbearable.

  Yes, Lady Bluestocking had her wounds, but they would heal. He would see to it.

  Overton, of course, didn’t know that the idea of Psyche managing his ward’s come-out had not been his own, but had been planted in his mind by his good friend, the earl. Overton knew nothing of the earl’s fascination, infatuation, captivation with the fabled Lady Bluestocking. Only Georgie knew that. And Georgie had promised not to tell, but to help.

  “You can face the Lindens,” he said, giving Psyche an admiring gaze.

  Psyche frowned. How could the man be so sure? “I don’t know. I have been long in the country.”

  He shrugged. “I have confidence in you.”

  Psyche flushed. “Is it true they have called me bracket-faced?” This man was having the strangest effect on her. What a ridiculous question to ask! After all, vanity was not for spinsters.

  The earl coughed delicately. “I’m afraid it’s true.” His gaze met hers, his eyes full of laughter. “They have quite departed from the truth in saying it, of course. As any fool could see.” He smiled. “But after the last set-down you gave me I dare not offer another compli—”

  “Psyche!” Georgette rushed between them to envelope Psyche in a hug. “How good to see you!” When she withdrew and settled her gown, Georgie was smiling. “I see you have met Southdon. Be careful of him. He’s got quite a name with the ladies.”

  Psyche managed to go on smiling. Not for the world would she have admitted wishing that she hadn’t suggested to Overton that he invite Georgie to this house party. Dearly as she loved her, Georgie could be a trifle overwhelming—and sometimes she was far from sensible. But she was also extremely attractive to men.

  Georgie was the little petite sort and her recent widowhood had hardly dampened her perennial good spirits. Of course, her dear departed husband had been some forty years her senior. And now Georgie, who had married first to please her family, meant to marry second to please herself. Or so her letters had proclaimed.

  “Dear Georgie,” Psyche murmured. “How good to see you. I have found the earl a most fascinating conversationalist.”

  His eyes twinkled and he grinned brashly. “But can you imagine, Lady Standish, Lady Psyche does not relish my style of compliment?”

  Georgie actually giggled and put her gloved hand familiarly on the earl’s coat sleeve. “Poor Psyche’s been too long in the country,” she said. “But come, Southdon. You may compliment me.” And she thrust her arm through his and led him off.

  Watching them go, Psyche struggled with the urge to turn tail and run. Little Amanda was right. Southdon was the catch of the Season. And that meant Overton’s ward was going to face some brisk competition.

  Of course, Georgie had always enjoyed the company of men. In fact, her youthful reputation had marked her as rather fast. But she had listened to her family—married where they chose. The first time. Now she was a widow and able to do as she pleased.

  Perhaps, Psyche couldn’t help thinking, perhaps she should have done the same. Though she was financially as well off as Georgie, she was still Lady Bluestocking, still the subject of gossip. And still a spinster. It hardly seemed fair.

  But Psyche had never been one to feel sorry for herself. She had chosen to be Lady Bluestocking. And in its time the role had served her well. It had saved her from marriage to more than one foppish fribble, and several men old enough to be her grandfather. She could thank Papa for Lady Bluestocking. It was, after all, his study of antiquities that had given her the idea.

  “Why so serious?” the earl inquired, appearing at her side again. “Surely the decision is not that difficult to make.”

  Psyche looked at him in surprise. “Where is Georgie?”

  He
smiled. “I believe Lady Standish is talking to Gresham over there. And I have come back to reiterate my plea that you consent to manage Miss Caldecott’s come-out.”

  He glanced across the room to where a radiant Amanda stood talking to several people. “The girl’s a good sort and deserves a decent chance.” He smiled. “Besides, Overton’s my friend. He’s a decent chap, too. And he’s really been in a twitter over this.”

  Psyche nodded. “Yes, I know. Do—” She hesitated, but then decided to plunge ahead. “Tell me, Southdon, what sort of man do you think Amanda should marry?”

  He looked a little surprised, but he stroked his chin again. “Someone older, I suppose. Someone who’s been on the town for a while and is ready to settle down. To take care of her.”

  Psyche nodded. “Yes, I suppose she will need taking care of.”

  His eyes were so dark, they seemed to be hiding some secret. “Not all women are as well equipped as Lady Bluestocking for the unmarried life,” he remarked.

  She schooled her face, hoping to keep her expression from betraying her. If the man only knew the nights she’d cried herself to sleep, wondering if she should have accepted one of Mama’s awful candidates. But there had been no one she could . . .

  She drew herself up. “I suppose a woman may go through life alone as well as any man.” She fixed him with a stern eye. “You, milord, for instance, you are yet unwed, but that does not seem to concern you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Concern? No, I should say not. In fact, it makes me quite happy. But I shall have to marry—eventually. My mother is adamant on that point.”

  Psyche swallowed a little sigh. “She probably wishes to have grandchildren.”

  The earl grinned. “So she tells me, repeatedly. I do not know why women find children so attractive.” His eyes gleamed with merriment. “It seems to me that they incite a great deal of anxiety.”

  * * * *

  After a delightful dinner, which Psyche spent in conversation with the earl regarding the Elgin Marbles, she retired with the other ladies to the drawing room.

  Before she could even settle into a chair, Amanda appeared at her side. “Well, what do you think?”

  Psyche saw Georgie’s inquisitive look. “Not now, Amanda. We’ll talk later.”

  But Amanda would not be put off. She grabbed Psyche by the arm. “Oh, milady, I must know now! Aren’t you agreed? Don’t you think the earl would make me a wonderful husband?”

  Georgie’s small gasp wasn’t lost on Psyche. She felt a rising irritation. If Amanda was going to act this bird-witted, she’d have little chance of success.

  She took the young woman by the arm. “Excuse us, Georgie.”

  Georgie nodded, but she looked ready to burst with curiosity.

  Psyche led Amanda to a secluded corner where she looked at her sternly. “Amanda, when I say not now, I mean not now. If you expect to win a husband, you must learn discretion.”

  Amanda looked surprised, her blue eyes widening in shock, her pink mouth forming an oval of dismay.

  “Suppose,” Psyche continued, “that Lady Standish were to tell the earl what you just said.”

  Amanda’s eyes grew even rounder. “She wouldn’t! She’s your friend.”

  Psyche knew better. Friend or no, if Georgie wanted the earl, she would go after him. And she would use any available means to get him. She sighed. “Amanda, have you never heard the expression—’All’s fair in love and war?’ ”

  Chapter Three

  The next morning Psyche rose early, put on her claret-colored riding habit, and made her way to the stable. Morning air always cleared her mind and this morning it felt in particular need of clearing.

  The events of the previous evening were foremost in her mind as she turned Hesperus away from Tall Oaks. The gelding tossed his handsome head: it was obvious he wanted a good run.

  “Not now,” she told him. “We don’t know this country well enough.”

  She held the horse to a walk, but her mind was not so easily controlled. It insisted on galloping over the events of the night before. Imagine meeting someone like the earl now. If she had met him before, during her Season, there might not have been any need to create Lady Bluestocking.

  But he hadn’t been in London then; he’d been off fighting Napoleon. And so her Season had come— and gone, leaving her unwed.

  Oh, even the second year she might have accepted several offers. But she had continued to play Lady Bluestocking to the hilt and so frightened her suitors that they’d cut and run. She’d had to do it--marriage to any of them would have meant disaster. She’d known it then, and she knew it now.

  Hesperus had halted. Looking up, she saw that he stood outside the wall of a ruin. From the lay of it, it could be what was left of an abbey. She couldn’t be sure.

  In any event there was a quiet grace about the place. Tendrils of ivy crept over the tumbled stone, harbingers of spring, opening green buds to the sun.

  Psyche sighed. Just a few weeks remained to prepare for the Season. But could she undertake such a task? Did she want to go back into the world of the ton? They were not kindhearted, those people who fed on gossip, who lived for the on-dit, the whispered scandal, the ruined reputation.

  She might not be considered bracket-faced yet, but she had to admit she was on the shelf. There was no skirting the fact that she was three and twenty, long past the prime age for marriage. And worse, her reputation as Lady Bluestocking had not been buried. Or, more accurately, it had been resurrected by the Lindens.

  “I had to do it,” she said, scratching behind the gelding’s ears. “I had to protect myself from those creatures Mama pushed on me. I had to create Lady Bluestocking.”

  The horse snorted and tossed his mane. “I know,” she said. “You want a nice run. But I don’t. Not yet at least.” She gazed around. “I believe I’ll just take a look at these ruins. Perhaps the abbey was built on the remains of something Roman.”

  She slid down and tethered the horse to a tree. The stones were all tumbled about, but in the far corner part of a wall had survived intact. A lot could be surmised by looking at the stones themselves. Papa had taught her that chisel marks often had a tale of their own to tell.

  She set out for the corner, picking her way carefully among the scattered stones. The way was rough, the ground uneven. Holding up her riding skirt, she stepped cautiously. She thought she was being quite careful, yet one minute she was upright and walking, and the next her ankle had turned and she was thrown violently to the ground.

  “Oh!” Her Cossack-style riding hat kept her head from hitting directly on the stones. And her heavy velvet habit protected her skin from scrapes, but her entire body felt jarred by the fall. Tomorrow would bring a fair-sized bruise on her derriere. There was no doubt in her mind of that.

  She started to push herself upright. Pain jolted through her and she cried out. Her foot was trapped under a heavy block of building stone. Evidently the weight of her stepping on it had tilted the stone sideways and when she fell it flipped over on top of her foot.

  After she caught her breath, she tried again to reach it. But the stone was too big and heavy, and her foot was twisted at an angle that made it hard to get at.

  She sank back with a sigh, frustrated. It was clear that she could not free herself. Forcing herself into calmness, she tried to settle comfortably. Though her foot was trapped, it was not excessively painful. She would just be in for a longish wait. Since it was yet early morning, no one would be apt to miss her for some time.

  There was little point in ranting and railing at her fate, however. She was pinned there till someone found her—no amount of complaining would change that.

  Well, she had wanted to be alone, to clear her head so she could decide whether or not to help Amanda. And here she was—certainly alone. With plenty of morning air and plenty of time to think.

  She gave herself up to considering the pros and cons of returning to London. At the end of the first hour she had come
no nearer a conclusion. What she had concluded was that the stones were quite hard and that she could find no comfortable position among them. For the first time her courage faltered a little. No one at the house knew where she had gone, not even what direction. How would they know where to look for her?

  The sun came out from behind a cloud, forcing her to close her eyes against its glare. Perhaps she would doze a little. The time would pass faster.

  * * * *

  The earl pushed his horse harder. Why hadn’t he risen earlier? He hadn’t expected Psyche to go out riding alone. He’d meant to be there before her, to suggest he ride with her.

  But he had laid awake long into the night, recalling her every word, her every look. So that this morning he’d been late to rise, too late to catch Psyche.

  Besotted, he told himself, you’re absolutely besotted with the woman. But he didn’t care. He only hoped he could find her. The stable boy had said there were ruins in this direction—and he was hoping that she had decided to ride there.

  And then he saw them, great blocks of tumbled stone, probably once an abbey. Seconds later he spied the horse, its saddle empty. Was Psyche examining the ruin? But where?

  And then the splotch of claret caught his eye, claret among the gray stones of the ruin. She was on the ground!

  He pulled the horse to a halt, dismounted, and hurried to her. “Psyche?”

  She didn’t stir. She looked to be asleep, but with that building stone on her foot she could be injured. If she’d fallen and hit her head-- He moved closer, repeating her name, this time a little louder. “Psyche! Are you hurt?”

  She stirred then and opened her eyes. He let out his breath in relief. “Well,” he said, making his tone jocular, “what have we here?”

  Psyche jerked awake and looked up to see the Earl of Southdon looming over her. “Southdon, are you really here?”

  He smiled. “To the best of my knowledge. But what-”

  “I slipped and my foot got caught.” She flushed. “I know it was foolish. Papa would have scolded me. He always cautioned me against clambering about ruins alone.”

  “A wise man,” the earl observed, moving closer. “Let me get this stone off your foot.” He lifted it easily and set it to one side.