Chapter 5
Chapter Five
H e was supposed to be an old bachelor! Aunt Georgie’s own words! Bachelor… yes, but old ? Emma had envisioned some slightly bent, white-haired curmudgeon. Not… not…
Her garden gentleman, more handsome in daylight than he had any right to be. She’d known his hair was black as night, but now she knew it shined, glinted light, and likely wouldn’t fall out of place unless he commanded it to. It curled slightly at the ends, though, as the strands ached to be touched, tousled. Likely, they drove ladies astray. Who wouldn’t be moved to kisses in gardens by hair like that? And his eyes… She’d known they would be dark as well, but that not quite right. They were a shifting gray, storm clouds inspiring fear and awe and, right now, as he pleaded with her from across his desk, looking a bit desperate.
She’d thought him a gentle man last night, playful and teasing with a touch like feathers.
Now she knew him to be hard. Like the blade he’d tossed with such precision across the room.
She should not have been so very saucy with him, taunting him, challenging him. But each fact, clicking into place one by one, offered a new layer to the avalanche of shock.
He was the duke.
She disliked the duke.
She hadn’t disliked him last night.
She’d told him things she’d never told a soul; things she wanted no one to know.
He knew them, no. No gathering them back and locking them up.
She was working for him (no matter her claims to the contrary).
He’d kissed her.
And she’d kissed him back.
Then dreamt about it later.
Then ached for more in the morning.
And now if she did not walk out that door and refuse him, she’d likely ache for it every time she saw him, which promised to be often.
No! Not if she remembered his cocky words written in such confident ink, treated as truth instead of highly inexpert opinion.
She adjusted her gloves, anything to look away from him. He clouded her judgment, and she must remember the facts. And they were these: She was in dire straits, her sisters’ happiness was at risk, his own sister was heartbroken, Emma needed the duke to repair her reputation, and he needed her to find a husband for his sister.
She could do it. All of it. “Before I agree to anything, let us understand one another as well as possible.”
“Yes. Of course.” His shoulders relaxed, and one hand shifted to the right corner of his desk, his fingers rubbing some pattern over and over.
“First, you are not to speak with any suitors until I say so.”
“But—”
“Second, you will bow to your sister’s wishes when it comes to who her suitors are.”
He slapped his hands on the desk and pushed to standing, leaning his weight into his palms. She actually had to tip up her chin to keep his gaze. She was used to men being at her eye level or shorter, but he… he would not be looked down on, would he?
“I always do,” he said, voice cold as ice. “It was my mother’s particular wish that my sisters choose their husbands, and I have never— never —abused that wish.”
She swallowed. Clearford likely meant to appear menacing. Most would find him so. She found him… Oh, she could not think about how she found him. She swallowed again. “I am delighted to hear that.”
“Any more rules?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. His quite broad chest.
“Yes, in fact. Two more. Third, you will not question my strategies, and finally, you will treat me as a family friend. My position is… awkward, you understand. I am a lady, and I offer my… talents to friends only.”
He nodded slowly. “Very well. But I have one demand of my own.” Lightning sparked in his stormy eyes. “You will meet with me once a week to discuss your progress.”
“That is not necessary.”
“It is. You said earlier you need this project, so if you wish to have it you will meet my single, hardly inconvenient demand.” He spread his arms wide. “There is no harm in it, after all. You are a family friend, are you not?”
She wanted to smack the satisfied grin from his face. Instead, she strode for the door. “Very well. I concede to your demand. Now, I must speak with your sister.”
He beat her to the door and ushered her into the hallway, grin still in place, still cocky, still infuriating and… something else. “Of course. She’s in the room just there, across the hall. My mother’s old sitting room. I will leave you to introduce yourself as I do not wish to interfere .” He looked like he might wink, then his jaw hardened, and he slipped back into his study, shutting the door between them with a defiant click.
She collapsed against the wall, her body trembling. What a mortifying half an hour. God was clearly testing her. She’d left Edinburgh to escape rumors she’d seduced her client’s suitor only to kiss her new client as soon as she arrived.
They were to forget that from now on. Aye, a most excellent plan. Clearford should have introduced her to his sister. Terribly poor manners for a duke. No matter. She could do well on her own. She smoothed her skirts and pushed through the door, smiling her brightest for the young heartbroken girl.
The smile died almost as soon as she produced it.
Not one woman. Eight. And one, two, three… five men?
“I-I must be in the wrong place,” she stammered. “I was looking for Lady Felicity Merriweather.”
One of the ladies lifted her hand. “I am she.” She seemed a sad sprite with dark hair and gray eyes, the corners of her lips drooping. Very much her brother’s sister. As were two of the other women—more girls, actually—sitting on the small sofa next to Lady Felicity and staring at Emma with pure curiosity.
“I see.” Emma tried to bring her smile back. “I am Lady Emma Blackwood. I’ve come to help you find a husband.”
Lady Felicity nodded and looked away, and an older woman, heavy with child, stepped forward, her blonde hair perfectly coiled, and her pretty face polite yet welcoming. “I am Viscountess Noble, Felicity’s eldest sister. Apologies for the crowd, but we are all quite curious to meet you. Samuel—the duke, our brother—never asks for help, so your presence here is something of an anomaly. Shall I introduce everyone?”
“Yes,” Emma said, “that would be quite helpful.”
“Come, sit.” Lady Noble led her to a chair in the middle of the sitting room, closest to the fire. Sisters draped themselves across chairs and sofas, and the men in the room stood like stalwart soldiers behind them or leaned near the windows. Lady Noble resumed her seat next to one of those men. He was as perfectly polished as Lady Noble, and once she sat, he rested his hand on her shoulder without thought, as if to be near her was to give in to an ever-present urge to touch her.
Lady Noble glanced at him. “This is my husband, Viscount Noble. And these are my sisters.” The elder sisters resembled one another but not their brother, with hair in various shades of light brown and yellow. She gestured as she named them. “Mrs. Kingston, Mrs. Bailey, Mrs. Trent, and Viscountess Helston.” Then she gestured to the men. “Their husbands—Mr. Kingston, Mr. Bailey, Mr. Trent, and Viscount Helston. My unmarried sisters are Lady Felicity whom you’ve already met, Lady Gertrude, and Lady June.” Those three occupied a sofa together, squished arm to arm and seemingly happy about it.
“It is nice to meet you,” Emma said, not sure where to look when making the acquaintance of so many all at once. Emma felt the stare of every single individual in the room like the night at the assembly rooms. But unlike that night, the stares were not cold and uninviting.
“What a large family,” she finally said, “and so unconventional.” Clearford had said he let his sisters choose their own husbands. They’d clearly chosen to marry outside of their social sphere. Fascinating.
One of the men with sandy hair and scruff along his cheek made for the door. Mr. Bailey, was he? He walked with wide strides, pulling his wife along behind him. “I’ve work to do at the shop. Nice to meet you, Lady Emma.” He reached up to tip a hat, found nothing there, cursed.
“You gave it to Jacobs, Ben,” Mrs. Bailey said, her sandy blonde curls bobbing. “And I’m staying, remember?”
“Yes, but I want to say goodbye the proper way, and I can’t do that here.” Mr. Bailey threw open the door and dragged her out into the hallway, his lips descending to hers before the door closed again.
Lady Gertrude giggled. “Prudence will not be coming back.”
Quite unconventional.
Emma leaned over to Lady Noble. “I do not wish to be rude, but your brother-in-law… he works?”
Lady Noble laughed. “He’s not the only one.”
“Trent,” Lord Noble barked at a dark-haired gentleman standing in the darkest corner of the room, “close your ears. You’re about to be insulted.”
“No!” Emma stuck a hand out. “No, I mean no insult. It is simply highly unusual.”
Mrs. Kingston placed a gentle hand on the arm of Emma’s chair. “You are being teased. We are quite aware of how unconventional we are. Mr. Bailey owns a printshop. As does my husband. And Mr. Trent owns the Hotel Hestia on Conduit Street.” Her hazel eyes were clear and kind, and her coiffure—the lightest shade of brown before it could be called blonde—tilted a bit with the angle of her head. It needed more pins, clearly.
Mr. Kingston seemed to like the mess of it, though. He tweaked a fallen curl as he leaned over his wife’s shoulder, a wink in his eye. “If it makes you feel any better, Lady Emma, I’m an earl’s bastard.”
“No! I mean… oh.” She rubbed a palm down her face. “I am going to stop talking. I’m usually a bit more coherent than this.”
“We make a disorienting impression.” This from Lady Helston. Or was it Mrs. Trent?
They both possessed hair as glinting gold as their eldest sister and shared the same sharp blue eyes and lithe frames. Emma looked at one then at the other, then took them in at the same time. She blinked, then shook her head as the ladies laughed.
“Yes,” one of them said.
“We are twins,” the other added. Nothing but good humor in both voices.
Emma searched for something to say that wouldn’t embarrass her.
“And yes”—Lord Helston, who’d been looking at a book upside down, snapped it shut and joined Mr. Trent in the dark corner, clapping him on the shoulder—“we can tell them apart.”
Mr. Trent grunted but strode straight toward the twin sitting in a puddle of sunlight streaming through the window. He placed a proprietary hand on her shoulder. Then he sneezed. His wife laughed and placed her hand over his.
No wonder the duke had kissed her last night. The entire family was entirely too free with their affections.
“We are terrifying the poor woman,” Lady Noble said. “Put on your best manners, please, Merriweathers.”
Lord Noble tapped his wife’s shoulder, and some silent communication passed between them. “What do you say, gentlemen? Can we behave, or must we leave?”
“Are we being kicked out?” Lord Helston asked.
“We are.” Mr. Trent pushed Helston toward the door.
But the viscount resisted long enough to tug a curl at his wife’s nape, muttering, “Why can’t they just ask us to leave in plain words?” before following the others into the hall.
As the door closed, Mr. Trent asked, “Can we interrogate Clearford?”
A chorus of muffled male laughter preceded the sound of banging on the door across the hall.
“Was our brother in a good mood when you left him?” Mrs. Kingston asked, her eye on the door, “or a sour one?”
“Go away, you buffoons!” The duke’s cry came clear and menacing through solid wood walls.
“Ah. Sour, I see.” Mrs. Kingston winced. “Apologies. But do not worry. They’ll wander off to the coffee house soon, and all will be right with the world.”
“Forget the men.” One of the twins—Lady Helston?—moved her chair closer to Emma. “How many matches have you made?”
“Twenty-five.”
“And how many have you botched.”
“Imogen!” the other twin swatted her sister’s arm.
“It’s a fair question,” Lady Helston insisted. “We need to know if she’s made more matches than failed.”
“It is a fair question, and one I am happy to answer.” With the men gone, Emma didn’t feel quite so disorganized. The sisters offered her their intense attention, but there were fewer names to remember. And she was good at singing her own praises. “It is only smart to inquire after my odds of offering Lady Felicity a good match. I have failed three times.”
“Three,” the twins said together.
“Excellent odds.” Lady Noble considered the leaping flames in the grate. “How do you do it?”
“I search for compatibility. Does the man provide what the lady needs and vice versa. But it is more complicated than that, often. Because sometimes what we say we need is not what we actually need. So, I search more deeply. For the unsaid thing. Once that is discovered…” She lifted her palms to the ceiling. “Everything falls into place.”
Lady Norton joined Emma at the fire, warming her hands. “It sounds thorough.”
“What about attraction?” Mrs. Trent asked.
Attraction was often inconvenient. Best if Emma left that unsaid. “It is important. But there are many different ways of being attracted to someone.”
“What about love?” Lady Felicity whispered.
Emma groped for the right words. Here was a room of women clearly in love or lust or both with their husbands. If she misspoke, they would not trust her.
“For some, love is a potent and crucial component of any match. For others, it is not. That is one of the needs I keep in mind when making my suggestions.”
“Sounds wise.” One of the twins ran her thumb down the length of the book in her lap.
Mrs. Kingston walked the perimeter of the room. “Would you have recommended an earl’s bastard for a duke’s daughter? In those basic ways you mention, no one would claim my husband and I are compatible, and yet…” She shrugged. “He is everything I need.”
Emma would not be flustered. “That is what I mean by looking deeper. There are needs more fundamental than social standing, than accidents of birth.”
That seemed to appease Mrs. Kingston, who nodded, a small smile on her lips.
June bounced on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. “I’m curious. What kind of wife would you seek out for my brother?”
“The duke?” Emma’s heart beat fast as the hooves of a racing horse. “I am not here to match him.”
Gertrude elbowed her youngest sister in the ribs. “And he already has a lady lined up to wed.”
Emma’s horse-racing heart stopped. Had he a lady in the wings, then? And he’d kissed her! The cad. No wonder he’d been so eager to forget last night. He didn’t want anyone to know. Well, neither did she. She needed another scandal like she needed scalding water poured in her lap.
“It is not set in stone yet,” Lady Noble said. “We’ll see what happens with Lady Huxley.”
“But couldn’t Lady Emma help make sure Samuel makes the right choice?” Lady June wrinkled her nose. “I saw him leave the drawing room earlier, after meeting with Lady Huxley, and he did not seem struck down by love. Lady Emma, you must help him.”
“I cannot help where I am not asked to.” Emma softened the rejection with a smile.
Lady Noble snapped to her feet. “Lady Emma does not have to help with anything if she does not desire. Come along, June, all of you. I think it’s time we leave Felicity alone with her matchmaker.”
The departing ladies took every sound but the crackling in the fireplace with them, and Emma sat on the sofa beside the young woman. Lady Felicity appeared overwhelmed. Close to tears, even. Little wisps of hair surrounded her ears, trailed along her neck, just like Glenna’s did. Sisters.
A veritable plague. But one Emma would catch over and over again. Willingly.
She picked each word carefully. “I do not have to be here if you do not wish it. I understand your brother is eager to see you wed, but he also told me, quite firmly, that who and when is your choice. It is cold in Scotland this time of year, but I will return if you say the word, and I’ll never bother you again.”
Lady Felicity shook her head. “Do not go. You are hope to me.” She clutched her hands in her lap, the knuckles turning white. “I tried to choose a man on my own, and I-I chose wrong. I do not trust myself to try again. Alone. And I do not wish to wait. He… the man I… he’s engaged to marry another.”
And clearly, she wished to follow suit, to show the world and possibly herself she was not some man’s reject.
Emma took Lady Felicity’s hands and smoothed her thumb over the ridges of her knuckles until they relaxed. “I will help you. But first, you must tell me what you need.”
Lady Felicity lifted eyes, gray like her brother, rimmed thick with dark lashes like her brother’s, and said, “Love. I want… I want to be wanted . For me alone.”
“Well, then, that is what you shall have.”
Love. The most difficult of challenges for any matchmaker. That alone should send her fleeing London, no matter the risks of returning north empty-handed. The three times she’d failed, the women had been looking for love matches. She wouldn’t fail this time.
It seemed she’d gained another sister to shelter under her wing.