He had depths she hadn’t known he possessed.
Which was distracting enough, but nowhere near as disturbing as the continued insistence of her senses on registering and dwelling on every little nuance of his physical presence. She could only hope that the effect would ease on further acquaintance.
If she’d thought he was in any way affecting her on purpose, she would have cut the connection and left him to find his own bride. But he wasn’t doing anything—the silly susceptibility was all hers—and despite his excellent performance that morning, he definitely needed her help.
And, all in all, despite the unsettling repercussions, she was enjoying herself—enjoying the challenge of finding him a bride, and simply enjoying being in his company.
After several further forays into the groups of young ladies parading about the Avenue, they headed for Upper Brook Street. It was half past eleven, and she had a luncheon to attend at noon, and James, apparently, was meeting Simon and their mutual friend, Charlie Hastings, somewhere in the city.
As they turned into Upper Brook Street, she said, “I believe we’ve made an excellent start.” She glanced at James. “Did you see any young lady who you think might be suitable—anyone we should put on your short list?”
Yes—you. Keeping his eyes forward, James scratched his chin and wondered where the devil those words had come from. After a moment, he offered, “Miss Chisolm seems a good sort. And Miss Digby wasn’t too far from the mark.”
“Hmm. You don’t think Miss Digby might be too . . . well, giggly? She does giggle, you know.”
“Good God—I hadn’t noticed. Strike Miss Digby. But what about Miss Chisolm?”
Henrietta nodded. “On the face of it, I agree—I know nothing about Miss Chisolm that would count against her.” She glanced at him. “So Miss Chisolm should go on the short list?”
He hesitated, then forced himself to nod. “Just Miss Chisolm for the nonce.” Miss Chisolm was a buxom, good-natured young lady with, he judged, few false notions of life. That said, she wasn’t . . . anywhere near as engaging as the lady currently walking by his side.
They reached Lord Arthur Cynster’s house, and with a suitable smile and an elegant bow, James parted from Henrietta, promising to meet her that evening at Lady Marchmain’s rout. He stood on the pavement and watched her go inside; when the door closed behind her, he turned away and, sliding his hands into his pockets, started strolling toward Grosvenor Square.
As he walked, he consulted his feelings, not something he often did, but in this instance it wasn’t hard to define the uncertainty that was itching just under his skin. He really would like to find some way to suggest Henrietta put her own name on his very short short list, but . . . he was deeply aware of just how beholden to her he was. If she took it into her head to take offense at his suggestion and withdrew her support, he’d never find his necessary bride, of that he had no doubt. That morning’s excursion had proved beyond question how far out of his element he was in the matter of conventional bride-hunting; if Henrietta had not been there, he’d have managed to gain perhaps two introductions, while with her beside him, he’d lost count.
And he only had four more weeks to find his bride and get the knot tied.
He grimaced. “No—in this, sadly, I have to play safe.”
Raising his head, drawing his hands from his pockets, he lengthened his stride. Given he’d spent most of the morning by Henrietta’s side, he really should explain to Simon just what he was doing with his younger sister.
“She’s what?” Simon Cynster stared across the table at James, then burst out laughing.
Beside Simon, Charlie Hastings chortled, valiantly attempting to stifle his laughter, then he caught James’s long-suffering look and lost the battle; Charlie laughed until tears leaked from his eyes.
Seated at their regular table tucked away in an alcove toward the rear of the main room of the Horse and Whip tavern off the Strand, James waited with feigned patience for his friends’ mirth to subside. He’d expected as much, and he could hardly claim to be surprised that his news had been greeted thus.
Eventually catching his breath, Charlie gasped, “Oh, my giddy aunt! Or in this case, your grandaunt.”
Still grinning, Simon added, “Who would have believed The Matchbreaker would consent to turn matchmaker—your powers of persuasion, dear boy, continue to impress.” Simon raised his ale mug in a toast, then sipped.
“Yes, well.” Turning his own mug of foaming ale between his hands, James grimaced. “I suppose you could say my situation is now so desperate, and what with me being so relatively helpless, my appeal engaged her sympathy.”
“Hmm.” Simon pulled a face as he considered. “I wouldn’t have said Henrietta had much sympathy to spare, at least not for gentlemen of the ton.”
So James had gathered from the references Simon had made over the years to his younger sister, only two years younger than Simon’s thirty-one yet still unwed, which, now James thought of it, for a Cynster miss was nothing short of extraordinary. Simon himself had married two years ago, when he’d been the same age as Henrietta was now.
The waitress brought the platters they’d ordered, and they settled to eat. Companionable silence reigned for several minutes.
Charlie broke it, glancing up from his pie to confirm, “So it’s all off with Melinda, then?”
James nodded. “Completely and utterly. Nothing further for me there. Seemed she was set on a love-match, so, as Henrietta pointed out, we really wouldn’t have suited.”
Simon nodded. “A lucky escape, then.” He chewed, swallowed. “So what has Henrietta suggested?”
James inwardly sighed and told them.
They guffawed again.
James rolled his eyes and thought of how much more they would laugh if he confessed to the rather more particular thoughts he’d started to entertain regarding The Matchbreaker.
But even after Simon and Charlie sobered, neither suggested that following Henrietta’s plan was unwise.
Simon waved his fork. “There is, after all, the time element.”
“Indeed.” Charlie nodded. “You can’t afford to dither, and Henrietta, at least, will have no burning desire to steer you in one direction over any other.”
Simon nodded, too, looking down at his plate. “She’ll have no particular agenda of her own.”
Which was precisely the point James would like to alter. While they turned their attention to cleaning their plates, he revisited all Simon had ever let fall of Henrietta’s attitude to gentlemen of the ton.
By all accounts, she held a rather low opinion of gentlemen like him, albeit in general, rather than specifically. However, he’d already shown her he was the sort of gentleman who would approach marriage cold-bloodedly, and, despite her agreement to help him, she’d viewed his approach to Melinda as him being less than truthful. Although he’d had sound reasons for that, not all of which he’d explained, the die had been cast; Henrietta’s view of him was now likely fixed. As for her own expectations, being a Cynster, and regardless of her revelations of having supported non-love-matches for others, for herself Henrietta would want what all Cynster young ladies wanted—a marriage based on love.
Cynsters married for love. That was, apparently, an unbending law of fate, one that could not be, and never had been, broken. Simon, for instance, was very definitely in love with his erstwhile social arch-nemesis, now his wife, Portia. Even James had known that Simon had long been in love with Portia; only Simon and Portia had apparently failed to notice, and it had taken them years—and two dead bodies and a murderer—to open their eyes.
Simon stirred and pushed aside his empty plate. Charlie followed suit; James had already set his plate aside. Without a word, they drained their mugs, then rose, paid their shot at the bar, tipped the smiling waitress, and strolled out into the early afternoon sunshine.
They ambled along the Strand, back toward Mayfair. They’d been friends for so long that they didn’t need to talk c
onstantly; their silences felt comfortable to them.
Sauntering along shoulder to shoulder with Simon, James let his gaze roam while inwardly weighing his options. He understood, or at least he thought he did, what Henrietta’s view of him currently must be. Was there any way he could rescript that view and get her to see him in a better light?
A light sufficiently flattering that she might entertain an offer from him to fill the position he had vacant?
At least she already knew all the details, and as she was a Cynster, he could trust that she would be reasonable and amenable to rational persuasion, but . . . the not-so-small hurdle of falling in love remained.
No more than the next man did he have any idea how one accomplished that—how one fell in love—but given it was Henrietta who, even among the competing claims of the hordes of young ladies along the Avenue, had remained the unwavering focus of his attention, he was increasingly inclined, admittedly recklessly, to give love a try.
Who knew? It might suit him.
It might get him where he wanted to go, might gain him what he most truly wanted of life but had thought—given his grandaunt’s will—that he no longer had any hope of attaining.
For all he knew, the possibility might be there.
If only he could fathom how to make her look at him—truly look at him and see him for what he was—and then fall in love with him . . .
Who was he deceiving now? She wouldn’t fall in love with him, not spontaneously, not unless he made an obvious push to gain her regard, but in doing that, in making such a push, he would risk losing her help with his quest, his search for his necessary bride.
Simon glanced at him. “So how do you feel about this latest tack?”
“Stymied.” He didn’t meet Simon’s eyes.
Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind—it’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
James hoped so, because, regardless of all else, he had the futures of a small army to ensure.
Chapter Three
Lady Marchmain’s rout was one of the traditional highlights of the Season. That said, it wasn’t an event patronized by the very young ladies only just out, but rather by those no longer caught up in the first flush of the Marriage Mart. Among the sea of well-coiffed heads gleaming beneath the crystal chandeliers, in between the black-clad shoulders of fashionable gentlemen in evening attire and the stunning gowns in more intense hues worn by dashing matrons and more mature ladies, could be glimpsed the definite-yet-still-pastel-colored creations favored by young ladies with several Seasons under their belts but as yet no offer for their hands.
“Just as I thought.” Clad in blue silk in a shade deeper than her eyes, Henrietta tipped her head toward the melee, then leaned closer to James, standing alongside her, the better to be heard over the din created by hundreds of wagging tongues. “We’re sure to find several good candidates in this crowd.”
James eyed the shifting throng with a jaundiced eye. “The trick will be winkling them out from the herd.”
“Never fear.” Eyes sparkling, Henrietta grinned, transparently in her element. “Trust me—it won’t be that difficult.”
They were standing by one side of the massive ballroom, with a wall of long windows at their backs. Beyond the windows lay a wide lawn rolling down to a stream; the darkening shadows of extensive gardens stretched into the distance beyond.
Marchmain House stood outside London proper, at a bend along the river near Chiswick. James had arrived reasonably early, wanting to be there when Henrietta walked in. He’d assumed she would be attending with her mother and sister, but instead she’d appeared at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom alone; a slender figure in the blue silk gown that echoed the soft shade of her eyes, a gold-spangled shawl draped over her elbows, she’d instantly commanded his attention. He’d watched her greet Lady Marchmain, a motherly lady of the grande dame variety, with open affection, then move on to peck Lord Marchmain’s cheek before, with a laugh, descending to the ballroom.
James had been waiting for her by the bottom step.
The smile she’d bestowed on him when her gaze had alighted on him—the quick glance she’d sent skating over him and the approval that had flared in her eyes—had left him feeling a tad off-balance. Knocked askew. How he was supposed to command his unruly senses to focus on any other young lady was beyond his comprehension.
But . . . “There’s Miss Alcock.” Henrietta shifted closer still to point out a young lady in an apple green gown. “We should definitely consider her. And . . .” She wove away, then back, peering past the shoulders, simultaneously playing havoc with James’s distracted senses; her perfume, a subtle blend of citrus and rose, wreathed his brain and trapped his wits. “Yes, that’s Miss Ellingham over there—I had hoped she would be here.”
Henrietta turned to him. “Come along. I’ll introduce you, and then, unless I miss my guess, and I rarely do, the musicians will start playing and the dancing will begin, and there’s no better opportunity to assess a young lady than while you’re waltzing with her.”
Inwardly grim, he nodded. Wondering just what she meant by “assess”—what criteria did she think he might explore?—he manfully accompanied her into the crush.
Within ten feet, he’d been forcibly reminded just why he normally avoided such events. It was heavy going, tacking this way and that through the shifting mass, trying to keep alongside Henrietta while simultaneously not taking her arm. Time and again, when they paused to exchange greetings, occasionally stopping to chat, he was forced to clasp his hands behind his back simply to stop himself from reaching for her arm and drawing her protectively nearer.
Many young ladies would have shrunk toward him, would have relied on him to steer them through the throng, but Henrietta was entirely at home amid the surging bodies and forged ahead unperturbed; in this arena, she needed no protection. If anything, the shoe was on the other foot, and he needed hers.
That was a reality played out again and again, one that subtly grated on some heretofore unregistered instinct.
Yet she was as good as her word, and he found himself standing beside her in the circle in which pretty Miss Alcock stood animatedly chatting. When the first strains of the violins floated out above the heads, it was a simple matter to request Miss Alcock’s hand. With a sweet smile, Miss Alcock accepted, and he led her to the dance floor—all too conscious of Henrietta’s encouraging smile following him into and through the resulting waltz.
From there, the evening progressed with Henrietta steering him into circle after circle, guiding him to one potential candidate after another. He danced with Miss Chisolm, whom he’d met in the park that morning, and also with Miss Downtree and Miss Ellingham.
By the time he drew Miss Swinson into his arms and started them revolving, his conversational gambits had grown somewhat tired. At least to him. Luckily, Miss Swinson found his deliberately charming smile and his pleasant inquiry as to how she was enjoying the evening entirely appropriate.
“It’s the devil of a crush, isn’t it? Oh!” Her eyes rounded, then filled with rueful laughter. “Pray excuse me! I know I shouldn’t say that—devil, I mean—but with so many brothers, it just slips out.”
James grinned quite sincerely. “Pray don’t censor your words on my account.”
She tipped her head, regarding him, then asked, the laughter still in her eyes, “In that case—are you enjoying the evening? It seems an unlikely event to attract one such as you.”
“You are clearly perspicacious. I have to admit that I’m finding the crush rather draining.”
“Yes, well, it is one of the main events of the Season, at least for all those not immersed in the Marriage Mart.” As they whirled, a ripple of reaction among the other dancers distracted Miss Swinson; she looked across, then returned her gaze to James’s face. “A case in point—that was Sir Peter Affry and the lovely Dulcimea Thorne waltzing by. Word is that he’s dangling after Cassandra Carmichael, but Dulcimea isn’t one t
o let any other steal a march on her.”
The revolutions of the waltz brought the couple in question into James’s sight. He recognized the gentleman Henrietta had pointed out that morning, and took due note of the predatory way Miss Thorne had all but draped herself over Sir Peter, the niceties of proper waltzing etiquette notwithstanding. “Miss Thorne certainly appears to be making a strong argument for Sir Peter’s attention.”
As they whirled again, Miss Swinson craned her neck to see. “It’ll be all over the at-homes tomorrow morning, no doubt.”
James could almost find it in him to be grateful to Sir Peter and his pursuit of the beauteous Miss Carmichael; with all eyes, however discreetly, watching the developments between Sir Peter and Miss Thorne, no one was inclined to pay all that much attention to the strange circumstance of one of the ton’s acknowledged wolves running on The Matchbreaker’s leash.
Henrietta watched from the sidelines. Although she maintained her part in a steady stream of conversations, she was aware that James remained the true cynosure of her senses, even while he was circling the dance floor with another lady. She wasn’t sure she approved of her senses’ apparent fixation, but she wasn’t particularly adept at lying to herself; that moment when she’d seen him as she’d walked down the stairs . . . if she’d been carrying a fan, she would have used it.
James Glossup in evening attire, looking up at her, his lovely brown eyes, their soulfulness tonight entirely unmarred by temper, fixed on her, was a sight designed to make her heart leap, then speed into a ridiculous cadence, to make her lungs seize and her wits grow giddy . . . luckily he couldn’t know the effect he had on her. She was perfectly sure no good would come of him gaining such revealing knowledge.
Indeed, when it came to that, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know—in fact, she wasn’t at all certain what her strange reaction implied.
The waltz currently in progress ended. James bowed to Miss Swinson, raised her from her curtsy, and escorted her back to the group where Henrietta, still chatting easily, waited. As he released Miss Swinson and took up his previous position by Henrietta’s side, she surreptitiously arched a brow at him. He saw it, but other than briefly meeting her eyes, he didn’t respond.