To Marry A Matchmaker (Historical Romance) (13 page)

‘I should have considered that Mr Montemorcy would be masterful. He is like that.’ Miss Armstrong fluttered her lashes and allowed her shawl to slip. ‘I’m most impressed on how the house has been improved. It was never like this in the squire’s day.’

Henri ground her teeth, holding back a swift retort. She would not sink to Miss Armstrong’s level. ‘The one thing I shall miss is seeing Mr Montemorcy dance this evening.’

He gave her a startled look.

‘Have you forgotten? You are to dance with Sophie.’

‘And with me as well, I hope,’ Miss Armstrong cooed.

At least she would be spared Miss Armstrong’s triumphant look when she led Robert out on the dance floor. Henri looked from Miss Armstrong to Robert in
his immaculate evening clothes, which fitted his form precisely, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and the elegant curve of his calf. Everyone would whisper when the pair took the floor and say what a charming couple they made. And the words would be passed from gathering to gathering in the weeks to come and she would have to endure it with a smile. She froze, listening to her sour thoughts.

She was jealous. How had that happened? She had sworn that she’d never look at a man again, not in that way. What was wrong with her? Henri put her hand to her head and tried to regain her balance. She might feel friendship for Mr Montemorcy, but nothing more. Her heart remained buried with Edmund. It had to be. Edmund was the love of her life. She’d known that when she was twelve, and she was steadfast. If her heart was changeable, what did that say about her? Her mother had always sworn that, unless she was careful, she’d become a flighty scatterbrain with no more consistency than a flea. Until now she thought she’d avoided that fate. Her hands shook.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I shall leave you to go to the ball now. For my part, I shall go to the library and discover a good book.’

‘Lady Thorndike is known for her reading of improving tomes,’ Miss Armstrong twittered, fluttering her fan, but her eyes were cold and hard. ‘Treatises on the new farming methods and such like. Lady Thorndike has pretensions of being a bluestocking like her aunt. You will have to take care, Mr Montemorcy, and see that Miss Ravel does not fall under her spell. Bluestockings do find it difficult to find a husband.’

‘I had no difficulties.’ Henri glared at Miss Armstrong.

Miss Armstrong stared back at her defiantly.

‘I fear you’re mistaken, Miss Armstrong, intelligence in a woman is something to be prized,’ Robert said.

Miss Armstrong’s mouth puckered as if she had suddenly swallowed something distasteful. ‘My mistake.’

‘I like to keep informed, but I’m far from averse to reading popular novels, as Mr Montemorcy is well aware.’ Henri took a deep breath and controlled her temper.

‘Why should Mr Montemorcy be aware of
your
reading taste?’ Miss Armstrong asked, unfurling her fan, but her eyes shot daggers.

‘Lady Thorndike has been a guest here for over a week, Miss Armstrong. Such things as a taste for the popular are hard to keep hidden.’ Robert’s eyes twinkled at Henri, warming her. He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing it. Warmth flooded through Henri and she pulled away. ‘I made sure that
Jane Eyre
was delivered earlier today, Lady Thorndike. It struck me that you might wish to amuse yourself while everyone else was at the ball. Even bluestockings need a break from treaties on cow husbandry.’

‘You are such a perfect host, Mr Montemorcy. Not many men would be as thoughtful as you,’ Miss Armstrong said, drawing her arm through Robert’s and leading him firmly away.

‘I do my best, Miss Armstrong.’ His eyes sparkled with a myriad of brown, caramel and gold. ‘Enjoy the book, Thorndike. It is more edifying than
Cattle Husbandry on the North Yorkshire Moor
.’

Henri stared after the pair for a few minutes as the
remainder of the party made ready to leave. Her pulse still pounded. Was it simple kindness or something more that had made Robert send for the book? She had never met anyone like him before—a combination of exasperating stubbornness and the capacity for supreme thoughtfulness. Not what she expected at all. Henri put her hand to the locket that Edmund had given her on her sixteenth birthday, and found the familiar outlines provided little comfort.

F
or the first half-hour, Henri attempted to read, but discovered she was reading the same set of paragraphs over and over, never quite getting beyond the fifth page of
Jane Eyre.
Her mind kept skittering back to the supper party, the things that were said and, more importantly, not said. Miss Armstrong had been too bold by half.

Henri’s eyes narrowed and studied the glowing embers of the fire. She should be able to discern her intention. Normally she was fairly astute at understanding the undercurrents.

Then there was the matter of how Robert looked in his evening clothes. Each gesture and facial expression had to be considered and reconsidered again. Had he been humouring her?

* * *

When the clock struck the hour, she realised she had been hovering halfway between sleep and waking. Her brain was full of confused images of Robert inviting her into his arms, and then Sebastian and Sophie, or
rather Sebastian ruining Sophie at the ball and somehow destroying her friendship with Robert. The thought unnerved her.

Henri sat up straighter, pulled an offending hairpin from her head and allowed her hair to cascade down. Perhaps she should have gone to the ball and endured the looks of pity and questions about her health. Then she’d have been there, ready to forestall any disaster.

She reopened
Jane Eyre
and started with the preface to the second edition. The words—
Conventionality is not morality
—leapt out at her.

Was Currer Bell correct? Had she confused the two?

She read on and slowly but surely this time Bell’s words overpowered her and she had trouble believing the book could have been written by a man. There was something that called to her, enabling her to sympathise with Jane’s plight with her dreadful aunt. She knew what it was like to have others hate you or never consider you good enough. All she could do was carry on reading and turning the pages, hoping Jane got the happy ending that she richly deserved.

A door closed and she jumped, sending the book crashing to the floor with a distinct thump.

‘You’re awake.’ Robert came into the dimly lit library resplendent in his evening clothes. He had looked debonair when going out to the ball earlier, but now with his stock slightly askew, and his coat thrown over his shoulder, he was even more handsome. The fire cast shadows on his face, giving an intimate air to the room. ‘I’d wondered how our modern-day Cinderella-sitting-by-the-fire fared.’

‘Hardly Cinderella. It was my choice not to go to
the ball.’ Henri pointed her toes and circled her feet. Her ankle ached slightly, but the bandages gave it firm support.

The house appeared to hold its breath. Every particle of her was aware of him and how he moved. She found it impossible to look away from his hands. What would it be like to be held in those arms?

‘You were missed, Thorndike.’

‘I’m sure Lady Winship coped. She’d Miss Armstrong’s help.’

‘I lost count of the people who accused me of keeping you from your duty, particularly when the garlands collapsed again. They want your sound advice.’

‘You’re being kind.’

‘Far from it. Mrs Charlton accused me of holding you hostage. She desperately wants your advice on whether or not to encourage a junior officer’s suit for her middle daughter.’

‘And what did you say?’

He gave a conspiratorial smile and took a step closer. ‘That you’ll be back to your old self soon.’

The warm glow of the oil lamp combined with the fire turned his skin a ruddy gold and Henri was suddenly aware of her tumbled-down hair and the way her evening gown had slipped off one shoulder. She debated whether it would be better to pretend she had not noticed or to do the gown up. She opted for the pretence and raised her chin so that she stared directly into his fire-glowing eyes. ‘Where’s Sophie and Mrs Ravel? Did they leave the ball early as well? Did anything untoward happen?’

‘Sophie remained at the ball under her stepmother’s eagle eye. Miss Armstrong and Dorothy appear to have become the best of friends.’ Robert tilted his head to one
side, trying to assess Henri’s mood. Her being downstairs was a gift from the gods. All the way back home, he had thought of how she might look with her black hair flowing free, and the firelight touching her porcelain skin. Reality was a thousand times better than his imagination.

Why had she stayed awake? To ask Sophie about her encounter with Cawburn? Or something more?

Robert pushed the question away unvoiced. This moment was not about questioning her motives as she’d only speak about other people. It was about being with Henri. He had witnessed the frosty reception Sophie had given Cawburn—not quite a cut, but certainly something bordering on it. He had been correct to trust Henri’s instincts and to deliver the letter. He had the added insurance of holding Cawburn’s paper. On the balance of probabilities, Sophie was safe from the bounder.

‘Last seen Sophie was the new belle of Corbridge. Doctor Lumley admirably fought his way through the crush of admirers to bring her an ice.’

‘Doctor Lumley? Who is suffering from a propensity to matchmake now?’ Her voice held a teasing note.

‘Any match is Sophie’s choice, not mine.’ Robert took another step near her.

‘Sophie would be wasted on London.’ Henri leant forwards and a sudden spark from the fire highlighted the vulnerable hollow of her throat. ‘I don’t think she wants a title.’

‘Practical advice from the matchmaker-in-chief.’

‘Practical? You do wonders for a woman’s confidence.’

‘Far better to be practical.’ Robert watched, mesmerised, as the firelight slid over her skin, caressing it.
‘Or are you fishing for compliments? Would you rather I say that you were far too vibrant and alive?’

‘No, no,
practical
will suffice.’ Her tongue flicked over her bow-shaped lips. ‘Was the ball not to
your
taste? Is that why you returned early? Did you dance?’

‘I danced the opening quadrille with Sophie and discovered I enjoyed it. She will be giving you a report in the morning.’

‘Did you stand on her feet?’

‘I know the figure, Henri.’ Robert took a step closer to where she sat. Every step he danced, he knew he was holding the wrong woman in his arms. The right woman was here in this room.

At his approach, Henri’s eyes lit with a sudden deep fire, transforming her face. If she had been at the ball, every man would have turned towards her. There was something about the curve of her mouth that promised sensual delights for the right man. Henri’s head and shoulders emerged from the froth of lace much as Venus must have emerged from the sea. The vision had played on his brain through supper and the ball, and he’d once absently answered a question from Mr Charlton with the one word
—lace.
His fingers itched to unwrap the complicated layers. And there were a hundred good reasons why he should turn around and say goodnight. But one good reason why he should entice her to dance with him: he wanted to.

‘However, as I did the figures, I realised that I also owed you a dance. You’ve refrained from meddling.’

‘And have seen others attempt to do it with far less finesse.’ Henri’s mouth twisted and he knew how hard and painful it must have been to see Miss Armstrong’s attempts earlier this evening. ‘And it’s only by lack of
opportunity. I should never have insisted on that particular forfeit.’

The pulse in the hollow of her throat beat more quickly and he knew she was following his lead.

‘I keep my promises, Henri.’ Robert waited, silently willing her to take the next step. He intended to have her properly in his arms and see if reality matched his dreams.

‘Circumstances intervened; besides, I gave advice about Sophie and my cousin. Some might call that meddling.’ Henri kept her voice light as her heart skipped a beat. Did he truly mean to dance with her here in this room? Now, with all the servants asleep or lightly dozing at their posts? The notion was preposterous, but tremendously exciting at the same time.

A tiny sane part of her told her to flee to her room, but she continued to sit in the winged chair and watch him.
Conventionality is different from morality.
The words she had read earlier thrummed in her brain. Conventionality demanded she leave, but she wasn’t doing anything wrong or immoral.

‘You did not try to engineer a match between your cousin and Sophie—quite the reverse.’ His voice deepened and flowed over her. Inside her, bubbles fizzled and sparkled, making her feel wonderfully alive. ‘We shall dance, Henri.’

‘At another ball.’ Henri struggled to keep the disappointment from her voice. She longed to know when and where. Her entire body tingled with anticipation.

‘Tonight.’

‘There is no music here.’

A dimple played in his cheek, giving a devilish aspect
to his countenance. ‘And your sole objection to dancing with me now in this room is the lack of music.’

‘It’s a major one. Without music, how can one keep the time?’ The tension in Henri’s shoulders eased. He was teasing her now. He knew as well as she did the impossibility of the enterprise. But the image of them waltzing around the room with his firm hand on her waist kept filling her brain. And she knew she had to leave or she’d succumb to the temptation. The trouble was that she did not want to leave. She wanted to be in his arms. She wanted to circle the room to the imaginary violins. For once, she wanted to experience the romance.

Henri made one last attempt to be sensible and rose from her chair. ‘Unless you happen to have brought a few spare musicians back with you, I shall bid you goodnight.’

‘I can do something better than that.’ He gestured towards a small rosewood box. ‘Behold your music.’

‘Music? From a box?’ Henri tilted her head. Had Robert partaken of far too much punch? ‘What sort of gullible fool do you take me for? You cannot get music from a box.’

He put his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels, like a young schoolboy. ‘Would you care to wager?’

Slowly Henri shook her head. ‘I’m prepared to be amazed. You are far too confident. Demonstrate this musical box of yours and we shall see if it produces music fit for dancing.’

‘Very wise.’

He gave a few deft turns of a key. ‘It is a musical box. I picked it up in Switzerland a few years ago when
I visited the Continent. My father had a mechanical bird that used to sing when I was a young boy, but I broke it about the time my mother died. My father was very angry with me at the time. The box commemorates my first success. Unfortunately my father died before I could bring it home.’

His first success and he wanted to make amends for something he had inadvertently damaged. The father who had told him to trust logic rather than his feelings. Only his father never knew. Henri put a hand over her mouth. She wanted to gather him in her arms and wipe the vulnerable look from his eyes. ‘You never speak of your past.’

‘I find it better to live for tomorrow’s hope. The future holds much more promises than the past’s disappointments.’

‘But the past…is important,’ she said, trying to keep the fizzing feeling from exploding.

He lifted the inlaid lid and a sweet lilting melody came out of the box, filling the room. Henri laughed, enchanted, and the bubbles seemed to enter her bloodstream. ‘The box is playing music. Actual proper music, Robert.’

‘You like it, then?’ he asked with a note of barely suppressed excitement.

‘I have never seen such a thing before, but it is wonderful.’ Henri regarded the spinning cylinders. Her body swayed in time to the music.

‘And your objection to dancing with me is?’

Henri ran her tongue over her parched lips. ‘Can there be any objection?’

Her bare hand fit snugly into his gloved one. It would only be a few steps or once around the room at most.
It was not a proper dance lasting a half-hour. But even still, her pulse beat faster.

Robert’s hand went to her waist and held her as they slowly circled around the room. All the while Henri was conscience of only him—the way his hand felt against her waist, the sandalwood scent that teased her nostrils and how he moved, his leg brushing against her skirts.

She missed her step and clung to him to keep herself from falling. His arm instantly tightened, pulling her more fully against his body.

‘Does your ankle pain you, Henri?’

‘No, it is stronger than I thought it would be.’ She leant back slightly, putting a little air between them. ‘Shall we continue?’

His lips brushed her temple. ‘The music has stopped.’

‘It has?’ she whispered, but did not move away from him. Her entire being trembled. Leave now and she’d regret it for the rest of her life. She wanted to be here, with him.

‘It has,’ he confirmed and his arm drew her more firmly into his embrace. Her curves hit the hard planes of his body, moulding to him, and he held her against him. ‘What shall we do?’

In response, she lifted her mouth and put her arm about his neck. His lips touched hers—warm and inviting. Time stopped. And all her being concentrated on this one point of contact. She parted her lips and tasted the sweetness of his mouth. An intense flame flickered though her. Their tongues touched and tangled. Slowly explored.

All the pent-up demand and hunger of her dreams coursed through her, blotting out everything else. The
only thing that mattered was the sensation of his mouth moving against hers. And she knew she wanted to live for the now rather than looking over her shoulder, wondering what some unknown person might think about her behaviour. This wasn’t wicked. It was wonderful.

Somewhere in the depths of the house a door slammed, startling her, bringing her back to sensibility.

Using all of her will-power, Henri stepped away from his arms. The cold air rushed around her and she shivered slightly. Of all the mistakes she had made, this was potentially the largest and most life altering. Her stomach knotted in confusion. ‘I must…I must retire for the night.’

‘As you wish.’ He stood, unmoving, neither preventing her from leaving nor asking her to stay.

Henri crossed her arms over her aching breasts. ‘What else is there to do?’