“Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Nicholas had been right about the risks of confirming the rumor regarding the challenge issued to Briar.
Not a day had passed before a wager was on the books at White’s debating his marriage by year’s end. Those who knew him best had put their coin on the impossibility of such an event. Yet there were still a few who doubted the protestations from his own lips. This needled him, much like a thistle barb camouflaged in his trouser leg, catching and digging into his flesh.
There were other nuisances, as well. Invitations to afternoon teas, garden parties, stuffy dinners, enough to suffocate any man. With every penned refusal, he made sure to mention the fact that he had no intention of actually marrying, regardless of rumors.
Regrettably, it made no impact.
He kept telling himself he’d done it to ensure that Daniel would enter society once more, and to please Teense by having her friend here this evening. Yet there was one small voice in the back of his mind, telling him that he was a fool if he believed he’d done it for anyone other than Briar Bourne.
Well, he wasn’t a fool, and Nicholas was determined to prove that voice wrong by any means necessary.
By the time he arrived at Almack’s on Wednesday evening, the party was well underway, a veritable oven of bodies twirling around on the floor and pressed against the wall. The combined stench of sweat and perfume rivaled that of a brothel.
Ruddy-cheeked men in black coats and cinched, snowy cravats mopped their brows with handkerchiefs. Women kept their fans fluttering, creating the only breeze to stave off the sweltering evening air.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Daniel said from beside him. Beneath a sheen of perspiration, his face turned to a pale celadon green as if he were going to cast up his accounts at any moment. The same way he’d looked when Temperance had invited a friend—coincidentally from Briar’s list—to dinner the other evening.
And just like then, tonight, he’d changed his mind about attending three different times, lamenting that he wasn’t up to the task of making merry. In the end, and in no temper to coddle him, Nicholas ladled out a heavy serving of guilt by telling him how disappointed Temperance would be if he broke his promise.
“We are here, so better make the best of it,” Nicholas growled. “Now, find your sister.”
Nicholas had sent Temperance and his aunt in a separate carriage, knowing that they’d intended to escort Miss Bourne. At the very least, he wasn’t going to make Briar miss her long-awaited evening.
He scanned the periphery of the room, where wallflowers and his cousin were known to linger. Surely if he could spot Temperance then he’d find Briar as well. But when there was no sign of either, a cold frisson of worry skated down his spine as he eyed the rows of shiny-faced debutantes gathering between potted palms and columns.
“I . . . I can’t. This is all too soon,” Daniel said, stepping in front of him, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the edge of his cravat, his eyes so wide they looked like pennies in spills of milk.
“What about your promise to dance with Temperance?”
“I’m sure she’ll understand. She’s always been a good sort. And what’s one dance?”
To a young woman who’d confessed to having few partners other than her own family, one dance was quite a lot. Nicholas gritted his teeth. “You also asked Miss Bourne to dance. Now turn around and look for your sister.”
Daniel’s head wobbled in a nod and he drew in a deep breath before facing the crowd. “You’re right. I just need to push onward for a few hours. This is about Temperance’s enjoyment and Miss Bourne’s, not mine. And if I make a complete and utter fool of myself, then I should only hope that I expire from heat exhaustion, there on the ballroom floor.”
Nicholas told himself to be patient. After all, his cousin wouldn’t be in this mess if not for him.
Guilt gnawed at him every day. The only cure was to find Daniel a bride, to make him forget about Miss Smithson, but the process was taking too long. Daniel was shy and awkward and broken and Nicholas wanted to fix him. Now. He didn’t want to wait.
Sometimes he wondered if confessing all of it would ease the burden for both of them, like sloughing off dead skin after a burn. Yet there was too great a chance that Daniel would never forgive him, and that their bond would be severed forever. Doubtless, such cruel honesty would only bring pain, and Nicholas didn’t want to cause any more of that. So he would keep trying to wait through the process.
Unfortunately, patience had never been one of his own virtues. Then again, he wasn’t partial to virtues of any sort.
“Ah. There is my mother,” Daniel offered, gesturing toward one of the curved balconies above the dancers. She was pointing the tip of her fan toward the ballroom floor, beaming with pride.
At first glance, Nicholas hadn’t even seen Temperance among the dancers. But there she was, looking lovely in the new apricot gown she’d showed off earlier this evening, her partner a good two inches taller. As the music came to an end, only then did he see Briar emerge from behind a rotund gentleman, who’d completely eclipsed her from Nicholas’s view. And considering how breathtaking she was beneath the glow of the chandeliers, that was a criminal offense. Briar should never be hidden.
As the gentlemen escorted her and his cousin to the side, Nicholas moved forward, his eyes never leaving them. He took a moment to admire his pupil in a sheath of summer blue that molded over the curves of her body as if the garment had been handstitched over her bare skin.
Most women were struggling with the humidity, shifting restlessly, surreptitiously tugging on their stays and ruffling their skirts to cool themselves. But Briar seemed to embrace the heat, cheeks flushed, skin aglow. She moved with unhurried grace, her steps like a dance of their own, accentuated by the smooth glide of the pearl-handled fan in her grasp. And even though he was steps away, he could have sworn he caught the scent of fresh linens baked in sunlight.
As their escorts left, Briar turned her head to Temperance and those cheeks lifted, her eyes bright as they shared a laugh. Then her gaze drifted over the crowd, clearly searching, and suddenly alighted on him. When their eyes met, a jolt burned through him, hot and expectant.
Dangerous, he thought, knowing that there were likely dozens of people observing him right this instant.
Arm in arm with Temperance, chatting merrily, she gradually made her way to him and Daniel. “Are you certain part of my face hasn’t melted off? When you warned me of his bad breath, I did not think you meant rancid. Clearly, he has eaten something that died most cruelly.”
“And is haunting us!” Temperance laughed and stopped in front of them. “Good evening, brother and cousin. I see you have finally arrived.”
“It’s always the same with gentlemen, isn’t it?” Briar asked Temperance with a conspiratorial smirk. “They take an age to choose what they will wear, fussing over their cravats and such, whereas women can just don any old gown and be ready in a snap.”
“It seems our secret is out, Nicholas,” Daniel said with a shy grin that chased away the taut lines of dread that were there only an instant ago.
Nicholas understood the reason, all too clearly. Briar had such an ease about her that it was impossible not to be drawn in by it. “So true, and all that careful planning is for naught because we are seldom admired for our efforts.”
Briar laughed. “Forgive me, for I meant to say how dashing you both look.”
“A clear ploy to ensnare a dancing partner. What say you, Daniel, shall we give in to their bold manipulations?” Nicholas asked, forgetting that he’d never intended to dance with Briar, not tonight or ever.
“I’m afraid we must.”
“Oh, but you are too late,” Temperance chimed in, jingling her wrist at her brother, where a tiny booklet hung from a shiny silver bracelet. “Our cards are quite full.”
Briar concurred, untying the ribbon of her own card and passing it to Nicholas. “It is true. Temperance and I have come up with a system for this evening. When a gentleman asks for a dance, whichever one of us it is invites him to escort our friend first and promises to hold a place for him for the following dance.”
Nicholas absently perused the names and frowned. “Who is this Lord M.M.? You cannot give one gentleman three dances.”
“The letters stand for matchmaking,” Briar said on a whisper, leaning close enough that he caught the sweet essence rising from her skin. And all at once he was transported back to the sitting room off the gallery, with her lips coasting over his, her scent filling his every breath as she slowly consumed him.
He’d been unable to think of anything else for the past five bloody days. Which was precisely the reason he’d come up with a solution—lesson number three. He knew he would be cured the instant she completed her next task.
Temperance spoke, pointing to the card and breaking him away from the sudden dark turn of his musings. “Briar is ever so clever, is she not? We dance with our shared partners, then talk about their finer points and see if they hold any potential. However, I am willing to forgo my dance with Lord M.M. and give it to my dear brother, should he ever ask, that is.” But Temperance did not give Daniel the opportunity to utter the request. She simply linked arms with him and began to walk toward the floor.
Daniel looked over his shoulder and shrugged.
“I guess he’s dancing whether he likes it or not,” Nicholas said as he returned Briar’s card. Before he was even aware of doing it, rakish impulse took over and he glided his thumb along the underside of her wrist.
Briar did not lift her gaze to him, but her cheeks colored slightly. “I never should have doubted you, my lord. You declared that you would arrange an evening at Almack’s and you have done just that.”
“That is a lesson learned for you, for if I say I will do something, then it will happen.” Then for good measure, he added, “And if I say that I will not do something—like remarry, for example—then I will not.”
She tapped his sleeve with a graceful flick of her pearl-handled fan. “Don’t be so disagreeable on such a promising evening. I know that I cannot force you to alter your opinion. Only someone you find wholly irresistible could do that. But be warned, I plan to keep careful watch over where your feet are pointed.”
“Then you will be disappointed, for my feet will remain angled toward the door all evening.”
“That cannot be true. With only the best of society permitted entrance, I’m sure to have wonderful luck in finding your potential bride this evening. I’ve already imagined the entire scenario.”
“Is this one like the others, ending with my death and my relatives scavenging through my belongings?”
“Only after a long and happy life. So, you can wipe that frown off your face. Oh, and by the by, your widow simply adored you,” she said with an unrepentant smirk. “Never fear, you left her surrounded in the cherished comfort of your seven children.”
“Seven?” A startled cough escaped him before he remembered that there were inquisitive ears about. “Isn’t that a bit generous?”
“Twenty-eight grandchildren as well. And no, I think the number is quite low for a man like you.”
He was strangely offended. “I do have other pursuits, I’ll have you know. I’d hardly confine my wife to—” His words cut off midsentence as he glared down at her dancing eyes. Damn it all to hell.
“See? You’re already talking about marriage. Just wait until I tell Temperance. She’ll be so pleased!” Briar laughed and tapped him once more on the sleeve. “And that is a lesson learned for you. If a matchmaker says she will find you the perfect counterpart, she will do just that.”
“You’re not a matchmaker yet, Miss Bourne,” he said sharply, his voice at the level of a warning growl as he steered her through the crowd toward the refreshment anteroom. In the din of all the conversations, laughter, and music, it wasn’t likely that anyone could hear their conversation. Even so, he didn’t want to risk adding any more logs to the rumor pyres.
She bristled slightly, her gaze darting up to his, a stark, uncertain blue in a sea of white. “I have a good foot under me already.”
“You’ve become presumptuous and have forgotten that our bargain is a means to an end. Which will end, indeed, when Daniel has married.”
Yet, if that were true, then why had his thoughts lingered more on Briar than on the list of potential candidates she’d made?
“And, Temperance, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he snapped, but realized with a degree of shame that Teense’s potential nuptials weren’t in the forefront of his mind. “My sole focus is on ensuring the contentment of my cousins.”
And not on a kissing bargain that was only meant to serve as a diversion.
Yet, because he found himself constantly distracted by Briar, he decided to remedy it straightaway. He’d given the matter a good deal of thought, but his stomach still churned from the solution he had in mind. Even so, it had to be done, for both their sakes.
“As is mine,” she said with a strained glance up at his face. “Foolishly, I thought we were acquainted enough that we could tease each other good-naturedly.”
“I am your mentor, and that is all.”
He saw the instant the words struck her. She flinched reflexively, brow furrowed, eyes squinting to shield the blue of her irises with a crowd of lashes. And suddenly he wanted to take those words back and eat them, pretend they never existed. Which was absurd because he spoke the truth. They weren’t friends. They were associates in this venture.
So, he pressed on. “As such, I have your third lesson. I saw on your card that you’ve met Lord Holt.”
“Yes,” she answered crisply, keeping well abreast of him as they passed through the corridor and headed toward the table lined with cups of pallid liquid. “Your aunt introduced us. Apparently, he has heard of the agency and is hoping to find a match.”
A rich one from what Nicholas had heard. “And did you find him as handsome as most of the ladies do?”
“I suppose. Though it is a pity for him.”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Why is that?”
“Because of lesson number two, of course. He is handsome, ergo his wife will not be . . . well”—she blushed—“content.”
“Yes, make sure you always remember that one.” Nicholas felt a grin tug at his lips, but he subdued it and plucked two cups off the table, handing one to her as they moved to a corner. Then he glanced around them to ensure there was no one lingering within earshot before he spoke. “For lesson number three, I want you to flirt with Holt and see if he tries to kiss you.”
“What?”
“I believe you heard me.” He had a bad taste on his tongue, and the tart, lukewarm lemonade only made it worse. “This is a game men and women often play when they are seeking a mate.”
“The Bourne Agency does not believe that love is a game of any sort.”
“Perhaps not, but you will have clients who have experience with these types of manipulations, those who are innocently curious, and those who will use any means to procure a spouse. It is vital that you get a sense of which type you’ll be dealing with, for I do not want my cousins married to the latter. And because of your own naive, romantic notions, you would not even think to look for such a trait.”
“You underestimate me,” she whispered, her shoulders stiff, her gaze fixed on the fragile cup locked in the grip of both hands.
He drained the last of the horrid beverage and continued without responding directly. “I saw Holt’s name scribbled beside the waltz.”
“And what of it?”
Nicholas tried to be nonchalant about the entire episode, but felt his jaw harden, the confines of his own irritation prickling like quills beneath his skin. “No doubt the young lord will mention something about the heat and offer to escort you to the terrace for air. He’ll direct you to a spot, distant from the doors, and give you the reason that the quiet is necessary for conversation. But he won’t be there to talk. Instead, he’ll say something about the moonlight in your eyes and he’ll sweep in and . . . kiss you.”
“You cannot know this,” she hissed, fury in every syllable, eyes flashing up to his.
“I do because all rakes think alike.” His own gaze drifted to her tempting lips and he knew Holt wouldn’t be able to resist.
“If that is true, then I’ve had more than enough experience in manipulation since meeting you.”
“No. It must be someone else. Someone with whom you’re not so familiar, as you are with me and my family.” He looked away from her hard, wounded stare. “Though, you needn’t worry that he will attempt anything more than a kiss. From what I’ve heard, he needs to marry an heiress to get himself out of debt, and he cannot risk your reputation. But still, be on your guard—no immersing yourself in the experience.”
“It seems you’ve thought of everything.” With alarming calmness, she stepped to the side and poured her lemonade into the urn of a palm tree. When she returned, she handed him her cup, her teeth bared in the taut semblance of a smile. “But what if I don’t want to kiss him? As far as I am aware, I am still my own person.”
“You are, indeed. You may decline, demure, storm away, or”—he swallowed—“submit if you choose. It matters not to me. You’ve proven to be too easily distracted by, what you perceive as, a friendship. It would be an unkindness to mislead you. As I said before, there is nothing between us other than an exchange of services—my tutelage for the eventual marriages of my cousins.”
“Then allow me to assure you once more that I am never going to find myself in love with you—you arrogant buffoon. This entire arrangement is purely academic for me, and that is all.”
Nicholas was glad she stormed off because, if she hadn’t, he might have found himself doing something rash, like claiming the waltz for himself and showing her exactly what a rake would do.
* * *
Briar had never imagined a person could be furious when waltzing, and yet she was. Thoroughly. Her palms were damp and clenched, blood rushing in her ears, and all while Lord Holt smoothly swept her about the room.
She wished it was Nicholas instead, because she could easily envision wrapping her hands around his throat. Or perhaps she would do something even worse like . . . pouring a perfectly good cup of chocolate over his head.
And, the next time she had a cup on hand, perhaps she would.
Of all the nerve! Oh, he thought he was so clever that he could script Lord Holt’s exact actions. Well, she could not wait to tell Nicholas that Holt had not once mentioned stealing her away from the protective eye of Mrs. Prescott, and the waltz was nearly fin—
“Would you care to join me on the terrace, Miss Bourne?” Holt asked, his smooth, drowsy cadence blending in with the intimate steps of the dance, his gaze shadowed by a thick fringe of minky lashes.
Briar’s focus snapped to her partner.
Lord Asher Holt was a handsome devil, to be sure, but with his air of languid indifference it was impossible to believe him capable of careful calculation.
Even so, she barely had the chance to complete her nod before he deftly maneuvered her into a turn. Then they disappeared behind one of the potted palms and down a passageway that she didn’t realize was there. And before she knew it, they’d emerged onto the terrace.
As Nicholas predicted, no one else was about. The others were still waiting for the waltz to end before heading in to dinner. And so, it seemed, the eleventh hour was nearly here.
Was Lord Holt planning to kiss her? Nervousness caused her stomach to tremble, the contents feeling like popping corn set near the fire.
“The night is rather warm even out of doors. Perhaps if we stand at the far corner we might capture a breeze,” he said, his hand coasting over the small of her back as he guided her, every movement subtle, practiced, as if he’d done this countless times before.
It seemed that Nicholas had been right about this, too, and she hated him for it. She could well imagine drowning him in an entire vat of chocolate, maniacally laughing at his last sputtering breath as he slowly slipped beneath the froth.
She frowned at the scenario, disturbed. It wouldn’t work—death by chocolate was too good for him.
“Is this spot agreeable?” Holt asked, his concentration on her expression, his own frown forming. “If you would rather return inside . . .”
“Not at all,” she said quickly, tucking her annoyance away for the moment. “I appreciate the reprieve from the heat.”
“Yes. I now have sympathy for every lamb roasted over a spit.” He chuckled and slid a finger between his neck and cravat, revealing that he actually had a second one—black silk—beneath the snowy white.
Puzzled, she asked, “Why do you wear two cravats?”
“I don’t normally, but the patronesses would refuse my admittance without the white one. And I wear the black as a matter of principle. You could say that I’m in a period of ante-mourning, and all too conscious of the debt that will be foisted upon me one day.” An unrepentant smirk hooked one corner of his mouth. “In addition, the sight of it drives my father absolutely bonkers. So, of course, I can never be without it.”
Assuming that he was teasing, at least in part, she smiled. “Well, then, you’ll need to find a wealthy bride straightaway.”
As luck would have it—she thanked her blue hair ribbon—the agency happened to have an applicant, a Miss Throckmeyer of Hampshire who had a fortune of £40,000. What a coup it would be to make such a match! But first, she would need Holt listed on their client registry.
“It isn’t often that I find a woman who cuts so cleanly to the heart of the issue. I rather like that,” he said.
“My uncle started the Bourne Matrimonial Agency to help every person we can. While necessity may dictate your need for an heiress, we’ll ensure that you also find a bride who shares your interests, beliefs, and passions. Everyone deserves to feel that spark that only comes with their perfect counterpart.”
“Not only pretty, but incomparably clever. I don’t suppose you have a fortune lying around, do you?” Dark soulful eyes rimmed in black lashes focused solely on her, and his smirk transformed into a chemise-melting grin.
Holy handsomeness! Was there a woman alive who could resist such a rake?
“Paltry dowry, I’m afraid,” she said with a high, tittering laugh that she’d never heard herself utter. She might even have been on the verge of swooning.
“Then we’re in the same boat, aren’t we?” He moved a step closer, setting his hand on the balustrade near hers. His gaze dipped to her mouth and then lifted to her eyes again. “Just the two of us, searching for the one that is out of reach, but so close we could almost taste them.”
Oh my, he was awfully good at this. She was a bit lightheaded now, her heart beating faster, though from nerves more than anticipation. With Nicholas, she’d felt a degree of comfort having had the rules established ahead of time. But with Holt she was uncertain. The only thing she could cling to was what Nicholas had told her would happen.
“So tell me, what is the process at your uncle’s business?”
“First, we will take your application and then cross check your responses with others we have on file . . .”
“Fascinating,” Holt said, convincingly absorbed, sliding ever closer.
“. . . then we’ll arrange a meeting to see if you’re compatible.”
“Compatibility is very important.”
Briar swallowed, watching as he glided his hand along the balustrade. He was going to reach for her, pull her closer, and press his lips against hers. And she was going to let him, she decided. In fact, she might even enjoy it.
She most certainly would enjoy telling Nicholas how superior Holt’s kiss was—no matter what the results.
The final strains of the waltz drifted to them on a warm current of air, marking their time. It wouldn’t be long before she was missed. Holt really needed to hurry this along.
She leaned forward in encouragement and he tilted his head, a question in his gaze.
Yes, she answered by way of rising up on her toes. But that put her at an awkward angle. To keep herself from tipping forward, she skimmed her hand over the railing and shuffled closer. The only problem was, something snagged her glove, causing her to twist. At the same time, the toe of her slipper caught on the edge of a stone. And the next thing she knew, she was falling.
Oh dear. Holt’s eyes widened an instant before he caught her by the shoulders, and held her an inconvenient distance apart.
Briar had to take matters into her own hands. No longer attempting to play coy, she curled her fingers around his lapels and pressed her mouth to his. Hard.
She hadn’t intended to be so aggressive, but momentum propelled her forward. And so there she was . . . taking advantage of Holt’s mouth.
But his nose did not slide against hers. His lips were warm, but they did not taste like Nicholas. The scent of his skin did not remind her of a cozy autumn afternoon, or make her stomach clench sweetly.
While the flesh-to-flesh contact was pleasant, she did not have the sense that they were sharing the experience. This was just kissing for the sake of kissing. And while she didn’t know precisely what that meant, she knew it was different.
Gradually, he eased her away, his expression chagrinned. “Miss Bourne, I apologize if I gave you the impression that I asked you to join me for any other reason than to discuss your uncle’s matchmaking business.”
“You didn’t?”
“You are a tempting armful, but I’m not the kind of man who can be swept off his feet.”
A tidal wave of embarrassment washed over her with sickening dread. “Do you mean to say that you weren’t planning to kiss me?”
He chuckled. “Your lips are quite enticing and tasty, but I’m afraid I’m not one to mix business with pleasure. Complications and all that. Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best if I did not fill out an application at your uncle’s agency.”
Briar was utterly mortified. And, to make matters worse, it was quite clear that her ribbon was not lucky at all.