“Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
That evening, Briar was grateful for the distraction of the Duchess of Holliford’s dinner party. She didn’t want to spend another moment thinking of her bargain with Lord Edgemont.
It should have eased her thoughts of uncertainty when he’d left on an errand before taking tea that afternoon. But it hadn’t. Instead, her mind had become preoccupied, conjuring one scenario after another about what it might be like to . . . submit her payments. All of them had left her shamefully breathless. And as a woman whose sole interest was in finding wholesome, respectable matches for her clients, she should not be this curious about kissing a rake.
Tucking those thoughts inside her bonnet as she handed it to the duchess’s maid, Briar stepped into the parlor.
The Duchess of Holliford’s residence in Mayfair was like a second home to Briar. Many members of the ton vied for an invitation to the weekly dinners, but the Bourne family always had a place at the table. Briar and her sisters were like the daughters—or more aptly, granddaughters—that the duchess never had.
Greeting her with unabashed fondness, Briar dipped into a curtsy that brought her to eye level with the diminutive figure before her. “How lovely you look this evening, Your Grace. I dare say, that dark teal shawl quite matches the lustrous color of your eyes.”
Beneath an elegant nest of dove-gray hair, the Duchess of Holliford looked sideways at Briar, a faint vellum-creased smile bracketing her pursed mouth. “Tush, girl. You’re beginning to sound like that flattering uncle of yours. Where is Eggleston, by the by? Surely he didn’t send you alone.”
“No. He is here with me,” Briar said, pressing a kiss to the proffered lilac-scented cheek. “However, as we disembarked from our carriage, we met with another of your guests—Mrs. Richards, I believe—who dropped her handkerchief. Supposedly by accident. Uncle Ernest bid me to go in without him while he rescued the fallen silk and accompanied her up the stairs.”
The duchess drew in a patient breath and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “The viscount is never in want of admirers.”
“Very true,” Briar agreed as her uncle appeared across the room.
When they’d first arrived in London, she’d thought his appeal came from the fact that he’d aged so well, with waves of silver-sand hair, lapis blue eyes, and only the slightest paunch to his lean physique. Yet lately she’d come to realize that it wasn’t his handsomeness or charming mannerisms. Women were drawn to him because the years of his life and the trials he’d born had never darkened his soul. He treated each new love as if it were the very first and the very last.
Already she knew that her uncle would stay awake this night, writing a sonnet to Mrs. Richards. He truly loved women, whether he was wooing them or simply in their company. And no matter what transpired between him and his latest loves—the details of which Briar did not want to even imagine—they would always part as friends. Or rather as what he called affectionate friends.
Briar supposed that was the best of ways to end a love affair. With an amicable separation, neither party would have to endure any crippling heartache, and only suffer from the occasional sigh of fond remembrance as Uncle Ernest often did.
“Your uncle should use the resources of the agency to find himself a wife, lest he steal any more hearts.”
Briar grinned. “But if you ask him, he’ll tell you that he finds the perfect wife at least three times a week. Even so, he isn’t allowed to fall in love with the client. None of us are.”
“Ah, but your sister did, and all turned out well in the end.”
“Yes, but with her amnesia, she couldn’t remember that she wasn’t supposed to. And besides, the ton was quick to forgive the new Duchess of Rydstrom.” It was unfortunate that Briar’s misstep hadn’t yielded a similar consequence.
“I see you fretting, my dear, but do not worry. I forbid anyone this evening from speaking of the slight oversight at the agency.”
If Briar had been a dog, she would have had her ears down and her tail between her legs. As a woman, her shoulders wanted to slump forward in shame. But she refused to give in to the impulse. What was the use in overthinking a mistake she’d already made? She would rather look past it and contemplate the future.
“What’s this I hear? Women discussing business? Scandalous!” a low voice said from behind her, the sonorous timbre all too familiar.
Briar was stunned into utter stillness. It wasn’t possible. A man like Nicholas would never be permitted to set a single roguish toe into the ever-proper Duchess of Holliford’s residence.
Eyes wide, Briar slowly turned. And there he was, indeed, moving into their circle and bending to kiss the duchess’s papery cheek. The same cheek she’d kissed a moment ago.
What was he doing here? And, more importantly, why?
Her pulse quickened with indefensible awareness, their bargain storming to the forefront of her mind.
“Unconventional, perhaps, but hardly scandalous,” the duchess said, patting his arm fondly. “Though it is rather serendipitous that Miss Bourne and I should be discussing her uncle’s matrimonial agency in the same instant you happened our way.”
Nicholas grinned rakishly—though a man such as he likely had no other way of grinning—and inclined his head toward Briar, his gaze skimming over her flushed cheeks. “You must forgive my godmother, for she occasionally confuses the definition of serendipity with contrivance. She waved me over when she spotted me at the door.”
Godmother? Briar eyed him with suspicion. He’d conveniently neglected to mention an association with the duchess when Briar had mentioned Her Grace earlier.
“Pay him no heed, Miss Bourne, but allow me to present to you my godson, the Earl of Edgemont.”
“My lord.” Briar dipped into a curtsy by rote, pretending she didn’t know him at all. Then again, she didn’t. Not really . . . and yet, she’d said yes. Yes, Nicholas.
“Miss Bourne, a pleasure indeed.” Reaching out, he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her gloved fingertips. Wayward tingles waltzed down her limbs, beneath her skin.
“He has just returned from his estate in the country, and can you guess the recipient of the first social call he paid?” The duchess splayed her small hands over the brooch pinned to the gathers of her paisley shawl, her tone warm and eyes bright with pleasure. “Such a pleasant visit. We chatted for more than an hour before I had to shoo him out the doors and adjust the plans for dinner.”
So that was the errand he’d had in mind when he’d left his house. But surely, he couldn’t mean to collect on their bargain this very night. They hadn’t even discussed the particulars. And though she was filled with a reprehensible amount of curiosity, she was also suffering from a degree of shyness.
“And can you guess the topic that most enthralled him, my dear?” the duchess asked.
Briar shook her head, her heart rising to her throat, certain that her shocking bargain was all over her face. Yes, Nicholas might as well be written in India ink across her forehead. “I cannot.”
“My godson was thoroughly intrigued by the Bourne Matrimonial Agency, wanting to know how it began, and about my own involvement after you helped to find my nephew a wife. I told him everything I could. Of course, he claims his interest stems from his cousin’s subscription. Oh, and I believe you are well acquainted with Miss Prescott, are you not?” At Briar’s nod, the duchess went on. “Yes. Yes. I’m sure you would have met Lord Edgemont eventually. Though I am glad to take my part in it. After all, once a man starts speaking the word matrimony freely, then he might very well be thinking of it for himself.”
“I do not understand why everyone I meet lately wants to marry me off, armed with Cupid’s arrows and wicked propositions.” He had the gall to wink at Briar.
Vexed, she inhaled so quickly that she choked on her own saliva. Oh, but she wished it had been an insect instead—one large enough that a physician would be summoned to extract it. She would be sent home then and given orders of complete mouth-rest for the next few days. Wicked proposition, indeed!
Still coughing, she watched as the duchess lifted her hand to call a tray-toting servant over.
Nicholas slipped his handkerchief from inside his superfine black coat. Then, presenting the folded linen square between his fingers, he leaned in to whisper, “Are you quite well, Miss Bourne? I should hate to cancel such a promising evening due to the pretense of a cold. However, if you aren’t feeling as determined as you were earlier, you need only say the word.”
“If I were infected with the plague,” she croaked, temper simmering, “I should be more than happy to give it to you.”
“If yellow fever or the black death came in such an enticing package, all of humanity would surely perish. Even I would welcome it with open arms.”
He stepped apart from her then, his wicked words leaving her warm and wobbly kneed. If she’d had any lingering doubts about how irredeemable he actually was . . . well, she didn’t now.
“Here, my dear. What you require is a glass of wine to truly fortify you,” the duchess interjected, handing Briar a goblet from the tray. “I have the best of surprises for this evening. I had the footmen reassemble the entire dining room out on the terrace. What fun! In lieu of a formal dinner, we’ll be eating like bohemians. Is there a better way to welcome a warm evening than dining by torchlight?” Briar did not have the chance to answer before the duchess turned to her godson. “Would you mind being Miss Bourne’s escort, Lord Edgemont?”
“Not at all. Would you do me the honor, Miss Bourne?” Nicholas proffered his arm. And when his devilish gaze slanted to her, it was almost as if she could read his thoughts. Say, “Yes, Nicholas.”
Briar might very well have to kill him instead of kiss him.
* * *
Nicholas never imagined that a bohemian dinner would feel so confining.
Here he was, out on the terrace with a warm breeze stirring the smoke rising from the torches, and he couldn’t find a bit of air. Of course, the reason likely stemmed from the fact that the woman beside him had been using it all up with her incessant rambling about her pretty daughter, who was presently at Almack’s under the chaperonage of her elder brother.
He shifted in his chair, restless. He’d known that the instant he set foot into polite society, the ravening horde of husband hunters would sniff him out.
In the past hour, Nicholas had learned more about Lady Baftig’s family than he’d ever known about his own. We used to summer in Bath until it fell out of fashion . . . With seven children, it is important to have ample opportunities for enjoyment . . . Matilda has always been ever-so-patient with the little ones . . . Do you come from a large family, my lord?
“No,” he answered succinctly and caught Briar smirking from her seat near the middle of the table. Oh, she was enjoying this a bit too much.
She’d been pretending to be absorbed in conversation with the gentleman beside her, offering occasional nods and interested lifts of her brows. But her gaze had been distant, her focus often straying to this end of the table.
Nicholas had to give her credit, however. She was good at avoiding direct eye contact. He would not be able to accuse her of watching him, certainly not in the same way he was watching her. Yet it was clear that she was more interested in his conversation than in her own.
His arrival had taken her by surprise this evening. Clearly, she hadn’t known about the connection between the duchess and himself, but seeing her eyes widen and her cheeks flush had given him a peculiar thrill of satisfaction, and he was glad that he’d decided to accept his godmother’s invitation.
Though, he’d never intended to come. It wasn’t until Aunt Lavinia introduced him to Briar—at least, as far as his aunt knew—that he’d excused himself from joining them for tea, claiming an errand. In truth, he’d required a diversion.
The instant Briar had agreed to their bargain, it was all he could think of. And the prospect of listening to his aunt’s hopeful yearnings that Daniel would soon emerge from his melancholy only made Nicholas feel as if the walls of his townhouse were closing in on him.
Restless, he’d gone out and, without preconceived plotting, he’d ridden his horse here. The reason he’d called on his godmother hadn’t even occurred to him until she’d started chattering about her protégés, the Bourne sisters. Then it became clear.
He’d likely heard mention of them countless times before, but over the years he’d learned to turn a deaf ear to talk of unmarried young women. Today, however, he’d hung on every word. Absorbed every detail, including the fact that the youngest attended dinners here each week. And since the bargain he’d made with Briar still lacked form or rules, he felt there was no better opportunity to set things in place than tonight.
A fresh rush of impatience tore through him at the thought. He wanted to barter with her. Exchange quip for quip. Make her blush. He was eager for dinner to end but it was taking an eon. He’d go mad if his godmother didn’t ring the deuced bell beside her plate and end his—
The bell tinkled in that instant, and Nicholas expelled a tense breath.
At the opposite end of the table, the Duchess of Holliford rose from her chair, which did nothing to alter her petite stature. “Being that we are all out of doors, I see no reason why the men and women should separate. Let us continue to enjoy each other’s company in the night air and adjourn for cards later.”
Murmurs followed, some of discontent but others of scandalized excitement. A few glances slid his direction as if this small alteration was breaking all of society’s rules and he was the cause of it.
With a grin, he lifted his glass in a salute to the party and drained the contents.
A regiment of footmen moved as one to pull out the women’s chairs as the head butler carried a cigar tray around the table for the men. Briar rose and, without a backward glance, moved toward the opposite end of the terrace where his godmother stood. He wondered if she believed that standing beside the duchess would keep him from seeking her out.
Nicholas grinned at her naivety.
Rising from his own chair, he made his way to them, noting that their hushed conversation came to an abrupt halt. “I see I have caught the pair of you deep in a discussion unsuitable for my ears. For shame.”
His godmother tapped him with her fan when he clucked his tongue, amusement crinkling the flesh surrounding her sharp eyes. “Outrageous accusation, dear boy. We were merely speaking of marriage.”
“A topic which is surely dear to your heart, by now, my lord,” Briar said smugly. “After all, you did spend the majority of dinner conversing with Lady Baftig, who—from what I gather—is quite eager to make a match for her daughter.”
“And during the whole of it, I was wishing someone would take pity and smother me with my own cravat.”
He shared a glance with Briar, watching as she hid a grin behind her cup of cloudy lemonade. Her breath fogged the glass when she whispered, “The night is still young.”
Indeed it was, and he was tired of waiting for it to begin.
He’d spent a restless day thinking about how their bargain would unfold. And now, anticipation charged through his blood like a firestorm, turning his usual cool temperament hot and tense, which might be alarming if he thought for a moment it was about more than simply satisfying his curiosity. But that’s all this was.
“What was that, dear—something about the night air?” his godmother asked, spreading the fan beside her ear and tilting her head to listen closely.
Briar swallowed and lowered her cup, shifting her slippers on the terrace stones. “It is very still.”
“Mmm . . . yes. Perfect for brewing romance.” His godmother smiled, a mysterious glint in her eyes that had the effect of tightening the corded muscles between his shoulders in warning. But then she turned her attention to a fair-haired young woman and gentleman standing near the stone archway leading to the garden, and he relaxed. “I expect an announcement of Lord Aselton and Miss Carrigan’s betrothal any day now. Perhaps this very evening.”
“Is that so?” Dubious, he glanced again at the pair. Miss Carrigan’s stiff spine seemed comprised of glass and on the verge of shattering at any moment, while Lord Aselton’s jaw might fracture from the force of clenching his teeth. “I’m afraid you will be waiting a long while for that event, if it ever happens at all.”
The little duchess pursed her lips and tsked. “But of course it will, for I have it under good authority—Oh, there is Mrs. Carrigan, hailing me from the fountain now, so I must leave the matter to Miss Bourne. She will explain how well suited they are, and then you will see that we are right.”
“Before you go,” Nicholas said, seizing this perfect opportunity, “I wonder if I might have your permission to speak with Miss Bourne privately—about that matter regarding my cousin?”
Torchlight revealed rows of fine lines deepening on her brow beneath finger curls of dove-gray hair. She drew in a hesitant breath. “With your reputation, I should not allow it at all. However”—she glanced at Briar and back to him—“since Miss Bourne’s character is always above reproach, I see no harm in it, as long as you keep to the open rooms. And not for long.”
The duchess descended the stairs toward the garden, and beside him, Briar stiffened, her easy manner replaced by narrow-eyed wariness. “Is it truly your design to speak of making matches for your cousins?”
“Of course, just as it will be each time we meet. My sole focus for the remainder of the Season is to ensure their happiness, and”—he added with a weighted pause, his gaze brushing her rose-petal mouth—“to honor our bargain. I will teach you what I know and in turn . . .”
Her lips parted, a deep breath leaving her in a rush. “Surely not here.”
If she’d asked to amend their agreement earlier, or even to withdraw from it altogether, he would have done so. A gentleman might still offer her another chance to rethink her choice. Unfortunately for Miss Bourne, he was no gentleman.
“If you are nervous, then the best remedy is to hurdle this first disbursement and realize that it is just a diversion. For both of us.”
“Diversion.” She huffed. “And I’m not nervous. Far from it. I should like to be done with it in short order. However, we haven’t even discussed matters. I’m not about to continue unless we establish the full agreement—quantity, stipulations, rules.”
Though still quite green, she was a force to be reckoned with. She knew herself and would not let anyone take advantage. And Nicholas found his appreciation of her growing moment by moment. “We are like-minded. I believe in stating the parameters of any arrangement upfront as well.”
She nodded succinctly. “If your part is to offer knowledge about what draws men and women together, then the sensible thing would be for me to witness it firsthand, at social events and such. The way I see it, there are no more than twenty worthwhile events left in the Season. And if I were able to attend half of them it would be a miracle.”
“Very well. Ten, it is. And I shall ensure that you receive invitations to events that are so innocuous that your family need never worry.”
She slid him a skeptical glance. “And how will you manage that?”
Little did she know, but he still had a number of boring friends. They weren’t all cardsharps and libertines. “All that should concern you is our agreed-upon method of payment. Now, what of your stipulations?”
“Well,” she hemmed, trying to take a stalling sip only to find her cup empty. She sighed and lowered her hand. “I think I should be the one who proceeds first in these encounters.”
“As every woman should—a principal I live by as well,” he said matter-of-factly. But she must have caught a hint of wickedness in his tone because she eyed him shrewdly. In turn, he lifted his brows in a semblance of innocence.
“I do have one rule,” she said, raising a finger, her tone and expression as severe as a scolding governess. “No hands involved. I’ve already born witness to what yours are capable of. This is strictly a mouth-to-mouth arrangement. That way there won’t be anything untoward.”
He crossed his heart. “I only have two rules. Don’t fall in love with me, and don’t ever believe I will change my mind about marriage.”
“The first is hardly a rule at all since it is an impossibility. As for the second . . . we shall see.”
“No, we shall not.” He growled with warning, but it was difficult to keep his expression stern when she laughed. The warm effervescent sound sparkled around her like bubbles lifting on a summer breeze. He caught himself holding his breath. Fully enthralled, he listened and heard a bright little hiccup at the end before she simply grinned, torchlight dancing in her eyes.
“You’re making me quite impatient,” he said, his voice rough. “So, with those matters settled, it is time to adjourn to one of the open rooms.”
“But . . .” Her gaze drifted to his lips before she pressed hers together. “What about my lesson? That is part of our bargain, is it not?”
“For someone who claims to be far from nervous, you certainly have a knack for hesitation.” Nicholas flicked a hurried glance to the reserved couple still standing near the garden entrance. “Your presumption that Miss Carrigan and Lord Aselton are romantically attached is completely wrong. Unless they are forced by circumstance, marriage is not in their future. It is clear they cannot stand each other.”
“Impossible. I’ve spoken with them on many occasions and found them both excellent conversationalists, ever so polite. Why, it’s nearly as if they can finish each other’s sentences.”
“And have you never been polite, all the while gritting your teeth?”
She slid him a wry glance and bared her clenched teeth in something of a smile.
He knew very well that she was goading him but chose not to call her out on her lie. “Take your dinner partner, for instance. Lord Beechum was certainly a prattler. Do you happen to remember straightening your shoulders and curling your hands into fists?”
“Well, no, I . . .” Then Briar looked past the terrace to witness Miss Carrigan doing that very thing. “Hmm.”
“And do you notice anything about the way I am standing right this instant?”
Her gaze raked over him, from the top of his head to his shoes. The return was slower, her head tilted in such thorough scrutiny that he felt overdressed, the fine wool of his trousers abrading his skin, a heated shiver making every hair stand on end.
“You do have a look of intolerance about you. Your shoulders and jaw are taut and one of your feet is pointed toward the door as if you are ready to bolt at any moment.” She glanced to the couple. “Lord Aselton is doing that as well. In fact, both of their feet are pointed in opposite directions, and now Miss Carrigan’s arms are crossed. They look eager to escape each other.” Then she turned back to Nicholas, a furrow puckering the flesh above her pretty nose. “Are you eager to escape me as well?”
If only that were true. “Look again. Are my hands open or closed? Am I angled toward you or away?”
She perused his form again, killing him slowly, tapping her gloved finger against the corner of her mouth. “It might sound peculiar, but you’re poised as if ready to waltz with me—shoulders bending slightly forward, your palms open as if to pull me close, arranging me into the cage of your form.”
“Very good, Miss Bourne. And not peculiar at all, especially if you take note of our closer proximity to the door.”
Her mouth opened on a silent gasp. “Have you been herding me all this time?”
“You should give yourself more credit than a sheep.” He slipped her cup from her grasp and proffered his arm.
She took it without hesitation, her fingers curling over his sleeve. “I feel as if every eye is on us.”
“If they are watching, they will think that I’m escorting you to the parlor. And I told my godmother that we would remain in plain sight all the while to ensure your reputation.”
Briar issued an airy laugh, her lips curving in a smile as they walked inside and down the corridor. “So we are going to talk, after all. Do you know, for a moment, I actually thought you intended to—Wait, this is the music room.”
“Is it?” He closed the door behind them, his pulse quickening in greedy anticipation.
She stopped on the edge of the rug, still as a lamppost. “We aren’t in full view of anyone.”
“If they opened the door, we would be.” He made a mental note for a lesson in her future, regarding how men tend to become quite literal when it suits them.
“But then we would be discovered.”
“Very true.” Crossing the room, he sank casually onto the blue sofa as she quietly railed at him, the flickering torches beyond the window bathing her in lush golden color.
“And my reputation would be in tatters. My family’s business would falter out of existence. We would be cast out of London. I would grow old in the country, my entire existence depending upon the infrequent visits of my sister Jacinda, her husband, and their future children. And because all of this was my doing, I wouldn’t even have the honor of being their favorite aunt. Instead, the children would clamber into Ainsley’s arms, pelting her with their soft puppy kisses and telling her stories of their exciting adventures.”
“All the more reason to be discrete, and to make haste,” he said in a casual tone, belying the impatience teeming through his veins. “Come away from the door, Briar, and kiss me.”