The Matchmaker's Match. Jessica Nelson

      ’Twas the third day the persistent man had shown up at her doorstep. Yesterday he’d stayed until evening. Abominable creature. She groaned again and pressed her face against the pillow.

      “My lady, shall I tell him you’re indisposed?”

      “Please,” she whispered. Two could play at this game. Perhaps if she didn’t know what he wanted, she might be compelled by curiosity to see him, but the problem remained that she did know, and she could not help him.

      Aiding Cousin Lydia was risky enough, especially since she wasn’t receiving a payment for her services. As much as she needed the money, she certainly could not allow Eversham’s best friend to hire her. When her brother found out, then her fate would be sealed. Her independence decimated by Harriet’s voracious need for control.

      The sound of something plopping against her coverlets raised her head.

      “My lady,” Dukes said. “I’ve brought your morning mail in case you do not plan to leave your room again.”

      “Thank you.” She pulled the covers over her head, scowling into the darkness. How uncouth of Lord Ashwhite, how utterly irritating, that he persisted in this nonsense. She refused to be bound to her bedroom simply because he could not take no for an answer.

      On the other hand, she had no wish to face him. It was bad enough that she dreamed of his voice, but to look into that startling, laughing green gaze of his and refuse to help might be her undoing.

      If he wasn’t her brother’s good friend, she’d call the constable...oh, no.

      She was to meet with her Bow Street runner today regarding Lord Dudley!

      She whipped into a sitting position, startling the stack of mail into slipping off the bed. It crashed to the floor. Her hair knotted about her head in a wild mass that divided her line of vision. She swiped it away and jumped out of bed, almost colliding with the boudoir as she rang for Sally.

      While waiting, she scooped up the mail. Nothing important except a letter from her brother. She sighed, went to her vanity and plucked up her letter opener. She slit the envelope and read his scrawling script, each of his words tightening her chest until she felt as though she wore a corset three sizes too small.

      She closed her eyes. Deep breaths. It would not do to have a fit of the vapors. Her fingers clenched the letter opener. The cool metal dug into her skin. She would not be hysterical. She would not.

      Her brother’s threats to end her life as she knew it, forcing her into that cage he called a home, were not idle after all. His demand that she pack within the week was ludicrous.

      He cared not that she wasn’t earning money helping Lydia. He only worried for their family’s reputation...a reputation that was perfectly unharmed by her actions. He and Harriet were behaving in such an unreasonable way.

      “My lady, are you all right?” Sally stood in the doorway, brow puckered.

      “Perfectly fine,” she answered crisply. She would not allow Eversham to bully her. Surely she could make him see reason. “I need my hair done quickly, though, not a moment to lose, for I must find my brother and talk some sense into him. And could you ask Dukes to keep Lord Ashwhite in the library? It appears I’ll need to speak with him after all.”

      Not only that, but her Bow Street runner was scheduled to arrive at ten o’clock. It wasn’t like her to be so disorganized. She frowned as she looked for a dress to wear. Perhaps a modest muslin of a robust shade. Something to lift her mood and give her confidence for the battle to come.

      Thirty minutes later, armed with her spectacles and a magnificent fan she’d bought with Cousin Lydia in Bath, Amelia descended the stairs and marched into the library.

      As expected, Lord Ashwhite lounged in a chair. Unexpectedly, he held one of her novels in his hands. Open.

      Her eyes narrowed. “You wished to see me?”

      “Two days ago.” In a smoothly relaxed move, he laid the book, facedown, on the side table. He regarded her with laughing eyes. “Do you read much of that rubbish?”

      Cheeks burning, Amelia set her jaw. “My reading materials are none of your concern.”

      “Should I hire you—and after reading that, it’s a questionable venture—I would need to know that your ability to pick a spouse is not based on some impractical frippery that only exists within a woman’s imagination.” He tented his fingers. “Or perhaps these stories inspire you?”

      His languid tone, the way his lips curved as if he were trying to hold his laugh in, set her teeth on edge. His aristocratic snobbery filled her with a sizzling need to throw a book at his head, which she didn’t understand. Why, she barely knew this man. She’d shared one dance with him, had one conversation, and yet she was beginning to comprehend why the jewel-laden woman at the ball the other night had slapped him.

      Wetting her lips, she moved farther into the room. “As you are a good friend to my brother, I will pretend you have not insulted me within my own home. I will overlook the fact that you’ve been rude and hostile, and I will answer your questions. But first, have you need of refreshment? Surely the time you’ve spent encamping in my home has famished you?” She ended with a soft little smile even though she was seething on the inside. And those butterflies were waltzing in her stomach again, aggravating her even more. Her fingers clenched within the folds of her dress.

      He studied her, the posture of his hands suggesting a more serious mood. Good. She could handle a man with a real goal, but a tease? No, she was ill equipped for that. Her mind flashed back to Lord Markham, and she grimaced.

      “I am in no need of refreshment, my lady.” Lord Ashwhite stood and pointed to the other chair. “Would you care to have a seat so that we might discuss business?”

      “We have nothing to discuss. You have asked and I have declined.”

      “These books look costly.” Lord Ashwhite ran a supine finger down the length of her bookcase. “Does the money you receive from your brother cover your purchases?”

      “That is hardly your concern.” But she found herself captivated by the movements of his hand. He touched her books lovingly, as a man who understood the value of such things.

      “There is no Lord Byron here,” he murmured.

      “No, I find his poems tedious and fanciful. Despite what you may think, Lord Ashwhite, I am a practical woman.” She injected sternness into her voice and forced herself to stop staring at Eversham’s friend. “And therein lies your problem. You want a wife, but I do not find wives. I find husbands for women who would like to marry well and marry happily. Furthermore, there has been a...change of plans for me. I am not presently taking on new clients.”

      He swiveled that direct gaze of his toward her. She picked up her chin and gave him what she hoped was a glare that bespoke finality.

      “But there is some sort of stress in your life, am I correct?” He advanced toward her in a slow manner, a glide almost. She resisted the urge to back away. “I have been given the impression that you may be forced to change residences soon. Which would be rather sad, seeing as you’ve made a home for yourself here. And would you be able to paint at your brother’s estate?”

      She blinked. “What do you know of my painting?”

      “I know your fingernails are stained. The books you read are not practical but romantic. You are not what you present to the world, my lady.”

      Her breath came quick and uneven. “What are you suggesting?”

      A languorous smile touched his face. His fingers spread in a supplicating manner. “I propose we work together in finding me a wife. The amount I pay you will be adequate in covering whatever is forcing you from your home. We shall both walk away happy from this partnership.”

      Before she could form an answer—and in truth, she did not know what to say—Dukes appeared