The Matchmaker's Match. Jessica Nelson

was past was past. There was nothing to fill that broken space within.

      As she finished her final letter—more a rant, really—her butler, Dukes, poked his head into her study.

      “My lady,” he said softly, his voice as old as his age. “Lord Dudley left his card.”

      “You may dispose of it, Dukes. I shan’t be seeing him.” The man could not take a hint, it seemed. She did not wish to be cruel, but considering her plans for Lydia, she certainly could not encourage the avid tendencies of Lord Dudley.

      She rummaged on her desk until she found the letter she’d written requesting a Bow Street runner. Some investigations were better handled by professionals. She held it out to Dukes. “See that this is delivered immediately, please.”

      He took it. “Very well, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “Also, Lord Eversham is here to see you.”

      “Oh, bother.” She dropped the quill into its holder and spun around. “You don’t suppose you could direct him to come back later?”

      “No, my lady. He is insisting he see you at once.”

      “What is the delay?” Her brother’s voice grew louder and then he was at the door, sliding past Dukes with a scowl upon his handsome face. She’d never understood how he could have inherited all the looks, but to be fair, she considered herself to possess the bulk of the brains.

      “Good morning, brother. How do you fare this fine and bright day?” She plastered on a sweet smile, smothering the laugh that threatened to escape as his scowl deepened.

      “A moment, Dukes.” He waved off the butler, who flashed Amelia an apologetic look before closing the door.

      Amelia folded her letter to the House of Lords before taking her stick of sealing wax and heating it above the flame of her candle. She pressed the stick against the paper and sealed the letter closed. She placed it on the teetering stack of her correspondence and returned the sealing wax to its place on her desk. “Do calm yourself, Eversham, or you shall pace a hole in my already faded rug,” she said mildly.

      “You...you...” He could not finish but rather continued his erratic pacing, his breathing ragged.

      Why, he was really at the end of his tether! She frowned. Though her brother often proved to be a bossy irritant, she loved him dearly and had no wish to cause him undue pain.

      She cleared her throat and rose from her seat but did not approach him. “Dear Ev, please take a breath and explain what I have done to upset you so.”

      He stopped abruptly and faced her. Though they shared the same nose, the same eyes and the same hair, on him those features became suave and handsome. He’d always been popular with the ladies. At this moment, though, his eyes were dark with anger, his lips pressed tight.

      She grimaced. It took much to put her brother into a rage. What had she done this time?

      He crossed his arms as he glared at her. “It has come to my attention that you are running a business.”

      She felt her face go slack.

      “Aha!” He pointed at her. “I knew it must be true. Amelia, how can you do such a thing? You will never find a husband like this. Dillydallying in politics, serving food at Newgate with that...that woman.”

      “Her name is Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, and she is quite respectable. She is thinking of starting a school for the female prisoners.”

      “I care not one whit about her name. You are creating a reputation for yourself, and it’s not a good one.”

      “And why would an earl with the fortune you have be concerned with reputation?” she countered.

      “You know why.” He stalked toward her and then dropped into her desk chair. “I am being nagged night and day—”

      “Perhaps you should have married for love rather than money,” Amelia said pertly, though inside her stomach twisted. “I do not wish to cause you stress, Eversham. But I must paint. I must keep myself busy. And I am quite positive I shall never marry.”

      His head dropped into his hands, and her heart grew heavier.

      “I am sorry to be such a burden to you,” she said quietly.

      “It’s not that,” he muttered.

      “My business is proceeding nicely.” She walked to her desk and picked up her last invoice. “Do you remember Lady Goddard? She and her husband are on a trip to the Continent right now, but I earned a good bit from training her and helping her find him. They are immensely compatible.”

      Eversham sighed and lifted his head. “I do not understand you, Amelia. You spout nonsense about love, but you are the most pragmatic individual I have ever met.”

      Relieved to see him calmer, Amelia settled on the edge of her desk. “Perhaps our definitions of love are different. It is not some silly feeling or a fainting spell but rather an action toward an individual. It is the most practical of all emotions and the most helpful.”

      Her brother’s lips almost tilted but then chose to settle in a firm line. “Nevertheless, I have come here to demand that you cease your business at once. You are a peer, the daughter of an earl. You’re comfortable here. Why do you need extra finances?”

      “I cannot quit my painting, Eversham. Canvases, brushes... They cost money.”

      He let out a large, overdramatic sigh. “Very well. I will enlarge your stipend.”

      “Your wife will not allow that.”

      Eversham winced. He could say nothing to that. He’d married a woman who tightly controlled the purse strings. Amelia wasn’t sure how, as her brother had never been a pushover, but for some reason he regularly gave in to the whims of his wife, a woman whom Amelia studiously tried to avoid at all times.

      Eversham rose from his seat, so Amelia followed suit. A familiar bulldoggish expression crossed his face, which did not bode well for her.

      “I am insisting you quit this nonsense,” he said. “Find another way to buy your supplies, but your business ends today.”

      “Do not think that because you were born three minutes before me you have the right to order me about. I shall not end my profitable venture.” She lifted her chin, daring him to defy her.

      His eyes narrowed. “I’ll not have you upsetting my wife. If I hear anything more of this...” He trailed off ominously.

      A slither of fear snaked through Amelia. Was he contemplating what she thought? She rubbed her arms, which suddenly felt cold. “What, Eversham? Do say it.”

      “Harriet and I have discussed the problem in depth.” His tone turned serious. “If you continue this preposterous business, we are prepared to leave off renting this town house, and you will come to live with us.” His brow lowered. “Forever.”

      * * *

      Leg shackled, indeed.

      The last thing on earth Lord Spencer Ashwhite wanted was a wife.

      He winced as Eversham’s spouse hit a particularly high note with her words. They were in Eversham’s curricle on the way to Drury Lane, and Lady Eversham had not stopped jabbering the entire way. Her conversation consisted of frippery. Lots of comments about fashion and the Prince Regent.

      Spencer tried to tune her out as Eversham seemed absorbed in her opinions and hadn’t bothered to involve Spencer in conversation. Thankfully they were almost to the theater. Though Spencer hoped to avoid Miss Winston, who was likely to be here tonight. If not starring in the show, then watching it with her friends.

      Their relationship had been short-lived, but she did not like that he’d left for the Americas. He grimaced as he remembered the crack of her palm against his cheek. Over nothing but his refusal to continue their relationship when he returned to England.

      She’d