To Marry a Matchmaker. Michelle Styles

woman gave a low moan and shook her head.

      Robert gently turned the woman over. Her face was white against the darkness of tangled curls. Henrietta Thorndike, but a Lady Thorndike made suddenly vulnerable and without her fearsome expression. He softly swore as his blood sizzled. An added complication. She’d probably blame him for this as well as everything else. Her earlier words about how they had fallen out of civility haunted him. Was she coming to apologise or merely doing her duty visiting tenants?

      ‘Lady Thorndike, it’s Robert Montemorcy,’ he said quietly, attempting to control his body’s unexpected reaction to a glimpse of her slender leg. ‘The dog has gone. You are safe. You will be looked after. I promise you that.’

      Henrietta Thorndike moaned incoherently as she screwed up her eyes tightly in pain.

      He tried again. Civility be damned. ‘Lady Thorndike, are you all right? Give me a sign you understand what I am saying. Did the dog bite you anywhere besides your shin? Lady Thorndike, you are ruining a perfectly serviceable bonnet. We need to move before the post-coach comes through.’

      ‘Call me Henri. Hardly anyone ever calls me Henri these days,’ she murmured, her long lashes fluttering. Dark against the pure cream of her skin. Utterly delectable.

      Robert drew in his breath, sharply, and struggled to control the hot rush of blood to his nether region. Right now, she needed assistance. He scooped her up and carried her to the side of the road as the post-coach thundered past.

      ‘Please. Am I going to die? Is my face ruined? My leg aches like the very devil.’

      Robert gave a short laugh as the air rushed from his lungs. How like a woman to be worried about her looks, rather than exclaiming about how narrowly the coach had missed the both of them.

      ‘Henri, then. Your face is as ever it was.’ He knelt down beside her and supported her shoulders so she could sit up. Her body relaxed against his and the pleasant scent of lavender rose about him. Her bottom lip held a glossy sheen and trembled a few inches below his.

      ‘Please tell me the truth,’ she whispered, lifting a cool hand to his face. ‘Are you are keeping something from me? If I am horribly scarred, people are going to turn away from me…’

      Giving into temptation, he bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. The tiniest of tastes, but firm enough to make his point clear. Her long lashes fluttered and a long drawn-out sigh emerged from her throat.

      ‘Do I look like a man who would kiss a woman with a ruined face?’