The Matchmaker's Match (24 page)

At the moment he thought he could stand no more, his mother cleared her throat. Intrigued, he straightened in his seat. This woman who birthed him, who spent the bulk of his childhood traveling and championing causes beyond his ken, now wore an expression that strained the corners of her eyes. A shininess emanated from their depths, a trick of the candlelight, no doubt. But as she looked at him, an uncomfortable knot formed in his belly.

“‘The Mother’s Return,’ by Dorothy Wordsworth.” A tremble touched her lips.

As she began speaking, irritation rose within him. He tapped the arm of his chair, certain he’d have to leave before bitterness poured out of him and poisoned the atmosphere. The longer he saw his mother, the more he realized his inadequacy with forgiveness. Glancing at Lady Amelia, he noticed the troubled stare she directed toward him.

He grimaced and pushed himself out of his seat.

His mother’s voice continued.

“We talked of change, of winter gone,

Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,

Of birds that build their nests and sing.

And all ‘since mother went away!’”

Striding to the door, he left that room and the emotion it evoked. “Since mother went away?” Had she ever come home to sit and speak of all that passed? He recalled not one single time she’d rested beneath a tree with him. Not a single lullaby.

But her perfume... He remembered it. Sweet-hued hugs. Easy and available. Never had she discouraged affection during her brief times at home. Drawing a large breath, he walked the hall to the kitchen, determined to get a treat out of Cook. At least she’d always been where he needed her to be.

He found her at the stove, stirring a large pot of something enticing to the nose. “Is that for me?” He peered over her shoulder, prompting a swat, which he promptly dodged.

“Ye never gets out of practice, do ye?” She belly laughed and made to swat at him again, eyes sparkling with merriment.

“Not with your cooking. Just a little taste?”

“Be off with ye. I’ve cookies in the bin, but mind ye leave a peck for later.”

“You’re the best.” Before she could duck, he planted a kiss on the top of her cap and then swiveled away before her spoon could catch him. He crossed the kitchen, a large and spacious room with all the newest appliances, in search of cookies. Butter and rum always hit the right note, but sugar cookies satisfied a craving, as well.

Anything to rid his mouth of the tang of unforgivingness. The sin rotted inside him, a corpse he refused to shed even knowing it poisoned him. The morose thought discouraged him enough to frown into the cookie bin.

“Ah, Shrewsbury cakes, my favorite,” he said.

A delicate hand crept beneath his line of vision and snagged one of the cookies. Sauciness in her smile, Lady Amelia bit a chunk from the cookie and raised her brows. “You might find that a nibble or two would ease those lines digging into your forehead.”

“Might I?” he murmured, enjoying the way his heartbeat quadrupled with her nearness. At the present moment, ’twas hard to remember why she could not be a candidate for a wife. Full of surprises and yet logical, warmhearted, intelligent... Any man would want her.

“Suppose you tell me why you ran out of the salon like a frightened kitten?”

Oh, yes, nosy and blunt. Those adjectives explained her singlehood.

Irritation returning, he munched into his own cookie. If only the soft dough and rich chocolate bits melting in his mouth were anger melting away. “I was hungry.” A truth, though only half so.

She finished her cookie and withdrew a hankie, which she patted around her lips. “I detect falsehood, Lord Ashwhite, and from what I’ve been reading, that is against the laws of God.”

He immediately bristled. “And what do you know of these laws?”

“Your defensiveness means something. I know not what.” Her head cocked to the side, eyes bright behind her spectacles. “Why don’t we return to the salon in order to avoid hurting your mother’s feelings, and later we can have a biblical discussion. I’ve discovered some interesting things to ask you about.”

“No, my exposure to poetry is over. I’ve a few matters to take care of before leaving the estate tomorrow.”

“Leaving?”

“Duties in London,” he explained shortly. His fascination with her hair and quirky manners did not excuse her from prying into his personal affairs. She had trodden too close to a wound long ignored. He moved past her, intent on leaving the kitchen and the lady’s inquisitive eyes, but at the door he stopped short.

His mother stood before him, regarding him in a sober fashion, her eyes sadder than he wished to see.

“I had hoped you’d forgiven me by now, Spencer.”

Lungs tight, Spencer pressed past his mother. Forgive her? He knew he should, but he hadn’t realized the extent of his anger toward her. Tonight the uncomfortable feeling had become obvious. Even eye contact grieved him. Tightness spread to his limbs as he strode down the hall. His muscles coiled and wound. What he would not give for a pugilistic round with someone.

To vent this frustration.

Not at his mother, but at himself.
God, help me. She asks too much
.

Footsteps sounded behind him. He hoped dearly she did not plan to chase him down. But apparently she did, for moments later, her hand touched his sleeve. He stopped near the salon door, loath to pull away and hurt her more yet unable to deny the palpable pain spearing through him.

How many times had he wanted his mother home?

Now he looked at her, nuances of himself carved upon her features. Vaguely he became aware of Lady Amelia a few feet away, carefully watching them. The cadence of a poem being read hummed softly around them, the words indistinguishable yet the tone full of pain.

How ironic.

“Son...I’m very sorry. I—I wish I could explain my choices, or defend them, but that time has passed and I can never get it back.” His mother stepped toward him as if afraid he would bolt.

And perhaps he would. A hot pain clawed at his throat, urging him to move, to leave, to escape what forced him to look at himself more clearly than ever.

A former rake. Unwanted by his mother, manipulated by his father.

Redeemed by God
.

That created tension within him. His mother took another step. Pleading shone in her eyes. Her fingers clenched, and even from this distance he saw the whitened knuckles. How it cost her humbly to beg his forgiveness...yet the knowledge gave him no pleasure.

He glanced at Lady Amelia again. Her brow knit as she watched, and he was aware that his actions might speak louder to her than any word he’d ever uttered. Swallowing against the vise clamping his throat, he nodded tersely at his mother.

That seemed to encourage her, though her features remained tight. “I was afraid of you in so many ways. And my relationship with your father needed much...” She trailed off as if realizing that her own weaknesses did not alleviate the rejection he’d felt. “Please forgive me, Spencer. If you can.”

“I will do my best.” He delivered the words in a stiff manner, more cold than he intended, but he could not bring himself to utter falsity.

“That is all I ask.” She reached for his hand, and he drew her into an embrace, inhaling her familiar scent. He met Lady Amelia’s serious expression and saw approval. His shoulders loosened. Patting his mother’s back, he withdrew.

A slow curve to her lips alleviated his guilt for being unable to offer her what she’d so kindly asked for. For now, this was what he could do. Hug her and pray for help.

As they turned to the study, a loud knock reverberated against the front door. The butler, a younger man whose name Spencer could not recall, bounded from out of nowhere and answered the door.

He escorted his mother to the salon, letting the butler take care of matters. They entered the salon quietly and as unobtrusively as possible, but he was aware of how Lady Amelia paused behind him in the doorway. He helped his mother to a chair. Questions lurked in her face, but he only patted her shoulder.

Where was Lady Amelia? She’d disappeared into the hall. He wasn’t going to suffer poetry alone. He reached the hall in time to see Lady Amelia rushing out the front door.

He frowned. It was near dark. Surely she wouldn’t go anywhere. Almost growling, he strode after her. Of course she would do something reckless. What was he thinking?

He lengthened his stride, clapping open the front door to scan the drive.

“Looking for someone?”

Lady Amelia’s voice came from the right. He turned. Pelisse secured at her throat, she regarded him with an indefinable air. He could not tell her mood, which increased his irritability.

“You, actually. Going out this evening?”

“An emergency has arisen. The butler will give your mother my regards. I don’t know when I’ll be returning, but please let her know how thankful I’ve been for her hospitality.”

Spencer forced a slow, ragged breath even though his pulse ratcheted through his body. “You’re leaving the premises because...” He saw the way her body stiffened. Head up, chin pointing in his direction and her gaze sharper than a sword.

“I have business to attend to.”

“This late?”

“Am I your prisoner, my lord?” Though her words were light, accusation weighted the syllables.

Mindful that he trod uncertain ground, he forced himself to relax. “Not at all. I only hope to assist you.” And keep her from harm, his mind interjected.

“I shall accomplish this on my own, but I do appreciate your concern. Oh, look.” She sent him what could only be called a relieved smile. “The carriage has arrived. Certainly I will see you soon.” And with those last words, she scurried down the front stairs. The driver helped her into the curricle.

Nonsense. He’d not sit here wallowing in worry while she traipsed off into unknown dangers. He leaped down the stairs and pulled himself into the carriage in the nick of time. He caught the shocked look on Lady Amelia’s face and couldn’t resist giving her a long, slow grin.

His driver took the change of plans in good stride, setting off as soon as the curricle door closed. Spencer reclined in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest and regarding Lady Amelia with a determined stare. She avoided his eyes, choosing to instead pluck at some nonexistent impurity upon her coat.

Questions nudged his consciousness. He held them in, choosing instead to pin her with the kind of look he knew she hated. The type of look at that put her in a corner and forced her to ignore the problem or respond.

And she would respond. He had no doubt of that. Lady Amelia preferred attack over retreat. But to his surprise, despite several venomous glares, the lady chose silence over confession.

* * *

She truly wanted to strangle him.

Or at least wipe the beatific smirk from his lips.

Amelia ground her teeth, forcing herself to recite Wordsworth in her head and clasping her fingers so that they might not fly out and do exactly as her imagination suggested. Lord Ashwhite sprawled across from her, looking entirely too stubborn. As well he should. She’d made off with his mother’s carriage and owed him an explanation. He’d hijacked her plans, thrusting himself into her life. She fixed a dark glower on him, hoping it might inspire him not to speak. How she wanted to tongue-lash him...but it was not her place.

Constant thoughts pelted her. Worries.

Everything was spiraling out of control. She didn’t wish to return to her brother’s, but she had nowhere to go. If she didn’t find Ashwhite his wife, she couldn’t get paid. And without money, any independence she’d hoped for would slip outside her grasp, forever relegating her to a poor relation or a governess.

Without meaning to, she sighed heavily.

“Fine.” Lord Ashwhite’s voice broke the rhythmic rattle of the carriage. “I concede defeat. How can I help?”

“There is nothing you can do.” She alone was responsible for the ruination of her plans.

“Surely I can do
something
. I am, after all, a marquis.” A smile carved his cheeks. Too charming, by half.

“A humble one, too, my lord.”

“No need to be nasty, Lady Amelia. Share your burdens. I promise they will seem lighter.” He wagged a finger. “Do not give me that look. I’m quite sure you’d discourage Miss Stanley from scrunching her features in such an impolite way.”

Oh, what a pickle. She might as well confess. “My cousin is wayward and unmanageable, and now I must deal with a problem before it spirals out of control.”

“And you need my carriage because?”

“We are on our way to Gretna Green.”

Horror crossed his face. He still looked too handsome. It was his green eyes; they were her undoing. And such a silly thing, in the grand scheme of things, to be done in by a color not found on one’s palette. What would he do if he ever saw the painting she’d created of him? It was stashed beneath her bed, and she prayed no one stumbled upon it.

“Do you mean...Scotland?” he asked.

“No one forced you to accompany me,” she snapped. He acted as though this was her fault.

His fingers drummed against the seat. “So we are heading to an illegal wedding—”

“Not illegal. That’s why people go there. In Scotland you can marry whenever you want. No waiting for banns to be read. Which reminds me, you have very little time left before you’re out of an inheritance.”

His brows narrowed. “You change the subject.”

“Simply pointing out a quite inconvenient fact. Your worry over my actions is misplaced, especially with this deadline looming over your head.” Satisfied she’d successfully rerouted him, she tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Those two young ladies... They are really worthy candidates. Why, either one would be happy to marry you, and ’tis certain they’d make warm and loving wives.”

An image of Lord Ashwhite kissing one of the said ladies blasted into her mind. She shut her eyes, trying to squelch the picture, but that didn’t stop a pang from striking her heart. Opening her eyes, she forced herself to keep a straight face while a sudden longing infiltrated her defenses and weakened her resolve.