And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (5 page)

“Not as such.” She looked at him—as if measuring how much to tell him, or how best to break bad news. “That said, as you’ve already been courting Melinda but have parted from her, most will know, or at least, as I said, suspect that you’re actively looking about you, but as long as you’re with me, under my wing so to speak, I seriously doubt you’ll be mobbed.”

“Oh—good.” He wasn’t sure whether to feel reassured or not. After a moment, he added, “I purposely haven’t let it get about that I’m under any time constraint. I imagine that if I let my desperation become known, I won’t be able to appear in public without attracting a bonneted crowd.”

She chuckled. “Very likely. Keeping your deadline a secret is indubitably wise.” Returning to her diary, she flipped through the next weeks. “But as to that, as
I
didn’t learn you had a deadline even though I learned the rest, I can’t imagine any other lady will readily stumble on the information, so you should be safe on that score.”

He nodded, then realized she hadn’t seen. “Thank you.”

She glanced at him, her soft blue eyes glowing, her delicately sculpted, rose-tinted lips curved in an absentminded smile, and he felt a jolt strike his chest, reverberating all the way to the base of his spine, even as he realized just how deeply he’d meant the words.

He trapped her gaze. “And thank you in the broader sense, too. I honestly don’t know what I would have done—how I would have forged on—if you hadn’t offered to take me and my campaign in hand.”

Her smile deepened, her lovely eyes twinkled. “Well, it is something of a challenge, and a different challenge to boot.” Shutting her diary, she slipped it into her reticule, then nodded across the lawns. “Now we’ve defined the essential elements of our campaign, we should make a start on assembling a short list.”

He rose as she did. He would have offered his arm, but she lifted her parasol, shook it out, then opened it, angling it to shade her face. Then she looked at him and arched a brow, distinct challenge in her eyes. “Shall we?”

He waved her on, then fell in beside her, strolling bravely, with no outward sign of his inner trepidation, across the lawns toward the Avenue and the carriages now crowding the verges, and the surrounding hordes of fashionably dressed young ladies and elegantly garbed gentlemen chatting and taking the air.

He paced slowly, adjusting his stride to hers. While some wary part of his mind still found it difficult to accept that she—The Matchbreaker—really had agreed to help him, she was indeed there, and was indeed helping him, and he was absurdly grateful for that.

Regardless, he hadn’t expected to dream about her last night, yet he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed about a specific woman, rather than a womanly figure, yet last night it had definitely been Henrietta in his dreams; it had been her face, her expressions, that had . . . not haunted, but fascinated. That had held his unconscious in thrall.

The dream—dreams—had not been salacious, as most of his dreams of women were. Which was just as well; Henrietta was his best friend’s sister, after all. But the tenor of the dream had puzzled him and left him just a tad wary, a touch wondering. His attitude in the dream had felt
worshipful,
but perhaps that had simply been his gratitude manifesting in a different way.

Assuring himself that that was most likely the case, he focused on the rapidly nearing crowds. Dipping his head closer to hers, he murmured, “What should I do?”

“Nothing in particular.” She shot him an assessing glance; he appreciated that she was taller than average, so he could easily see her face. “Just relax and follow my lead.”

Her tone made him smile. Raising his head, he looked forward. “As you command. Onward—into the breach.”

As it transpired, the interactions, the exchanges, flowed more easily than he’d anticipated. Henrietta was so well known she could claim acquaintance with virtually all the older ladies and matrons present, and could thus introduce him, in turn gaining him introductions to the ladies’ unmarried charges.

The next hour passed in steady converse. As they were walking between two barouches, temporarily out of hearing of others, Henrietta tugged his sleeve; when he glanced her way inquiringly, she tipped her head toward a knot of people gathered on the lawn twenty yards away. “That’s Miss Carmichael. She would have been a good candidate, at least for you to consider, but the latest on-dit is that Sir Peter Affry has grown very particular in his attentions. That’s him beside her. As you don’t have time to spare, I see no sense in wasting any on Miss Carmichael—I suspect we’ll have enough candidates to assess without chasing after one some other perfectly eligible gentleman has all but settled on.”

Curious, James looked over Henrietta’s dark head, peering past her parasol’s edge at the group in question. A fair-haired lady with an abundance of ringlets stood surrounded by a bevy of gentlemen, a much less well-favored young lady by her elbow. The gentleman on the fair beauty’s other side was presently scanning the Avenue, but then he looked down at her and smiled. He was a touch older than most of the gentlemen strolling about and had a striking, dark-featured face. James faced forward. “Even I’ve heard of Affry. Up-and-coming Whig, by all accounts.”

“Indeed, but he is only an elected member, after all.” Henrietta frowned. “I’m really not sure what all the fuss is about him, but he does seem quite charming.”

“Ah, well—charming is as handsome does, or however that saying goes.” With a wave, James indicated the group they were approaching. “So, centurion, who do we have here?”

Henrietta smothered a laugh and told him. She continued to guide him about the various groups and was favorably impressed by his behavior and his style. He made charm seem effortless, and his attitude was all relaxed urbanity, polished to a gleam. She might have made the mistake of thinking him a superficial sophisticate—and indeed, that had been her previous, half-formed view—but in the times in between, when they left one group and traveled to the next, he dropped his mask. As they compared impressions of the young ladies they’d encountered, his comments revealed a dry wit and a keenly observant eye, both of which struck a chord with her. Regardless, he was never unkind, not by word or implication, and his behavior never strayed from what she mentally characterized as the quiet, honorable, gentlemanly type.

He had depths she hadn’t known he possessed.

Which was distracting enough, but nowhere near as disturbing as the continued insistence of her senses on registering and dwelling on every little nuance of his physical presence. She could only hope that the effect would ease on further acquaintance.

If she’d thought he was in any way affecting her on purpose, she would have cut the connection and left him to find his own bride. But he wasn’t doing anything—the silly susceptibility was all hers—and despite his excellent performance that morning, he definitely needed her help.

And, all in all, despite the unsettling repercussions, she was enjoying herself—enjoying the challenge of finding him a bride, and simply enjoying being in his company.

After several further forays into the groups of young ladies parading about the Avenue, they headed for Upper Brook Street. It was half past eleven, and she had a luncheon to attend at noon, and James, apparently, was meeting Simon and their mutual friend, Charlie Hastings, somewhere in the city.

As they turned into Upper Brook Street, she said, “I believe we’ve made an excellent start.” She glanced at James. “Did you see any young lady who you think might be suitable—anyone we should put on your short list?”

Yes—you.
Keeping his eyes forward, James scratched his chin and wondered where the devil those words had come from. After a moment, he offered, “Miss Chisolm seems a good sort. And Miss Digby wasn’t too far from the mark.”

“Hmm. You don’t think Miss Digby might be too . . . well, giggly? She does giggle, you know.”

“Good God—I hadn’t noticed. Strike Miss Digby. But what about Miss Chisolm?”

Henrietta nodded. “On the face of it, I agree—I know nothing about Miss Chisolm that would count against her.” She glanced at him. “So Miss Chisolm should go on the short list?”

He hesitated, then forced himself to nod. “Just Miss Chisolm for the nonce.” Miss Chisolm was a buxom, good-natured young lady with, he judged, few false notions of life. That said, she wasn’t . . . anywhere near as engaging as the lady currently walking by his side.

They reached Lord Arthur Cynster’s house, and with a suitable smile and an elegant bow, James parted from Henrietta, promising to meet her that evening at Lady Marchmain’s rout. He stood on the pavement and watched her go inside; when the door closed behind her, he turned away and, sliding his hands into his pockets, started strolling toward Grosvenor Square.

As he walked, he consulted his feelings, not something he often did, but in this instance it wasn’t hard to define the uncertainty that was itching just under his skin. He really would like to find some way to suggest Henrietta put her own name on his very short short list, but . . . he was deeply aware of just how beholden to her he was. If she took it into her head to take offense at his suggestion and withdrew her support, he’d never find his necessary bride, of that he had no doubt. That morning’s excursion had proved beyond question how far out of his element he was in the matter of conventional bride-hunting; if Henrietta had not been there, he’d have managed to gain perhaps two introductions, while with her beside him, he’d lost count.

And he only had four more weeks to find his bride and get the knot tied.

He grimaced. “No—in this, sadly, I have to play safe.”

Raising his head, drawing his hands from his pockets, he lengthened his stride. Given he’d spent most of the morning by Henrietta’s side, he really should explain to Simon just what he was doing with his younger sister.

“S
he’s
what
?” Simon Cynster stared across the table at James, then burst out laughing.

Beside Simon, Charlie Hastings chortled, valiantly attempting to stifle his laughter, then he caught James’s long-suffering look and lost the battle; Charlie laughed until tears leaked from his eyes.

Seated at their regular table tucked away in an alcove toward the rear of the main room of the Horse and Whip tavern off the Strand, James waited with feigned patience for his friends’ mirth to subside. He’d expected as much, and he could hardly claim to be surprised that his news had been greeted thus.

Eventually catching his breath, Charlie gasped, “Oh, my giddy aunt! Or in this case, your grandaunt.”

Still grinning, Simon added, “Who would have believed The Matchbreaker would consent to turn matchmaker—your powers of persuasion, dear boy, continue to impress.” Simon raised his ale mug in a toast, then sipped.

“Yes, well.” Turning his own mug of foaming ale between his hands, James grimaced. “I suppose you could say my situation is now so desperate, and what with me being so relatively helpless, my appeal engaged her sympathy.”

“Hmm.” Simon pulled a face as he considered. “I wouldn’t have said Henrietta had much sympathy to spare, at least not for gentlemen of the ton.”

So James had gathered from the references Simon had made over the years to his younger sister, only two years younger than Simon’s thirty-one yet still unwed, which, now James thought of it, for a Cynster miss was nothing short of extraordinary. Simon himself had married two years ago, when he’d been the same age as Henrietta was now.

The waitress brought the platters they’d ordered, and they settled to eat. Companionable silence reigned for several minutes.

Charlie broke it, glancing up from his pie to confirm, “So it’s all off with Melinda, then?”

James nodded. “Completely and utterly. Nothing further for me there. Seemed she was set on a love-match, so, as Henrietta pointed out, we really wouldn’t have suited.”

Simon nodded. “A lucky escape, then.” He chewed, swallowed. “So what has Henrietta suggested?”

James inwardly sighed and told them.

They guffawed again.

James rolled his eyes and thought of how much more they would laugh if he confessed to the rather more particular thoughts he’d started to entertain regarding The Matchbreaker.

But even after Simon and Charlie sobered, neither suggested that following Henrietta’s plan was unwise.

Simon waved his fork. “There is, after all, the time element.”

“Indeed.” Charlie nodded. “You can’t afford to dither, and Henrietta, at least, will have no burning desire to steer you in one direction over any other.”

Simon nodded, too, looking down at his plate. “She’ll have no particular agenda of her own.”

Which was precisely the point James would like to alter. While they turned their attention to cleaning their plates, he revisited all Simon had ever let fall of Henrietta’s attitude to gentlemen of the ton.

By all accounts, she held a rather low opinion of gentlemen like him, albeit in general, rather than specifically. However, he’d already shown her he was the sort of gentleman who would approach marriage cold-bloodedly, and, despite her agreement to help him, she’d viewed his approach to Melinda as him being less than truthful. Although he’d had sound reasons for that, not all of which he’d explained, the die had been cast; Henrietta’s view of him was now likely fixed. As for her own expectations, being a Cynster, and regardless of her revelations of having supported non-love-matches for others, for herself Henrietta would want what all Cynster young ladies wanted—a marriage based on love.

Cynsters married for love. That was, apparently, an unbending law of fate, one that could not be, and never had been, broken. Simon, for instance, was very definitely in love with his erstwhile social arch-nemesis, now his wife, Portia. Even James had known that Simon had long been in love with Portia; only Simon and Portia had apparently failed to notice, and it had taken them years—and two dead bodies and a murderer—to open their eyes.

Simon stirred and pushed aside his empty plate. Charlie followed suit; James had already set his plate aside. Without a word, they drained their mugs, then rose, paid their shot at the bar, tipped the smiling waitress, and strolled out into the early afternoon sunshine.