And Then She Fell(8)
He didn’t bother answering, just curtly nodded.
Still considering him, she frowned slightly. “You’ve left it a trifle late, haven’t you?”
The look he bent on her held no patience at all. “In leaving me a year to find a suitable bride and tie the knot, what my grandaunt didn’t allow for was, first, the change in social mores that has occurred since she was a young lady—in her day, all marriages within the ton were arranged on the basis of material concerns, and love never entered into the equation. So she imagined me finding a suitable bride was simply a matter of me looking and offering, and not very much more. She also failed to allow for the period of mourning my father and grandfather felt the family should observe, or for the months it took to sort out the current state of affairs with respect to the estate. Although it’s in Wiltshire, not that far from Glossup Hall, and I’ve visited there many times over the years, I had no notion she intended to leave the whole to me, and so I haven’t in any way been trained as to how the estate functions . . .”
Unable to stand still any longer, unable for some reason to continue to conceal his agitation, he ran a hand through his hair and fell to pacing once more. “Do you have any idea what a mess this now is?” He flung out a hand. “I spent a month looking into all the likely candidates, and Melinda Wentworth stood out as the best—the most likely to accept an offer that wasn’t couched in love. She wasn’t, as far as I could see, enamored of anyone else. She’s twenty-six, and must be fearful of being left on the shelf. And she’s sensible, too—a female I could imagine having by my side, working alongside me in managing the estate. I spent the last month and more courting her.”
He swung back and trapped Henrietta’s gaze. “But now that’s all gone—useless wasted effort, wiped away.” He gestured broadly, sweeping a slate clean. “Which leaves me with a bare four weeks in which to find and woo a suitable young lady as my oh-so-necessary bride.”
Halting before Henrietta, he looked down at her. “And the blame for such a fraught situation, one that could dramatically and adversely affect the livelihoods of so many innocent people, lies equally as much at your door as it does at mine.”
A chill washed through Henrietta. Eyes locked with his, burning with anger, shot with concern, all she could think of to say was, “Oh.”
The control he’d maintained shattered. Incredulous, he stared at her. “Oh? Is that all you can manage? Oh?”
Swinging violently around, he paced away from her, then paused, whirled, and came charging back. “But no—it’s worse.” He looked truly appalled as he halted before her, staring down at her. “I just realized—everyone in the ton, certainly all those with marriageable young ladies under their wing, will now know that on the issue of Melinda Wentworth’s hand, you’ve passed judgment on me and found me wanting. Found me not worthy.” Sinking both hands into his hair, he ran his fingers back through the dark locks, clutching with both hands as he turned away. “Aargh! What the devil am I to do? How in all Hades am I to find my necessary bride now?”
Silence greeted his questions. He started pacing away from her.
“I’ll help you.”
She hadn’t even known she was going to say the words; they formed and fell from her lips without conscious direction.
Purely in response to what she’d heard, what she could see—what, inside, she knew.
His back to her, he halted. Several more heartbeats of silence ensued, then he slowly turned his head and, frowning slightly, looked at her. “What did you say?”
She moistened her lips, and stated more definitely, “I said I’ll help you.”
He slowly turned to face her fully. His frown deepened. “In case you didn’t know, you’re known as The Matchbreaker. You break up matches of which you disapprove, just as you did with me and Melinda.”
“No.” She drew breath and evenly said, “I only tell young ladies who’ve asked me to learn the truth about their prospective fiancés what I find. For your information, I confirm as many matches as I disrupt, and contrary to the generally held belief, not all those matches I confirm are love-matches.” She held his gaze levelly. “Not all young ladies wish to marry for love. These days most do, but not all.”
She hesitated, studying his eyes, his face; neither gave all that much away, but she thought she detected a glimmer of hope, which was encouragement enough for her to say, “I didn’t know your situation, but now I do . . . I can help. I can tell you which young ladies might suit, and if the ton’s ladies see me assisting you, they’ll know that the reason Melinda drew back was not in any way a reflection of any substance on you, but rather lay in her expectations, her wants and wishes. In other words, that she and you didn’t suit in that regard, but my . . . championing of you will lay all other adverse speculation to rest.”