The Matchmaker's Match. Jessica Nelson
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in while conversing, Cousin Lydia left with her parents to go back to the townhome they rented during the Season.
Amelia exhaled with relief when the lessons ended. She detested how ladies must be bound by proprieties men did not observe, but it was the society in which she lived, and if Lydia wished to flourish in this society, she’d have to know the rules before she could break them.
Pursing her lips, Amelia went to her writing desk situated near a window. Speaking of rules, she had a few complaints to send to the House of Lords. Not that anyone there would take her seriously, but she meant to irritate them. Then she’d plant a few nuggets in their wives’ ears.
Perhaps next week at Almack’s. She’d finally gotten the invitation for Lydia, and she did not intend to miss such a prodigious opportunity. If Lydia did not wish to know Lord Dudley better, then Almack’s might present a whole new round of young men for her perusal.
Love blossomed when least expected. It could not be forced, though. How she wished it could. Her thoughts wandered to the past, to the man whom she tried so very hard not to remember. Their last dance...
Dipping her quill, she forced herself to concentrate on her letters. What 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