To Marry a Matchmaker. Michelle StylesЧитать онлайн книгу.
something happen at the last second and the marriage, with its garden wedding breakfast, have to be called off? Would Mr Montemorcy then renege on the wager?
For her aunt desperately needed an outlet for her energy. Ever since Henri could remember, her aunt had longed to excavate the Roman remains, and increasingly so since they’d been forced to sell the field to Robert. Whenever Henri had been about to give up with Melanie, she would think about her aunt’s eyes shimmering with pleasure as she learnt that Henri had secured the excavation for her.
‘There, it wasn’t too hard to admit you lost. You are far from infallible, Mr Montemorcy.’
‘Let me finish. It is a bad habit of yours—jumping to conclusions and overly complicating matters with emotion.’ He held up a hand, silencing her. ‘All social excursions to the site are forbidden. A scientific approach must be used at all times and your aunt must share all knowledge gained with me.’
Botheration. Henri worried the lace on her gloves. Mr Montemorcy had seen through her grand schemes and thwarted her after all! She had already had three picnics arranged in her head, complete with guests’ list, menu and seating charts. They were going to be the centrepiece of her new campaign to arrange at least one more marriage before the summer had finished.
She’d even found bits of Roman pottery from her aunt’s collection so that she could seed the site before the picnics took place. What could be more thrilling than a treasure hunt? Especially one where nothing was left to chance, where everything was perfect. And now this! Conditions from Robert Montemorcy about scientific approaches and the need to preserve the ground!
‘Nobody ever mentioned conditions,’ she muttered, scuffing the ground with her kid boot.
‘I’m mentioning them now. Before you won, there was little point.’
‘I don’t see why you object to social excursions such as picnics.’ She forced her voice to remain even. She would find a way around this new obstacle. There was a way around setbacks of this nature if she considered the problem hard enough. The happiness of others depended on it. ‘They are a wonderful form of entertainment. And I promise they won’t damage the integrity of the site.’
‘And the encampment is a valuable piece of history. It is on my land now. Under my stewardship. If your aunt wishes to excavate, she may, but she follows my methods.’
Henri adopted a smooth placating smile. Robert Montemorcy was being stubborn. She could see it in his eyes and in the tightening of his shoulders. Very well, for now, she’d give way on the picnics, but he would eventually agree once he realised that no harm would come to his precious scientific method.
The selling of the land had been physically painful, but her late uncle’s debts were far greater than even she had guessed. Her aunt had wept buckets. She hated letting anything go, but Montemorcy had paid a good price for the land and her aunt’s financial difficulties were at an end. Or at least until her cousin made another one of his requests for money—but Henri had to believe that the last episode had taught Sebastian the importance of fiscal responsibility.
‘I’m well aware of the debts my uncle incurred, but that is all in the past. My cousin is of an entirely different stamp. He plans to follow my advice for improving the remainder of his estate,’ Henri said, trying a new tack.
Mr Montemorcy’s brow darkened. ‘Even you, Lady Thorndike, with all your skill at managing, have singularly failed there. Your cousin has garnered a reputation for debauchery. His debts will be worse than your uncle’s in two years, if they are not already.’
‘Society will gossip and all he needs is the right woman.’ Henri forced the smile to stay on her face. It irritated her that Mr Montemorcy was correct in this one thing, if nothing else. Unfortunately, her aunt still was convinced that it was her late unlamented husband who had caused the problem and that her only son needed to be coddled and protected. Henri knew without her intervention, her aunt would be tempted to supplement her cousin’s considerable income from her meagre widow’s portion. She might not approve of everything that Sebastian did, but she refused to criticise him to others or let others judge him. He was family, after all, and one looked after one’s family. ‘You do Sebastian a disservice. He was shocked at the extent of debt.’
‘Shocked, but he has continued to live his life with the same careless disregard.’
‘Sebastian no longer indulges in such vices as gambling. He gave his mother his word. I also understand his current projects prosper.’ Henri raised her chin, and hoped her words were true. Sebastian’s last letter to his mother promised he’d mend his ways if she sent a little money until his latest scheme started to pay. ‘And you know how it is with reputations—people are far more willing to believe a bad report than a good one.’
Mr Montemorcy’s eyes became inscrutable. ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘Is there anything else?’ Henri asked, looking over Mr Montemorcy’s immaculately tailored shoulder. She gave a nod towards Melanie so that Melanie could begin to cut the cake. Melanie blushed a deep scarlet and manoeuvred her new husband over to the splendidly tiered fruit cake. Silently Henri motioned to the vicar’s youngest daughter to stand closer to the curate. They would make a charming pair, if a permanent post could be found for him, somewhere in Northumberland rather than becoming a missionary to Africa. The vicar would worry if his daughter went to Africa. She’d have to consider the matter seriously if the treasure hunt was forbidden. ‘If not, I’ll bid you adieu. Others require my attention.’
‘Meddling in others’ romantic lives has become a bad habit with you. I recognise that gleam, Lady Thorndike. Leave them alone.’
Robert Montemorcy put a detaining hand on Lady Thorndike’s shoulder. Henrietta Thorndike wasn’t going to wriggle out of this with a toss of her black curls and a soft sensuous smile from her full lips. Why was it that beautiful women caused more trouble than anyone else? Lady Thorndike appeared to think that with one sweep of her long lashes all her meddling and mischief would be forgotten. One light rap of her lace fan against his arm and she thought he’d indulge her passion for disruptive picnics. He knew her methods. She never gave in.
From Crozier, he knew what a near-disaster this entire episode had been and how close Henrietta Thorndike’s machinations had come to failure. Crozier had been within a hair’s breadth of leaving for America, all because Lady Thorndike had introduced him to the writing of James Fenimore Cooper and declared that Miss Brown had a tendre for men who behaved like Hawkeye in The Last of the Mohicans. ‘Meddling is the passion that rules your life.’
‘Meddling? I prefer to call it assisting two lonely people to find happiness.’ Lady Thorndike waved an airy hand that only served to emphasise the way her dark purple silk dress caressed her curves. He struggled to ignore the rush of hot blood that coursed through his veins. Part of Henrietta Thorndike’s arsenal was her latent sensuality, a pleasurable distraction that was apt to make men forget their train of thought.
She leant forwards and lowered her voice to a purr. ‘You must understand that our new doctor, the curate and the butcher need wives.’
‘You have forgotten the baker and the candlestick maker,’ Robert remarked drily.
‘No, the baker is happily mar—’ She stopped and her cheeks turned a deep rose before she gave a small curtsy. ‘I suppose you think the play on the rhyme amusing. And I tumbled straight into it.’
‘I rest my case. Matchmaking consumes you and, if you allow it, it will ruin you.’
She flicked her tongue over her mouth, turning her lips a cherry-ripe red. ‘Define matchmaking.’
‘Aiding, assisting or otherwise seeking the advancement of marriage,’ he said without hesitation.
‘I have other passions. It is merely a pleasant pastime, helping others out. They have a right to their chance of happiness. After all, I had mine, even though it was cut short.’ Lady Thorndike examined a bit of lace on her glove, hiding her face as she always did when she spoke