Another lady would have dropped her gaze, and perhaps backed away from him, but Tilly Templeton wasn’t, it seemed, the sort of lady who flinched at a challenge. “No, my lord. That has nothing at all to do with it.”
There was nothing in her expression that would indicate she was lying— no telltale blush on that smooth white cheek —but perhaps she was simply an accomplished liar. “How can you be certain?”
“Because I never said a word about it to her.”
From what he knew of young ladies, that seemed exceedingly unlikely. “What’s this really about, Miss Templeton? Why are you going to such lengths to prevent this match? Is it that you don’t wish for your dearest friend to marry a drunken scoundrel?”
A faint smile crossed her lips. “Are you a drunken scoundrel, Lord Prestwick?”
He had been, once, and not so very long ago, either. As for what he was now, well…God only knew. “Ask anyone. They’ll all tell you I’m the wickedest rake London has ever seen.”
She regarded him for a moment, then shook her head. “I daresay you’re not as wicked as they all claim you are.”
He stared at her. No one had ever given him the benefit of the doubt before, least of all a young lady who’d seen him sotted, bloodied, unconscious and reeking of sour port. “That’s, ah, surprisingly generous of you to say.”
“It’s not generosity, my lord, but simple rationality. Gossips are prone to exaggeration. I know that well enough from my own experience.”
Herexperience? He would have said she was a young lady of no experience at all.
“As for why I’m going to such lengths to prevent a match between you and Harriett, the answer is quite simple, my lord. I wish to see my friend happy.”
“She has as much chance of being happy with me as with any other gentleman.”
“No, Lord Prestwick, she doesn’t. She doesn’t love you.”
“Love?” Good Lord. Like so many young ladies fresh from the country, she was painfully naïve, her head no doubt filled with romantic girlish nonsense about the season, and love, and marriage. “The season isn’t a romantic escapade, any more than marriage is a fairy tale.”
Not for Lady Harriett, not for Mathilda Templeton, and not for him, either.
“No, but neither should it be a torment. As I said before, my lord, you and Harriett don’t suit. She won’t make you any happier than you will her, and there’s really no need for you to marryher, when we saw at the ball last night that you might have your choice of dozens of other young ladies in London.”
“Ah, but that’s the very problem, you see. How am I to decide between them? I haven’t the first notion how to choose a proper wife. If you won’t help me, I’ll end up married to one of the Misses Arundels.”
She choked back a laugh. “I doubt that, my lord. All five of them were quite terrified of you, as was Lady Henry’s daughter, the poor thing. But there are dozens of young ladies in London this season who might do for you.”
“Is that so? Which young ladies would those be?”
She shrugged. “As to that, I can’t say.”
“No?” He drew closer, the sweet scent of the flowers tickling his nose. “I daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. In fact, I think you’re just the lady to help me choose a bride. Mr. Darby tells me you and your sisters are all brilliant matchmakers.”
She went still for an instant, staring at him, then shook her head. “You can’t be serious, my lord.”
“Oh, but I am serious, Miss Mathilda.” She’d taken a step backwards, but he pursued her, holding those dark blue eyes with his. “Perfectly so. What better way to reconcile me to the loss of Lady Harriett than to help me find a replacement?”
“But you can’t….” She swallowed. “Do you mean to say you want me to matchmakeyou?”
“That’s precisely what I mean.” He took another step toward her—not too close—but close enough to see into her eyes. “As a matchmaker, you’re uniquely qualified to assist me, Miss Mathilda.”
It was the truth. Shewasuniquely qualified to assist him. Not because she was a matchmaker, but because she alone, of all the young ladies in London, was the only one who could help him lay the curse to rest.
He didn’t need a matchmaker. He’d already chosen his countess.
Except with the way things stood between them now, she’d never have him. She’d already proven how wily she was, and he didn’t fancy a season’s worth of skirmishes with her.
But a courtship, disguised as a matchmaking scheme? It was devious, unscrupulous, and utterly brilliant.
While she was matchmakinghim, he’d be courtingher.
