She was quiet for a moment, then, “You mentioned matchmaking yesterday. You needn’t pretend you don’t know the rest of the rumors about my family, my lord. Everyone in London has heard of the scandalous Templetons.”
There was no point in acting as if he didn’t know what she meant. “Very well, then. I’ve heard of your family.”
“You know then, that thetonbelieves us to be witches or sorceresses who have worked our wicked wiles on the unsuspecting gentlemen of London.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “The entiretonhas their eye on you this season. With such high stakes, there’s a very real risk to my reputation if I agree to help find you a countess, and I wouldn’t bring another scandal down on my family’s head for the world.”
For an instant he hesitated, but there would be no scandal this time. Tilly Templeton would end the season as the Countess of Prestwick, and no one would dare breathe a word against her then.
He’d make certain of that.
If they went ahead with this wild scheme, there would be no turning back, but what was there to turn back to? A silent cottage, a silent estate in Kent, an orphaned infant, and an ancient curse?
No, there was only moving forward now, so he drew in a breath, and leapt. “I swear to you that no harm will come to you, your name, or your family’s reputation. You have my word on it.”
She wasn’t looking at him, but kept her gaze focused on the shrubs straight ahead. “If I agree to help you, do I have your word that you won’t pursue Harriett?”
That was an easy promise to make. “You do. As you said yesterday, Lady Harriett and I don’t suit. She seems to favor Lord Wyle, and I’ve no desire to make Lady Harriett unhappy by pressing an unwanted suit upon her.”
“That’s good of you, my lord. I do think she’s grown rather fond of Lord Wyle.”
“Then I wish her every happiness. The trouble, Miss Templeton, is that I still must marry this season, but—”
“But every young lady in London is desperate to become the next Countess of Prestwick, and you have no idea how to choose one of them over another.”
Her grin took the sting out of the words, and he felt his own lips curling helplessly in response. For all Tilly Templeton’s wild antics, she did have a fetching smile. “Something like that, yes.”
She didn’t answer right away. They resumed their walk, and for some moments the only sound was the crunch of his boots heels over the gravel pathway, then she said, “In answer to your question from yesterday, Idon’twish to doom an orphan child to another year of a motherless existence. If you still wish for my help, Lord Prestwick, I’ll give it to you.”
They’d reached the row of shrubs, and she paused, plucked one of the glossy leaves, and crushed it in her hand. She leaned down to sniff it, then held out her hand to him. “It smells like ginger.”
There was something vaguely improper about the gesture, but he caught her wrist, raised her hand to his nose, and inhaled. “More like nutmeg, I think. What is it?”
“Allspice, perhaps? It looks a bit like the allspice in Lady Fosberry’s garden, but I’m not terribly knowledgeable about plants. They all look the same to me. My sister Emmeline could tell us. She’s a botanist, and knows all there is to know about growing things.”
Emmeline. She meant the Countess of Melrose, of course, who’d caused a most spectacular scandal when she’s snatched Lord Melrose out from under the nose of every other ambitious young lady in London.
The gossips might say what they liked about the Templeton sisters, but one couldn’t argue with their results. “It’s kind of you to agree to help me with my, ah…countess problem, Miss Mathilda.”
“Tilly, my lord.” She smiled. “I prefer Tilly.”
He’d never thought of Tilly Templeton as sweet before. Wily, yes. Tart-tongued, certainly. Meddlesome, to be sure. But there was something so sweet about that smile, so pleasing, that the last of his misgivings melted into the mild spring air. “Very well, Tilly. Then you must call me Kit.”
“Kit.” She tried the name out, rolling it on her tongue. “Well then, Kit. I’ll get to work at once, and will have a list of names for you before Lord Colville’s ball later this week.”
He nodded, then reached out to pluck another of the leaves from the shrub. He rolled it between his fingers, then brought it up his nose. “Clove. It’s neither ginger nor nutmeg, but clove.”
He held out his hand to her, and she leaned close, her face near enough he might have stroked her cheek with his fingertip, and inhaled. “So it is.”
ChapterTen
Tilly snatched up the paper spread out atop her lap desk and crumpled it in her fist, despair creeping over her.
She’d hardly stirred a muscle since Lady Fosberry and Harriett had left with Lord Wyle to take a drive down Rotten Row. She’d been sitting on this settee for so long she’d likely sprung roots by now, and all she had to show for it was one name.
A single, paltry name.
Lord Colville’s ball was mere hours away. She’d promised Lord Prestwick— Kit —that she’d have the list ready for him this evening, but after days of agonizing over it, here she was, no further along than she’d been when she started.
Somehow, not a single young lady in all of London seemed to be the right match for him.
