What was she going to do? For pity’s sake, she should have known better than to get herself into such a quandary after that fiasco with Miss Groves, but she… well, perhaps she’d wanted to believe she wasn’t so very different from her sisters, after all.
It had begun well enough. At first, she’d been certain that any one of the dozen young ladies on her list would suit Lord Prestwick, but upon further consideration, doubts began to creep in.
This young lady was too arrogant for him, and that young lady too serious. This one was as dull as a Sunday sermon, and that one could talk of nothing but shopping and fashions.
Lady Emily Durham? Too silly. Miss Colchester? Too meek. Lady Charlotte Greville? Too high in the instep, and a vicious gossip, besides. Any one of the Arundel sisters would leap at the chance to have him, but even a scandalous rake deserved better than to be cursed with Lady Arundel as a mother-in-law.
On and on it went, until one by one, she’d crossed nearly all the names off the list again.
As it turned out, matchmaking a formerly scandalous earl wasn’t as easy as she’d imagined it would be. At least, notthisformerly scandalous earl. He wasn’t, well…aside from their disastrous first meeting, he was nothing like she’d always imagined a rake would be.
Lady Fosberry had told her that Kit had a good heart. She hadn’t believed it, but he’d released Harriett from their betrothal readily enough, and he’d been utterly sincere when he’d told her he had no wish to make Harriett unhappy.
There was kindness in him, and a vulnerability she never would have thought to find in a handsome, aristocratic gentleman. And she hadn’t missed the shadow of pain in his dark eyes when he’d told her Prestwick House wasn’t truly his.
He was lonely, just as Lady Fosberry had said, and he deserved a worthy wife. Love matches were as rare as diamonds, but surely there must be one young lady in London this season who would make him a proper countess?
One young lady who would deserve him?
She glanced down at her list with a sigh. The only name left was Lady Cressida Crawley, but she was far from an ideal match for Lord Prestwick. Her bright blue eyes might be the toast of London, but the head to which they were attached was as empty as a sieve.
She threw her pencil down with a huff. “Phee, if you had to matchmake a rake, how would you go about it?”
“Arake?” Phee glanced up from the book on her lap. “Why in the world would I ever have to matchmake a rake? I don’t even know any rakes.”
“Yes, you do. Mr. Darby, the gentleman you danced with at Lady Fosberry’s ball is a rake.”
“Mr. Darby, a rake?” Phee frowned. “Surely not. I’ve never observed him to behave as anything less than a perfect gentleman. I believe you’re mistaken, Tilly.”
For pity’s sake. How could Phee have spent the past two weeks among theton, and not have overheard even a scintilla of gossip? “I assure you, I’m not. Lady Fosberry told me herself that Mr. Darby does not always act as a proper gentleman should.”
“My goodness. I had no idea.” Phee set her book aside with a sigh. “As for matchmaking a rake, it’s immaterial. Rakes don’t wish to marry, so I’d never have an occasion to matchmake one.” She took up her book again, as if the matter were settled.
Well, that wasn’t much help, was it? “Yes, but for argument’s sake, Phee. It’s all very well for you to matchmake Harriett and Lord Wyle. Two more perfect people never existed. A truly talented matchmaker should be able to find a proper match for the worst scoundrel in London.”
“What’s gotten into you, Tilly? Are you attempting to matchmake a rake?”
“Me, matchmake a rake? Dear me, no!” Tilly laughed a bit too loudly. “Why, I don’t know the first thing about matchmaking! The one time I attempted it, it was an utter disaster. Have you forgotten about the…the Incident?”
“That business with Miss Groves, you mean? That wasnotyour fault, Tilly.” Phee dismissed Miss Groves with a flick of her fingers. “You couldn’t have known she was promised to another gentleman when she persuaded you to help her ensnare Mr. Hugo. The lady lied to you.”
Miss Groves had lied, but Tilly had been foolish enough to be taken in by her, and poor Mr. Hugo had ended up with a broken heart. It was her first attempt at matchmaking, and it had been an embarrassingly public disaster.
If nothing else, the Incident had proven that she, unlike her four sisters, hadn’t any talent as a matchmaker. They were all brilliant like her father had been, quick-witted and talented, whereas she…wasn’t.
She wasn’t clever like Phee and Emmeline, or intuitive like Helena, and neither was she charming and amusing like Juliet. Her only talent was causing scandals. God above, what had she been thinking, imagining she could matchmake Lord Prestwick? She’d make a mess of his affairs, and everyone in London would find out about it—
“If you’re not matchmaking, then what is that you’re working on?” Phee nodded at the crumpled papers on the lap desk.
“This? It’s nothing!” Tilly slapped her hand over the page. “It’s, ah, it’s just a letter to Helena, that’s all.”
“Helena is asking how one goes about matchmaking a rake?”
“No. In her last letter she asked who we’d danced with at Lady Fosberry’s ball, so naturally I mentioned you’d danced with Mr. Darby, and that got me thinking about rakes, and… that’s all.”
“That’s all, is it?” Phee glanced at Tilly’s hand, still spread protectively over the paper, and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve simply developed a sudden, inexplicable interest in rakes, then?”
“It’s not the rakes I’m interested in, Phee. It’s the matchmaking, but only in the, er, academic sense.”
