The Matchmaker's Match - Jessica Nelson Mills & Boon Love Inspired Historical

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independent. Refuses to do anything he says. A bluestocking of the spinster sort, if you ask me.”

      She sounded like Spencer’s mother, and he had no patience for women like that. His mother was gallivanting on the Continent at this very moment, and who knew when she’d decide to return to her home.

      “The lady appears benign.” His eyes narrowed on the subject of their conversation. Perhaps not so benign after all. There was a purposeful air to her as she scanned the ballroom. Like a hound nosing for a fox. He’d seen that look on his mother far too often for comfort.

      “Ha, that’s not what Eversham says. Though he doesn’t talk much of her, apparently there was a small ruckus last week, and when we met at White’s for coffee, he acted distraught.” Waverly pulled out his pocket watch. “Time for a bit of sport. You’re sure you won’t come?”

      Spencer shook his head. “I’ll meet you at White’s tomorrow. I need your and Eversham’s help with something.”

      “That sounds alarming.”

      “Quite.” He felt a glower tugging at his brow. “I met with the family lawyer today. I’ll give you details tomorrow, but in the meantime, keep an ear open for eligible ladies in need of a husband.”

      “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to get leg shackled?” Poor Waverly sounded distressed.

      “Indeed,” Spencer answered grimly. “And I’ve less than three months to do it.”

       Chapter Two

      “Do you suppose I shall ever have a waltz?” Cousin Lydia swirled around the morning room, her dress fluttering precariously close to the sideboard.

      “It is an impractical dance and frowned upon for a young miss fresh in her first Season.” Amelia plucked a piece of bacon for her plate and tried to dismiss the sudden memory of Lord Ashwhite’s hand upon her sleeve last night. She’d realized why his name prodded her conscious. He was an old friend of her brother’s but had just now come into his title, hence the change of names. She knew him as Mr. Broyhill.

      She eyed Lydia. “Why are you daydreaming about such a thing when we’ve other goals to pursue?”

      “Oh, I don’t know...” Lydia shrugged. “I suppose I feel like an ox on the market. Picked at and looked over. It is all decidedly unromantic.”

      “Which is why we will find you the perfect gentleman for your nature. He will bring you flowers in the morning and write verses devoted to your fair beauty every day.” Amelia smothered her smile as she sat at the small table to read The Morning Gazette. She took out the gossip column and set it to the side. Sunlight bathed the simple furniture in a lovely hue perfect for a painting. Perhaps today she would have time to take out her easel and paints.

      “You aren’t going to read this?” Lydia flipped up the gossip column. “Why, Lord Ca—”

      “Stop at once.” Amelia held up her hand. “I do not partake in gossip.”

      “Why, Amelia, are you serious? Never?”

      “Never,” she pronounced, careful to add stiffness to her tone. If there was one thing that rankled her more than anything, it was the idle chatter of busybodies. She’d much rather gather the hard facts, not emotional speculations.

      “But how do you find husbands? How will you know their worth?”

      “Certainly their worth won’t be determined by what others say about them. Would you please sit down? You’re making me quite dizzy.”

      Lydia flounced into the chair beside her, a pout upon her pretty features. “I am not sure I want to be married, Amelia.”

      “Then, why do you partake of my services?” She took a bite of her bacon. Perfectly crisp and delicious. She must find a way to give a bonus to Martha for being such a wonderful cook. Perhaps if she could sell a painting soon...

      “It seemed a promising idea. After my dreadful mistake, I thought perhaps I’d need help on the marriage mart. Father and Mother agreed.”

      “Your mistake was minor and quickly forgotten. Just do not take any more moonlit walks without a chaperone and mind your tongue.”

      “He deserved a dressing-down for taking liberties with my person.” Lydia’s eyes flashed with pique.

      “A good swat with your fan works wonders. A true lady does not lose her temper in public and call a suitor ungentlemanly names.”

      Lydia uttered an amazingly loud sigh.

      Ignoring the melodramatic response, Amelia continued, “In the meantime, we shall work with what we have. My particular specialty is providing young ladies with a love match.” Amelia met Lydia’s gaze. Her eyes were a delightful cornflower blue most men would adore gawping at. “You will not have a problem attracting admirers, but to find a man who sees past your outer beauty...that is our challenge.”

      “There may not be much beyond my face.” A glum note entered Lydia’s tone.

      “Come, now.” Amelia touched her hand. “You are intelligent and lively. A good man appreciates those qualities.”

      “And why are you not married? You possess those qualities in abundance.”

      Amelia tried not to groan. She finished her bacon and patted her mouth with a delicate napkin. “This is a conversation about you and not about my marital status. I am perfectly happy with the shelf I have set myself upon.”

      “Is that so?” A mischievous spark glinted in Lydia’s eyes. She leaned across the table. “Then, why did I see you dancing last night? And with an eligible marquis, no less?” A smirk hovered across her face.

      “That was nothing,” Amelia said firmly, though her nerves felt afire. “I saw an overzealous suitor practically running toward me and needed an escape route. Lord Ashwhite is an old friend of my brother’s. Dancing was a deviance from the norm, I assure you.”

      “I have never seen you dance before. You were lovely. So very graceful. The gentleman looked quite enraptured with you.”

      “Oh, stuff and nonsense.” Amelia stood quickly, unsure why she felt so skittish. “We have much to accomplish today. A new gown for next week’s ball and then the theatre tonight. I am hoping you shall see Lord Dudley there. What did you think of him, cousin?”

      Lydia stood as well and rounded the table.

      “He is nice enough, but I think we should keep our options open,” she said as they walked to the small library on the other side of Amelia’s modest townhome.

      She was fortunate the stipend her brother gave her covered the cost of maintaining her own house. The home was located at the edge of Mayfair, a distinguished and safe neighborhood, and whilst small, suited her purposes most admirably. She enjoyed the privacy and location, not to mention the salon boasting huge windows that let in a good deal of light, perfect for her paintings.

      Her allowance also provided for a cook, a butler and a housemaid. She needed her side career of matchmaking only for paints, canvases and good deeds. And once in a while, a new gown. She’d started her business two years prior and had no plans to end it.

      She and Lydia spent the rest of the morning practicing an assortment of fine arts every lady must know. As the oldest child of a country baron, Lydia lacked some of the refinement a lady of the ton demonstrated, but Amelia was confident she’d learn quickly. She’d begun her lessons last week. Her mistake was the reason she’d been pulled out of finishing school. Her parents had decided a personal tutor would work better. Thanks to a successful matchmaking assignment, Amelia’s services had been recommended to them.

      Unbeknownst to Lydia, Amelia was not charging her parents. She was family after all. This put her in a bit of a bind, but she

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