Page 14 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Seven

It was almost midday when Emily returned to the house. She had to make haste and get changed for nuncheon. Not that her wardrobe offered much variety, but she could hardly appear as she was, with a mud-stained hem, nettles clinging to her shawl and twigs in her hair. She would have to borrow Cissy’s lemon-yellow dress, which looked splendid on Cissy and gave her a golden glow. Unfortunately, the same colour gave Emily the complexion of a turnip.

Still, appearances had to be kept up. She would put on the dress, become Lady Poppy Featherstone, meet Lady Dalrymple, Ladies Jane and Mabel—and the Duke. Instead of hurling the tea in his face, she would feign a gracious smile as she thanked him nicely for his hospitality, only imagining that she was throwing the tea over his neatly tied cravat and throwing crumpets at his silly coiffure.

Wait, no. Not the crumpets. Those she would eat, with relish.

Emily grimaced. The prospect of the social obligations that awaited her filled her with dread. It wasn’t that she disliked being in society; on the contrary. She often found it amusing. But she did mind not being able to be herself.

Yes, that was it.

With all the identities she’d assumed in the past, she hardly knew who she was.

What had happened to Little Wren? The wild, carefree girl who’d once skipped barefoot through the woods, singing at the top of her lungs and believing in fairies.

She was buried somewhere deep down, smothered under layers of silk and damask, lost amidst all the pretence.

But most of all, what grated was having to behave prettily towards her arch-nemesis, the very man she loathed, and not being able to tell him the truth of who she really was.

That, more than anything, was what galled her the most.

Her brow furrowed as she thought about everything he’d done to them, everything she held him responsible for, and the blight he’d been on their lives.

She rubbed her nose absently. It left her more than perplexed. There was that Wolferton, the threatening, faceless, ominous presence of her imagination that had hung over her like a dark cloud, bringing ruin and misery.

And then there was this Wolferton.

Wolferton, the fashionable dandy who’d been startlingly kind and unexpectedly thoughtful. He’d saved her sister from harm. Although, to be fair, the incident had been staged. Anyone, surely, would make an effort to catch someone like Cissy if they’d looked up and seen her plummeting towards them out of nowhere. Who wouldn’t? Even the most degenerate duke had done so, proving her point. Still, she couldn’t read too much into it, for it could have been simple self-preservation. After all, who would want to be crushed like a pancake on the floor? Of course, to prevent that terrible fate, he had to catch her.

Nevertheless, he’d behaved like a proverbial gentleman afterwards. He’d understood their plight at the inn and, after some prodding, had invited them to his house. He’d sent a carriage. He’d given them fine guest rooms, surely some of the finest in the house. He’d given them excellent food. He'd called the doctor for Cissy.

She couldn’t make sense of him.

Should they truly proceed with this mad scheme?

And if so, how was she to orchestrate the match?

Past experience told her that Cissy would offer no help in the matter. Her sister was content to be passive, exerting the least amount of effort, while Emily did all the work, sometimes quite literally pushing her into the arms of a man.

Though perhaps the groundwork had already been laid since he appeared to be smitten already. But then again, that might not mean anything. Everyone who laid eyes on Cissy was smitten, unless they happened to be cucumbers.

There were those men, too, she supposed. Men with the emotional depth of a cucumber: cool and watery and utterly bland.

Emily wrinkled her nose at the thought.

Emily liked most foods. Having lived in poverty for most of her childhood, she’d learned to appreciate every scrap. But cucumbers!

She made a face.

They were nearly as difficult to like as Wolferton himself.

Her stomach growled loudly. Zounds, all these food analogies were making her hungry.

“Watch where you’re going,” a voice shouted sharply.

She found herself grabbed, lifted into the air and set down as if she were a mere rag doll. By the time she realised what was happening, she had already been released.

Gasping, she looked up, meeting a pair of sharp amber eyes between strands of dark hair that fell into his forehead, belonging to a man who was standing close. So close she could smell his scent of leather, sandalwood and—mint?

“Meggie Blythe,” a deep voice drawled. “Lady Lydia Featherstone’s maid. So we meet again. Are you always in the habit of walking where you ought not?”

For a moment she couldn’t manage anything more coherent than a breathless, “You!”

She looked around. She was standing in front of the stables. The coach house was buzzing with activity, preparing for the guests who were about to arrive. Two stableboys ran to fetch buckets of oats and water for the horses, while the groom brushed and saddled them.

“See that creature over there?” He pointed past her with his whip.

She turned, shading her eyes from the sunlight. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “I can’t be sure. Is it a bear? No, maybe a wolf?” She pressed a hand to her heart in mock alarm. “Don’t say—it’s a lion! I am most grateful to you, sir, for saving me from death at the hands of such a ferocious animal.” She made a mock curtsy.

The coachman stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Then the corners of his mouth twitched.

“You almost walked into the horse being shod. He doesn’t like strangers, and he certainly doesn’t like being shod. He tends to kick. Especially damsels who are afraid of horses.” As if on cue, the horse, held by two stable hands, whinnied and kicked with its hind legs.

Emily jumped back. By all the saints, he was right. She hated horses. The wretched creatures were everywhere. They trampled around, smelled, left gigantic piles of manure wherever they went, splashed her with mud, were ferociously tall, impossible to mount, and, once she’d succeeded, invariably tried to throw her off again. If Emily were more honest, she’d admit that she didn’t hate horses. She feared them.

But wait. How did the coachman know?

“How did you know I don’t like horses?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

His lids drooped, veiling his expression. “Your entire bearing attests to it when you are near them. The way you creep around them. I noticed it at the inn. Your mere presence makes them nervous.”

Had he been watching her? He was very observant, that coachman.

“And I don’t know about lions,” he added, “but if one of those hind legs had touched your head, you might have found your brains dashed out of that pretty skull of yours.”

He reached out and plucked something off her back and then her head.

Unnerved, she turned.

He held out his hand, holdingthe nettles that had been clinging to her dress. “Scampering through the forest?”

It must be evident. The hem of her dress was torn, her boots were muddy and her back was covered in nettles.

She drew herself up with dignity. “I was taking a walk.”

“You were woolgathering.”

He made it sound like a crime.

“I was thinking,” she corrected him.

His lips twitched. “No doubt, a maid like you has much to think about.”

She sniffed. “Of course. More than a coachman might.”

“Let me guess. I know the nature of your thoughts: You’ve been ‘thinking’ about how to lure His Grace into marriage with your mistress.” A vague sneer crossed his face, so quickly she thought she’d imagined it. “I should congratulate you, for your schemes have borne fruit. I don’t know how you did it, but you certainly managed to wangle an invitation from His Grace. That is no small feat. It is almost admirable how you have achieved it.”

Her face flushed. “You’re right. His Grace deserves to be fooled and trapped by my schemes. But it is my lady that I am most concerned about. Not him. I couldn’t care less about the man.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You do not like him. Yet you want him to marry your lady. How is that?”

She shrugged. “I have my reasons. But you are right, I find the man loathsome and detestable beyond words.”

He looked at her curiously. “Do you care to tell me why?”

“No. It is none of your concern. Now, if you will excuse me. My lady is waiting for me.”

She tried to get past him, but he blocked her path. He suddenly dropped to one knee in front of her, as if he were about to propose marriage.

“Wha-what are you doing?” she stammered, out of her depth.

“It is perilous to walk around with loose shoelaces, especially in the stables,” he muttered, tugging at the lace and retying them tightly. “They’re torn too. You dragged them through the mud. There.” He gave them a final tug, but did not get up immediately.

Emily had frozen into a statue. What on earth was he staring at? Why was the hand still around her ankle? It was large and warm, covering almost the whole of her foot. And she didn’t think her feet were that small.

“You’ve got holes in your shoes,” he said softly, and there was an undertone in his voice that she couldn’t quite make out.

Her cheeks burned. She pulled her foot away. “Yes, well, it should be common knowledge that maids aren’t exactly affluent. If I could buy a new pair of boots every week with my paltry wages, I would. Not that I really need them. I prefer to go barefoot whenever I can.”

Now why on earth she’d blurted that out? The only excuse she had was that, for some strange reason, he made her nervous. He stood and hovered over her, far too close for her comfort. She could feel the heat radiating from his body.

Her heart pounded loudly in her ears.

She took a step back.

His head was slightly tilted, his gaze held hers, captivating, unfathomable. The silence between them was thick, charged. He opened his lips to speak. Her gaze fell on his lips.

“Are you, really?” he said.

“Am I what?” She was entirely out of her wits.

“A maid.Meggie Blythe.” He seemed to enjoy uttering the name. “The servants here speak of Lady Lydia and a certain Lady Poppy Featherstone arriving without a maid. Both ladies were assigned one of the housemaids. And when I asked the servants about a Meggie Blythe, no one seemed to know who she was. It was as if she never existed.” He looked at her thoughtfully through narrowed eyes. “Strange, don’t you think?”

Her eyes flew to his face.

He’d caught her.

How vexing! Switching identities made everything so complicated. She’d been careless; normally she never made that kind of mistake.

His lips curved into a slow smile. “Or perhaps you are who you say you are, a servant pretending to be a lady? Lady Poppy Featherstone. Dare I suggest that Lady Lydia is no real lady either?” He leaned forward.

She inhaled sharply. “Of course she is a lady. As am I.” She lifted her chin. “You have it all wrong. I only pretended to be a maid to get the information I wanted from you.”

“Indeed.” His lazy gaze swept over her clothes once more. “A lady who wears boots with holes in them and a simple, threadbare dress.”

“We are impoverished.” She lifted her chin, trying to hide her discomfort behind a show of defiance. “It is not a crime. Our father gambled away our dowries. Our father is an earl. Which is why my sister—and I, of course, too—must marry well. As befits our station.” Emily was lying through her teeth, but the man was no fool.

“I don’t think so,” he said in a soft voice. “I think you are both impostors.”

Emily knew when a battle had been lost. She threw up her hands. “And if we are? What’s it to you?”

Seeing the sneer on his face, she stepped closer and grabbed his arm. “Don’t tell anyone,” she begged him. “We’re from the same class. We ought to stick together.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Certainly. I won’t breathe a word.”

She let out a sigh of relief.

“For a price, of course.” A devilish gleam flickered in his eyes.

She froze. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what you understood.”

“I don’t have any money. I just told you we’re poor.”

“I’m not asking for money... but for favours.”

Her eyes widened, and she backed away. “Oh no. No-no-no. You fiend!” She should have known he would abuse this in the crudest way possible. A pang of disappointment shot through her, bitter and sharp. While travelling with her sister, they’d encountered many men more than willing to exploit vulnerable women in exchange for ‘favours’. She’d hoped, foolishly it seemed, that he’d be different.

“Dash it all. Not like that!” An unexpected crimson blush crept up his cheeks. “You’ve misunderstood me entirely. Good heavens, who do you think I am?”

She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “A fiend?”

He groaned in exasperation. “It would never occur to me... how could you even think... I meant favours of a different kind.”

She stiffened. “I have no idea what else you could possibly mean.”

He threw up his hands in frustration. “Wishes. I meant favours in the form of wishes.”

Her head tilted. “Wishes?”

“Yes.” He thought for a moment. “My wishes. Help me with my chores. Bring me food. Things like that.”

“In other words, be your personal slave.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“Very well.” He shrugged. “I will go inside and inform His Grace that he has been grossly deceived, that his hospitality has been abused, and that he is harbouring a pair of fortune-hunting impostors under his own roof.” He leaned in. “Do you know what happens to impostors?”

Emily swallowed. “No. Wha-what happens to them?”

“They are thrown into the Tower,” he whispered. “According to the law, impersonating an aristocrat is punishable by death. Hanging, I think.” He thought for a moment. “It could also be beheading. Historically, we seem to have an affinity for the latter. Our henchmen have had much practice. To have deceived a peer of the realm is no small matter. Either way, it’s not nice.” He rubbed his neck.

Emily paled.

“But I’m sure, scheming little maid that you are, you’ll find a way out and get away with it.” He pushed his hat further back, shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled away, whistling.

“Hey you,” Emily called after him. “Coachman. I don’t even know your name.”

He stopped and turned. “My name’s George.”

“George who?”

“Just George.”

She took a deep breath. “Very well, ‘Just George’. I’ll do as you say. You won’t say a word about this, and I’ll, I’ll—” She swallowed painfully. “I’ll help you with your, er, chores.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Excellent. Tomorrow morning. Here, outside the stables.”

“To do what?”

“Help me muck out the stables.”

Without another word, he turned and walked towards the stables.

Emily stared after him.

What on earth had that been all about?

This man saw far too much.

And that was dangerous.