Page 20 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Ten

The next morning, Emily donned her simplest, most threadbare gown and put her old boots on. She tied her hair back with a handkerchief. She reasoned that when one had to muck out the stables, it was wise not to dress too nicely.

George was waiting for her at the stables.

Emily’s steps faltered when she saw him. He leaned against the wooden wall of the stable, one boot propped up against it, his shirt sleeves rolled back to reveal muscular forearms, and his hands tucked into his pockets. He lifted his face to the sun, eyes closed, as if enjoying the morning rays on his skin.

He had a square chin, and with his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, he looked somehow younger, more vulnerable.

He looked every bit the rakish charmer he was.

Emily’s heart fluttered.

Goodness, what had she been thinking? Rakish charmer? Was she out of her mind? He was neither rakish nor a charmer. He’d been rude, domineering, obnoxious and annoying at every single one of their meetings. There had been nothing charming about him at all.

Except for the time he’d knelt in front of her to tie her shoelaces, as if she were a little child. Or the moment he’d grabbed her arms to stop her from running into a kicking horse, as if he truly cared about keeping her safe.

Yesterday, that teasing light had sparked in his eyes, even while he said those annoying things.

And now—he must have heard her approaching, because he turned to look in her direction. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes turn golden as they lit up? As if he were truly happy to see her.

Disturbed by her own thoughts, she greeted him with a grumble.

He stood up straight and took his hands out of his pockets.

“Lady Poppy.” His lips curved into a smile, as if the sight of her amused him. Her eyes focused on his mouth. Those lips... Disturbed, she tugged at the handkerchief around her hair. “So, you have indeed come to help me clear out the stables.” His eyes crinkled slightly, and one corner of his lips turned up more than the other when he smiled. She wondered what it sounded like when he laughed. Not the sarcastic bark she’d heard before, but a heartfelt, amused laugh. Irritated at having to ponder about such details, Emily was determined to be as rude to him as possible.

“Let’s make this quick. I need to be back for nuncheon.” She needed time to bathe, wash her hair and change her clothes, unless she wanted to scandalise her hosts by bringing back a whiff of the stables. Tea with horse manure. It wasn’t a particularly appetising thought.

Emily grimaced.

“I see you’re all eager and excited to help me.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets. When he wasn’t hunched over, he was quite tall.“Very well. Let’s waste no time and get to work. Follow me.” He led the way with long strides, and Emily had to run to keep up.

“Isn’t the stable over there?” she said after a while, pointing in the direction of the stables. They’d gone the other way, towards the forest.

“We’re almost there.”

They walked in companionable silence for a while.

“How are things at the house?” He nodded towards Ashbourne House. “Any success with your matchmaking efforts?” He grinned, but his eyes remained on the path ahead.

Emily nodded. “It’s going splendidly. His Grace has certainly taken an interest in Cis—I mean, Lady Annab—I mean, Lady Lydia.” Dash it all if she wasn’t getting all her names mixed up! She glanced sideways at George to see if he had noticed her faux pas, but he was busy bending aside a twig from a bush that was in his way.

His lips curved into a smile. “So he’s interested, is he? That is amusing. What did you do to hasten their union?”

Emily told him how she had sent him on an errand that would lead him to her sister in the library, “Where, hopefully, they are busily falling in love as we speak”.

“What a meddlesome busybody you are,” he said with a chuckle.

Emily took it as a compliment. “I pride myself on my matchmaking skills.” She lifted her chin. “They are unparalleled. In the past, I’ve successfully matched four couples, all of whom are now living happily ever after.” Except she’d never been entirely successful with Cissy. Cissy, beautiful and admired as she was, never received any marriage proposals. It was rather perplexing. Gentlemen wanted to dance with her, walk with her, ride with her, and a painter even made her the subject of one of his paintings. Aunt Henrietta had thought it scandalous, but it had been an innocent affair, though the painter had never proposed. But in the end, none of these suitors ever came up to scratch. Not even Mr Matthews. None of them had ever popped the question.

If she had been unsuccessful in finding Cissy’s match, she had been even more so when it came to her own future. But she was resigned to her fate as an old maid.

As if reading her mind, George said, “Except for your own happily ever after?”

Emily shrugged. “Lady Lydia's happiness comes first.”

“Ah yes, of course. Forgive me for forgetting that you’re a lady’s maid.”

Startled, she glanced at him, but his face showed no sign of teasing.

She found herself studying his features. He wasn’t exactly a handsome man. He had a stern forehead and a sharper nose than she liked in men, but fine eyebrows and a strong chin. His lips were thin, and he rarely smiled, but when he did, a most incongruous dimple appeared in his left cheek. She found it disarmingly charming. His hair was thick, dark and long, setting off the brilliance of his amber eyes, framed by thick black eyelashes.

They emerged from the trees by the lake. Rays of morning sunlight danced on the water. The ducks glided calmly across the surface. The scene was picturesque and serene. She bent down to pick up some flat stones, but instead of throwing them into the water, she placed them into her reticule.

They reached the shore of the small yet charming lake that was part of the park.

Emily looked around, puzzled. “There are no stables here.” She turned to George. “I don’t see any horses either. There are ducks, though. What exactly do you want to do here?” She looked at him suspiciously.

George scrutinised the ground next to the lake. “The grass is still a bit damp,” he muttered. “Better use this.” He pointed to a log that lay by the shore.

“What do I do with the log?” Emily wrinkled her forehead. “I hope you don’t want me to chop it up, because I’m terrible with an axe—” She interrupted herself, sniffing. There was no mistake. She knew that smell.

Her stomach growled. It was so loud she feared it would wake the ducks sleeping in the reeds. She put her hand to her stomach sheepishly.

George raised an eyebrow.

“I haven't had any breakfast, you see,” she defended herself. “I know that smell.” She sniffed again. It was coming from behind the log. “But how can it be? It smells like... ”

George bent down and pulled out a basket.

“Crumpets!” Emily breathed.

There was nothing more wonderful in the world than a plate full of hot, steaming, crispy crumpets, wrapped in a tea towel to keep them warm.

“And not just any crumpets. These are cheese crumpets.” He pulled out a plate and held it up to her. “I asked the cook to make some. That’s no easy task, because Monsieur Henri is a proud French cook who looks down on simple English specialities like crumpets. It took some persuasion and bribery before he agreed to bake a batch.”

Emily’s mouth watered. They were her favourite. Then she put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Let me think. You want me to do hard manual labour while you sit here on the grass like a pasha, eating my favourite food?” She groaned. “You really are a fiend.”

And there it was, faster and more unexpectedly than she’d thought possible—a heartfelt laugh, deep and rumbling. She blinked at him, astonished.

“Come, sit down,” he said. “But sit on that log, here, because the grass is still wet.” He pointed to the tree.

Emily hesitated. “Really? What is the catch? What will you ask in return? Will you increase the number of favours—or rather wishes?”

“Sit.” He commanded. “We will discuss the rest while we eat.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. He held the plate in front of her and Emily’s resistance crumbled. She took a crumpet and bit into it, savouring the warm, buttery goodness mixed with the cheese. She rolled her eyes back in pleasure. “Hmmm.” She could not say anything for a while.

He watched her, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That good, is it?”

Emily couldn’t answer—her mouth was full of crumpets. She chewed enthusiastically. When she finally finished, she looked up with a sheepish grin. “Thank you. I suppose I was hungrier than I thought. I couldn’t bear to go into that splendid breakfast room, where I’d have to sit all alone at that enormous table, served by an army of footmen. It would have been rather lonely.” A thought struck her. “And perhaps worse: awkward. For who knows who might have joined me there?”

“Like His Grace. Terrible thought, breakfasting alone with the Duke.” He picked up a crumpet and inspected it.

Emily shuddered. “Indeed.”

“He wouldn’t touch a crumpet, of course,” George said as he popped the crumpet into his mouth.

“Never. Men like him live on horrible things like foie gras, oysters, escargots, roast pigeons and, horror of horrors, cucumbers!”

He looked at her, perplexed. “Cucumbers? What’s wrong with cucumbers?”

“Everything that’s wrong with this world,” she grimaced. “They are God’s only miscreation. I detest them.”

He chuckled. “You dislike cucumbers? Who would have thought? I am not too fond of them myself, but I can think of other things I dislike more. Like turnips.” He made a face. “Mashed turnips were the bane of my youth.” He picked up a crumpet and handed it to her. “Here, have the last crumpet.”

“I must savour this last crumpet,” she said solemnly, “and eat it especially slowly.” A shadow suddenly crossed her face. “It is the food of my childhood, you see. Simple, plain, everyday food. But how happy it made me, as a little girl, to be able to have some fresh from the griddle.”

He looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Perhaps because it was so rare. Perhaps because of the memories I associate with it. It is the only memory I have of my mother. Her standing by the glowing coals of the hearth, the cast-iron griddle in one hand, pouring the dough on it with the other, and the sound of the batter sizzling, and the rich smell that would spread throughout the house.” She sighed. “We never made them again at home, probably because they brought back memories of mother.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “So we rarely ate them, almost never.”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. “It appears you’ve had a difficult life.” His voice was so low that at first she thought she’d imagined it. It startled her for a moment because his comment seemed out of context and she didn’t know how to respond.

She met his gaze, and something in the depths of his eyes stopped her. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought they looked almost... troubled. But no, they couldn’t be. This made no sense at all. She shook her head as if to shake the thought from her mind.

“What gives you that impression?” she answered lightly. “Our mother may have died when we were young, but our father adored us. I had a wonderful childhood. Do I give the impression that I was born on the streets, raised in the workhouse and condemned to a life of endless drudgery?”

He studied her closely. “Have you had such a life?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “All maids have difficult lives.” A sweeping, generalised statement seemed best, she decided. “From morning to night serving their betters, it’s hardly a picnic. Though I suppose it’s no more difficult than a coachman’s life.”

“Ah—yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “A very demanding life indeed. All that travelling.”

“I mean it. It must be a challenge, working for that man.”

“That man?”

“The tyrant. Nero.”

He looked at her blankly.

“The Devil Duke,” she added helpfully. “His reputation has spread far and wide. I pity anyone who has to work for him. Behind that handsome, fashionable facade lies a choleric temperament. They say that when he’s not dismissing servants on a whim, they rarely last more than a fortnight. Except, of course, Mrs Smith. She must be an angel to have survived under that devil for so long. So how are you getting on under his iron rule?”

A deep frown appeared on his forehead. “Is that what they say?”

“Oh, yes.” Emily brushed crumbs from her lap. “I suppose I shouldn’t encourage a match between him and my sister, given his terrible personality. He doesn’t look like it, mind you. I still don’t understand how a man like that can look as delicate as a tulip. But then, I’ve always thought of him as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or maybe the devil in a cravat. Lucifer in lace. It’s all the same.” She rose from the log and bent down to pick up a flat stone. He watched her in tense silence.

“Is that really how you see him?” he asked abruptly. “A devil?”

“Worse.” Her expression darkened. “People born into power and wealth, who use those blessings to ruin innocent lives for no better reason than greed, deserve to be called worse than devils.”

The wind teased a stray strand of hair across his forehead, shading his eyes. He dug his hands into his pockets.

“What happened?” he asked softly.

“Nothing in particular.” She waved a dismissive hand, keeping her tone deliberately light. “Just the sort of stories you hear. In general, you know. Being a maid, you can’t help but hear such stories. Evicting tenants from their homes, casting the elderly and infirm out in the dead of winter, leaving them to perish on the road, like animals. His Grace has a lot to answer for. He may wear a crisp white shirt, but his soul is blacker than tar.”

His scowl deepened. “These are serious accusations. In all those years I’ve worked for His Grace, I’ve never seen any evidence of this. I would swear on my life that he would never do such things.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Then you don’t know him as well as you think.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s true.” Her voice was icy now. “I hold him responsible for all the evil that has befallen us. And worse.”

“Worse?” His tone was wary.

Her gaze drifted to the lake, and a cool breeze teased another strand of hair across her face as she said softly, “He killed my father.”