To Marry a Matchmaker

‘I can stop any time I want,’ Henrietta replied, her face taking on a mutinous expression as she crossed her arms over her full bosom, highlighting rather than detracting from her curves.

‘Prove it.’

‘What are you suggesting, Mr Montemorcy?’ Her carefully arranged curls shook with anger. ‘I enjoy helping people. People need me.’

At last. She’d walked straight into his trap. ‘I am suggesting a wager to demonstrate that you are addicted to arranging others’ love-lives and you have no sense of discipline in these matters.’ He watched her bridle at the words. He wondered if she knew how desirable she appeared when she was angry. Desirable, but very much off-limits…

This book is set in one of my favourite villages in Northumberland—Corbridge. I had a great deal of fun walking through the streets, deciding where Henri and Robert lived and researching what would have been there then. The verger at St Andrew’s Church was very helpful in answering my questions and allowing me to look around.

Special mention must be made of the hours I spent at the reading room in the Literary and Philosophical Library in Newcastle. The room dates from 1826, and there is a curved iron staircase that leads up to where the costume books are kept. There I discovered The Woman In Fashion by Doris Langley Moore (1949), a book full of authentic nineteenth-century costumes being worn by 1940s movie stars and ballerinas.

Henri has a special place in my heart, and I hope you will love her story as much as I do.

As ever, I love hearing from readers. You can contact me either via post to Harlequin, my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com

About the Author

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER (part of Christmas By Candlelight) VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE *COMPROMISING MISS MILTON THE VIKING’S CAPTIVE PRINCESS *BREAKING THE GOVERNESS’S RULES

*linked by character

To Marry a Matchmaker

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Deb Hunt, my high school librarian,

who encouraged me to read anything

and everything—particularly romance!

Chapter One

May 1848—Corbridge, Northumberland

Precise planning produced perfection.

Lady Henrietta Thorndike knew the saying from her childhood, and as she muttered the words for the two-hundred-and-forty-ninth time that morning, she was inclined to believe it. But straightening the peonies in the central floral arrangement for the third time, she wondered—had she done enough to produce the ideal setting for the wedding breakfast?

True, the bride was an exquisite combination of demureness and supreme happiness in her white silk and organza dress. The groom also seemed far more dignified in his burgundy frock-coat with its black velvet collar than the gossips in the village had considered possible, but something nagged at the back of Henri’s mind as wrong.

Henri took a step back from the table where the peonies now stood upright. On the surface all appeared perfection. Even the notoriously tricky Northumbrian weather proved to be no deterrent to the festivities. Despite dire predictions to the contrary—most notably from Robert Montemorcy, and unremitting rainfall earlier in the week—the sun shone in a blazing blue sky.

But in the back of her mind she could hear her mother’s strident tones, demanding she look again as she would never be good enough, that in her haste to be finished she always overlooked a glaring error. Henri took another sweeping glance at the scene, trying to puzzle out what she’d overlooked.

* * *

When the bride blushed happily in response to a remark from Robert Montemorcy, Henri realised and silently swore. Her mother’s cameo brooch, the something blue and borrowed, lay on the chest of drawers in the front parlour where she had helped Melanie to dress. Nowhere near the bride.

In that heartbeat, despite the triumphs of the day, Henri knew she’d always remember her failure to ensure that the tradition about something old, new, borrowed and blue was followed through. If the marriage failed to thrive, she’d wonder if somehow it was because of the omission, an omission she had spotted and failed to rectify. She could well imagine Robert Montemorcy uttering pronouncements on the folly of putting credence in old wives’ tales, but Henri knew she had to do something to make amends.

Plucking several of the blue forget-me-nots from the centrepiece, she strode over to the happy couple and tucked them into the bride’s bonnet.

‘Something blue, dear,’ she whispered. ‘No point in tempting fate.’

Melanie stammered her thanks and Henri withdrew, allowing the other well-wishers to offer their congratulations, safe in the knowledge that that particular crisis had been averted.

‘Absolute perfection achieved,’ she said in a low tone. ‘I did it. I really did all of it.’

‘Are you going to take credit for the bird-song as well? How did you manage to get them to sing so sweetly?’ a deep voice laced with a hint of a Northumbrian burr asked.

‘I find scattering bird seed is useful in attracting them,’ Henri said in an absentminded voice as she concentrated again on the centrepiece. Was it her imagination or were the peonies leaning over to other side now?

‘And what other tips do you give for achieving the weather, Lady Thorndike? How did you ensure sunshine? Even last night, the barometer was falling. It takes steely nerve to plan a wedding breakfast in the garden in May.’

Henri spun around and saw Robert Montemorcy regarding her with an amused expression. His immaculately cut black frock-coat and high-topped Hessian boots added a note of sartorial elegance to the affair and quite took her breath away. Not that she’d admit it to him. She’d sooner die than confess admiration for his form.

‘Come, Lady Thorndike. What spell did you have to chant to guarantee perfect bridal weather?’

Henri took a steadying breath and readied her nerves for the coming battle of wits. Victory was going to be an altogether sweeter prospect if she ensured Robert Montemorcy was properly humbled.

‘Weather is beyond anyone’s control, Mr Montemorcy.’ She made her voice like honey. ‘I just hoped for the best.’

‘I prefer to put my faith in science and observation. Cool logic.’

‘Had you done that, you’d have been wrong.’ She gestured towards the blue sky. ‘Not a single cloud to spoil the day. I’ll grant you that this spring has been wetter than most, but I just knew that today would be wonderful. But I did have an alternative venue to hand if necessary. Lady Winship offered Aydon Castle’s hall. However, one must always consider the potential for her pugs to escape. On balance, the garden was a less tricky option.’

‘Only you, Lady Thorndike, would consider planning a wedding breakfast in the garden during one of the wettest springs Northumbria has known easier than worrying about a few dogs escaping.’ His dark brown eyes twinkled and the slight flutter at the base of her spine turned to a warm curl of heat. Henri lifted her chin and concentrated on breathing slowly. ‘The generals in the British army could take lessons from your nerves of steel.’

‘Lessons? No, no, I simply possess a happy talent for organising.’ She made her face assume a studied expression of incredulity. ‘In fact, this marriage would not have happened if I had not taken matters in hand.’

He raised an imperious brow, transforming his face into one of elegant scorn. ‘You appear to entertain the notion that you had a hand in the marriage, rather than being the chief architect of its near-collapse.’

‘Entertain, fiddlesticks. I know.’ Henri nodded towards where the happy couple stood, receiving the good wishes of their neighbours. Mr Montemorcy needed to be enlightened. No matter how intensely that rich voice of his affected her, it didn’t make his words true. ‘This wedding only happened because of careful and strategic planning on my part. It was a close-run thing, particularly when Mr Crozier spoke of emigrating. To America. Thankfully he saw the sense in staying put and marrying the one woman who will give him lasting happiness.’

‘It was Crozier’s sense, not yours.’

Henri clenched her fists and struggled to maintain her temper. She’d slaved over this match, working hard to ensure that the bride and groom realised how exactly right they were for each other. ‘Who else saw the potential in two lonely individuals? Who arranged the dinner party so that they sat next to each other and discovered a mutual admiration of Handel? Who hung back on the walk out towards the excavations so that there was a chance of the happy couple reaching a convivial understanding?’

‘Who indeed?’ he murmured, his eyes becoming hooded.

She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Of course, with the actual wedding breakfast, I played a larger part. Dear Melanie can never organise anything. And left to Mr Crozier, they would have eloped to Gretna Green and deprived the village of the chance to bestow their good wishes. Matters had to be taken into hand. I, for one, am well satisfied with the result. The entire village is here and Melanie has had the wedding she has always dreamt of. The memories of her perfect day will sustain her in years to come.’

‘A wedding does not a marriage make. The new Mrs Crozier should remember today because of her groom rather than because of the setting.’

‘But the setting helps. The perfect start to a marriage.’

‘And this is what you base the right to usurp proceedings on?’ Mr Montemorcy captured her arm and led her down the gravel path of her aunt’s garden towards the summer-house. For a few heartbeats, intelligent thought fled and all Henri could think about was the pressure his fingers exerted on her elbow. ‘A few engineered meetings of two people who had been near neighbours for years. This marriage would have happened without your interference.’

Henri dragged her mind away from the breadth of his shoulders and his sandalwood scent and back to the matter at hand. ‘Years, Mr Montemorcy. Years without noticing that the perfect person lived a short walk away. That state of affairs would have continued indefinitely. Since arriving in Northumberland, I have facilitated three marriages, two reconciliations between estranged parents and their children, and one christening. It is altogether a brilliant achievement for sixteen months’ work.’ Henri crossed her arms. Mr Montemorcy had to realise how hard she worked for other people’s happiness. She’d done this out of the best possible motives, and now she was about to see her aunt’s eyes light up, if Mr Montemorcy didn’t find some reason to wriggle out of their wager—a wager that, suspiciously, he had yet to mention. ‘Who are you to say differently?’

‘I’m urging caution, Lady Thorndike. Not everyone wants to be paired off in a manner that you deem fit. Nor do they want their lives ordered to suit your mood. What can you hope to achieve with such meddling?’

‘A satisfactory result all around.’ Henri clapped her hands together and rocked back and forth on her toes, and then revealed the true source of her happiness. ‘And my aunt’s purpose in life restored.’

‘Meaning?’ He arched one maddening eyebrow. ‘You’ve lost me, Lady Thorndike. Your aunt is over fifty—surely you aren’t going to try to pair her off with some unsuspecting retired military type?’

Henri took a deep breath and counted to ten, savouring the moment. Of all the satisfactions she’d expected to experience today, this was the one she had looked forward to the most.

‘Don’t you remember? We wagered, Mr Montemorcy, last New Year’s. You didn’t believe the groom could be brought up to snuff before hell froze over. I have done it in under the six months you specified.’ Henri fluttered her lace-gloved hand towards where the happy couple stood giving each other besotted looks.

‘Did you always enjoy ordering others’ lives for them, Lady Thorndike? Or did it grow on you?’

Henri caught her bottom lip between her teeth, considering the question. Was it her fault that she could see solutions where others saw insurmountable difficulties? But ordering people about—surely he couldn’t really think that’s what she did? She might make suggestions, some stronger than others, but she always allowed people to decide for themselves. She wasn’t like her mother, bitter and overly critical. She celebrated when people experienced joy. The challenge of improving people’s lives gave her life meaning.

‘I’m not overly domineering. My ideas are better than most and I simply possess a happy talent for organisation.’

His rich laugh rang out and Henri wondered if she was in fact being humoured. ‘You do have a unique perspective on it.’

‘It isn’t my fault if the vast majority of people fail to see how problems can easily be solved. A cool head and a calm manner counts for much in life.’ Henri gave a little clap of her hands before giving Mr Montemorcy a hard stare. ‘Will you concede under the terms of our wager that you have lost?’

‘On the balance of probabilities, I will admit defeat.’ A smile tugged at his austere features, transforming his face for a heartbeat into knees-to-jelly handsome.

Henri thought once more what a good husband he would make, if only he’d allow her to find the right woman for him. But he’d expressly forbidden it and Henri wasn’t prepared to take the risk and jeopardise their acquaintance, because his presence at any gathering made it all the more exciting. Often their exchanges ended with her pulse racing and her being filled with either a determination to prove him wrong, or the glorious bubbly feeling of being utterly right. And on balance, his being attached to some unknown miss would complicate those exchanges.

‘Say the words, Mr Montemorcy.’

Golden sparkles flecked his eyes. ‘Your aunt may excavate the Roman encampment. You have prevailed, Lady Thorndike.’

Henri clapped her hands. All night she had lain awake worrying. Would something happen at the last second and the marriage, with its garden wedding breakfast, have to be called off? Would Mr Montemorcy then renege on the wager?

For her aunt desperately needed an outlet for her energy. Ever since Henri could remember, her aunt had longed to excavate the Roman remains, and increasingly so since they’d been forced to sell the field to Robert. Whenever Henri had been about to give up with Melanie, she would think about her aunt’s eyes shimmering with pleasure as she learnt that Henri had secured the excavation for her.

‘There, it wasn’t too hard to admit you lost. You are far from infallible, Mr Montemorcy.’

‘Let me finish. It is a bad habit of yours—jumping to conclusions and overly complicating matters with emotion.’ He held up a hand, silencing her. ‘All social excursions to the site are forbidden. A scientific approach must be used at all times and your aunt must share all knowledge gained with me.’

Botheration. Henri worried the lace on her gloves. Mr Montemorcy had seen through her grand schemes and thwarted her after all! She had already had three picnics arranged in her head, complete with guests’ list, menu and seating charts. They were going to be the centrepiece of her new campaign to arrange at least one more marriage before the summer had finished.

She’d even found bits of Roman pottery from her aunt’s collection so that she could seed the site before the picnics took place. What could be more thrilling than a treasure hunt? Especially one where nothing was left to chance, where everything was perfect. And now this! Conditions from Robert Montemorcy about scientific approaches and the need to preserve the ground!

‘Nobody ever mentioned conditions,’ she muttered, scuffing the ground with her kid boot.

‘I’m mentioning them now. Before you won, there was little point.’

‘I don’t see why you object to social excursions such as picnics.’ She forced her voice to remain even. She would find a way around this new obstacle. There was a way around setbacks of this nature if she considered the problem hard enough. The happiness of others depended on it. ‘They are a wonderful form of entertainment. And I promise they won’t damage the integrity of the site.’

‘And the encampment is a valuable piece of history. It is on my land now. Under my stewardship. If your aunt wishes to excavate, she may, but she follows my methods.’

Henri adopted a smooth placating smile. Robert Montemorcy was being stubborn. She could see it in his eyes and in the tightening of his shoulders. Very well, for now, she’d give way on the picnics, but he would eventually agree once he realised that no harm would come to his precious scientific method.

The selling of the land had been physically painful, but her late uncle’s debts were far greater than even she had guessed. Her aunt had wept buckets. She hated letting anything go, but Montemorcy had paid a good price for the land and her aunt’s financial difficulties were at an end. Or at least until her cousin made another one of his requests for money—but Henri had to believe that the last episode had taught Sebastian the importance of fiscal responsibility.

‘I’m well aware of the debts my uncle incurred, but that is all in the past. My cousin is of an entirely different stamp. He plans to follow my advice for improving the remainder of his estate,’ Henri said, trying a new tack.

Mr Montemorcy’s brow darkened. ‘Even you, Lady Thorndike, with all your skill at managing, have singularly failed there. Your cousin has garnered a reputation for debauchery. His debts will be worse than your uncle’s in two years, if they are not already.’

‘Society will gossip and all he needs is the right woman.’ Henri forced the smile to stay on her face. It irritated her that Mr Montemorcy was correct in this one thing, if nothing else. Unfortunately, her aunt still was convinced that it was her late unlamented husband who had caused the problem and that her only son needed to be coddled and protected. Henri knew without her intervention, her aunt would be tempted to supplement her cousin’s considerable income from her meagre widow’s portion. She might not approve of everything that Sebastian did, but she refused to criticise him to others or let others judge him. He was family, after all, and one looked after one’s family. ‘You do Sebastian a disservice. He was shocked at the extent of debt.’

‘Shocked, but he has continued to live his life with the same careless disregard.’

‘Sebastian no longer indulges in such vices as gambling. He gave his mother his word. I also understand his current projects prosper.’ Henri raised her chin, and hoped her words were true. Sebastian’s last letter to his mother promised he’d mend his ways if she sent a little money until his latest scheme started to pay. ‘And you know how it is with reputations—people are far more willing to believe a bad report than a good one.’

Mr Montemorcy’s eyes became inscrutable. ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Henri asked, looking over Mr Montemorcy’s immaculately tailored shoulder. She gave a nod towards Melanie so that Melanie could begin to cut the cake. Melanie blushed a deep scarlet and manoeuvred her new husband over to the splendidly tiered fruit cake. Silently Henri motioned to the vicar’s youngest daughter to stand closer to the curate. They would make a charming pair, if a permanent post could be found for him, somewhere in Northumberland rather than becoming a missionary to Africa. The vicar would worry if his daughter went to Africa. She’d have to consider the matter seriously if the treasure hunt was forbidden. ‘If not, I’ll bid you adieu. Others require my attention.’

‘Meddling in others’ romantic lives has become a bad habit with you. I recognise that gleam, Lady Thorndike. Leave them alone.’

Robert Montemorcy put a detaining hand on Lady Thorndike’s shoulder. Henrietta Thorndike wasn’t going to wriggle out of this with a toss of her black curls and a soft sensuous smile from her full lips. Why was it that beautiful women caused more trouble than anyone else? Lady Thorndike appeared to think that with one sweep of her long lashes all her meddling and mischief would be forgotten. One light rap of her lace fan against his arm and she thought he’d indulge her passion for disruptive picnics. He knew her methods. She never gave in.

From Crozier, he knew what a near-disaster this entire episode had been and how close Henrietta Thorndike’s machinations had come to failure. Crozier had been within a hair’s breadth of leaving for America, all because Lady Thorndike had introduced him to the writing of James Fenimore Cooper and declared that Miss Brown had a tendre for men who behaved like Hawkeye in The Last of the Mohicans. ‘Meddling is the passion that rules your life.’

‘Meddling? I prefer to call it assisting two lonely people to find happiness.’ Lady Thorndike waved an airy hand that only served to emphasise the way her dark purple silk dress caressed her curves. He struggled to ignore the rush of hot blood that coursed through his veins. Part of Henrietta Thorndike’s arsenal was her latent sensuality, a pleasurable distraction that was apt to make men forget their train of thought.

She leant forwards and lowered her voice to a purr. ‘You must understand that our new doctor, the curate and the butcher need wives.’

‘You have forgotten the baker and the candlestick maker,’ Robert remarked drily.

‘No, the baker is happily mar—’ She stopped and her cheeks turned a deep rose before she gave a small curtsy. ‘I suppose you think the play on the rhyme amusing. And I tumbled straight into it.’