She tapped her chin. “That you may be a wolf.”
He grunted. “Ridiculous.”
“That you are terribly scarred.”
“True.”
She rested her chin on his chest and peered up at him as if he were Helios come to life, bright and brilliant and impossible to look away from. “They also say you are terribly in love with your wife.”
“You have excellent sources.”
“Shall I tell you more? There are, after all, such wicked whisperings about the sorts of things you get up to in linen closets, and I have it on good authority they are all true.”
“Tell me everything,a chuisle.” He cupped her neck and brought her up for another kiss, but before he drank his fill, he spoke against her lips, softly, “Leave out no detail.”
And she didn’t, whispering how much she loved him, as if it were the most delicious bit of gossip London, England, the entire world had ever known.
The End
Thank you for readingCourt a Lady With Care!
It’s the duke’s turn! How does a man who wrote the guide on courtship find a wife? By hiring a matchmaker… Read the grand finale in Dukes Court for Keeps!
CHAPTER ONE
Edinburgh, Scotland, January 1826
Nothing spoke louder than a room full of cold, stiff backs. And Lady Emma Blackwood, upon entering the assembly rooms, watched every single body turn away from her. Such stylish coiffures. Such elegant necks. Such a cold and effective cut direct.
She resisted the urge to straighten a sleeve or smooth her skirts. They were straight, they were smooth, and they were quite fashionable as well. A white satin gown and an ivory net overlay with ivory satin trim. She looked well. She’d needed to. Fashion always proved a formidable weapon.
Difficult to woo society back from scandal, but she must do it.
Or find herself married to one of her father’s cronies, a man twice her age with rotten teeth and deep pockets for her father to dip into.
She’d never expected this to be easy, but then she’d never expected a sea of silk backs, either. They wouldn’t evenlookat her.
Just as they’d passed by her on George Street, faced downturned, whispering behind gloved fans. Just as they’d rushed out of church last Sunday, hiding behind fluttering fans.
One mistake. One! And one she’d been in the process of correcting! Yet it had shredded her reputation as Edinburgh’s premier matchmaker like fine muslin beneath a cat’s claws.
She, however, was terribly talented with a needle and thread. Head held high, she pushed into the small crowd gathered beneath the glittering chandeliers.
And they parted like a length of cotton giving way beneath a pair of sharp shears. Each step brought her closer to the center of the room, and each step threatened to bend her low with the weight of imminent failure, filling her ears to bursting with hissed whispers, most of which included the same word—harlot.
But then she caught a flash of eyes, blue and cold and glittering with glee. Gregory Guthrie, Viscount Parkington, thatsnake. She would not be talking to him, even if he was the only one who dared to meet her gaze. She darted to the side, and the crowd opened for her once more, revealing a long table laden with drinks. God, she was parched.
“Lady Emma.” The snake sounded amused, pleased. “I hardly expected to see you.”
She turned slowly, dousing her simmering anger with the ice of logic. She could not make a scene. Not more than she already had. “Lord Parkington. You should not be surprised. I go where matches need making.”
He laughed. “I do not think you’ll find anyone in need of your… services.”
He had deliberately covered that last word with oil, greased it up for nearby, ravenous ears.
“My matchmaking remains unparalleled. Miss Dunn, after all, made an excellent match.” Thankfully, the young girl had not married the snake, as she’d wished to do. It had not been Emma’s expert arguments that had persuaded her to make a better match, however. Emma’s cheeks reddened. She hovered precariously close to either crying or yelling. Time for a strategic retreat. She curtsied. “It has not been a pleasure conversing with you.” Gasps rang out from all sides. “And I hope not to do so again. Should any of my future clients wish to cast you in the role of potential bridegroom, I will tell them the entire truth of our interactions last winter. And guide them in a more suitable direction.” She raised her voice higher. “Should anyone about this evening be in need of help choosing an appropriate matrimonial candidate, I will be enjoying a lemonade and happy to converse with you.”
How humiliating to advertise in such a public manner. Until now, she’d merely had to exist and make successful matches and people came to her, happy to have tea in the Earl of Glenhaven’s drawing room, delighted to call Lady Emma one of their dear friends, grateful enough to pay her father quietly and unobtrusively for her services in a variety of ways—cigars, tips on investments, the sorts of things her father valued.
