A Matchmaking Miss (15 page)

"Excuse me, Miss Stone?" One of the maids
hired to help with the guests stood in the doorway of Matty's bedroom, a bright smile on her lips.

Matty glanced up from the chaise longue, wondering what had gone wrong now. "What is it, Becky?" she asked, marking her place with her finger. This was the first time in days she'd had a moment to herself, and she'd been looking forward to reading the novel Lady Louisa had given her.

"There's some packages for you, and I was wonderin' if you wanted to look through 'em afore I put 'em away."

That got her attention. "Packages?" she asked, frowning as she tried to remember if she had ordered anything. She had purchased some new sheep from a breeder in Northumbria, but she somehow doubted they would be delivered by coach.

"They come all the way from London, miss." Becky's dark eyes grew wide with wonder. "From one o' them fancy modest shops."

It took Matty a moment to realize the girl meant
modiste
, and she was still puzzling the matter over when the footmen arrived, carrying armloads of boxes. "But what is all this?" she cried, leaping up from her chaise longue, watching in confusion as the small parade filed past her. "I haven't ordered anything. Are you certain they aren't for Lady Louisa?"

"Oh no, Miss Stone." Becky had already dived into one of the boxes and was holding up a dress of shimmering topaz silk. "Her things have already arrived. These are for you."

"But who — " Matty stopped abruptly, an image of the marquess springing into her mind. Her lips thinned in anger as she gave the boxes a suspicious glare. "Did his lordship order these?" she demanded.

"I don't know." Becky was now examining a day dress of ruby and cream cambric. "The note only said they was for you."

"What note? Give it to me."

Becky obligingly fished the folded bill from the pocket of her apron and handed it to her. While the maid was exclaiming over the dress Matty scanned the note, her suspicions confirmed. The message was from a Madame Dumond, expressing her gratitude for his lordship's patronage and assuring him she was at his disposal should he have any further need of her services. There was also a postscript, saying that she hoped the riding habit met with his approval as she had taken special pains with it. Matty crumpled the note in her fist.

"Is there a riding habit in there?"

"I'm sure there must be, miss," Becky said, opening boxes and pawing through the mounds of tissue paper. "There seems to be everything else. Oh, this be just like Christmas! I can't
wait to . . . aha!" She reached into one box, extracting a jacket of sapphire velvet. "Here 'tis."

Matty moved forward, her anger crumbling at the sight of the exquisitely designed riding habit Becky was holding up for her inspection. The jacket had wide lapels, cleverly decorated with silver braiding, complemented by the silver frogs at the front and more braiding about the cuffs. The full riding skirt was equally stunning, but what most melted her resolve was the matching hat that accompanied the habit. She picked it up reverently, giving the silver plume adorning it a wistful flick. She'd never owned such a beautiful hat before. . . . She stopped the thought cold.

"Take them back."

"Miss?" Becky glanced up at her in confusion.

"Take them back," Matty repeated, dropping the hat and stepping back. "I didn't order these things, and I don't want them. Have them repacked and sent back to London."

The confusion on Becky's face gave way to horror at the thought of such waste. "But why?" she asked. "They are ever so pretty, and your own things . . . well, you'll forgive me I'm sure, but your own things — "

"Are my
own
things," Matty interrupted, her mouth set in stubborn lines. "There is no way I can pay for these, and I refuse to accept char
ity."

"But what shall I tell her ladyship?" Becky was close to tears.

"What has this to do with Lady Louisa?"

"Well, when we took her things up to her I mentioned you'd received some boxes too, and she seemed so pleased," Becky said with a watery sniff. "I — I'd not wish to be the one to upset her," she added, shooting Matty a reproving look.

Matty bit back a sigh as she realized Becky was right. If the marchioness knew of his lordship's gift, she would never understand her refusal. There would be tears, recriminations, and in the end, Matty knew she'd have no choice but to accept the lavish present. For a brief moment she wished her employer was stronger, but she quickly dismissed the thought as unkind. Her ladyship couldn't help being vulnerable and clinging, any more than Matty could help being what she was.

"I will talk to Lady Louisa," she sighed, her shoulders sagging with defeat.

"And his lordship?" Becky asked, nervously wringing her hands.

A calculating gleam stole into Matty's eyes. "I shall deal with him as well," she said softly. "In fact, it will be my pleasure to do so."

Chapter Nine

Joss was in his study, his head bent over his work as she burst into the room. When he continued ignoring her presence she slammed the door shut, her eyes flashing with challenge as he glanced up. His green eyes were calm as he met her fiery gaze.

"You're late," he said, folding his hands on his desk and gazing up at her with a look of superior indifference.

Of all the responses she'd been expecting, that wasn't one of them. "What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded suspiciously.

"Merely that the packages were delivered over twenty minutes ago," he replied, his face aching with the need to smile. "I've been waiting for you to come storming in here and throw the lot in my face."

That he'd so correctly anticipated her response only added to her fury. "Oh really?" she snapped, unable to think of a more clever
comeback.

Joss rubbed his chin with his hand to hide the grin he could no longer suppress. She was dressed in a severe dress of rust-colored merino, her hair stuffed beneath one of those dreadful caps, and yet she reminded him of nothing more than a Valkyrie — fierce, proud, and deadly. Enjoying himself to the hilt he leaned back in his chair and slanted her a mocking grin. "That
is
why you're here, isn't it?" he drawled, his tone provoking.

Oh, how she'd love to wipe that arrogant smirk from his face! Matty seethed, fighting to hold back her temper. So he thought he knew how she'd react, did he? Well, she would just show him! Uncurling her fists she managed to dredge up a polite smile. "As a matter of fact, my lord, I am come to say thank you," she said, taking pride in her cool tones. "My wardrobe was sadly in want of refurbishing, and I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

Joss was clever enough to feign confusion. "Then you aren't angry with me?"

"Heavens no, sir," she denied between clenched teeth. "As I said, it was most kind of you."

"Really?" He frowned slightly. "I was certain you would fly up into the boughs, especially when you saw the ballgown. It would appear I have underestimated you."

"So you have," Matty responded self-righteously, "and not for the first — " She broke off abruptly. "What ballgown?"

"A very plain, very ordinary ballgown," he assured her, with a solemn look. "I chose it myself, and it is more than suitable for the companion of a marchioness, I promise you."

"Oh," Matty said, temporarily nonplussed. Having already expressed her delight in the wardrobe she could hardly balk at accepting the ballgown, which meant, she supposed, that she was stuck with the wretched thing. But that didn't mean she would have to wear it, she told herself, her chin firming with resolve.

Joss saw the telling gesture but decided he'd pressed his luck enough for one day. "Our guests will be arriving in a few days, Stone," he said, assuming a friendly demeanor. "Is all in readiness for them?"

Matty was only too happy to change the subject. "Indeed it is, my lord," she said, settling into the chair facing his desk. She proceeded to tell him of all the plans she'd made, and was gratified by his response. However much he'd first opposed the idea, he was now committed to the party, and it was obvious he meant to spare no expense.

"I think it would be best if we hired an orchestra," he opined when she brought up the matter of music. "A violin and pianoforte
might do well enough for a dinner party, but if you are going to hold a ball it won't do to stint on the music."

"That is what I thought," she said, her shoulders relaxing as she sent him a pleased smile. "Have you any particular pieces of music you would care to hear? I am rather partial to Mozart."

"Mozart is always in the best of tastes," he agreed, "but I also like Chopin and Haydn. And of course, we must have a waltz, otherwise the ladies would never forgive me."

"Then waltzing you shall have," Matty said with a laugh, amazed he was being so agreeable. "It looks a lovely dance, despite what the good vicar might say."

"I take it Thorntyn disapproves?"

"Vehemently. He attacks waltzing from his pulpit with depressing regularity. Last time he quoted Sheridan, calling it 'the wicked waltz,' and warning the young ladies of the congregation that they risk going straight to perdition if they but think of it."

Joss smiled, easily envisioning the plump minister condemning anything that smacked of pleasure. Then he gave her a puzzled look. "Sheridan? I thought it was Byron who made that particular remark."

"So it was," Matty said, her eyes bright with laughter. "But you must know it isn't just the
Good Book the reverend misquotes. You ought to hear what he does to Shakespeare."

"No, thank you, Stone," he said hastily. "I am a great admirer of the Bard's, and could not bear to hear him abused." He gave her a thoughtful look. "And what of Mr. Stallings? What is his position on the wanton waltz?"

The question took Matty by surprise. "I'm not sure," she replied, frowning as she considered the matter. "The dance wasn't performed in our parish when I knew him, and I can't say the topic ever came up in our conversations. Does it matter?"

"No," Joss answered, wondering what had possessed him to ask the question in the first place. "I was just curious."

"If you really want to know I can ask him this afternoon when I see him," Matty offered, ever helpful.

"You're seeing Stallings this afternoon?" Joss asked, aware of a decided feeling of disapproval.

"We're riding out to visit some of the tenants," Matty explained, a soft smile touching her lips. She'd had to cancel her other meetings with Richard, and she was looking forward to renewing their friendship.

The sight of that smile did odd things to Joss's equilibrium. Even as he was reminding himself it was no concern of his, he was aware
of the fierce desire to forbid her to go. The knowledge of how she'd likely respond to such an ultimatum brought a sardonic gleam to his eyes.

"Stallings seems to be settling in quite well," he said instead, his tone neutral. "Does he like it here?"

"Oh, yes," Matty assured him, recalling her brief conversation with Richard following Sunday's service. "I think he'd welcome the chance to do more, but . . ." She shrugged, unwilling to say anything more. In truth, Richard really hadn't complained to her, but she knew him well enough to know he was frustrated by Thorntyn's refusal to assign him any real clerical duties.

"Mmm," Joss responded noncommitally, although he made a note to give the vicar a flea in his ear. He'd already decided to dismiss him, and certainly Stallings was the most likely replacement. Still . . .

"Will there be anything else, my lord?" Matty asked, wondering what had brought that frown to his face. She was aware that he was very busy, and feared she was keeping him from his work.

"You might wish to stop by the Delvaynes'," he said, surprising her. "Her baby is due soon, and I've arranged for the midwife to stay with her when her time comes."

Matty felt an uncomfortable twinge that was part guilt and part resentment. She'd been aware the young farm wife, who'd already had two stillborn children, was about to give birth, and she'd fully intended checking on her. That Joss had already done so troubled her, illustrating yet again as it did how thoroughly he was taking over the responsibility for the estate.

"I'd be happy to, sir," she answered, reminding herself that it was Rose who mattered, rather than her own selfish pride. "Are there any other calls you would like me to make?"

He supplied her with the names of one or two other tenants, and after listening to his instructions she quietly took her leave. Less than an hour later she was in Richard's carriage, listening half-attentively to his pleasant chatter. She was lost in her thoughts when something he said penetrated the chaos of her emotions and she turned to him in disbelief.

"The archbishop ran off with an opera singer?" she gasped, twisting in her seat to gaze up at him.

Richard chuckled at her incredulous expression. "Of course not, goose. I merely wanted to see if you were listening. 'Tis a poor minister indeed who can't keep his listener's attention."

Matty had the good grace to blush. "I am sorry, Richard," she apologized, laying a penitent hand on his arm. "I didn't mean to be
rude."

"I know." He gave her hand a fond pat. "I was only twigging you. I'm aware this party you are planning has you at sixes and sevens. Quite a change from planning a parish fete, hmm?"

"Not really," Matty said with a laugh, grateful for his understanding. "The only difference is that instead of trying to remember not to seat Mrs. Thistlebridge beside Mrs. Gatwick, I must remember not to seat the daughter of a baron above the daughter of a marquess."

"Although I much doubt that even the daughter of a marquess would kick up as much dust as Mrs. Thistlebridge did the time you deliberately sat the old girl beside her archnemesis. Your papa was most displeased with you."

"Ha, that is what you think!" Matty retorted. "Once we were in the privacy of the vicarage he laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair."

"I have a confession to make, I laughed too," Richard said, chuckling at the memory. "It was clever of you to have placed the punch bowl at the other end of the table, else I fear Mrs. Gatwick may have been baptized with orgeat."