‘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…
AUTHOR NOTE
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
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