“Nothing in particular.” She shot him an assessing glance; he appreciated that she was taller than average, so he could easily see her face. “Just relax and follow my lead.”
Her tone made him smile. Raising his head, he looked forward. “As you command. Onward—into the breach.”
As it transpired, the interactions, the exchanges, flowed more easily than he’d anticipated. Henrietta was so well known she could claim acquaintance with virtually all the older ladies and matrons present, and could thus introduce him, in turn gaining him introductions to the ladies’ unmarried charges.
The next hour passed in steady converse. As they were walking between two barouches, temporarily out of hearing of others, Henrietta tugged his sleeve; when he glanced her way i
nquiringly, she tipped her head toward a knot of people gathered on the lawn twenty yards away. “That’s Miss Carmichael. She would have been a good candidate, at least for you to consider, but the latest on-dit is that Sir Peter Affry has grown very particular in his attentions. That’s him beside her. As you don’t have time to spare, I see no sense in wasting any on Miss Carmichael—I suspect we’ll have enough candidates to assess without chasing after one some other perfectly eligible gentleman has all but settled on.”
Curious, James looked over Henrietta’s dark head, peering past her parasol’s edge at the group in question. A fair-haired lady with an abundance of ringlets stood surrounded by a bevy of gentlemen, a much less well-favored young lady by her elbow. The gentleman on the fair beauty’s other side was presently scanning the Avenue, but then he looked down at her and smiled. He was a touch older than most of the gentlemen strolling about and had a striking, dark-featured face. James faced forward. “Even I’ve heard of Affry. Up-and-coming Whig, by all accounts.”
“Indeed, but he is only an elected member, after all.” Henrietta frowned. “I’m really not sure what all the fuss is about him, but he does seem quite charming.”
“Ah, well—charming is as handsome does, or however that saying goes.” With a wave, James indicated the group they were approaching. “So, centurion, who do we have here?”
Henrietta smothered a laugh and told him. She continued to guide him about the various groups and was favorably impressed by his behavior and his style. He made charm seem effortless, and his attitude was all relaxed urbanity, polished to a gleam. She might have made the mistake of thinking him a superficial sophisticate—and indeed, that had been her previous, half-formed view—but in the times in between, when they left one group and traveled to the next, he dropped his mask. As they compared impressions of the young ladies they’d encountered, his comments revealed a dry wit and a keenly observant eye, both of which struck a chord with her. Regardless, he was never unkind, not by word or implication, and his behavior never strayed from what she mentally characterized as the quiet, honorable, gentlemanly type.
He had depths she hadn’t known he possessed.
Which was distracting enough, but nowhere near as disturbing as the continued insistence of her senses on registering and dwelling on every little nuance of his physical presence. She could only hope that the effect would ease on further acquaintance.
If she’d thought he was in any way affecting her on purpose, she would have cut the connection and left him to find his own bride. But he wasn’t doing anything—the silly susceptibility was all hers—and despite his excellent performance that morning, he definitely needed her help.
And, all in all, despite the unsettling repercussions, she was enjoying herself—enjoying the challenge of finding him a bride, and simply enjoying being in his company.
After several further forays into the groups of young ladies parading about the Avenue, they headed for Upper Brook Street. It was half past eleven, and she had a luncheon to attend at noon, and James, apparently, was meeting Simon and their mutual friend, Charlie Hastings, somewhere in the city.
As they turned into Upper Brook Street, she said, “I believe we’ve made an excellent start.” She glanced at James. “Did you see any young lady who you think might be suitable—anyone we should put on your short list?”
Yes—you. Keeping his eyes forward, James scratched his chin and wondered where the devil those words had come from. After a moment, he offered, “Miss Chisolm seems a good sort. And Miss Digby wasn’t too far from the mark.”
“Hmm. You don’t think Miss Digby might be too . . . well, giggly? She does giggle, you know.”
“Good God—I hadn’t noticed. Strike Miss Digby. But what about Miss Chisolm?”
Henrietta nodded. “On the face of it, I agree—I know nothing about Miss Chisolm that would count against her.” She glanced at him. “So Miss Chisolm should go on the short list?”
He hesitated, then forced himself to nod. “Just Miss Chisolm for the nonce.” Miss Chisolm was a buxom, good-natured young lady with, he judged, few false notions of life. That said, she wasn’t . . . anywhere near as engaging as the lady currently walking by his side.
They reached Lord Arthur Cynster’s house, and with a suitable smile and an elegant bow, James parted from Henrietta, promising to meet her that evening at Lady Marchmain’s rout. He stood on the pavement and watched her go inside; when the door closed behind her, he turned away and, sliding his hands into his pockets, started strolling toward Grosvenor Square.
As he walked, he consulted his feelings, not something he often did, but in this instance it wasn’t hard to define the uncertainty that was itching just under his skin. He really would like to find some way to suggest Henrietta put her own name on his very short short list, but . . . he was deeply aware of just how beholden to her he was. If she took it into her head to take offense at his suggestion and withdrew her support, he’d never find his necessary bride, of that he had no doubt. That morning’s excursion had proved beyond question how far out of his element he was in the matter of conventional bride-hunting; if Henrietta had not been there, he’d have managed to gain perhaps two introductions, while with her beside him, he’d lost count.
And he only had four more weeks to find his bride and get the knot tied.
He grimaced. “No—in this, sadly, I have to play safe.”
Raising his head, drawing his hands from his pockets, he lengthened his stride. Given he’d spent most of the morning by Henrietta’s side, he really should explain to Simon just what he was doing with his younger sister.
“She’s what?” Simon Cynster stared across the table at James, then burst out laughing.
Beside Simon, Charlie Hastings chortled, valiantly attempting to stifle his laughter, then he caught James’s long-suffering look and lost the battle; Charlie laughed until tears leaked from his eyes.
Seated at their regular table tucked away in an alcove toward the rear of the main room of the Horse and Whip tavern off the Strand, James waited with feigned patience for his friends’ mirth to subside. He’d expected as much, and he could hardly claim to be surprised that his news had been greeted thus.
Eventually catching his breath, Charlie gasped, “Oh, my giddy aunt! Or in this case, your grandaunt.”
Still grinning, Simon added, “Who would have believed The Matchbreaker would consent to turn matchmaker—your powers of persuasion, dear boy, continue to impress.” Simon raised his ale mug in a toast, then sipped.