And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

She hadn’t even known she was going to say the words; they formed and fell from her lips without conscious direction.

Purely in response to what she’d heard, what she could see—what, inside, she knew.

His back to her, he halted. Several more heartbeats of silence ensued, then he slowly turned his head and, frowning slightly, looked at her. “What did you say?”

She moistened her lips, and stated more definitely, “I said I’ll help you.”

He slowly turned to face her fully. His frown deepened. “In case you didn’t know, you’re known as The Matchbreaker. You break up matches of which you disapprove, just as you did with me and Melinda.”

“No.” She drew breath and evenly said, “I only tell young ladies who’ve asked me to learn the truth about their prospective fiancés what I find. For your information, I confirm as many matches as I disrupt, and contrary to the generally held belief, not all those matches I confirm are love-matches.” She held his gaze levelly. “Not all young ladies wish to marry for love. These days most do, but not all.”

She hesitated, studying his eyes, his face; neither gave all that much away, but she thought she detected a glimmer of hope, which was encouragement enough for her to say, “I didn’t know your situation, but now I do . . . I can help. I can tell you which young ladies might suit, and if the ton’s ladies see me assisting you, they’ll know that the reason Melinda drew back was not in any way a reflection of any substance on you, but rather lay in her expectations, her wants and wishes. In other words, that she and you didn’t suit in that regard, but my . . . championing of you will lay all other adverse speculation to rest.”

Pausing, she tipped her head, regarding him steadily as she considered. “I admit it’ll be a challenge—finding you a suitable bride in barely four weeks—but if I work with you, we might just manage it.”

It was his turn to tip his head as he regarded her, in his case through slightly narrowed eyes. “You’d do that?”

Righting her head, she nodded decisively. “Yes, I would. I’m not apologizing for disrupting your pursuit of Melinda, because such a match wouldn’t have worked, but given your situation and, as you correctly point out, the implications of my involvement over Melinda, and you’ve always been a good friend to Simon, too, then given all those circumstances, helping you to find your necessary bride seems the least I should do.”

He stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what she’d said, and didn’t know how to reply. Eventually, he ventured, “So The Matchbreaker will turn matchmaker?”

She tipped up her chin. “I only disrupt matches that won’t work, but, assuming you can leave that aspect aside, if we work together, we might just have a chance to meet your deadline.”

He studied her for a moment more, then he slowly nodded. “All right. So . . . where do we start?”

They arranged to meet in Hyde Park the next morning.

Handsomely garbed in a walking dress of sky-blue twill, Henrietta was waiting some yards inside the Grosvenor Gate, not far from her parents’ house in Upper Brook Street, when James came striding along Park Lane and turned in through the pillared gateposts.

At the sight of him, her heart tightened and an inexplicable band constricted about her chest, restraining her breathing. The effect was so marked, and with no one else about she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t occasioned by him. Which was nonsensical.

Admittedly, he was dressed in his usual impeccable fashion and was therefore the epitome of an elegant ton gentleman; his coat of Bath superfine was exquisitely cut, his waistcoat of blue and muted silver stripes a study in understated elegance, and his superbly tied cravat would doubtless engender envy in all the younger blades. Nevertheless . . . faintly irritated by such missish susceptibility—she was twenty-nine, for heaven’s sake, too old to be affected by the sight of any man—she bundled the sensations aside, and when that didn’t work, banished all awareness of them from her mind.

Spotting her, he strolled across, his stride all long-limbed predatory grace; joining her, he smiled and inclined his head in response to her polite nod. “Good morning.”

“Indeed. I thought we could sit on that bench over there.” Keeping a firm grip on her wayward senses, with her parasol she indicated a park bench, presently unoccupied. “We’ll be far enough from the fashionable areas to ensure we won’t be interrupted.” Starting for the bench, she continued, “I need to get a better idea of the sort of young lady you’re looking for, and then we need to devise our campaign to locate her.”

Large, lean, and powerful, he strolled beside her. “I can see the sense in the latter, but as to the former, I suspect beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Nonsense!” Reaching the bench, with a swish of her skirts she sat, and frowned up at him. “You’re a Glossup—you can’t marry just anyone.”

The expression in his eyes suggested he wasn’t so sure about that. “I’m desperate, remember?” He sat beside her and looked out over the manicured lawns.

“Desperate time-wise, perhaps, but not, I fancy, desperate choice-wise.”

“I bow to your greater knowledge of my options. So”—he glanced at her—“where do we start?”

Henrietta paused to consider. She’d spent half the night wondering why she’d offered to help him—why she’d felt such a compulsion to do so. Yes, she’d felt obligated, given that the difficulty he now faced was a situation her actions, albeit wholly justified, had inadvertently contributed to. Yes, he was Simon’s best friend, and she felt another form of obligation on that score, but she’d finally decided that the greater part of what had moved her had been simple guilt. She’d misjudged him, in her mind even more than via her actions; she’d failed to recognize, let alone credit him with, any sort of honor, yet as a Cynster she knew honor was a sterling quality that not only men valued—ladies, if they had any sense, valued it, too.

And it was very easy to see that the greater part of what was driving him—the primary source of his desperation—was his unquestioning devotion to the welfare of people whose well-being was an obligation he’d unexpectedly inherited. He didn’t have to take up that burden, yet he had, and from all she could see, it hadn’t even occurred to him to shrug it aside, even though, in reality, he could. His grandaunt’s estate aside, he was wealthy enough in his own right to walk away, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even thought of it. It was difficult to get much more honorable than that.

Although she wasn’t, even now, totally certain as to the entirety of

her motives, guilt had, at the very least, weighed heavily in the scale.

Settling more comfortably on the bench, she commanded, “Tell me what traits you don’t want, or alternatively that you specifically require, in your bride.”

His gaze on the trees and lawns before them, he took a moment to think, then replied, “No flibbertigibbets, no ninnyhammers. And preferably not anyone too young. Whether she has a dowry or not is of no consequence, but as you observed, she should be of good family, preferably of the haut ton. If she can ride, that’s a bonus, but social aptitude is, I suspect, a must.” He paused, then asked, “What else?”