A Matchmaking Miss by Joan Overfield Page B

her side in an instant, her arm firmly about Matty's waist. "That is it," she said firmly, guiding Matty from the room. "You are going to bed this very instant! I don't care what his lordship may say!"
    "But what about the Duke of Dereham?" Matty asked, trying to work up enough energy to feel indignation. Now that she'd decided to lie down, the exhaustion she had been holding at bay overwhelmed her, and it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. "Mrs. Norton informed me you had invited him to tea."
    "He invited himself, the meddling old goat." Lady Louisa signaled for her maid to help her as they started up the stairs. "He sent word over the moment he heard Joss and Mr. Fitzsimmons had arrived, and I could hardly refuse him. But I shall deal with him, never you mind."
    Had she not been almost asleep on her feet, Matty would have smiled at the thought of her sweet-tempered employer dealing with their pompous, overbearing neighbor. She was not so tired, however, that the thought of the duke's equally overbearing daughter did not occur to her. "Will Lady Bettina be with His Grace?" she asked, not bothering to smother a jaw-cracking yawn.
    "Only if we are lucky." The sarcasm in Lady Louisa's voice escaped Matty's notice. "Now, not another word, Stone, or I will make you pour tea while Lord Dereham tells us about his latest fox hunt."
    The threat had the desired effect and Matty meekly submitted to the maid's assistance. In a trice she was stripped of her dress, stuffed into her night rail, and tucked into her bed. But just as sleep was claiming her she had a last coherent thought.
    "My lady?"
    "Yes, Stone?" Lady Louisa paused at the door.
    "We should have written to his lordship about the baby," Matty said, her eyes drifting closed. "He was horribly hurt when I told him." And in another moment she was asleep.
    Lady Louisa said nothing, her hand stealing to her flat belly for a brief moment. She lingered in the doorway until she was certain Stone was sleeping, and not shamming as she had done in the past. Once she was satisfied she left orders for a warm meal to be served when Stone awoke, and made her way to her own rooms, a thoughtful expression darkening her eyes.
    "Please, my lord," Linton implored, wringing his hands in obvious agitation. "You mustn'tflex your shoulders like that! This is the last jacket we have that doesn't reek of camphor."
    "Blast it, man, can't you do something? I refuse to spend the rest of the evening slumped in my chair like a hunchback!" Joss snapped, glaring at his reflection. The purple satin jacket, which the little valet insisted was cut by Weston himself, fit him so tightly about the chest and shoulders that he looked like an overripe grape about to burst from its skin. The garish color also had the unfortunate effect of making his hair appear even redder than usual, and he indulged in a silent condemnation of his brother's lack of clothing sense.
    "I have let out the shoulders as much as I dare, my lord," Linton sniffed, standing on tiptoe to smooth the fabric into place. "Were I to do any more, I would put the lapels at risk."
    "No great loss," Joss muttered beneath his breath, relieved that the breeches, at least, had been a better fit. Had they been as tight as the jacket he would have refused to leave the room. There was no way he'd have ventured out dressed like a
cicisbeo
.
    "Are you certain you don't wish to wear the waistcoat?" Linton ventured, holding the garment in his hand. " 'Twas designed to be worn with the jacket."
    "I'd rather face a charging rogue elephant," came the response. Joss shuddered at thethought of donning the vivid scarlet, yellow, and violet silk the valet was pressing on him.
    Linton bit his lip nervously, shifting from one foot to the other. "I know your lordship has eschewed the use of fobs or other adornments," he began, the reproach in his voice letting his employer know he was committing a social solecism, "but are you sure you won't even