The Matchmaker and the Marquess (Second Chance Manor Book 1) by Scarlett Scott

Author:Scarlett Scott [Scott, Scarlett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Happily Ever After Books, LLC
Published: 2021-06-17T04:00:00+00:00

Dorset was in an odd mood as he made his way back to his chamber for the night. Naturally, the scamp who had made off with his hat and then had decided to play avenging crusader with their host’s medieval sword was nowhere to be found. Nor was his blasted hat.

It was a favorite hat.

But the loss of the headwear, old news by now, was not what had set him on edge, and he could admit that much as he passed through the portrait gallery where it felt as if a dozen pairs of eyes watched him. Judging.

He wanted Lady Clementine Hammond.

There it was, plain as the nose on his face. A stark, unexpected, and decidedly unpleasant truth. Tonight’s revelations had gone a long way toward explaining her incessant matchmaking schemes.

Now, he understood she had a heart.

And somehow, that knowledge had made his own heart—frigid these last four years since Anna’s defection—soften. The vexing lust he had experienced for Clementine from the moment of his arrival had deepened and…

Changed.

Mayhap he had changed.

Certainly, those kisses had changed.

He was so caught up in the whirlwind of his thoughts that Dorset nearly collided with a fellow guest as he rounded the bend in the hall following the portrait gallery.

“Forgive me,” he apologized briskly to the other fellow before recognition set in. Red hair—an O’Shea. “Carnlough. I did not see you there in my haste.”

The other gentleman gave him a curious look, his mouth tipping in a half smile. “I cannot claim to be the earl, my lord, and you needn’t apologize for your haste. The hour is late, and I should not have taken this route. Indeed, I would not have done except…” The man allowed his words to trail off, apparently thinking better of them before his shoulders straightened. “I am Lord Carnlough’s valet, my lord.”

A valet? Hmm. Dorset cast a second glance over the man and recognized the dress of a servant with ease. Had he not been so bloody preoccupied with thoughts of Clementine, Dorset would have undoubtedly taken note from the first. But even so, the resemblance between the earl and his valet was remarkable.

“You look like Carnlough,” he said, studying the man. “And a fair bit like Lady Angeline as well.”

Indeed, the resemblance was almost…dare he suggest it…familial. Dorset was nothing if not observant, and he did not think he was wrong about this. It was entirely possible that the man professing himself to be a servant was in fact a by-blow.

“Frank Crymble, at your service, my lord.” The valet dipped into a proper bow.

And still, there was something about him that did not quite ring clear or true as a bell. Moreover, there was the matter of the fellow neglecting to take the servants’ stair.

But who was he to make a quibble over such a lack of circumspection? Had he not just spent the better part of two hours flitting about the gardens with Clementine, kissing her until they were both breathless, only to break into the

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