“Most unmemorable,” she said.
Did her emerald eyes always dance with such merriment? Or was there something about him that amused her?
“Forgive me, have we met?” he asked.
“I didn’t realize that you required such formalities,” she asked. “Given your personality.”
“My personality?” His eyes widened.
“Your gruff and beastly traits,” she explained, “are not typically aligned with formalities.”
“Ah.” He stared at her. “Evidently you know all about me.”
“Well.” She smiled, and sunshine splattered over her face. “I know you need a wife.”
“E-excuse me?” Reggie sputtered.
He stared at the slender woman with blonde hair that gleamed appealingly despite the dim light streaming from a window. “Don’t tell me. You would make yourself available for the task?”
She blinked. Her eyes were green, like some verdant field in an area not taken over by murky limestone buildings. He resisted the sudden temptation to stare at them, even if particularly pretty long lashes framed them.
“Nonsense,” the strange woman said. “I would never suggest myself as a wife. No lady would.”
“And you’re a lady?” he drawled, finding his mood was unexpectedly improved, even if an aching knee should deny the possibility of any good mood.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’m Miss Daisy Holloway.”
He stared at her blankly.
“I tried to pay a call to you a few days ago.”
Reggie pretended he hadn’t heard the faint note of surprise in her voice when he hadn’t recognized her name. Dash it, did all society women think he had nothing better to do than memorize the names of the entire ton and their offspring? His eyebrows lurched up. “Before I rescued you?”
She smiled. “In anticipation of your gallantry.”
He blinked. “You didn’t plan it, I suppose.”
“No,” she said lightly. “I don’t think I could have convinced my driver to cooperate.”
“Hmph.” His voice came out in a satisfactory growl, and he waited for her skin to pinken and for her to hurry away. That was women’s normal reaction to his glowers, and it suited Reggie well.
“I would like to be your matchmaker,” Miss Daisy Holloway announced.
His eyes widened. “Indeed?”
“You require a wife, and I am happy to find one for you.”
Reggie furrowed his brow. “I-I don’t understand.”
Miss Holloway gave him a patient smile, and for a moment, he was distracted by wondering which word would best describe the exact shade of her pink lips. “In my experience, men without wives are far more apt to be grumpy.”
“I don’t suppose you would like to propose yourself as possessing the requisite characteristics?” Reggie grumbled, bracing himself for a diatribe on this woman’s accomplishments.
“Nonsense, that would be absurd,” Miss Holloway said, and her green eyes shimmered.
Most women’s eyes glazed over when contemplating him, as if his title sparkled with the magnificence of the Matterhorn or the splendor of some newly gilded ballroom.
“Marriage to me isn’t absurd.”
“Of course not,” she said, in an instant conciliatory tone.
Reggie had the odd impression this woman would be suited to managing children.
“I don’t need a matchmaker,” Reggie said. “I don’t even need a wife.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” the woman said. “You need both. Very much.”
The back of Reggie’s neck warmed. Just what did this dashed woman know?
“I suppose you’re prone to romantic impulses?” he asked, hoping she would answer in the affirmative.
It would be far better for her to answer in the affirmative.
Please don’t let her say she knows about the money.
Reggie hadn’t thought anyone else knew how desperate he was, but perhaps that had been naive. Perhaps he’d thought that by not attending balls or societal soirees that he wouldn’t be the subject of gossip.
“I’m not prone to romanticism,” Miss Holloway said.
He stared at her, wishing he knew more about her. He assumed she was referring to a metaphorical position and not to the fact she hadn’t risen when he’d approached her, yet was calmly addressing him.
Most women rose and dipped into curtsies. Most men bowed.
He narrowed his eyes.
Well, perhaps she was correct not to stand.
He had made a mess of everything. He shouldn’t have injured himself. Not now. Not when it was vital he keep competing. Not when it was vital he win. He’d been lucky to meet Pritchard all these years ago. Damnation, he needed the money he won from boxing. Papa had seen to that with his blasted habit of gambling. If his competitors thought him feeble, it would be that much harder to prove them wrong.
Still, a matchmaker was out of the question.
He was a duke. He hardly needed someone to find him matches. Debutantes’ matchmaking mamas and proud papas were quite capable of thrusting prospective matches at him themselves.
“I don’t require your services,” he grumbled.
“Ah. Then I assume you have several prospects already in mind?”
His face reddened.
“Or perhaps you’re planning on attending a house party with many of the top debutantes and the ton’s other darlings?”
He shuddered. The last house party he’d attended had been at his friend Jasper’s home in Dorset. He would never have agreed to attend had he known his friend had intended to parade a debutante before them, in a not-so-subtle effort at marrying her off.
“I don’t require a matchmaker,” he said.
“You intend to go through life growling and glowering?”
The back of Reggie’s neck prickled. He hoped the sudden heat would not spread to his cheeks. Miss Holloway seemed to be the type of woman who would notice such color anomalies and make some remark about embarrassment or something similarly unmanly. He had no intention of her looking at him as unmanly.
“I don’t always growl,” he said sullenly. “Or glower.”
She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
But then, everything about her seemed perfect. Her nose certainly was. It turned up in a manner other men, more prone to sentimental poetic nonsense, might even term endearing.
Obviously, Reggie was not one of those men. Boxers seldom were.
“Some people would even call me charming,” he added, suddenly finding it important Miss Holloway didn’t think him a lovelorn, despondent man who couldn’t acquire a wife on his own. He didn’t know any men who used matchmaking services, but he was certain that it did not speak highly of them.
She shrugged. “Oh, no doubt.”
A faint pride swelled through him.
“Of course, they were probably considering your lofty title.”
He coughed and looked around.
“Was it meant to be a secret?” Miss Holloway asked, and her green eyes danced with obvious amusement.
“No, no.”
He had hoped it would be a secret though. It wouldn’t do for his competition to learn he’d injured himself so badly, that he needed to go to a spa to recover. Boxing was the one thing he excelled at, and he wasn’t going to let anything force him to give it up. He wasn’t going to have people ask him about his injured knee, as if he were an older relative whose conversation circled around aches and pains.
“Still, it doesn’t need to be widely known information,” Reggie said cautiously. Ever since Matchmaking for Wallflowers had admitted to hiring ladies of the ton to write gossip articles anonymously, Reggie had vowed to be cautious with the information he shared.
This woman might enjoy gossip. She possessed the sort of vibrant personality often found in talkative women, and talkative women might invariably turn to him as a source of amusement.
Not for the first time, Reggie considered that i
t would have been easier had he simply been born Mr. Jones. Most Mr. Joneses weren’t saddled with expensive, decaying castles after their fathers had purchased them in a sudden desire to make his dukedom appear loftier, and most Mr. Joneses could take on careers without being the object of scrutiny.
People found it odd that Reggie boxed, as if aristocrats were restricted to sipping sherry and perusing philosophical volumes.
“I should go,” he said suddenly.
“I’ll see you later,” she said with an odd confidence.
Reggie tightened his fists and marched toward the exit.
The woman had been impertinent. Most women simpered when he’d met them, batting their eyelashes with vigor, as if a sandstorm had just flown in from the Sahara. He’d always found those women frustrating, especially since they possessed a maddening habit of looking horrified when he declared he was a boxer, as if a penchant for hitting men during rounds meant a penchant for hitting people outside the ring.
Reggie quickened his steps, ignoring the sudden jolt of pain.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Reggie simply needed a wealthy wife, and then he could ease some of his burdens for caring for his estate. After all, selling his property was the absolute last thing he desired to do.
He raised his chin. He already knew how he was going to raise money: boxing. He simply had to heal his knee and arm. He wasn’t going to join those groups of fortune hunters who declared love for a woman simply because of their father’s investment portfolio. It was better to earn money through boxing to provide funds that could modernize his farming. His crops had had a few unlucky years, but the weather this year promised a much-improved crop. He just needed to hold out a bit longer.
He didn’t need to marry. Marriage was for other people. People who read poetry. People who wrote poetry. People who wandered around gardens just to pick flowers for their beloveds, as if a sudden attraction to someone had transformed them into flower arrangers.
No, Reggie wasn’t any of those things.
Perhaps other men might do that, but his stomach felt queasy at the thought. What would it be like to live with a person simply because in one moment, they’d succumbed to the lure of an easy answer to their desperation? Would one always resent them? When would one discover they had few things in common? Would Reggie be inadvertently assenting to a lifetime of unpleasant balls, watching his wife chatter merrily with other people, when she was always silent with him? Heavens, would she go about and have affairs, expecting him to do the same?
He sighed.
No, he had no desire to marry out of desperation. Besides, most people found help without the use of matchmakers. There was nothing romantic in declaring one had met a person after she’d come highly recommended by a nearly complete stranger. Where was the chance meeting? Where was the sudden surge of recognition that this person was fascinating?
Reggie shook his head. The matchmaker, though intriguing, would have to find another client. Somehow he didn’t think she would have difficulty doing it. He smiled, recalling her determination. It was a quality he was accustomed to seeing in all the best boxers, and one he hadn’t anticipated to find in her.
HAPPINESS FLITTED THROUGH Daisy when she met Mrs. Powell.
“You’re smiling,” Mrs. Powell said.
“I spoke with the duke,” Daisy said. “In the corridor.”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes sparkled. “How very interesting. Did you tell him your plan for him?”
Daisy nodded. “He said no.”
Mrs. Powell’s face sobered. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted him to be your first client.”
Daisy shrugged. “He still will be.”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes widened.
“You needn’t be so shocked,” Daisy said. “These things take time, and I am in ample possession of it.”
“Then what would you like to do next?”
“I’m going to start creating a portfolio of eligible women in Bath. Sometimes facts can be alluring.”
Mrs. Powell nodded. “Very well.”
“And then I’ll have to make sure to see him again.”
“You can’t always remain in this corridor.”
Daisy smiled. “No, I had a more festive location in mind.”
Mrs. Powell wrinkled her brow. “I hope you don’t intend to bring musicians here.”
Daisy giggled. “Wouldn’t that be amusing?” She shook her head. “I suspect that there are some people will be quite interested to learn that the duke is in Bath. I intend to let them know.”
“Indeed?”
“It is the courteous thing to do,” Daisy said grandly. “Let’s call on Mrs. Tortworth. She’s holding a ball on Saturday night, but I’m certain she could expand her guest list to include a duke.”
Mrs. Powell smiled. “You’re terrible.”
“Courteous,” Daisy corrected, but she smiled as well.
She had a plan; a marvelous one.
CHAPTER SIX
Reggie entered the ballroom with his customary wariness. He’d received a forceful welcome visit from Mrs. Daphne Tortworth, who’d practically ordered him to attend her ball. His attempts to decline the invitation had been ineffective, and he cursed himself for not having a list of ready excuses for when he was approached with invitations.
Men and women formed elaborate patterns to the gentle hum of a string quartet. Footmen carried silver platters over their heads, and the vibrant food glinted appealingly despite the speed of their lengthy strides.
This was a mistake.
The place swarmed with people. A few people glanced at him. Some widened their eyes in obvious recognition, but most dismissed him. Plenty of men in Bath walked with limps, coming here for the city’s supposed medical prowess. He swallowed a sour taste. Normally, people found him intimidating, but now he was simply another ailing person.
He should have stayed in his apartment. Reggie crossed his arms against his chest and eyed the door longingly. Perhaps he could sneak through it, rejoin Ulysses, and pretend this never happened. He surveyed the guests in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner.
Some of these inhabitants had long ago decided to make Bath their permanent home. They’d seized the opportunity to achieve a higher societal perch than if they’d visited London each year, determined to mingle with the uppermost of the upper crust, and finding themselves lacking in the requisite titles, shared childhood miseries at the top schools, and Parisian fashions.
Reggie turned back toward the door.
“Your Grace!” A high-pitched shriek hampered his retreat, and a middle-aged woman wearing a turquoise turban adorned with a single large peacock feather barreled toward him. “What a pleasure to see you!”
Guests halted their conversations and stared. The hostess’s dress would have been effective as a costume at the Royal Opera House. If people couldn’t hear her loud voice, they could certainly see her.
In the next moment, she reached him. “I am so pleased to see you, Your Grace.”
“Hmph,” he grunted.
She stepped back, and the large, ludicrous peacock feather swayed.
He cleared his throat, anxious to get rid of these mandatory pleasantries. “The—er—pleasure is all mine.”
Mrs. Tortworth beamed in obvious pleasure. “You are quite kind, Your Grace.”
He gave a tight smile. Perhaps she hadn’t actually said he was kinder than expected, but the implication remained present. Evidently, people conflated a love of boxing with an immediate memory lapse of every etiquette lesson and chivalrous instinct.
Blast it. He despised that people were wary of him. He abhorred how their eyes widened at every interaction, and he loathed the whispers that wafted past him after he left their company.
“We are delighted to have you at our tiny, humble ball, Your Grace.”
Reggie wrinkled his brow and gazed about the room. Large mirrors adorned the walls, reflecting the bouncing dancers as they struggled to match a fast-tempoed reel. Though the mirror
s gave the illusion of space, that didn’t mean the ballroom lacked space.
He returned his attention to his hostess. “It’s hardly tiny.”
She smiled, and Reggie had the odd sense she also didn’t consider the ball tiny or humble. Humble balls hardly contained elaborate iced swans melting languidly over banquet tables covered with constantly replenished punch bowls and trays of canapés.
“Well, welcome to Bath,” she said brightly.
He shifted his legs, as if the action might release the pain dwelling in his knee, and tightened his grip on his cane. Mrs. Tortworth’s gaze shifted to his leg.
“Thank you for the kind welcome,” he said hastily, eager to end their interaction.
“Mr. Tortworth will be so eager to see you.” She glanced around the room. “I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to him already?”
He snorted. He was certain Mrs. Tortworth would have noticed her husband speaking to him.
“You’re the first person I’ve spoken with.”
She beamed and tossed her hair, causing her ringlets to sway in a manner that might have made her maid nervous. “Well, that makes me important.”
He tightened his smile. “Indeed.”
Any irony was lost on his hostess, for her cheeks pinkened, and she dragged him to a group of equally well-dressed women. Pain ricocheted through him, and he forced himself to ignore the aching sensation. He tottered, and Mrs. Tortworth glanced again at his knee.
“Am I walking too quickly? Do forgive me, Your Grace.”
He scowled. “Naturally, you’re not.”
Perhaps he uttered the words with more force than the action required, for her eyes widened.
A man with gray sideburns joined them. “Is everything fine?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Tortworth squeaked. “This is—er—the duke. Your Grace, this is my husband, Mr. Charles Tortworth.”
Unlike his wife, Mr. Tortworth adopted a more uncomplicated view on attire. At least, no peacock feathers were visible, and even his waistcoat–that last refuge of playfulness after aristocrats had abandoned their pink tailcoats, powdered wigs, and pantaloons at the beginning of the century–was a plain black.
The Duke Meets His Matchmaker (The Duke Hunters Club, #5) Page 4
