Wish Upon a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  Penelope tossed the calling card straight into the fire. “You were saying?”

  “See?” he said. “You know your own mind. I’m smitten.” He sniffed at her. “Or maybe it’s your perfume.”

  She shoved him away with a laugh and turned to Christopher. “What are you looking for in a wife?”

  “Perfection,” Nick answered dryly before Christopher had a chance to reply.

  His brother was only half right.

  “It isn’t just a matter of finding the perfect woman,” he said carefully. “I need to be the perfect match for her, too.”

  Nick’s gaze met his and he nodded in understanding.

  When their mother had walked away from their unhappy home never to return, she hadn’t just left their horrid father. She had tossed aside the entire family.

  He could not go through that again.

  Only by finding a woman who was a one-hundred-percent match to him in all things could Christopher be certain their union would have a chance.

  “You don’t want a meaningless affair,” Penelope prompted. “You want a woman who…”

  “Shares my interests,” Christopher said. “That should be a good foundation.”

  Nick ticked traits off on his fingers. “Unwillingness to put down roots, proclivity toward pedantic fact-checking, improbable command of languages, inability to suffer a mistake in silence, obsession with fact-gathering in order to always be right—”

  “You’re repeating yourself with different phrasing,” Christopher said in irritation.

  “I rest my case,” his brother murmured. “This is going to be fun.”

  Penelope waved this aside. “Ignore him. Tell me in your own words.”

  Christopher thought it over. “I don’t think it unreasonable to hope for someone sensible. It’s not just a matter of respecting facts and figures. I need someone who can be counted on.”

  “That’s not a wife,” Nick said. “That’s an abacus.”

  “Conformity to rules isn’t a bad thing,” Christopher pointed out. “In a few weeks, you and Penelope are going to make your vows before God. But neither church nor state can make you comply. A successful marriage is something two people choose to share.”

  The amusement faded from his brother’s eyes. He understood at once. “We will not repeat their mistakes.”

  The worst moments of their childhood could be traced back to lack of fidelity. Father had not upheld his vows. Or values of any kind. When Mother left, she broke hers, too. Including the unspoken bonds that should have existed between a mother and her sons.

  They had learned all too well the disastrous results of imperfect unions. A perfect match was the only way to ensure a marriage that would last.

  “Wanting someone who keeps her word is a perfectly understandable requirement,” Penelope said. “Don’t worry. I grew up in this town. They’re all good people. It won’t be hard to find a nice young woman.”

  “There’s too many,” Christopher muttered.

  Nick stared at him. “What are you talking about? I’ve seen more women stuffed into Almack’s than live in this village.”

  “Yes, well.” Christopher shrugged. “Now that you are taken, they’re all throwing themselves at me at once. If I can’t locate a good match in the smallest town in England, London will be a thousand times worse.”

  “Easy.” Penelope snuggled against Nick. “You need a matchmaker.”

  Christopher blinked. “A what?”

  “It solves everything at once,” she explained. “You won’t need to interview every woman in Christmas, because the matchmaker will already know everyone. You need only detail your preferences, and she will find the right bride. You’ll be done inside of a week.”

  Christopher held perfectly still. “I could make a match within a sennight?”

  “When is your next trip?” Nick asked.

  “Port of London in three weeks.” Christopher’s chest filled with hope. “I purchased double passage just in case.”

  “Then ‘love of adventure’ is a top priority.” Penelope smiled at him encouragingly. “Be sure to tell the matchmaker.”

  Was that truly the best way?

  “I don’t know.” Christopher hesitated. “Involving a third-party…”

  “Is often the wisest decision,” Penelope finished firmly. “Do you cut your own hair? Extract your own teeth? Tailor your own clothes? When something needs to be done right, an expert is always the right choice.”

  Christopher let out his breath. “And who is the expert?”

  “Miss Gloria Godwin,” Penelope said without hesitation. “She lives three cottages to the north. Holly wreath on the front door. You can’t miss it.”

  Nick slanted a look at his bride. “Gloria who believes in love?”

  “Of course, Gloria who believes in love.” Penelope gave a sharp nod. “She’ll make him a match in no time.” She turned to Christopher. “Gloria is an absolute darling, and a pillar of the community. She is definitely who you need to see.”

  The idea was appealing, if unconventional.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  “That’s a no,” Nick whispered. “When Chris gets started thinking about something, he is likely never to stop.”

  Penelope lifted a finger. “Give me your word you’ll stop by as soon as you leave here.”

  Christopher inclined his head. “Very well. I give my word.”

  He was not convinced it would work, but it couldn’t be worse than what awaited him back at the castle.

  “I can send you with a letter of reference.” Penelope sat up straight. “Hold on a moment while I fetch some foolscap.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Christopher rose to his feet. “I’m not applying to be a governess. I’m offering to be a client. I’ll take it from here.”

  In fact, there was no reason to waste another moment.

  He took his leave from the lovebirds and headed back outside into the lightly falling snow. His boots crunched as he turned north on the snow-packed street and counted out the cottages. The third one bore a holly wreath exactly as Penelope had described.

  He presented himself on the doorstep and rapped sharply upon the knocker.

  A ruddy-cheeked maid with laughter lines and a streak of gray hair answered the door.

  He presented his calling card. “Mr. Christopher Pringle to see Miss Gloria Godwin, if you’d be so kind as to let her know.”

  The maid frowned over his shoulder at the falling snow, then motioned him inside.

  He stepped into the entryway, which opened into a cozy parlor. A coatrack stood to one side. Christopher did not use it.

  The maid closed the door behind him. “A moment, please, while I present your card.”

  Unfortunately for all parties involved, the presenting of the card turned out to be an unnecessary step.

  Miss Gloria Godwin herself hurried toward the drawing room, likely in response to the knock. Her obvious consternation upon recognizing the caller might have been humorous if Christopher hadn’t felt precisely the same dismay.

  The young lady standing before him was none other than the gravy-for-brains madwoman spouting nonsense about dukes and waistcoat spangles in the sky to a group of children and would-be stargazers.

  “You have to be bamming me,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  “I could say the same,” she answered hotly, brown eyes flashing. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  An excellent question. Christopher would leave at once if he hadn’t been forced to give his word.

  He thought back. What precisely had he promised? Only that he would stop by? Here he was. Word kept. Game over.

  He reached for the door. “I’ll see myself out.”

  “But why are you here?” Miss Godwin shoved delicate fists onto curvy hips and speared him with a frosty glare.

  Unbelievable.

  He drew himself up to his full height. He had not behaved as a gentleman ought, but nor had he
been spreading willful ignorance to impressionable individuals. If he owed her an apology, she owed a bigger one to every poor fool on that tour.

  He could not be sorry for attempting to correct her outright lies, but in the name of politesse…

  “I apologize for causing a scene,” he said magnanimously, “just as I am certain you are sorry for spreading”—horrific, blatant, outlandish—“misinformation.”

  She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “I’m not sorry.”

  He scowled at her.

  She scowled back.

  “Neither am I,” he admitted. They might as well be honest. “Astronomy is a serious field. Scholars spend their lifetimes refining the known, and working hard to discover—”

  A knock sounded from outside.

  “If you please,” murmured the maid.

  He stepped out of her way.

  She creaked open the door and stuck her arm through the crack. Moments later, the door once again closed tight, and a folded square of parchment rested in the maid’s hand.

  She turned to her mistress. “Note from Miss Mitchell.”

  It was all Christopher could do not to close his eyes and allow the back of his head to bang against the wall. Repeatedly.

  His “letter of reference” had arrived right on time.

  Miss Godwin broke the drop of wax and flipped open the message. Half a breath later, her incredulous gaze rose to meet his. “This is absurd.”

  “I agree,” he said fervently. Now they could be done. “As we are in agreement—”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, with all the joy of an impending trip to the hangman’s noose. “Not for you, but as a favor to Penelope.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “What?”

  She sighed. “Consider your apology accepted. Sit down. Madge will watch over us to ensure propriety.”

  The maid immediately sat at the edge of the closest wingback chair.

  Miss Godwin settled herself in the center of a two-person sofa, as though to ensure Christopher would make no attempt to draw near.

  She needn’t have worried. He was still debating whether to run screaming into the street.

  He glanced about the small parlor and chose the wingback chair beside two tall bookcases. Like the maid, he did not settle back against the pillow. He would not be here long.

  “I see you like to read,” he said, searching for common ground. “I, too, enjoy—”

  “You see a collection of books. That doesn’t mean they’re mine, or that I read them.” She arched a brow. “We are not friends. I’m your matchmaker. What do you want in a match?”

  He clenched his jaw. Definitely not anyone like her.

  Black hair, dark eyes, pink lips, tapered curves… A day ago, he might have considered the combination one of his favorites. Today, he’d rather subject himself to a lifetime of never-ending bachelorhood than end up with a wife bearing anything in common with Miss Godwin.

  “Too difficult a question?” she asked with saccharine politeness. “Then let’s start with you. What are your credentials?”

  Fine. He was going to have to talk to her.

  Christopher cleared his throat. “As you may have surmised, I am something of a gentleman astronomer—”

  “We are looking for reasons a woman would want to wed you,” she interrupted sweetly. “Surely there must be something?”

  He ground his jaw. “One or two details may fit your requirements. I come from well-respected lineage. I’m currently second in line to a dukedom. Financial stability need not be a concern for my future wife.”

  She leaned back into the sofa. “Younger brother to an heir presumptive means neither of you are particularly likely to become the next Duke of Silkridge.”

  He glared at her. If she already knew his family history, why bother to ask?

  “Nonetheless…” She tilted her head. “Most of my neighbors have no connections at all. To certain ladies, yours will be attractive indeed.”

  “I don’t want them,” he said without thinking, then immediately regretted the outburst.

  She scoffed. “Why ever not? One might say that wealth and connections are a potential suitor’s two greatest aspects.”

  One might also say that Beau Brummell’s waistcoat is one of the constellations.

  And one would be wrong.

  He swallowed the terse reply. Miss Godwin was not alone in judging a man solely on the material benefits he could provide. It was best to set proper expectations.

  “I am not seeking a perfect bride,” he said quietly, “nor do I pretend to be a perfect groom. I am looking for a perfect match. Puzzle pieces that fit together. Two halves of a whole, whatever form that might take.”

  The skepticism fell away from her expression. She gave him a closer look.

  “That’s… impressively romantic,” she admitted. “I take it back. You may catch more women with that angle than your connections to a dukedom.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not looking for ‘women.’ I want a marriage that will last forever.”

  “Don’t we all,” she murmured, staring down at Penelope’s note in her lap. With a start, Miss Godwin crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fire. “I hate letters.”

  Christopher resolved never to write her one.

  “If you had to pick a single characteristic,” she said slowly. “A quirk, a personality trait, a hobby. What is the one thing your prospective bride must have?”

  “Willingness to travel,” he said at once. “It is my greatest passion, and one I very much look forward to sharing with my wife.”

  From the aghast expression on Miss Godwin’s face, he might as well have admitted to a propensity for eating earthworms in clotted cream.

  “You don’t like travel?” he said in surprise.

  “Or travelers,” she said briskly. “But matchmaking isn’t about me. We have a good base. Come back tomorrow afternoon and I’ll introduce you to your first possibility.”

  “Thank you.” He stood but then hesitated, unsure if he was meant to bow, or shake on the deal, or promise to never write letters from abroad. She made no sign.

  At last, he decided on simply showing himself to the door.

  When he turned around, however, he came face to face with the bookshelves he’d admired upon entering the drawing room. To his surprise, the top two shelves were filled with tomes on astronomy.

  “You were telling the truth,” he said in shock. “These are perfectly serviceable resources on the venerable field of astronomy, and you haven’t read a single page.”

  She lifted her chin. “I see what I see.”

  “There are facts in there.” He pointed at the spines. “Facts one cannot override with flights of fancy. Constellations have predetermined names.”

  She arched a brow. “Let me see if my female mind can grasp your logic. Are you attempting to bully me into adopting complete fiction that someone else made up, rather than use stories from my own imagination?”

  Yes. Yes, that was exactly what he was trying to do. All parties using the same, agreed-upon designations was how the concept of constellations worked.

  Yet this was clearly not an argument he had any hope to win. Best to make a quick escape.

  “Oh, will you look at the time.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s…”

  Broken.

  He gave the pocket watch a frustrated shake. No matter how often he wound the bloody thing, within an hour or two it ceased to function.

  Miss Godwin sighed and held out her palm. “Let me see it.”

  “No need,” he said quickly. “I’ll find a jeweler who knows how to—”

  “Madge?” Miss Godwin pointed her open palm in the direction of her maid.

  The maid immediately pulled a small pouch from her apron and pitched it in her mistress’s direction with a perfect arc.

  Miss Godwin caught the satchel with one hand, sprang to her feet, and snatched Christopher’s pocket watch from his fingers.

 
; “Er,” he said. “Should I unhook it from my waistcoat, or…”

  Using a few small tools from the pouch, Miss Godwin popped the protective backing from his most expensive watch and began poking at the gears within. Christopher’s flesh ran cold.

  “Hand,” she commanded.

  Christopher jerked his gaze toward her. “What?”

  Madge materialized beside them, a clean handkerchief covering her palm.

  Miss Godwin dumped the inner workings of Christopher’s favorite pocket watch into the maid’s outstretched hand.

  One by one, she cleaned each piece with the corner of the handkerchief and nudged it carefully into place. When she finished, she snapped the backing on tight and turned the watch face right-side-up.

  A familiar ticking indicated the gears were once again in motion.

  Miss Godwin dropped the tools back inside the little bag and tossed the pouch to her maid.

  “Now that your timepiece works,” she said as if Christopher’s mind wasn’t exploding like the gears of a broken pocket watch, “Come back tomorrow at two o’clock. I’ll introduce you to a sweet, intelligent woman not afraid to travel. Possibly even with you.”

  Christopher nodded automatically. But as he turned to the door, he suspected he might be more interested in the future surprises Miss Godwin might bring.

  Chapter 4

  Gloria grimaced at her uninspiring reflection in the looking-glass. “Why are we doing this again?”

  “You are matchmaking Mr. Pringle because you promised Miss Mitchell.” Madge poked another pin into Gloria’s unruly locks. “And I am attempting to tame your hair because you begged me to.”

  Two stupid decisions in a row. Gloria should just go back to bed.

  There was absolutely no reason to primp. She was bound to meet the right man someday, but Mr. Pringle clearly was not that man. She would just have to keep looking.

  Besides, as matchmaker, her role was to attract her handsome client to someone else. Not that Mr. Pringle had shown any signs of “love at first sight” with Gloria. Or any sight.

  The first time he’d laid eyes on her, he had looked right through her without seeing her at all. The second time, he had been so appalled at how she ran her Saturday evening sky-walks that she doubted her appearance registered at all. And the third time they’d crossed paths… had been because he hoped she could help him marry someone else.