Wish Upon a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  “I’m a henwitted fool,” she muttered.

  “As you say, ma’am,” Madge murmured.

  Gloria glared at her maid in the looking-glass. “I don’t pay you to agree with me.”

  “Yes, you do.” She stuck another pin into Gloria’s hair. “I’m not surprised you forgot how this relationship works, you being a henwitted fool and all.”

  Gloria burst out laughing.

  Madge was the one constant in her life. As much an older sister as a maid, Gloria could not recall a time before Madge. They’d been through so much.

  Because she cherished her like a sister, Gloria had offered a healthy severance if Madge preferred to seek a different future. But she had refused to leave Gloria until her mistress was happily married.

  Neither of them had thought it would take this long.

  “A little harsh on him yesterday, were you?” Madge asked as she twisted another curl.

  Gloria slanted her a look. “He was harsh first. Preaching ‘one true constellation’ at me on two separate occasions. Explaining things I already know. Both presumptuous and insulting. I cannot be expected to smile and nod.”

  “All men expect women to smile and nod.”

  “Then I am doomed to spinsterhood.” Not true. Gloria would never stop believing the right man was out there somewhere. She just wished a tiny part of her wasn’t dying to impress Mr. Wrong One. “Besides, we’re trying to marry him off.”

  “I’m not trying anything.” Madge teased out a curl. “I’m impartial.”

  Gloria chuckled. “You’ve never once been impartial.”

  “Hold still,” Madge scolded. “You’ll ruin your hair.”

  Gloria wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t a French twist a little too obvious?”

  “It’s attractive,” Madge said.

  “I’m not trying to attract him,” Gloria insisted. “I just don’t want to look frumpy next to Désirée.”

  “Everyone looks frumpy next to Mademoiselle le Duc,” Madge pointed out. “Chandeliers look frumpy. Constellations look frumpy. No matter what names they bear.”

  “You’re not helping,” Gloria muttered.

  Madge lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps he’ll fall head over heels and be out of your life for good. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Yes,” Gloria said firmly. “That’s exactly what I want. The sooner he chooses a bride, the sooner we can all move on.”

  The sooner she’d find happiness of her own.

  Madge slipped the final pin into Gloria’s hair. “And you think Mademoiselle le Duc will please him?”

  “Désirée makes chandeliers look frumpy,” Gloria said with a sigh. “Of course she’ll do.”

  It was more than a matter of matching his list of wants with the right woman. If she could find him a twin soul, there would be no stopping true love from blossoming. Désirée was a good start.

  Mr. Pringle had not mentioned beauty as a prerequisite, but Gloria doubted he was opposed to the trait. Besides, his priority was willingness to travel. Désirée had come from France years ago.

  Granted, her family had been fleeing execution. The French Revolution had severely curtailed life expectancy for any nationals connected to the aristocracy. This village was about as far from the battlefield as one could get.

  More to the point, England was not the le Duc family’s first trip. Prior to becoming refugees, they had lived lives of splendor that included luxurious holidays in unusual places. Désirée would get on splendidly with Mr. Pringle.

  Gloria made her way to the front parlor and ran her finger along her shelves. Adventure was not for her. She preferred to do her traveling via the pages of the book. It was easier. Safer.

  She knelt below the row of the astronomy tomes to her collection of travel journals. She selected one on France and thumbed through the pages to refresh her memory of the details. Her role might not be to take part in her client’s conversation, but she did not wish to seem a country greenhorn in comparison.

  When the knock came, she shoved the travel volume back in its home and motioned for Madge to open the door.

  Had Gloria thought she put extra attention to her appearance this morning? Christopher Pringle looked positively divine.

  His dark hair was carefully unkempt in the current style. His neckcloth folded to the perfect balance between decorative and unassuming. A well-cut coat of blue superfine brought out the contours of his shoulders. The buttery-soft buckskins encasing his strong legs… Well.

  Désirée was going to love him.

  “Two o’clock.” He lifted a still-functioning pocket watch from inside his jacket. “Magnificent work.”

  How fortunate that she’d wasted an hour on her hair. She hadn’t rated a second glance. He cared more about his watch.

  She snatched her bonnet from the sofa and smashed it on to her head. “Let’s go. It is a bit of a walk, but the sun is out and—”

  “I brought a carriage.” He beamed at her.

  She blinked at him. “You brought a what?”

  “A chariot, to be exact. We’ll ride over.” He offered her his elbow. “Ready?”

  “You brought a chariot to save yourself a walk of five hundred feet?”

  He gestured at the carriage behind him. “I wanted to make a good impression.”

  It was a beautiful carriage.

  Gloria hated it.

  “Do you want her to be interested in you or your chariot?” she asked flatly.

  His eyes sparkled. “We have to travel somehow, don’t we?”

  Gloria was about to retort that her legs worked quite well, thank you very much, when she realized “we” wasn’t referring to her at all.

  He meant he and his future wife would spend big portions of their lives on travel adventures. He would not wish to arrive on foot and have a potential bride think for a moment that holidays with him would be spent jostling for room atop a crowded mail coach.

  She ignored his proffered elbow. He was only being polite. She didn’t need his help.

  “Come along, Madge,” she called over her shoulder. “We are traveling by chariot today.”

  Unlike a barouche or a landau, Mr. Pringle’s chariot featured two forward-facing benches. Gloria and Mr. Pringle took the front seats, and Madge settled in behind them.

  “Where to?” Mr. Pringle asked.

  Gloria pointed. “We’ll take the first left up ahead.”

  “Thank you for doing this.” His eyes were warm, his smile sincere. “I had begun to think I was running out of time.”

  She blinked. “How could you possibly be running out of time? You cannot be more than what, nine-and-twenty?”

  “Two-and-thirty,” he answered. “But I was referring to my time in Christmas coming to a close. I’m here for a month, and a fortnight is already gone.”

  Betrothed and wed in two weeks’ time? That wasn’t cutting things close. That was impossible.

  “Do you plan to kidnap a wife?” she asked. “What about banns? They take three weeks to read.”

  “I’ll get a special license if necessary,” he said as if private audiences with the Archbishop of Canterbury were as easy to procure as penny pies. “Then sweep my bride off on a magnificent adventure.”

  Gloria could not imagine a worse proposal. If some suitor threatened to upend her from everything familiar, she would slam the door in his face.

  She rather suspected Désirée le Duc would not have the same reaction.

  “Then let’s get started.” Gloria motioned toward the horses and tried not to feel as though she was missing out. “With luck, the first meeting will be the charm.”

  Désirée would be a very lucky woman. Christopher Pringle was wealthy, well-connected, and handsome. More than that, he didn’t seek a wife, but a love match. He wanted a marriage that would last forever. What woman could resist?

  “Do you travel often?” he asked.

  “Never,” she answered without hesitation.

  “Never?” he repeated in ho
rror. “You just stay… here?”

  “I like Christmas,” she said tightly. “I know what to expect in every corner, and every season.”

  He cast a doubtful look at the piles of snow on both sides of the road. “Is there more than one season?”

  “No,” she answered cheerfully. “It brings me comfort when there are no surprises.”

  “Surprises are good,” he insisted. “Some would say surprises are the entire point of travel.”

  “I would never say such a thing,” she assured him.

  His brow furrowed. “There’s so much world out there. I cannot imagine voluntarily limiting myself to a minuscule part.”

  Gloria lifted her chin. They could not be more incompatible.

  She could not care if she failed to live up to his standards, or if he judged her for choosing to stay close to home. She had no wish to go anywhere else, and even less inclination to risk her heart with someone who would.

  “Have you never been on a boat?” he asked.

  Her chest seized at the thought. “Boats can sink.”

  He arched a brow. “How often does that happen?”

  She tried to breathe as her pulse pounded in her ears. “More often than you think.”

  He frowned. “But if you’ve never—”

  Madge cleared her throat.

  Gloria started. There was only one road, and they’d almost missed their turn.

  “Here.” She pointed to the right.

  His face brightened. “The le Duc residence?”

  Her stomach sank. “You know it?”

  “I stopped by on my way in.” He patted the squab. “This is where I rented my chariot. I didn’t realize the le Duc siblings had a sister.”

  Gloria stared at the chariot.

  Of course he hadn’t driven up from London in such a small conveyance. For a month-long holiday hundreds of miles away, he would have needed a stately coach, a driver, a valet, trunks of clothing.

  He spun to face her. “Can we tour their smithy?”

  “No, we cannot tour the smithy,” she shushed him. “We are not here to do man things, we’re here to meet women.”

  Madge’s cough sounded suspiciously like, Also a man thing.

  Gloria ignored her. They were here on business. With luck, Cupid would show up to the meeting.

  She found it best not to inform people they were being matchmade so the note she had sent round to Désirée only mentioned she would stop by before teatime with a friend.

  The butler ushered them into a beautiful entryway.

  If Désirée was surprised that the friend in question was the exceptionally handsome brother of the equally handsome rake who had turned their town on its ear, she made no sign.

  Either she had always suspected that Gloria hobnobbed with attractive heirs to dukedoms, or Désirée possessed a particularly impressive poker face.

  “Allow me to present Mr. Christopher Pringle.” Gloria turned to her client. “Mr. Pringle, this is Mademoiselle le Duc.”

  “Enchanté,” he murmured. Rather than bow or even press his lips to her fingers, they leaned forward and exchanged air kisses on both sides of their cheeks.

  “It is exactly like being in France,” Désirée said in her charming accent, with an equally charming giggle. “Do you speak French, Monsieur Pringle?”

  Those were the last words Gloria understood for the next quarter hour.

  She followed them into a lush drawing room, joined them before the fire, accepted tea when Désirée served it, and pretended to follow along.

  One did not need to speak French to understand what was happening: Love at first sight, right before her eyes. Gloria was the greatest matchmaker in the history of matchmakers. Scant moments into the first introduction, and these two were already carrying on as if they’d known each other their entire lives.

  She did her best to look pleased, rather than put out. Mr. Pringle was being charming, and Désirée was a treasure. They did not mean to exclude her. They likely hadn’t realized she wasn’t following along with what appeared to be rapid-fire flirty little jokes.

  Gloria doubted that Désirée had much opportunity to speak French outside of her family, so it must be a relief to feel eloquent and witty again instead of tongue-tied and foreign. Whatever she was saying now had him chuckling in commiseration over some shared experience or another.

  If there was a difference between Désirée’s French accent and Mr. Pringle’s, Gloria could not discern it. Either he’d had the best French tutors in all of England, or he’d spent a significant amount of time in France. No wonder he and Désirée had so much to discuss.

  Gloria reminded herself it was not the matchmaker’s place to horn in. No matter how intrigued she was by their budding romance… and whatever they were saying in French.

  She owned no less than three travel journals about France, one dedicated entirely to Paris. The illustrations were magnificent but could not hold a candle to the true experience. Yet it would have to be enough.

  Her arms hugged tighter about her chest. No matter how much she longed to see places like Paris with her own eyes, the thought of traveling there filled her with such panic it squeezed the air from her lungs.

  Only a dunce would go in this climate. The war was ongoing, with more atrocities reported every day. She would stay right here in Christmas, thank you very much. The safest corner in all of England.

  Désirée’s tinkling laugh rang out yet again, and she patted Gloria’s arm in delight. “It is marvelous that you bring your friend to me. For so much time, I only speak French with my brothers.”

  Mr. Pringle leaned back in surprise. “Surely many of the well-appointed tourists have had a French lesson or two?”

  “Yes, yes, they have lessons.” Désirée wrinkled her nose. “But they think all French people are from Paris. They do not know my village as you do.”

  Gloria blinked. He had visited the exact village? Could there possibly be a better sign?

  “It is now many years, and I am still an outsider.” Her expression was wistful. “Some of the neighbors, they see us as a caricature, and not a welcome one.”

  Gloria’s stomach twisted. She liked to believe that her bighearted town would welcome anyone needing a safe place to stay, just as in the Christmas story, and she hated to think her home had made anyone feel unwelcome.

  Yet she was not naïve. England was at war. Caricatures of the French appeared in every newspaper. The words people used when describing Désirée’s homeland were unkind, to say the least.

  Gloria touched her fingertips to her friend’s arm. “Christmas is open to everyone. I’m glad you’re here. If there’s ever anything I can do…”

  Désirée smiled. “You are always sweet, and a good friend. Do not worry. You bring gentlemen like Monsieur Pringle, of course I am fine.”

  He grinned back at her, then pulled a face when he glimpsed the hour on the clock next to the window. “Do the French observe the custom of afternoon visits lasting no more than twenty or thirty minutes?”

  She made a pretty moue. “I do not know the regulations. You may stay as long as you please.”

  He should and would. Gloria was a brilliant matchmaker. Excellent work. She should go home, bake herself a cake, eat the whole thing.

  “It’s best we follow protocol. I wouldn’t wish to add unnecessary scandal to your troubles.” He added something in French that turned Désirée’s cheeks pink.

  “Come back soon,” she said with a laugh. “Both of you.”

  They bid their leave and climbed back into the carriage. Soon they were back on the road.

  Gloria did not bother to ask how the meeting had gone. The answer was obvious. C’est l’amour.

  Gloria was thrilled at Désirée’s positive reception. Mostly thrilled. Only an unprofessional matchmaker would feel a tiny pinch of envy.

  She sent Mr. Pringle a covert glance from the corner of her eye.

  She needed a man that was his complete opposite. He wa
s adventurous, fearless, worldly. Gloria didn’t require any of that. It made him dangerous. Besides, he was a client.

  Well, an ex-client. He’d found his future Madame Pringle in the space of an hour.

  “Come along, Madge,” she said the moment the wheels of the chariot came to a stop before her house. “Let’s not keep Mr. Pringle.”

  She scrambled down without waiting for his aid and hurried back inside her cottage. She tossed her bonnet on the chair beside the adventure books and kept on walking past the kitchen, past her private observatory, and into her bedchamber.

  She came to a stop in front of the old wooden trunk and flipped up the lid.

  “Paris,” Madge said behind her. “Last time you packed it, it was for Paris.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” Gloria began yanking items from the trunk. “That was weeks ago.”

  Madge opened the armoire. “Where are we going now?”

  “Venice,” Gloria said decisively. “We will have pasta at an outdoor café and spend the afternoon in a private gondola.”

  Madge nodded. “I’ll pack the parasols. It is important to protect oneself from the elements.”

  No matter how many times they played this game, packing a trunk for a holiday they would never take, Madge had not once asked why Gloria bothered.

  She didn’t have to. She had been there when Gloria’s faith in adventure had been destroyed.

  Six years ago, Gloria had experienced her one and only London season. It had been a smashing success. She’d been betrothed by her fifth ball. When her suitor set off to make his fortune and never came home, Father had told her not to worry. She was still young. There was plenty of time.

  Father always said not to worry.

  He was an experienced Navy Captain. He never worried about anything. He taught Gloria the stars so that she could learn to navigate as well as he could. Then he sailed off to war. That was the last she saw him.

  The Crown provided handsomely in such cases. Gloria did not want money. She wanted her father. And Mother… never recovered. Laudanum was the only thing that got her through the night, until one morning she didn’t wake up at all.