“It was a surprising match. A superb one.” The duchess preened as if she herself were responsible for that feat… and knowing the Duchess of Gayle? No doubt, she was. “Also, more important, Emilia’s husband is a noble one… of the noblest ranks.” The duchess stirred a silver spoon within her teacup. At Meredith’s answering silence, she looked up and clarified, “Because Lord Heath will one day be a duke, of course.”
“Of course,” she said neatly as the Duchess of Gayle sipped from her tea. Wasn’t that what drove all parents? That their children made the most advantageous matches?
I just want you to be happy, my girl. I’d prefer you didn’t marry a pauper, but as long as he makes you smile.
Her father’s voice pinged around her mind, his voice as real and as clear as if he were there with them now. But as he’d been long ago, and not in those last, darkest months when he’d believed Meredith a stranger and railed at her to stay away.
“You know something of noble matches, do you not, my dear?”
It took a moment to register that the duchess had put a question to her.
“I do.” After they’d left Berkshire, her father’s sizable pension had gone entirely to his care. When he’d died not even a year and five months later, there’d been nothing left, and Meredith had been forced to craft a career… or starve.
“It is my understanding that you had a hand in the Turnover match.” The young lady, nearly on the shelf, had at last found marriage with the Marquess of Roxby.
“I did, Your Grace.” Meredith took a sip of her tea.
The older woman’s statement had been just that, a statement. There was no praise from the duchess, who was only a smidge below royalty. Compliments were to be given to those of her exalted ranks.
“And most recently Miss Saltonstall.”
“You’ve kept abreast of my work.” Surprise pulled that remark from her. Why would the duchess, unless she cared—
“I’ve asked you here on an assignment,” Her Grace said bluntly, shattering all foolish illusions.
There it was. The reason for her visit was related to Meredith’s work, after all. She curled her toes tight. It was silly to feel disappointment, and yet, there it was. When would she cease being disappointed by this family?
Putting aside her teacup, the duchess lifted the tabletop desk situated beside the tray of untouched desserts. “I am hosting a house party,’ she explained as she opened the lid and withdrew several sheets from within. “These are my guests,” she explained, handing them over.
Meredith set down her barely touched tea and accepted the pages, and while the duchess spoke, she read the names there. Most were familiar, and the one thing all those families she did know had in common was at least one daughter in the market for a husband.
“They are all ladies of the noblest, highest birthrights.”
And yet… Meredith rested the sheets on the table beside her cup. “Your Grace, I’m not certain what you are asking of me.”
The duchess blinked slowly and then smiled. “Why, Miss Durant, I’m asking you to matchmake for my son.”
Several beats of silence went by.
The duchess’s smile quickly withered. “You do recall my son, I trust?”
“Barry?” she asked dumbly, and as soon as the name left her mouth, heat exploded in her cheeks. “Lord Tenwhestle,” she hurriedly amended.
“He remains my only son.”
Did she imagine the uncharacteristic droll edge to that response?
Surely she did. Because as certain as it rained in England, the Duchess of Gayle was not given to jesting… and certainly not about matters pertaining to spares and heirs and birthright.
“He’s nearly twenty-seven, and my husband is not getting any younger. The mantle of responsibility will soon pass to Lord Tenwhestle—the title, the holdings, all of it. As such, he needs to make a match with a woman like him.”
In rank and standing. It was there, as real as the request that had been put to her.
“I…” To give her hands something to do, Meredith picked up the sheets once more and looked at them. Play matchmaker for not-so-little Barry Aberdeen: the gentleman who’d tricked her two months ago at the horticultural society and who, with his roguish nature, would give most matrons fits. Everything about the proposed assignment screamed one word: run.
She glanced over at the duchess. “I am honored you should think of me for such”—an impossible—“distinguished assignment, Your Grace. However, the clients I serve? They are… they have all been”—and would only ever be—“young ladies.”
Her Grace’s lips puckered in a frown, no words of disapproval needed.
Meredith continued into the silence, “Either way, I am certain his lordship will not require the services of a matchmaker. He is—” A marquess. A future duke. And a charmer. The latter of which wasn’t even necessary to snag the most proper lady, given his title.
The duchess’s brows drew together ever so slightly, faintly enough to be almost imperceptible and terrifying for the unspoken warning there. “Are you suggesting that you know my son more than I do, Miss Durant?”
Miss Durant. That formal use had once been affixed to Meredith only when the duchess was displeased with her for some antics or another she’d been up to. Now, that formal usage came as a reminder of the station difference between Meredith and this family.
She bowed her head. “I’d never presume, Your Grace.”
“Ah,” Her Grace sent a single brow arcing up, “but you just did.”
“Yes. But no… I…” Meredith sought to order her thoughts.
“Is it yes, or is it no?”
“No,” she finished lamely. “I don’t presume to know more than you about your son.” Blast if the Duchess of Gayle hadn’t managed to reduce her to tongue-ties, as she always had with her mere presence alone.
The duchess gave a little toss of her perfectly coiffed silver-tinged strands. “Splendid. As such, since you’ve agreed that his lordship requires assistance, the assignment is yours.”
The assignment?
Feeling like she’d stepped out onto a crowded, unfamiliar London street without the benefit of directions, Meredith accepted again the pages the duchess thrust into her hands. “These are the young ladies. I’ve kept copious notes on each of them. The second page…”
Hurrying to keep up with the rapid-fire directives, Meredith flipped to the next sheet.
“…details all the areas in which my son will require assistance.”
Entirely too amused.
Singing…
Playing pianoforte…
Her lips twitched up, and she fought desperately to repress her first smile since she’d arrived.
The duchess leaned forward. “My son sang at the Duchess of Sutton’s winter house party,” she explained on a whisper before stealing a quick glance at the doorway. “He was deplorable, Miss Durant. Just deplorable. I’d never dare say as much aloud to him, lest I wound his self-esteem. As you know how men are with their esteem.”
“I do,” she said, before moving on to the next page.
“He’d be crushed, and therefore refuse to ever again perform,” the duchess continued as if Meredith hadn’t already agreed with her. “On that page there, I’ve enumerated all my son’s strengths.”
Meredith skimmed the list—the rather sparse list.
1. Fine smile.
Yes, given the brief exchange she’d had with the scoundrel at the horticulture society earlier in the Season, Meredith could personally attest to that.
2. Riding.
3. Fencing.
4. A knowledge of horseflesh.
5. Wagering.
“Wagering?” Meredith echoed dumbly.
“I didn’t say they were necessarily admirable or good strengths, Miss Durant. Just strengths.” She spoke slowly, as if instructing a slow-witted student.
Meredith made quick work of the perfunctory list. According to his mother, Barry Aberdeen possessed the same
predictable interests as every other last rake, rogue, and scoundrel from the corner of Cornwall all the way to Cumbria.
“It is all there,” the duchess was saying as Meredith reorganized the sheets into a neat little stack. “As such, I’ve carefully balanced the guest list to include more ladies to gentlemen. No need to spur competition, is there?”
It wasn’t really a question. Nonetheless, Meredith agreed—aloud anyway. “Not at all, Your Grace.”
“Oh, and I’ve also this for you…” The duchess withdrew another folded page and handed it over.
Meredith read through the names. It looked like…
“They are the ladies who I believe would make the best match for my son.”
It looked like exactly what it was. Meredith read the list of familiar names, all of London’s latest and still unwed diamonds. Most of the young ladies on the list were notorious gossips. And the ones who weren’t had reputations for being unkind. In short, Meredith would not dare match any of the women with any gentleman… and certainly not Barry, who’d been like a brother to her growing up. Meredith measured her words carefully before she spoke. “Your Grace, that is not how this process generally works…”
The duchess scoffed. “Of course it is.” She paused. “For the Aberdeens anyway.”
Yes, a ducal family would never be held to the same constraints or expectations as… well, anyone. And yet, Meredith had built her business and her name by conducting her work without interference from anyone… not even the hiring families. Carefully choosing her words, Meredith refolded the page. “I appreciate that you’ve composed a list…” Of diamonds destined to be the future hostesses of Polite Society.
The older, regal woman crossed her arms. “Yes?”
Only a duchess could make a single syllable sound like a threat and a warning. Meredith picked her way even more cautiously through the exchange. “It is just there is a way I go about coordinating unions.” The process was far more meticulous and effortful than simply looking at lineage. She composed notes for each potential candidate for her subject and compared the accumulated research.
“And I take it this is not it,” the duchess intoned dryly when Meredith added nothing further.
“This is not.”
“Ah, but I’m not looking for you to make the decision about my son’s wife.” Gathering her palms, the duchess lightly crinkled the sheets clutched between them. “I’m asking you to find a way to make my son amenable to the most suitable ones there.”
Suitable as decided by Barry Aberdeen’s mother and, no doubt, father.
“Lady Ivy Clarence is quite witty and clever.”
As beautiful as she was and in possession of a stunning singing voice, the nineteen-year-old lady’s reputation preceded her. As did her reputation for being unpleasant with her servants. “She is at that. However—”
“Lady Marina is an exceptional conversant.” Gossip. She was particularly crafty at ferreting out details a person had no wish to have bandied about. “It is my suggestion that you begin with those two ladies.”
Meredith glanced at the list once more. “But, Your Grace—”
The duchess sailed to her feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me. Your rooms are readied. Given our family’s… connection, I’ve taken the liberty of having you stay in the family suites.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She murmured the words of gratitude at the unexpected kindness. Even so, she could not stay here. Not and serve in the role of matchmaker for the son of a woman who’d largely seen to the task herself. “But—”
Her Grace waved a dismissive palm. “Think nothing of it.”
And here, Meredith had believed she’d meant less to the Aberd—
“Closer proximity to Barry will allow you time to school his lordship sight unseen from the other guests.” The other woman was already hurrying to the door.
“Yes, that is a wise idea.” Or it would be, if… Meredith jumped up. “However, Your Grace, I’m afraid I cannot—”
The duchess whipped around. “Of course. How could I have forgotten? Three thousand.”
Meredith cocked her head. “Beg pardon?”
“Three thousand pounds. Your commission when you see Barry matched.”
With that, the duchess left.
Meredith remained rooted to the floor, her mouth agape, the pages in hand.
Three thousand…?
Meredith’s legs gave out, and she found herself sinking into the previously abandoned seat.
A fortune. A sum that would take her a lifetime to earn.
And all she would have to do was match her first male client.
Not-so-little Barry.
“Ahem.”
She glanced up.
A liveried footman stood at attention in the doorway. “If I may show you to your chambers, Miss Durant?”
Giving her head a clearing shake, Meredith hurriedly stuffed the pages inside her valise. “I have the way,” she assured him. After all, despite being a servant, she’d called these halls home, and never, in all her time here, had a servant escorted her about as some special guest.
After he’d bowed and taken himself off like she was, in fact, just that, Meredith resumed packing up her things. All the while, she contemplated Her Grace’s directives… and this newest of assignments.
Matchmake… for a man.
It was an unheard-of idea. For Meredith anyway. Never before had she been charged with finding a suitable bride for a bridegroom. It was… unconventional, and Meredith had, as a rule, done nothing outside the bounds of conventional.
And yet… neither was there anything remotely the same in this assignment. She’d been invited by a friend of her late father on a request to help their son. A son who, by all rights, would benefit from being guided toward a proper, safe match.
Given the Duke and Duchess of Gayle had all but cast Meredith and her father out, she owed them nothing.
Only… a long-ago memory traipsed in: Meredith weeping in the duke’s barn while Barry comforted her.
Nay, she owed his parents nothing. But this was about more than the duke and duchess. For, if Her Grace had her way, Barry would find himself wed to a coldhearted Diamond who’d make the lives of the staff here at Berkshire a misery.
No, that would never do.
Furthermore, Barry was a marquess and a future duke. Far more charming than when he’d been a boy of three demanding to ride her back. As such, how very difficult could her task possibly be?
She stood and reached for her bag.
Outside the doorway, a voice boomed, powerful in its fury and outrage.
A familiar voice.
Barry.
“By God, you had better be there, Mother. I am not—” Barry sailed through the doorway, his stare leveling on the empty desk the duchess had occupied. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, glancing around…
And then his gaze landed on her.
He slowed to a halt, and then a wicked and decidedly dangerous grin curved his hard lips up. “Meredith.” He pushed the door shut behind him, and she wetted her suddenly dry lips.
She was alone with Barry Aberdeen, the rogue who’d been reading at a horticultural society.
She… knew the precise moment she’d been completely forgotten by the rogue.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself. “I need a damned brandy. A whole bottle of it. A big, enormous, untouched one. I don’t even care if it’s the French sort.”
Meredith’s eyes shot open another fraction as Barry dropped to a knee beside a hutch and jiggled the doors, loosening the ineffective lock. He yanked them open and fished around inside. “Aha,” he said to himself. Drawing out a bottle of brandy, he jumped to his feet and held the half-empty bottle aloft with a triumphant lift.
Meredith couldn’t sort on whether to be shocked by his outrageous display… or by the fact that Her Grace had a secret liquor stash.
Removing the stopper with his teeth, he spit it out and then downed a hefty swallow.
After he’d lowered the decanter to his side, Barry scratched at the corner of his mouth. “So,” he drawled, stretching out that lone syllable. “It would seem you find yourself an unfortunate guest of my mother’s house party.” He walked over to her, his boots covered with mud, his trousers wet and clinging to every muscle of his sculpted legs, and stopped before her.
Meredith’s pulse thundered in her ears.
She’d been wrong.
It would appear her task was to be a difficult one, after all.
Chapter 5
In the absence of a mother to call out, Barry would settle for the next best thing—an ally.
An ally who proved the only welcome guest in this now-damned infernal household, not solely because of the scheme Emilia had alerted him to, but rather, because of the woman’s identity.
Meredith.
Miss Meredith Durant, whom he’d had last seen some months ago, as pinch-mouthed as she’d been then and wholly different than the girl who’d plaited her hair and let it flop about her shoulders as she’d raced the hills of Berkshire.
Quiet.
She was also decidedly quieter. Though, if one was being more accurate, she’d never been silent. Garrulous, always laughing. Silence had been as foreign to her as the sun was to the London sky.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” he noted, taking another sip from the bottle.
“I… my lord?”
Because of that hesitancy, he wondered for a moment if he’d stumbled upon some other woman who merely resembled Meredith Durant.
“My lord?” he teased.
Meredith fiddled with the heart locket at her throat, then catching his stare upon that nervous fidgeting, she let her arm fall to her side. “You are a marquess.”
A Matchmaker for a Marquess Page 5