The Duke Meets His Matchmaker (The Duke Hunters Club, #5)

by Blythe, Bianca

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” Daisy said.

  “Alistair!!!”

  Alistair darted from the room.

  “What was that riot?” the duke shouted.

  Daisy was unable to hear Alistair’s response.

  “I’ve never heard of this woman.” The duke’s voice thundered.

  Mrs. Powell’s eyes rounded.

  “Perhaps that’s why she’s calling on you,” Alistair’s voice said.

  “That’s foolish.”

  “Please, Your Grace. Come down and meet your guest. Be polite.”

  “Rubbish,” the duke roared.

  Daisy straightened and placed her cup and saucer on the table. “I believe His Grace is in a distemper.”

  Mrs. Powell nodded hastily. “He does seem to be.”

  “We should go,” Daisy said.

  “Alistair may be able to convince him...” the housekeeper suggested.

  Daisy shook her head. “You’re very kind. I might return another day.”

  The tension in the housekeeper’s face eased.

  “I do not like guests,” the duke said. “I like peace and quiet and—er—peacefulness.”

  Mrs. Powell rose, then pushed Daisy from the room, and the housekeeper assisted Mrs. Powell in carrying Daisy and the chair down the short step to the pavement.

  “That was unfortunate,” Mrs. Powell said.

  “We’ll find another way,” Daisy said, but her voice wobbled and lacked its customary confidence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Unfortunately, after two days, Daisy had not found another way to meet the duke. Her father had paid for a new water treatment that involved her being rolled into the spa for hours at a time so her legs could soak up the magical healing effects of the waters. Though she’d experienced more unpleasant treatments, she doubted its effectiveness. Sitting in water, however warm, on a chilly day with a group of sick people seemed precarious.

  Daisy was relieved when she exited the spa. Sunbeams peeked through the clouds and shimmered over the cobbled square, their force more potent because of recent rain showers, and people bustled about. No friendly middle-aged woman approached her: Mrs. Powell was absent.

  A stout man with a red face swaggered toward her, then jerked his thumb at her. “You must be the invalid.”

  Daisy blinked.

  “I was told to pick up a pretty invalid,” the man explained.

  “My father sent you?”

  “Yes.” The word came out like a grunt.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What’s my name?”

  The man barked a harsh laugh. “Daisy Holloway. You’re concerned for your safety? You think I wait outside the Roman Baths for amusement?”

  “N-no, of course not,” Daisy stammered. Unease moved through her, even though she made a point of never being uneasy.

  “Come on.” The man pointed at a small black carriage. Dirt and mud clung to it.

  Daisy glanced at the uneven cobblestones. She liked using her wheelchair herself, but she couldn’t maneuver over the square. “I’m afraid I require assistance.”

  “More assistance.” The man rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave earlier, what with what your father paid me.”

  Daisy stiffened.

  The driver exhaled noisily, then pushed Daisy toward the carriage. The wheelchair rumbled awkwardly. Normally, Mrs. Powell used a Bath chair for her when they were outside, since the three wheels were more conducive to tackling Bath’s uneven, hilly streets. Daisy hadn’t wanted to tell the driver that.

  She lurched from side to side, then gripped onto the chair rails.

  Finally, the driver stopped before the hack. “I don’t suppose you can climb up the steps?”

  She blinked. Did the man think she might have a wheelchair out of laziness? “Of course not.”

  The man heaved a heavy sigh. “I guess I’ll have to carry you.” He leaned down, and Daisy inhaled an unpleasant scent of tobacco and alcohol.

  She tensed. She didn’t want this man to touch her.

  In the next moment, he hauled her from her wheelchair and pressed her against his chest. She averted her gaze and tried to pretend this was not happening. In a few days, the Tortworths would have a ball, and she was invited. Yes, she would imagine that. Fast-tempoed, joyful music sounded in her ears.

  Her torso collided with the carriage, and she yelped.

  “You weren’t paying attention,” the man grumbled and shoved her onto a seat.

  He then picked up the wheelchair and practically flung it inside. A blanket from the other seat fell on top of it.

  The driver sighed and marched to his seat. He hollered something to the horses, and the carriage lurched to a start and barreled up the hill. Daisy focused on her breath. She would not be upset. Being upset didn’t solve anything. When she returned home, she would simply tell her father always to have Mrs. Powell come with her. If her father insisted she visit the spa every day, Mrs. Powell would have to assist her, no matter if there were other errands.

  Daisy closed her eyes. Once she was established as a matchmaker, she could have her own household and not be subject to her father’s haphazard whims.

  Daisy sat primly in the carriage. Rain dribbled against the sides, and she clutched her umbrella. The carriage slowed, and she frowned. They weren’t home yet.

  The driver turned around and jerked his thumb at a public house. “I’m going inside for a moment.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “I saw a man who owes me money,” he explained. “You understand.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “Of course not. I don’t see this man every day. Who knows how long he will be drinking?”

  The question was clearly intended to be rhetorical, but given the fact the same men seemed to always be visiting the same public houses, she suspected the wait could be substantial.

  Daisy clutched her umbrella handle. “Just be quick.”

  “Naturally, Miss.” The man gazed at her Bath chair, squeezed on the carriage floor. “Ain’t like you’re going anywhere.”

  Daisy’s jaw tightened, and the man turned and stalked toward the public house. Daisy stared after him. She missed her family’s former driver. This man’s only job was to take her back from the spa, and he seemed to view the duty with derision, perhaps because of the dearth of hours and the unglamorousness of the destination.

  Still, the driver had undoubtedly been inexpensive. Her parents needed to save money, and Daisy wouldn’t fault them. After all, they’d spent their money on her.

  The rain pooled on the now gray cobblestones, and she shivered. The sky was dull and uninteresting: a stretch of endless white that seemed smudged with brown and gray.

  A few people gazed at her curiously. Perhaps most carriages with passengers also had drivers. The people spoke loudly, as if already brimming with the alcohol which they would find at the public house.

  Bath was safe. Everyone said so. Yet, safeness wasn’t the emotion she was currently experiencing.

  A gray-haired man staggered from the public house, and Daisy stiffened. Beady eyes fell on her. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing all by yourself?”

  Daisy pretended she didn’t see him.

  Evidently Daisy had not mastered the art of disappearing, for he smirked and lumbered toward her. Dirty water splashed upon his boots, but he seemed unfazed.

  “You all by yourself, sweetheart?”

  The pet name did not endear him to Daisy. Neither did the manner in which he staggered from side to side. Heavens. It was only four in the afternoon. She tried to see her driver, but he was obviously already inside.

  “Want me to take you somewhere, doll?” The man rolled his gaze over her, lingering on her bosom. He licked his lips, and Daisy cringed.

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  His eyes twinkled. She’d never imagined the action could seem so menacing.

  He moved nearer the carriage. “Who left you inside? You poor thing.”<
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  Daisy stiffened but remained silent.

  Unfortunately, the stranger was not inspired to remain similarly silent.

  His gaze fell on her wheelchair, partially covered by the blanket, and he smirked. “Ah, you don’t move.” He returned his gaze to her, but this time, he focused on the lower half of her body. “Legs don’t move?”

  “That is none of your affair,” she said. “Please leave me in peace.”

  He staggered toward the driver’s seat, and a jolt of fear moved through her. This was not happening. She was not going to be abducted by a man. Not from the middle of Bath in the afternoon. Not ever.

  “Please leave,” Daisy demanded.

  “We’re both going to leave, doll.”

  Daisy tightened her lips and grabbed her umbrella. “Very well. You leave me no choice.”

  In the next moment, she struck him with it.

  The man blinked, and his eyebrows traveled upward with a speed she hoped he did not adopt when driving. “You’re feisty.”

  Daisy frowned and swung the umbrella at him again. This time he moved away and grinned.

  “I’m going to have to take that away from you.”

  “No.” She tightened her knuckles around it. Her heartbeat raced, but she forced herself to glower. She mustn’t let him know she was frightened. She mustn’t—

  “Can I help you, miss?” a baritone voice that sounded warm and rich asked.

  She jerked her head to the side.

  A tall man stood before her. His long frock coat didn’t obscure his muscular figure and broad chest. Curly dark hair, somewhat too long to be fashionable, framed his face and matched his dark brown eyes. A scar ran from his eye to his chin, and she had an odd urge to trace it with her fingers. His chin jutted out appealingly, and he had a cleft chin. His sturdy jaw might have belonged on a gladiator, and for a dreadful moment, she imagined muscled arms jutting from a toga.

  She swallowed hard and averted her gaze. Her heartbeat quickened. She knew who he was. This was the duke. She’d found him.

  The duke pointed to the drunkard. “Do you know him?”

  “Of course I don’t,” Daisy said primly, smoothing her dress.

  “Nonsense.” The drunk man lunged for the driver’s seat. “I’m her driver. We’re going to go someplace nice and quiet.”

  Daisy swung at him again with her umbrella, but the drunkard leaned down and chuckled.

  The duke frowned. He dashed toward the other man and yanked hold of his arms. The stranger winced, as if overcome by abhorrence. The duke pulled the drunkard out efficiently, not perturbed by the man’s ample weight, no doubt gained over many visits to the public house imbibing many tankards of ale.

  “What are you doing?” the drunkard wailed, as if he’d been wounded.

  “I would have thought that was obvious,” Daisy’s rescuer replied and tossed him onto the street.

  The man collided into a puddle, spraying dirty water about.

  Daisy blinked.

  The drunkard blinked.

  The duke grinned.

  “Thank you.” Daisy stared at her rescuer, now he was no longer hauling great heaps of human flesh.

  “He’s gone.” The duke’s baritone voice rumbled pleasantly. Heavens. The man would make someone a most appealing husband.

  “Yes.” She pasted a bright smile on her face. It would hardly do for her to gaze sentimentally at him.

  “Next time, don’t sit in a carriage by yourself,” the duke growled.

  “It’s not a common habit,” Daisy said. “My carriage driver needed to leave.”

  “Most irresponsible. You could have been hurt.” The duke’s dark eyes flashed.

  “You’re the Duke of Hammett,” she exclaimed.

  The man’s friendly disposition vanished, as if she’d insulted him. “You know me.”

  “Er—yes.”

  The man glowered. “I’ve never met you.”

  “I—er—” Somehow it didn’t seem polite to note that she’d recognized him by his scar.

  “We have mutual friends,” she said.

  “I have no time for chatter,” he said brusquely. “You could have left the carriage.”

  She blinked, then glanced at her wheelchair, still covered by the blanket. Evidently, the duke had not noted it.

  Daisy gave a wry smile. “That would have been difficult.” She brightened. “Though I was attacking him with my umbrella.”

  “I’d never considered them weapons.”

  “It’s rather less ladylike to carry a sword about,” Daisy retorted.

  The duke’s eyes widened, then he grunted and turned away.

  Daisy’s shoulders eased, and her heart took on a more regular rhythm.

  The duke returned his gaze to her. “Just where is your driver?”

  “In the public house.”

  “That’s not where he should be,” the duke grumbled, and his nostrils flared.

  “I know,” Daisy said miserably. “He said he would be gone shortly, but...”

  “It’s been a while?” the man finished for her.

  She nodded. “Precisely.”

  “Do you live far from here?”

  “Just up the hill.”

  “And he still couldn’t wait?” the man’s face heated. “I was expecting you might say you were en route to Bristol.”

  “I usually take more luggage for those journeys,” Daisy said.

  The duke sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll wait for him to return.”

  “You needn’t.”

  “And have you be taken by another man?” He shook his head. “That won’t do.” He frowned. “I could always take you home.”

  The thought was not unpleasant, but Daisy resisted the temptation to agree. “As you said, we’ve never been introduced. All I know is that you’re even stronger than the other man.”

  He smiled, perhaps pleased that she’d refrained from mentioning his title again.

  “And that’s all you need to know,” he said lightly.

  Daisy nodded.

  She was on the verge of telling him that she would pay a call to thank him, when her driver strolled from the public house.

  “That’s him,” Daisy said.

  “You want me to say something to him?”

  “I have the feeling he won’t be working for my family much longer.”

  The duke nodded, tipped his beaver top hat, and left.

  She stared after him, and then the carriage started to move, dragging her away from the duke.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Pain rumbled through Reggie.

  His limbs ached, and fire inflamed his knee.

  Damnation.

  Dr. Fitzhugh had been wrong. There was nothing good about this specialist. Dr. Richard Everett Smythe-Essex had seemed to enjoy contorting him into odd positions, as if taking glee in Reggie’s discomfort.

  Stretching had never been difficult before. Walking had been a carefree process to such a degree that he’d scoffed when other, less fit people had termed it exercise.

  He rushed through the corridor. His knee ached, his shoulder ached, and he gripped his cane with rather more force than he desired.

  He refused to yield to his body’s pains. He wouldn’t have anyone see him with pity. He could rest in the comfort of his rooms.

  Reggie was accustomed to people striking him. Fists had never bothered him in the past; they had only been inspiration to hit harder, hit faster back. In the boxing ring, no one cared if he said the wrong thing. No one expected him to say anything at all. They cared about his skill. When he’d won, no one could whisper it was because of his title. He’d earned valuable money from the game.

  He sped around the corner, tightening his grip on his cane. He despised that the spa was in such a large building, as if the doctors desired to confirm his health so he couldn’t simply collapse onto his horse. He resisted the temptation to rub his hand against his injuries, no matter how much his muscles ached, no matte
r how much his nerves screamed.

  He continued his stride. Forty more steps, and he’d be on his horse. Twenty minutes after that, and he’d be sipping his brandy.

  Then he spotted...her.

  The woman in the carriage yesterday. Blonde strands of hair framed her heart-shaped face, and her emerald eyes shimmered as he neared. She smoothed her dress and smiled up from a stone bench. A Bath chair was beside the bench. Evidently, the spa was dotted with them, as if it half-expected its clients to suddenly require it.

  He firmed his gait, ignoring the pain as he walked. Suddenly, it seemed important she not think him weak. His heart quickened unexpectedly, perhaps out of self-consciousness of his limp. Yes, that was it.

  “Your Grace?” A soprano voice interrupted his thoughts, and he paused.

  “I—er—” Reggie scratched his neck, still prickling from the sweat from the physical exertions from his appointment. He dropped his hand quickly, remembering that neck scratching was not the most gentlemanly of acts, and stared at his unexpected conversation partner.

  She knew he was a duke. He supposed he couldn’t have expected that fact to be a secret for very long.

  Most women were scared of his scar. He sighed. At least she didn’t know about his boxing. Then he would truly have frightened her.

  “I trust you are recovered from yesterday’s misadventures?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Most certainly, Your Grace. Thank you for your heroism.”

  He blinked. Young women didn’t generally speak to strange men. They required introductions from stern-looking relatives, who seemed in the habit of either gazing at him with open suspicions, as if they’d just halted reading the sport section of the broadsheets, or of offering bumbling flatteries, as if they’d come from browsing the etiquette portion of their library.

  This woman did no such thing. She seemed pleasant and matter-of-fact. Her eyelashes didn’t flutter to an unusual degree, and her cheeks remained resolutely unpinkened. There was no suspicion in her eyes. In fact, he might even have said that her gaze was oddly professional, like that of a housekeeper confident she was in possession of multiple excellent references.

  “I gather that your journey home was unmemorable?”