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

by Blythe, Bianca

  Mr. Tortworth’s eyebrows leaped toward his hairline. His brows’ grayness had not rendered them devoid of any athletic ability. “Did you say duke?”

  His wife nodded rapidly, her face strained.

  Mr. Tortworth exhaled noisily, and it occurred to Reggie that Mr. Tortworth had thought him an unwelcome guest. He peered at Reggie’s face, no doubt scrutinizing Reggie’s scar.

  Finally, recognition dawned, and Mr. Tortworth nodded. “Ah, you’re the duke who boxes.”

  “So I am.”

  “Dangerous sport, boxing,” Mr. Tortworth mused, examining Reggie’s face again.

  Reggie averted his gaze, wishing he could hide his scars from Mr. Tortworth’s indiscreet interest.

  “That’s why he got injured, sweetheart,” Mrs. Tortworth added.

  Reggie’s nostrils flared. “I’m not injured. Not—er—much.”

  Mrs. Tortworth shot him a pitying look. “That’s not what your doctor says.”

  Reggie tightened his lips. Clearly, he’d been wrong to expect any discretion. No doubt Dr. Richard Everett Smythe-Essex had been delighted to mention his newest patient.

  “Must be common to get injuries when boxing,” Mr. Tortworth mused. “Personally, I never exercise. No injuries for me.”

  An awkward pause ensued, as if Reggie were supposed to extol Mr. Tortworth’s intelligence.

  “Exercise has its merits,” Reggie said.

  “But not injuries.” Mrs. Tortworth shot her husband an adoring gaze.

  “They have rather fewer merits,” Reggie admitted.

  “Fewer?” Mr. Tortworth asked.

  “None,” Reggie clarified. “Absolutely none. I was going to say I would never be here had I not been injured, but you’re correct. Any advantages are utterly minuscule compared to the disadvantages of even a simple, not very important injury.”

  Hurt filled the Tortworths’ eyes, and Reggie knew he should be feeling regret that he’d characterized attending their ball as a minuscule benefit of his injury. But his heart didn’t pang, and heat didn’t flood his cheeks.

  “Well, Your Grace,” Mrs. Tortworth said finally. “Let me direct you to the banquet table. Should you care to dance, you’ll find ample potential dance partners near the fireplace.”

  “I’m certain he doesn’t desire to dance,” Mr. Tortworth said to his wife, before turning to Reggie. “Don’t let her force you. You can barely walk as it is.”

  Reggie stiffened. “I can walk.”

  “Er—yes.” Mr. Tortworth forced a smile on his face. “I meant—er—that you boxing men don’t care about such matters. Gracefulness and boxing don’t mix.”

  Mr. Tortworth chuckled, as if he’d said something witty, or perhaps he was merely hopeful the sound of his laughter would make Reggie forget his earlier statement.

  Personally, Reggie thought gracefulness and boxing did mix. In fact, they mixed quite wonderfully. How on earth was one supposed to avoid being hit if one didn’t possess a certain gracefulness?

  He decided not to get into a lengthy conversation on the matter. The banquet table sounded like an excellent destination, and he soon excused himself, conscious he’d done nothing to enhance his already imperfect reputation.

  He helped himself to a plate, making certain to paste a scowl on his face, lest he be bombarded with more awkward encounters.

  A footman approached him. “Your Grace.”

  Reggie glanced up. His plate wobbled, and he moved it to his non-cane clutching hand.

  “I have a note for you,” the footman said.

  “Oh.” Reggie blinked, shifted his plate to his left hand, and took the note. Note passing was something he hadn’t done since his Harrow days.

  Please visit the fireplace.

  - D

  He frowned. “D?”

  The footman’s eyes danced. No doubt, the man was delighted to be involved with note passing. Undoubtedly, this “D” had chosen his messenger well.

  “Who is ‘D’?”

  “A most delightful young lady.”

  Young lady.

  He pushed his eyebrows together. “I don’t know any young ladies here.”

  “She didn’t seem to think so,” the footman said and gestured toward a stone fireplace. “She’s sitting to the left of it.”

  Reggie’s gaze fell on a familiar blonde woman clothed in a pink dress.

  His stomach fell.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The matchmaker.

  The bold color of her pink dress highlighted the pale locks of her hair. Her cheeks were rosy, and though Reggie couldn’t see her eyes from this distance, he had the uncomfortable impression they were sparkling. No doubt she was watching the footman and his conversation.

  “Heavens, why didn’t she simply approach me herself?” She was undoubtedly conscious they hadn’t been officially introduced, but Reggie despised being summoned like a naughty schoolchild ordered to visit the headmaster.

  The footman’s jovial expression vanished. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”

  Reggie’s mouth fell open. Footmen never said such things. Besides, Reggie had hardly been impolite. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” the footman said staunchly, and he maneuvered his chin in an upward fashion that typically indicated stubbornness. “I know you’re a duke, Your Grace. Still, I think it’s important you visit her.”

  “Truly?” Reggie glared at the footman.

  The footman’s face paled, but he nodded. “Absolutely. I suggest you not linger.”

  Reggie blinked again.

  Just who was this person? Was she perhaps the spoiled niece of the host and hostess? Some overly entitled goddaughter? Someone who held more sway than Reggie himself?

  Reggie sighed.

  “You may as well eat your canapés over there,” the footman said, his voice so solemn and stern Reggie wondered how he could have considered the man jovial. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

  Reggie sighed. Personally, he didn’t mind snubbing someone who seemed determined to sell something to him, just as he would be dismissive if someone came with an idea to peddle him some prize horses.

  Still, Reggie might as well visit the fireplace section. Heavens knew the rest of the ball was similarly frightful.

  Reggie pushed his canapés into his mouth, handed his plate to the footman, and sauntered toward the fireplace.

  He headed toward the matchmaker, moving past the nicely dressed men and women. He strode quickly, despite his limp, as if his speed might make the fact he was dragging his foot and using a cane less noticeable.

  Finally, he reached the fireplace, and his heart stopped.

  “You’re in a chair,” he murmured. Heat surged up the back of his neck.

  “How observant,” the matchmaker said. “Technically, this is a wheelchair. Chairs themselves aren’t terribly unique.”

  “That’s not what certain members of the ton would say,” Reggie said. “You should hear some of them go on about chair rails and spindles.”

  She smiled. “I find this chair far more advanced.”

  “Indeed,” Reggie said. “So that’s why you sent me a note.”

  “You thought me rude.”

  “Of course I didn’t—”

  “I could see your face.”

  Reggie’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

  “You don’t need to explain,” she said cheerfully. “I’m only glad you’re here. We can discuss your future.”

  He blinked, then scratched the back of his head. “I’m afraid I still have no interest in marrying.”

  She tilted her head and sent him a cool assessing look that shot shivers through his body. “Are you in love with someone else?’

  “Me?”

  “Some servant girl perhaps. Milk maiden?”

  “Milk maiden?” His eyes widened.

  “Men are always falling in love with milk maidens in books. Something about their bosoms.”

  “I’m certain no
t all milk maidens have striking bosoms,” he said.

  “Perhaps not. But the question is, does the one who lives near you?”

  For a moment, he thought of Mrs. Livingstone. He imagined her cheeks rosying at the conversation. “The milkmaid at my estate is a grandmother. And though she has a certain majestic quality about her, I have no intention of destroying her marriage through some illicit affair.”

  “And there’s no one else? No other impediment to marriage? Not some older married woman in the neighboring estate? Not some dashing stable boy?” Her eyes sparkled.

  His mouth dropped open. “How do you know about such things?”

  Miss Holloway smirked. “I know about many things.”

  “I suppose you do.” Reggie suddenly felt hot, despite the steady onslaught of rain outside and the fashionably thin walls, ineffective barriers to the British weather. He found a seat, dragged it over, then settled beside her.

  “How did it happen?” Reggie asked, his voice solemn.

  “Are you discussing my legs?” Miss Holloway asked. “Because I thought ladies’ legs were something men shouldn’t discuss.”

  Reggie had the distinct impression his face was on fire. He glanced at the fireplace warily to check whether sparks were spewing from it.

  No. He’d merely said the wrong thing. Again.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m sure you don’t want to discuss that.”

  She giggled. “You needn’t look so horrified. It is possible to tease you, isn’t it? After all, I seem to have managed it.”

  “It is a task most people do not attempt.”

  She beamed.

  “You are quite something,” he said.

  “For a woman with ill-functioning legs?”

  He shook his head. “For any woman. Any person.”

  Miss Holloway’s eyes widened, but then she tossed her hair. Golden locks, neatly formed into curls, gleamed in the candlelight.

  “You should want that same enthusiasm when thinking about your matchmaker,” she said finally.

  He blinked.

  “I shall be your matchmaker,” she reminded him.

  He sighed, and a smile played at his lips.

  “You are awfully eager to marry me off.”

  Miss Holloway leaned closer to him in a conspiratorial manner. A sweet floral scent wafted toward him, and for a moment, he was distracted. He’d never appreciated how pleasant flowers smelled.

  For a moment the air thickened, and sweat prickled the back of his neck. He was suddenly conscious of the narrow distance between them. Mostly, young women at balls were guarded by stern-looking guardians, maiden aunts who seemed to think it their lives’ work to protect their charges from conversation with men that did not involve wedding proposals.

  No such maidenly aunt loomed over them now.

  “To be honest,” Miss Holloway said, “I’m quite mercenary.”

  He drew his eyebrows together. “Like a pirate?”

  “Like a mercenary,” she said. “You needn’t change my metaphor.”

  “O-of course not,” he stammered. “But—er—?”

  “I do not expect to run my matchmaking services for free,” she stated matter-of-factly. “That would be a poor business choice.”

  “Oh.” A dull feeling moved through him, and he remembered she desired money. Well, it wasn’t an uncommon desire. Unfortunately, despite his lofty title, he didn’t have much of it.

  Reggie sighed. He’d already sold Hardwicke Place, and he’d never thought he would do that. He couldn’t sell the castle. Father was probably rolling about in his grave and sighing in an exasperated manner, even though he was the cause of this mess.

  Still... Reggie shifted his legs. He didn’t like being asked for money.

  “You needn’t worry,” Miss Holloway said. “I know you lack funds.”

  He gazed at her sharply.

  “I can tell,” she said. “And I’ve researched.”

  “H-how?” he croaked.

  “I have my methods,” she said. “I would simply expect to receive a percentage of your dowry when you marry.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not an insignificant percentage,” Miss Holloway added. “But not so large that you’ll have to face difficult conversations with your new wife. That would be no way to start a new marriage.”

  “How considerate of you,” he murmured faintly.

  “I do try to be.” She smiled, and all the world was wonderful. “And of course, I would also expect to use you as a reference. You are prepared to act as a reference, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “You do answer your mail?”

  “O-of course.”

  She gave him an assessing look, then turned away. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

  “I still haven’t agreed.”

  “Oh, there’s no question you will agree, giving the excellence of my services. You possess a modicum of intelligence, and you’re bound to come to the inevitable conclusion soon, and I would prefer to already begin my work.”

  He blinked.

  “I’ve drawn up a questionnaire for you,” she said. “Perhaps you can answer it?”

  “A questionnaire?”

  Miss Holloway gave him a stern look, and he sobered. Perhaps it was unnecessary to repeat everything she said with incredulity.

  “People know you are a duke and a boxer. Though the former fact is a definite advantage, the latter fact does inspire people toward unnecessary wariness. I would like to be able to approach women with a more rounded impression of you.”

  “Ah, you want to see whether we share skills in flower pressing and portrait drawing.”

  Miss Holloway’s cheeks didn’t flush. That was one of the things he was learning about her. Her cheeks rarely flushed. Embarrassment was something that happened to other people. Lately, it was happening to him.

  “Do you have skills in flower pressing, Your Grace?”

  “No,” Reggie admitted. “It is a hobby I have not taken up.”

  “What hobbies have you adopted?”

  “None,” Reggie said. “Boxing is sufficient.”

  “Hmm...” Miss Holloway tapped the edge of her chair, and Reggie was struck by her long and slender fingers. Somehow they managed to be graceful, even though her gloves were rather plain, lacking the adornment and frills some of the other women had.

  He forced his gaze from her hands.

  “We’ll have to give you a hobby of course,” Miss Holloway said.

  “You think it will be hard to marry me off?”

  “Nonsense, you’ll be easy to marry off, despite your vast debts.”

  Reggie cringed. He still wasn’t accustomed to anyone speaking about them. Perhaps some of his friends suspected. Lucas, certainly, was quite clever. But it wasn’t done for anyone to approach him about something so private.

  Miss Holloway didn’t share their qualms about privacy. It was something Reggie was confident he should despise about her, but he found it not nearly as distressing as he might have envisioned. There was comfort in the fact someone knew about him, even the unflattering things that would cause gossips’ eyes to gleam, and that it didn’t matter. No problem seemed too great for Miss Holloway, though he wished he could declare a passionate hobby for something besides boxing.

  He sighed. “Boxing has always been the most important thing to me.”

  He waited for her to make a joke about his aggressive nature, ponder the reason for his desire to best people physically, or comment that his tastes were more commonly found in the lower classes and that his mere birth should have eliminated any desire to participate in the often-brutal game.

  Instead, she tilted her head, removed a pencil from her reticule, and scribbled something.

  “What did you write?” he asked.

  She gazed at him, and her green eyes sparkled. It was odd, he thought, that emeralds were not lauded more. Everyone spoke about diamonds, but weren’t emeralds far more astonishing? Someone had on
ce told him the reason emeralds were not on more necklaces was because they were fragile. Diamonds, on the contrary, were sturdy and unlikely to shatter. He favored emeralds.

  “I wrote that you are devoted and industrious.”

  He blinked.

  “Both are necessary to maintain a career in boxing for so long.” She scribbled more things on the questionnaire, then returned her attention to him. “Moreover, you are determined. Those are all good qualities.”

  “No one has said that about me before,” he said softly.

  “Well, that was a mistake.”

  A waltz played, and couples danced together, abandoning the elaborate patterns of the more old-fashioned dances to simply spin, clutching each other.

  Reggie almost asked Daisy to dance, even though he’d never considered himself a dance enthusiast, favoring other methods of exercise that did not involve putting on silk dance slippers and spinning and gliding on a polished floor.

  But then he remembered that Daisy didn’t dance—couldn’t dance. Instead, he tilted his head toward her.

  “So, have you any prospects in mind for me?”

  “I do indeed.” She beamed, and something about her broadening lips, something about her shimmering eyes, made his heart swell.

  “Then where should I sign?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Now,” Miss Holloway said, after the papers were signed and tucked into her reticule, “let me introduce you to a potential candidate.”

  “Already?” Reggie widened his eyes.

  “I am very efficient.” Miss Holloway rolled her chair toward a woman in a pistachio-colored dress, and Reggie hurried after her, impressed by Miss Holloway’s speed.

  Miss Holloway chatted a bit with the woman, and Reggie hung back awkwardly. Finally, Miss Holloway gestured toward him, and he approached.

  “This is the duke I was telling you about,” Miss Holloway remarked.

  “Indeed.” Reggie eyed Miss Holloway’s companion uneasily.

  He could see why Miss Holloway had chosen to introduce Reggie to her. Reggie might not be an expert on female attire, but anyone could see this woman’s dress was expensive. It shimmered and shone under the six-hour candles. Her dark hair had been wrangled into an impressive up-do that made him hope her lady’s maid was well compensated, and she possessed a regal air that even royals might envy.