“And that’s why you want to be a matchmaker and become independent.”
She nodded. “Precisely.”
“Let me fetch you a drink.” Before she could protest and say some nonsense about how she was perfectly comfortable and didn’t require anything, Reggie stepped into the throng of partygoers and made his way to the banquet table.
CHAPTER TEN
Well.
Personally, Daisy would have expected the duke to extol Emmaline’s qualities with more enthusiasm. She’d worked hard to select the most suitable woman for him.
Still. Perhaps it wasn’t terrible if the duke adopted a nonchalant view toward marriage. He had the rest of his life to converse with Emmaline. No doubt, he didn’t want to make any future breakfast conversations dull by spending all his time now asking questions about her. The duke was displaying forward-thinking behavior that should be commended.
She sighed. No doubt, the duke would make an excellent, considerate husband. Emmaline was fortunate.
The duke soon reappeared, triumphantly holding a silver platter piled with canapés and two crystal tumblers of an amber liquid that looked nothing like ratafia or lemonade.
“You brought it,” Daisy breathed.
“Indeed.” The duke grinned and sat beside her. His movements were more graceful than before, and something about all six feet four inches of him made her heartbeat quicken.
She frowned slightly. Her heart wasn’t supposed to quicken. That said, if it did it was a good sign, since it made it more likely Emmaline Grady’s heart would react in a similar manner to the duke’s presence. A love match was the best sort of match, after all. Clearly, the duke had taken this occasion with the seriousness it deserved and dressed with admirable aplomb.
Daisy stared at him. In truth, he didn’t appear to be dressed differently than at the last ball. Still, something about him seemed more relaxed, as if he were always on the verge of one of his glorious baritone chuckles.
He balanced the silver platter piled with delicious food on his lap and handed her a crystal tumbler. “My lady.”
She eyed the food. “Were you supposed to take the whole platter?”
“It was a covert mission.” His eyes twinkled.
“Oh.” For some reason, she averted her gaze, as if she’d accidentally looked at the sun.
She held the crystal glass in her hand. He picked up his glass, then clinked it with her own. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she murmured, before sipping the drink. Fire moved through her throat, and she shot him an astonished look. “It burns.”
“Indeed.” He picked up another glass. “I also brought coffee.”
She smiled and reached for it. Their fingers touched for a moment, and a strange energy swirled through Daisy. She drew the glass back quickly and raised it hastily to her lips, waiting for the warm liquid to soothe her in its customary manner.
Unfortunately, it did not. Instead, her heart began to beat at an all too rapid pace. She frowned slightly.
“Are you quite well?” Concern filled his dark brown eyes. It occurred to Daisy for the first time that it was odd poets lauded the merits of more vibrant eye colors, when no other color could possibly appear as warm or as comforting as brown.
She nodded hastily.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought the drink,” he said.
“No, no.” Daisy took a hasty sip of the brandy. This time she expected the burning sensation, and this time she understood why people found pleasure in it. “It’s—er—lovely.”
He snorted. “I’m glad you like it.”
For a while, they ate in silence, and a warm feeling spread through Daisy’s body.
The duke tilted his head. “So your friends really married my friends?”
Daisy nodded.
“Well, you’ve made life much duller for me.”
“Then you’d better marry Miss Grady quickly,” Daisy said. “She’s certain to entertain.”
The duke nodded, though this time he didn’t say anything, and his face had sobered. For a wild moment, she imagined him declaring an interest in her. She sighed. Obviously, that was not the case, would never be the case. All men felt trepidation against matrimony, even as all women were encouraged to desire it.
“I suppose I should meet her,” the duke said finally.
“That’s generally advised before the wedding.” Daisy forced a bland smile upon her face. Usually smiling was a less difficult task. “Though I’ve heard that in the most western portion of the former colonies, some people order their brides through the mail.”
“I suppose you haven’t added that particular service to your matchmaking offerings?” the duke asked.
Daisy giggled. “No. And I’m afraid I have no plans to.”
“Ah, then my manservant, Alistair, will continue to find the mail a dull task.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be more helpful to him.”
Reggie sighed. “Not every task can bring the same joy as mixing me drinks.”
“Your manservant does that?”
“It is his favorite task. He’s quite good with my attire as well, though that is less helpful in impressing the ladies.”
“On the contrary, I find an unwrinkled collar very impressive,” Daisy said.
“I’ll be sure to tell him.” He smiled at her, and Daisy scrutinized his collar, noting that the duke’s manservant was deserving of praise. Unfortunately, somehow when her gaze moved to his white starched collar, it drifted to his other features. A jagged scar rippled down the right side of his face, and she resisted the urge to trace her fingers over it. His Adam’s apple moved above his cravat, a symbol of masculinity, and her skin prickled. His shoulders were broad, and his arms—well, there was a reason he was a successful boxer.
She forced her gaze from him and focused instead on the dancers. The music tempo had slowed, and various couples were swirling to a waltz. Their long pastel dresses, overlaid with gauze and adorned with ribbons and flounces, swirled. What might dancing be like? She suddenly smoothed her dress, conscious the cut was several seasons too old. Her sleeves were delicate, and she envied the volume some of the more fashionable women had for their sleeves.
Having a new dress was not essential: no one could see how it fell, and money could be spent on less frivolous things. Still, the embroidered red flowers on her hem suddenly seemed childish, and the stark green color suddenly seemed tiresome rather than refreshing. How many times had she worn this green dress and been wheeled into the ballroom, arriving early each time? What might it be like to arrive late, to be able to saunter in through throngs of people, not worried that the wheels of her chair might inadvertently damage some silk slipper and the foot inside?
“You seem quiet,” the duke said.
Daisy promptly pasted a smile on her face. “I’m quite fine.”
“Good,” the duke said, but his gaze still scrutinized her.
She had the sudden impression the duke knew all about forced smiles. Perhaps he was an expert at pasting them on his face as well.
He extended the silver platter of canapés, and she soon bit into a walnut cream cheese finger sandwich.
“Daisy!” Her father’s voice distracted her from her contemplation of the pleasantness of the taste, and she looked up.
Her father held two drinks of lemonade and was staring at the now-empty crystal tumbler in Daisy’s hand. Unfortunately, a few amber-colored droplets remained.
“Your Grace,” Daisy said quickly, sliding the tumbler onto the silver platter. “May I present, my father, Mr. Holloway?”
The duke shot him a wide smile, and Daisy was baffled how she ever could have considered the duke sour tempered.
“Oh!” Her father’s eyes widened. No doubt he was unaccustomed to finding Daisy speaking with any man, and the fact he was a duke made the circumstance no less strange.
“Father, this is the Duke of Hammett.”
Daisy waited for her father to smile and murmur polite banal
ities. Instead, he frowned slightly, even though her father was seldom impolite to anyone. Daisy thought it odd her father had decided to distance himself from his reputation for cordiality by glowering at a duke.
“You’re the boxer,” her father said.
The duke stiffened beside her, and Daisy’s heart managed to tumble.
“He’s recuperating from an injury.” Daisy glanced at him. “A small injury.”
“Ah.” Her father nodded. “And that keeps you confined to the wallflower section?”
Ruddy circles appeared on the duke’s cheeks, and he rose.
“I’m afraid I’ve been occupying your attention, Miss Holloway. It was a pleasure speaking to you.” He turned to her father. “It was nice to meet you as well.”
Then he moved away, disappearing into the crowded ballroom.
“Well.” Papa sat down on the newly vacant chair. “What was all that about?”
“I’m afraid you were rude.”
“Nonsense,” Papa said matter-of-factly. “I’m never rude. Besides, he’s a boxer. I’m certain that hobby rather personifies rudeness.”
“How so?”
Papa turned to her, and her eyebrows lifted to a perch Daisy was unaccustomed to. “He’s a boxer. He goes about hitting people. Strangers. No polite man would do that.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “It’s a sport.”
“Well, it’s an odd sport to pursue.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Walking or swimming. Or he could do as the Scots do and go about walking in a glorious field and hit balls with a long stick.”
“Golf?”
Papa nodded. “Yes, indeed. Much more respectable. Imagine all the lovely conversations one would have. And no sweating. Sweating is not considerate behavior for one’s servants. They do so prefer spot cleaning.”
“I suspect his boxing attire can be washed with more frequency, without regard to fading.”
Papa sniffed. “Well, one could do all sorts of things. Still, I don’t like to see you speak with someone of such a disreputable character.”
“He’s a duke.”
“That, my dear, makes no difference. He’s still a man. I would have thought you would have read enough broadsheets to know that.”
For the first time, Daisy understood that finding a match for the duke might be more difficult than she’d initially thought. Her heart sank. The duke was brilliant. Everyone should recognize it.
And yet, the thought that someone would recognize that, and the duke would be whisked away to a life as a newlywed, also didn’t provide her with the comfort she’d thought it would.
She watched as the duke introduced himself to Miss Emmaline Grady, and her heart ached.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next day, Daisy returned to the spa. Rain toppled from the gray sky and collided noisily onto the water. The wind blustered, as if deciding the rain had not sufficiently cooled the temperature.
The now-too-frigid water swept over her, but she forced herself to be calm. She’d taken the waters for years. Some of the newer clients shrieked, wary their muscular attendants might become distracted.
There were other people who couldn’t walk, other people who had come to Bath in search of a cure.
And some of them found one.
Daisy focused on her plans for the duke, ignoring the odd manner in which her body had reacted to his presence. Despite society’s hesitations about him, Daisy was confident he was more pleasant than his reputation indicated.
Daisy was relieved when she met Mrs. Powell outside. Mrs. Powell helped her into her Bath chair. Mrs. Powell left Daisy’s wheelchair at the spa, then wheeled Daisy outside. Some of the people who couldn’t walk were carried in sedan chairs by muscular men, others were ushered into carriages.
Then Daisy saw him.
The duke was outside. Or more correctly, the duke was inside a gleaming barouche. He tipped his top hat to her.
“Let me give you a lift,” he said.
Daisy’s eyes widened, and she stared at the glossy contraption. She’d seen barouches move through Bath, pulled by trotting, well-groomed horses. But she’d never been in one.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she said.
“Of course you can. Besides, we have more to talk about, and I don’t think your father would like me to come for tea.” The duke glanced at Mrs. Powell. “You can come, too.”
Mrs. Powell grinned. “Can we, Miss?”
“Fine. Though I’ll need to be helped out of this thing.” Daisy glowered at the Bath chair.
The duke sprang from the barouche and kneeled before her. “May I?”
Her mouth dried, but she nodded.
The duke scooped her into his arms. Heat swirled about her as he pressed her gently against his chest, and a masculine scent of cedar and cotton wafted about him. Mrs. Powell and he assisted her into the barouche, lifted the Bath chair carefully inside, then followed her inside. Daisy sank into the luxurious velvet cushions and stared at the well-crafted vehicle. She moved her fingers tentatively over the curved wood. “It’s lovely.”
The duke beamed. “I think so. Now, where do you live?”
Mrs. Powell gave the address, and the duke repeated it to the driver. Soon they were off.
The horses made a pleasant sound as their hooves interacted with the cobblestones. The barouche swayed slightly, but the journey far exceeded the Bath chair in comfort. Nobody cast her pitying glances. Even here, people weren’t accustomed to seeing people her age in Bath chairs, and she despised when they seemed to try to determine the cause of her lack of ambulatory powers.
Mrs. Powell seemed equally thrilled at being inside, no doubt relieved not to have to push Daisy up the long hill that led to her parents’ residence. Daisy gave her a bright smile, though her heart fell. Mrs. Powell always insisted she didn’t mind assisting Daisy up the long series of hills that led to the townhouse Daisy’s father had rented. Her obvious joy indicated that the walk truly had been unpleasant. Daisy sighed and wished she could do everything herself.
It was an oddity of Bath that despite its forbidding hills and frequent use of cobblestone, it had made a successful economy by catering to those for whom both those things were filled with trepidation. Sometimes Daisy suspected so many people came here for their health simply because of Bath’s easy access to London and all of its accompanying splendors.
Daisy cleared her throat. It had been kind of the duke to give her and her lady’s maid a lift, but she was not going to squander the time by devoting needless energy to admiring the man’s carriage.
Or him.
Her throat dried, and she forced herself to think of other things, no matter how tempted she was to linger on his chiseled face, broad shoulders, and well-shaped thighs. The last thing she required was for him to think she’d developed a fascination for him. That was the sort of thing that might make him regard her as unprofessional. Perhaps certain kitchen maids might find themselves besotted with the master of the house, and indeed, perhaps certain governesses had absconded with their widowed employers, but Daisy would not do that.
Not that she would have the opportunity anyway. The duke required a wealthy woman to save his estate.
She inhaled. Perhaps other matchmakers might start looking cow-eyed at their clients, and perhaps other matchmakers might even start recommending less suitable, less exquisite matches, in order to have their clients decide to marry them instead. Daisy refused to succumb to such childish nonsense. Once she matched the duke to someone worthy of him and he said his vows at the altar, her career and accompanying elevated position would be secured.
Hopeful mothers and elderly grandmothers would employ her so that she might persuade their rakish offspring to marry. And she would succeed.
Too frequently, people married merely because they were of a similar class, lived nearby, and even more frequently, had parents who enjoyed one another’s company. Somehow, people seemed eager to match their offspring with little
thought to their respective personalities.
Daisy would match people together—so that they might live happily ever after. She wanted the duke to find a woman who would love and adore him every bit as much as he deserved to be loved and adored. And she wanted was to find a woman whom he would cherish in return.
She would do it.
She had to do it. That way, the duke would no longer be poor. That way, she could become independent and form a life of her own, one not influenced by doctors eager for more of her father’s coin, offering impossible cures.
She would be free.
And it would be delightful.
She ignored the faint twinge in her chest that indicated it might be bittersweet to see the duke gaze in admiration of another woman.
“I’ve found some more prospects for you,” she announced.
The duke turned to her. “Indeed.”
She nodded. “I think you’ll be quite happy.”
“How nice.”
She turned to Mrs. Powell. “May I please have my satchel?”
Mrs. Powell gave it to her, and Daisy rummaged through her bag, despite the slight swaying of the carriage as it moved up a cobblestone-covered hill.
“Perhaps we can do this another time,” the duke said, his voice gentle.
“Nonsense,” Daisy said. “That was the point of the lift.”
A cloud moved over the duke’s face, and for an odd moment, she thought he might debate her on that particular point.
REGGIE GRINNED WHEN he returned to his rooms. The ride with Miss Holloway and her maid had been invigorating, even though winding streets and carriage rides typically were an imperfect mix.
“You’re in a jovial mood, Your Grace,” Alistair remarked. “Good news about your injuries?”
“No,” Reggie admitted.
“Ah, you’re just enjoying the Bath social scene.”
Reggie shot him an astonished look. “I suppose so.”
“It is a magical town.”
“I suppose it has a certain charm.” Reggie gazed through the window. Perhaps the buildings all looked alike, but there was a certain comfort in that.
The Duke Meets His Matchmaker (The Duke Hunters Club, #5) Page 7