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

by Blythe, Bianca

Reggie widened his eyes. “You want me to plan a party?”

  Daisy smiled. “Surely that’s within your considerable capabilities?”

  Reggie shifted in his seat. “I don’t know how to plan a party.”

  “There will be no risk of drowning,” Miss Holloway said.

  Reggie scrunched his lips together and nodded. “Well, there is that. I never saw it as an advantage before, but it—er—obviously has its merits.”

  “Precisely.”

  That blasted smile was on Daisy’s face again, and her eyes danced.

  “You find this amusing.” He slouched in his seat and hugged his arms to his chest, contemplating cutlery placements, table arrangements, and the process of procuring musicians.

  “Well, I could, of course, simply select a woman I think is most qualified, and then you can wrangle an introduction to her via her parents and...”

  “No,” Reggie said quickly. “That won’t do. Her parents will start exerting pressure for me to propose at once.”

  “For a man who regularly fights in a boxing ring—you have gotten hit before?”

  He nodded dumbly.

  “For a person who has allowed to get himself hit by perfect strangers before, you do seem disproportionately frightened of parents.”

  “They’re intimidating. You don’t know what it’s like when others view you as a catch.”

  “No,” she said with a sad smile, glancing at her Bath chair, “I suppose I don’t.”

  His heart thudded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I apologize.”

  Damnation.

  She probably didn’t have men calling on her door, and not just because she was untitled and not an heiress.

  “Men are beasts,” he said, confident that at least no one could find fault with that statement. “But I assure you that you are absolutely a catch.”

  Miss Holloway’s eyes widened.

  “You’re beautiful,” Reggie continued ardently. “And bright and charming. Any man would be lucky to have you.”

  She shot him a wobbly smile, then averted her gaze.

  Blast.

  “Now, tell me more about this party,” Reggie said.

  Miss Holloway’s face brightened. “I can draw up a guest list. And send out the invitations. I assume you have ducal stationary?”

  Reggie nodded. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

  “Can we have a lift tomorrow, too?” Mrs. Powell widened her eyes.

  Miss Holloway shot her a stern look. “One mustn’t presume.”

  “On this, you’re quite welcome to presume,” Reggie said grandly. “There’s no reason why we can’t always return together.”

  A cloud formed on Miss Holloway’s face, and warmth crept up Reggie’s neck. It occurred to him that unmarried men and women generally weren’t supposed to spend time together alone.

  “Because you have your lady’s maid,” Reggie said hastily. “I’m certain Mrs. Powell wouldn’t permit anything untoward to happen.”

  “That’s very true,” Mrs. Powell said.

  “And she’s quite strong,” Miss Holloway said. “Everyone knows that.”

  Mrs. Powell cast a glance at Reggie’s arms. “I wouldn’t like to go up against those biceps.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Reggie promised, and Mrs. Powell nodded, evidently assuaged.

  He turned to Miss Holloway. “But I’m afraid I’ll need more help than a guest list. I need to find musicians, someone to make decent food, and of course, there are the flowers to consider.”

  “Flowers?”

  Reggie nodded, surprised that Miss Holloway was raising her eyebrows. “Flowers are most important.”

  She smiled. “What kind do you like?”

  He shifted in his seat. “I don’t know. Something—er—pretty.”

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  He gazed at her, noting how her eyes sparkled and shimmered. “Green.”

  This time her mouth fell open. His mouth dried. No doubt she remembered that her own eyes were green. She immediately composed herself, and an odd disappointment moved through him.

  “In that case, we’ll be certain to retain their stems,” Daisy said.

  Reggie ignored that his neck was once again on fire and simply gave a curt nod. “Good.”

  Miss Holloway scribbled a note with her pencil. “I’ll draw up a sample plan for a soiree.”

  “It won’t be expensive, will it?” he asked uncomfortably.

  “Only if you have to buy new attire.”

  He frowned.

  “Which you won’t,” she added hastily. “Your clothes are...nice.”

  The word shouldn’t have caused Reggie’s heart to swell, but somehow it did so anyway. He gazed out the window, lest he beam at her idiotically. Reggie didn’t care about attire, but somehow he appreciated any compliment from her.

  The carriage slowed, and Reggie realized the driver had arrived at Miss Holloway’s townhouse. He felt a twinge of irritation that he’d somehow neglected to tell the driver to take the long way to her home. This street was narrower, and he stepped from the carriage and removed Miss Holloway’s Bath chair. Then he lifted Miss Holloway in his arms and took her from the carriage. He was conscious of the warmth of her body, and for some odd reason, his heartbeat quickened. He should be doing more exercise; certainly, she didn’t weigh much. His arm panged, but he didn’t drop her. He would never drop her.

  Mrs. Powell helped him slide Miss Holloway into the Bath chair.

  Miss Holloway turned to him with a bright smile on her face. “Thank you for the ride. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Reggie removed his top hat and bowed. “I look forward to it.”

  Then he reentered the carriage, and the driver crept away, moving over the narrowed cobbled street. Only later did it occur to him that he shouldn’t be looking forward to any soiree.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Alistair!”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I’m—er—going to have a guest here.”

  “Ah.” Alistair tilted his head, and his eyes shimmered. “Would that be a lady guest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. What a pleasure for you. I’ll tell the housekeeper. Perhaps she can arrange some rose petals to be scattered about the bedroom.” Alistair winked.

  “N-not that kind of guest,” Reggie shrieked, sending a horrified look about the corridor to determine if any chambermaids had overheard. He lowered his voice. “A very distinguished guest.”

  “Well, I—er—apologize. I misunderstood,” Alistair said stiffly.

  “You didn’t entirely misunderstand,” Reggie admitted. “She is very much a lady. And—er—quite delightful.”

  Alistair furrowed his brow. “Will she be accompanied by a chaperone then? I can tell Mrs. Simpson to prepare some Bath buns.”

  Reggie scratched the back of his neck. “That—er—sounds good. It will be more of a business appearance for her.”

  Alistair’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Not the ‘oldest type of profession in the world’ business,” he said hastily, adding a laugh that managed to sound false even to his ears. Doubtless it was the reason for the pained and baffled expression that soon appeared on Alistair’s face.

  “Just—er—make certain everything is splendid. Like it always is, of course,” he added, before Alistair could take offense.

  His manservant seemed to understand, for he smiled. “Nothing overly romantic.”

  He blinked, and for one moment, he imagined Alistair filling the room with flowers for an illicit, ever-so-romantic meeting between Miss Holloway and himself. He shook his head slightly, as if to dispel the scene. Miss Holloway and he were friends. After all, Miss Holloway’s chief topic of conversation with him was the merits of other women.

  He sighed. He had a business arrangement with Miss Holloway. He needed a wealthy bride, and she was eager to arrange an appropriate match for him. She was certainly aware of the fact, and he should not pon
der her personal merits.

  “Well. Nothing romantic at all,” Reggie said. “But—er—pleasant.”

  “Perhaps I can tell the housekeeper to put fresh roses in vases,” Alistair suggested.

  “That would be splendid.” Reggie beamed, relieved. “And then no one will have to pull the petals off to scatter them about the room.”

  “Most beneficial,” Alistair agreed, nodding his head. His eyes twinkled, even though Reggie was certain this was no time for eye twinkling.

  “She’ll have to act quickly,” Reggie said, suddenly worried. “My—er—guest is coming tomorrow afternoon. I’m not sure when flower stands are open...”

  “I’ll inform her,” Alistair said. “We’ll make sure the apartment is decked with flowers.”

  “Good, good.” Reggie scrunched his lips together. “Women are curious things, aren’t they, Alistair?”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t need flowers if I were to invite a male guest.”

  “Perhaps not, Your Grace. Though I might venture to add that flowers are universally appealing.”

  “Yes. I suppose it’s good to have women here from time to time.”

  “Quite true, Your Grace.” Alistair’s eyes glimmered.

  Reggie frowned. For some reason, Alistair seemed to find amusement in their conversation. It was most frustrating, and utterly unnecessary.

  “ARE YOU CONFIDENT IT’S proper to go to the duke’s house?” An uncharacteristically worried tone was in Mrs. Powell’s voice as she wheeled Daisy toward the duke’s townhouse.

  Daisy blinked. “Of course it’s proper.”

  “But he’s a man,” Mrs. Powell said. “And you’re an unmarried woman.”

  “I’m his matchmaker. That’s an entirely different category.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Daisy swallowed hard. Had Mrs. Powell seen something in Daisy’s relationship with the duke that she’d attempted to avoid? Had Daisy been too eager to see him? Too happy to chatter with him?

  A horrible feeling settled in her stomach.

  Heavens.

  Mrs. Powell was correct. She was behaving like a foolish schoolgirl. She crossed her arms against her chest and then, conscious of Mrs. Powell’s scrutiny, she dropped them. Her fingers pattered against her chair, and for a moment, she wished she could leave the entry before someone answered the door.

  She bit her lip. Perhaps she did admire the duke. Surely that was only natural. There was much about the duke to admire. Perhaps he was not suave; perhaps not every sentence he uttered was a playful jest, honed by years of witty conversation in society’s highest circles; but that only meant the words he said mattered more. There was something raw and unpolished in his demeanor that appealed to her.

  “Miss Holloway?” Mrs. Powell’s voice shook her from her reverie.

  Daisy had not just been contemplating the duke’s excellent qualities. Not his kind nature, not his broad shoulders, not his sturdy figure....

  Her skin warmed, even though Daisy’s skin never warmed. Embarrassment was something for other people, those who weren’t accustomed to entering each room being tinier than everyone else, who didn’t have to scrutinize paths with the same care when they wanted to merely cross the room, lest some impediment hinder them.

  Still.

  Mrs. Powell leaned down.

  “I think the duke is fond of you,” Mrs. Powell whispered.

  Daisy raised her chin. “And why shouldn’t he be?”

  “I meant fond of you,” Mrs. Powell said.

  Daisy blinked. “He’s merely grateful for my professional services. Besides, he was most perturbed to see me the other day at his rendezvous with the princess.”

  “He was most distracted by you,” Mrs. Powell said.

  Daisy’s heartbeat quickened, but she shook her head. Firmly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You could marry,” Mrs. Powell murmured. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  Daisy frowned. She wouldn’t let Mrs. Powell’s fanciful words enter her mind. She glared, as if the fact might hinder them from entering. “Mrs. Powell, I suspect you are in need of less romantic reading material.”

  “You like those books too.”

  “Perhaps. But—er—never mind. The point is, perhaps they are as dangerous as some people say.”

  Mrs. Powell gave her a wounded look.

  “The duke requires funds,” Daisy said, “and my father has none.”

  Mrs. Powell scrunched her lips together, but remained silent.

  “I am going to match the duke with a woman whose father is in possession of money. That’s the only reason we’re going to the duke’s residence.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Powell said, her gaze still focused on Daisy.

  Daisy nodded. She would find his ideal match. The man certainly deserved it, despite his habit of scowling in the most frustrating of fashions.

  Mrs. Powell sighed. She glanced both ways, as if half-expecting to see Daisy’s father striding on the pavement. Finally, she grasped hold of the cast-iron door knocker and tapped.

  The door opened promptly, and Alistair opened the door. He beamed. “It’s you.”

  “Yes,” Daisy said.

  “I’m so pleased.” Alistair leaned down, and his eyes shimmered. “His Grace is most looking forward to seeing you.”

  “We thought he might be terrified,” Mrs. Powell said.

  Alistair’s eyebrows darted up, and he emitted a hearty laugh that reminded Daisy of the sounds coming out of public houses after particularly good sports tournaments.

  He leaned near Daisy and whispered, “Be sure to compliment the flowers.”

  “Oh?” Daisy smiled. “Perhaps there’s hope he can be a good husband yet.”

  Alistair tilted his head. “Are you to become his duchess?”

  Daisy blinked. Was the man teasing her? “Of course not.”

  The man’s face sobered. “Forgive me. I merely thought...” He shook his head. “I’ll tell the housekeeper to bring up some sweets with the tea.”

  “How lovely,” Daisy said.

  “Cook has been baking all day.”

  “I’ll be sure to compliment them as well.”

  “I quite like you,” Alistair said as he helped Mrs. Powell lift Daisy and her chair into the house. Then he opened the door to the drawing room.

  Daisy rolled over the black-and-white marble tiles, unhindered in the foyer by carpets or imposing furniture. Her heart lightened, and she reminded herself not to become accustomed to the splendor, no matter how mesmerizing the sparkling chandeliers were.

  Alistair cleared his throat and announced her, before waving her into the drawing room.

  Though she’d been here before, Daisy took in the gilt ceiling, the abundance of vibrant flowers jutting from immaculate vases, and the marble columns. Daisy suspected the latter had been installed for their majestic effect, rather than any worry the ceiling might collapse.

  The duke rose and gave a deep bow. “I’m happy you could come.”

  “My pleasure.” Daisy beamed and pushed her chair toward the long sofa where the duke sat. Her wheels wobbled over the thick-piled carpets that dotted over the room, but thankfully, Daisy did not need to call for help. Soon she pulled her chair opposite the duke. “How nice to see you.”

  “Yes.” The duke stared at her with an altogether unnecessary intensity.

  Daisy’s mouth dried. Her heart started to beat with a faster rhythm, and she held onto the handles of her chair, lest her heart be tempted to sway from her body. For a moment, Daisy almost found herself staring into his rich, deep eyes with equal intensity. Then she pulled her gaze away and settled on a vase filled with tulips. “The flowers are beautiful.”

  Alistair gave her an approving nod, then cleared his throat. “I’ll inform the housekeeper that your guests have arrived.”

  Daisy turned to Mrs. Powell. “Please sit down.”

  Mrs. Powell shifted her legs, and an un
certain expression flitted across her face, the kind people had when they ventured on a scene they might deem private.

  “You’re my chaperone,” Daisy reminded her. Mrs. Powell sat down quickly and fixed her gaze on the duke, as if she were worried he might leap across the glossy leather scroll-top mahogany coffee table, tip the vase of flowers over, and do untoward things.

  Daisy smiled. Everyone was most fussy.

  Naturally, the duke would never do such a thing.

  The duke’s face sobered. “Perhaps it was inappropriate to invite you.”

  “Nonsense,” Daisy said briskly. “Everything is quite fine. Besides, you’re a boxer. That’s far the most scandalous thing about you.”

  “I suppose it might be difficult to find me a match,” the duke said, settling onto the sofa.

  “It would be easier if you didn’t tip princesses into rivers.”

  “That was a mistake.” The duke shifted his legs. “And I got wet, too.”

  “I’m certain that’s a consolation for her,” Daisy said.

  The housekeeper arrived with tea and scones. She grinned when she saw Daisy.

  “Those look most scrumptious,” Daisy said.

  The housekeeper beamed and scurried from the room.

  Daisy tilted her head. “Are the servants afraid of you?”

  “Of me?” The duke widened his eyes. “Why would they be? I’m not frightening.”

  He growled when he spoke, and his eyes flashed.

  Daisy smiled. “I agree.” She removed her notebook from her satchel and opened it.

  “No, no,” the duke protested. “Scones first. It’s a house rule.”

  “I suppose it’s not a terrible rule.”

  “Of course it’s not. I invented it.” The duke sat back with evident pride, munching into a piece particularly slathered with clotted cream.

  “Now,” Daisy said, “what would you like to see in a ball?”

  “Happy faces.”

  Daisy smiled. “That’s a most wonderful instinct.”

  The duke’s chest broadened.

  “Now, I’ve compiled a collection of women to invite. Princess Aria has already accepted the invitation.”

  “Indeed?” The duke raised his eyebrows.

  “It seems she has ample funds for new dresses, and there’s a dearth of balls to attend.”