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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 matter 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?”
“Most unmemorable,” she said.
Did her emerald eyes always dance with such merriment? Or was there something about him that amused her?
“Forgive me, have we met?” he asked.
“I didn’t realize that you required such formalities,” she asked. “Given your personality.”
“My personality?” His eyes widened.
“Your gruff and beastly traits,” she explained, “are not typically aligned with formalities.”
“Ah.” He stared at her. “Evidently you know all about me.”
“Well.” She smiled, and sunshine splattered over her face. “I know you need a wife.”
“E-excuse me?” Reggie sputtered.
He stared at the slender woman with blonde hair that gleamed appealingly despite the dim light streaming from a window. “Don’t tell me. You would make yourself available for the task?”
She blinked. Her eyes were green, like some verdant field in an area not taken over by murky limestone buildings. He resisted the sudden temptation to stare at them, even if particularly pretty long lashes framed them.
“Nonsense,” the strange woman said. “I would never suggest myself as a wife. No lady would.”
“And you’re a lady?” he drawled, finding his mood was unexpectedly improved, even if an aching knee should deny the possibility of any good mood.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’m Miss Daisy Holloway.”
He stared at her blankly.
“I tried to pay a call to you a few days ago.”
Reggie pretended he hadn’t heard the faint note of surprise in her voice when he hadn’t recognized her name. Dash it, did all society women think he had nothing better to do than memorize the names of the entire ton and their offspring? His eyebrows lurched up. “Before I rescued you?”
She smiled. “In anticipation of your gallantry.”
He blinked. “You didn’t plan it, I suppose.”
“No,” she said lightly. “I don’t think I could have convinced my driver to cooperate.”
“Hmph.” His voice came out in a satisfactory growl, and he waited for her skin to pinken and for her to hurry away. That was women’s normal reaction to his glowers, and it suited Reggie well.
“I would like to be your matchmaker,” Miss Daisy Holloway announced.
His eyes widened. “Indeed?”
“You require a wife, and I am happy to find one for you.”
Reggie furrowed his brow. “I-I don’t understand.”
Miss Holloway gave him a patient smile, and for a moment, he was distracted by wondering which word would best describe the exact shade of her pink lips. “In my experience, men without wives are far more apt to be grumpy.”
“I don’t suppose you would like to propose yourself as possessing the requisite characteristics?” Reggie grumbled, bracing himself for a diatribe on this woman’s accomplishments.
“Nonsense, that would be absurd,” Miss Holloway said, and her green eyes shimmered.
Most women’s eyes glazed over when contemplating him, as if his title sparkled with the magnificence of the Matterhorn or the splendor of some newly gilded ballroom.
“Marriage to me isn’t absurd.”
“Of course not,” she said, in an instant conciliatory tone.
Reggie had the odd impression this woman would be suited to managing children.
“I don’t need a matchmaker,” Reggie said. “I don’t even need a wife.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” the woman said. “You need both. Very much.”
The back of Reggie’s neck warmed. Just what did this dashed woman know?
“I suppose you’re prone to romantic impulses?” he asked, hoping she would answer in the affirmative.
It would be far better for her to answer in the affirmative.
Please don’t let her say she knows about the money.
Reggie hadn’t thought anyone else knew how desperate he was, but perhaps that had been naive. Perhaps he’d thought that by not attending balls or societal soirees that he wouldn’t be the subject of gossip.
“I’m not prone to romanticism,” Miss Holloway said.
He stared at her, wishing he knew more about her. He assumed she was referring to a metaphorical position and not to the fact she hadn’t risen when he’d approached her, yet was calmly addressing him.
Most women rose and dipped into curtsies. Most men bowed.
He narrowed his eyes.
Well, perhaps she was correct not to stand.
He had made a mess of everything. He shouldn’t have injured himself. Not now. Not when it was vital he keep competing. Not when it was vital he win. He’d been lucky to meet Pritchard all these years ago. Damnation, he needed the money he won from boxing. Papa had seen to that with his blasted habit of gambling. If his competitors thought him feeble, it would be that much harder to prove them wrong.
Still, a matchmaker was out of the question.
He was a duke. He hardly needed someone to find him matches. Debutantes’ matchmaking mamas and proud papas were quite capable of thrusting prospective matches at him themselves.
“I don’t require your services,” he grumbled.
“Ah. Then I assume you have several prospects already in mind?”
His face reddened.
“Or perhaps you’re planning on attending a house party with many of the top debutantes and the ton’s other darlings?”
He shuddered. The last house party he’d attended had been at his friend Jasper’s home in Dorset. He would never have agreed to attend had he known his friend had intended to parade a debutante before them, in a not-so-subtle effort at marrying her off.
“I don’t require a matchmaker,” he said.
“You intend to go through life growling and glowering?”
The back of Reggie’s neck prickled. He hoped the sudden heat would not spread to his cheeks. Miss Holloway seemed to be the type of woman who would notice such color anomalies and make some remark about embarrassment or something similarly unmanly. He had no intention of her looking at him as unmanly.
“I don’t always growl,” he said sullenly. “Or glower.”
She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
But then, everything about her seemed perfect. Her nose certainly was. It turned up in a manner other men, more prone to sentimental poetic nonsense, might even term endearing.
Obviously, Reggie was not one of those men. Boxers seldom were.
“Some people would even call me charming,” he added, suddenly finding it important Miss Holloway didn’t think him a lovelorn, despondent man who couldn’t acquire a wife on his own. He didn’t know any men who used matchmaking services, but he was certain that it did not speak highly of them.
She shrugged. “Oh, no doubt.”
A faint pride swelled through him.
“Of course, they were probably considering your lofty title.”
He coughed and looked around.
“Was it meant to be a secret?” Miss Holloway asked, and her green eyes danced with obvious amusement.
“No, no.”
He had hoped it would be a secret though. It wouldn’t do for his competition to learn he’d injured himself so badly, that he needed to go to a spa to recover. Boxing was the one thing he excelled at, and he wasn’t going to let anything force him to give it up. He wasn’t going to have people ask him about his injured knee, as if he were an older relative whose conversation circled around aches and pains.
“Still, it doesn’t need to be widely known information,” Reggie said cautiously. Ever since Matchmaking for Wallflowers had admitted to hiring ladies of the ton to write gossip articles anonymously, Reggie had vowed to be cautious with the information he shared.
This woman might enjoy gossip. She possessed the sort of vibrant personality often found in talkative women, and talkative women might invariably turn to him as a source of amusement.
Not for the first time, Reggie considered that it would have been easier had he simply been born Mr. Jones. Most Mr. Joneses weren’t saddled with expensive, decaying castles after their fathers had purchased them in a sudden desire to make his dukedom appear loftier, and most Mr. Joneses could take on careers without being the object of scrutiny.
People found it odd that Reggie boxed, as if aristocrats were restricted to sipping sherry and perusing philosophical volumes.
“I should go,” he said suddenly.
“I’ll see you later,” she said with an odd confidence.
Reggie tightened his fists and marched toward the exit.
The woman had been impertinent. Most women simpered when he’d met them, batting their eyelashes with vigor, as if a sandstorm had just flown in from the Sahara. He’d always found those women frustrating, especially since they possessed a maddening habit of looking horrified when he declared he was a boxer, as if a penchant for hitting men during rounds meant a penchant for hitting people outside the ring.
Reggie quickened his steps, ignoring the sudden jolt of pain.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Reggie simply needed a wealthy wife, and then he could ease some of his burdens for caring for his estate. After all, selling his property was the absolute last thing he desired to do.
He raised his chin. He already knew how he was going to raise money: boxing. He simply had to heal his knee and arm. He wasn’t going to join those groups of fortune hunters who declared love for a woman simply because of their father’s investment portfolio. It was better to earn money through boxing to provide funds that could modernize his farming. His crops had had a few unlucky years, but the weather this year promised a much-improved crop. He just needed to hold out a bit longer.
He didn’t need to marry. Marriage was for other people. People who read poetry. People who wrote poetry. People who wandered around gardens just to pick flowers for their beloveds, as if a sudden attraction to someone had transformed them into flower arrangers.
No, Reggie wasn’t any of those things.
Perhaps other men might do that, but his stomach felt queasy at the thought. What would it be like to live with a person simply because in one moment, they’d succumbed to the lure of an easy answer to their desperation? Would one always resent them? When would one discover they had few things in common? Would Reggie be inadvertently assenting to a lifetime of unpleasant balls, watching his wife chatter merrily with other people, when she was always silent with him? Heavens, would she go about and have affairs, expecting him to do the same?
He sighed.
No, he had no desire to marry out of desperation. Besides, most people found help without the use of matchmakers. There was nothing romantic in declaring one had met a person after she’d come highly recommended by a nearly complete stranger. Where was the chance meeting? Where was the sudden surge of recognition that this person was fascinating?
Reggie shook his head. The matchmaker, though intriguing, would have to find another client. Somehow he didn’t think she would have difficulty doing it. He smiled, recalling her determination. It was a quality he was accustomed to seeing in all the best boxers, and one he hadn’t anticipated to find in her.
*
HAPPINESS FLITTED THROUGH Daisy when she met Mrs. Powell.
“You’re smiling,” Mrs. Powell said.
“I spoke with the duke,” Daisy said. “In the corridor.”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes sparkled. “How very interesting. Did you tell him your plan for him?”
Daisy nodded. “He said no.”
Mrs. Powell’s face sobered. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted him to be your first client.”
Daisy shrugged. “He still will be.”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes widened.
“You needn’t be so shocked,” Daisy said. “These things take time, and I am in ample possession of it.”
“Then what would you like to do next?”
“I’m going to start creating a portfolio of eligible women in Bath. Sometimes facts can be alluring.”
Mrs. Powell nodded. “Very well.”
“And then I’ll have to make sure to see him again.”
“You can’t always remain in this corridor.”
Daisy smiled. “No, I had a more festive location in mind.”
Mrs. Powell wrinkled her brow. “I hope you don’t intend to bring musicians here.”
Daisy giggled. “Wouldn’t that be amusing?” She shook her head. “I suspect that there are some people will be quite interested to learn that the duke is in Bath. I intend to let them know.”
“Indeed?”
“It is the courteous thing to do,” Daisy said grandly. “Let’s call on Mrs. Tortworth. She’s holding a ball on Saturday night, but I’m certain she could expand her guest list to include a duke.”
Mrs. Powell smiled. “You’re terrible.”
“Courteous,” Daisy corrected, but she smiled as well.
She had a plan; a marvelous one.