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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.
Perhaps it was fine not to be in London, and not hurrying to different competitions, in different parts of the city. Perhaps it was fine simply to rest.
He blinked. What odd things he was thinking. He turned to Alistair. “My injuries are much improved.”
Alistair smiled. “Then perhaps we should hold a ball.”
“Yes,” Reggie agreed, though he couldn’t bring himself to mirror Alistair’s smile at the prospect of a ball. Still, there was plenty else to smile about, such as his encounters with the matchmaker. Miss Holloway was so eager, so animated, that he’d been overwhelmed with her enthusiasm.
“I would like to go for a walk,” Reggie said.
“A walk?” Alistair’s eyebrows shot up. “Not a jaunt with Ulysses?”
Reggie shook his head. “No, simply a walk.”
Alistair gazed at Reggie’s leg. “But your limp.”
“The exercise will do it good.”
“But people might see—”
Reggie smiled. “Then let them see. Besides, should I find the process exhausting, I can always find a bench.”
“A bench, Your Grace?” Alistair’s eyebrows widened.
Reggie nodded. “Certainly, you know about benches.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Alistair murmured. “But I’ve never seen you make use of one before.”
“That, Alistair, may have been a mistake,” Reggie said loftily.
“Very good, Your Grace, I shall keep benches in mind.”
Reggie strode to the door. A knock on the main door interrupted him, and he turned and glanced at Alistair.
“It seems you have a caller, Your Grace.”
Reggie nodded and eyed the door suspiciously. Few people knew he was in Bath. Had one of his friends found out after all? All of them should be at their estates. Any servant would use the entrance near the kitchen.
“I’m not expecting anyone,” Reggie grumbled.
“Then let’s see who it is,” Alistair said smoothly and answered the door.
Reggie eyed the door. Had perhaps the Tortworths decided to call on him? He’d been standoffish at the ball, but he had spoken to them.
Or was it Miss Holloway?
Reggie’s heartbeat quickened involuntarily, and he stared as Alistair opened the door.
“I’m here to see the Beast.” A man pushed inside the door, and Alistair shot Reggie an astonished, apologetic glance.
Reggie inhaled. “Pritchard. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“You know this man, Your Grace?” Alistair asked.
“I do,” Reggie said.
Pritchard slapped him on the back. “You make it sound like you know me reluctantly.”
“I know everyone reluctantly,” Reggie grumbled, though he realized the words lacked accuracy. He no longer found Miss Holloway frustrating. Indeed, even Alistair was quite pleasant.
“I’m sorry,” Reggie said.
“I’ll send the housekeeper up with some tea and sweets,” Alistair said.
“No sweets.” Pritchard warned. “This man is going to fight!”
“Fight?” Alistair’s eyebrows lurched up.
“Fight?” Reggie echoed.
Pritchard nodded. “I found you a good match. It’s next week in London.”
Oh.
“I didn’t think you’d be able to arrange anything else for me this season,” Reggie said.
Pritchard grinned. “Everyone wants to see the Beast.”
“But I’m not ready,” Reggie said.
“I’ll take you with me now. The carriage is outside.” Pritchard jerked a thumb in Alistair’s direction. “I imagine he can pack.”
Reggie had no doubt Alistair would be a competent packer. Still, he couldn’t simply go to London. Then he wouldn’t see Daisy again. She was planning to find him a wife. It would be rude simply to leave.
“Now, I know what you’re going to say,” Pritchard said.
Reggie blinked. “You do?”
For a wild moment, he thought Pritchard might have known that Reggie had been spending time with a certain Miss Holloway. The man was brash and dastardly. He’d managed to convince Reggie to take up boxing to make money after seeing Reggie’s performance while training. Making money from the sport hadn’t been Reggie’s idea, but Pritchard had been certain Reggie’s title would be an added draw, and he’d been correct.
Pritchard nodded and gave a smug smile.
“That’s too early,” Reggie protested.
“I knew you might say that. You’ve been getting cold feet. But don’t worry, I already checked with your doctor in Bath. You’re pretty much healed.”
Reggie shifted his legs. The action would have caused him pain only a week ago.
His doctor had told him he was better, but Reggie had dismissed the comment. After all, he’d rented rooms in Bath for a longer period, and he’d seen no need to stop visiting the spa entirely. If he stopped visiting the spa, he might see Miss Holloway less, and then she might feel abandoned. Obviously, that action was impossible.
If he left now, he might never see her again. The thought shouldn’t have distressed him, but his heart ached, and he rubbed his fingers against his chest.
Alistair gave him an odd look. Reggie didn’t regularly go about massaging his chest.
“The doctor was trying to oversell his prowess,” Reggie said finally. “The truth is, I’m not healed. Far from it.”
“Oh.” Pritchard’s eyebrows pushed together, like cannons on a ship being aimed at each other.
“Yes,” Reggie said forcefully. “I’m quite unwell.”
Pritchard glanced at Reggie. “You don’t have a cane.”
Reggie glanced at his hand. “I—er—lost it. That’s caused my great reversal.”
“You lost it?” Pritchard asked dubiously, and his large nose wrinkled.
Reggie refused to flush. He rather wished now he’d made more of a habit of lying at an early age. Apparently prevarication required practice.
Reggie jutted out his chin, pretending he was about to face another boxer, and not his longtime agent who’d built his career and reputation. “I think it was stolen.”
“My God, who would steal from you?”
Reggie gave a lackadaisical shrug. “I suppose people who see me as an invalid.”
Pritchard’s eyes rounded. “Dreadful.”
“Er—yes.” Reggie shrugged, then flashed a smile, happy Pritchard was buying the excuse. “Such is life.”
Pritchard’s eyebrows moved together again, and it occurred to Reggie he must have miscalculated adding a smile.
“You’re standing in the middle of the foyer,” Pritchard said. “Seems to me you don’t require a cane.”
“Nonsense,” Reggie said, avoiding Alistair’s curious gaze. “My manservant was assisting me.”
Pritchard’s face appeared dubious. Unfortunately, Alistair’s face appeared shocked. Reggie only hoped Pritchard would not glance at Alistair.
“Yes, Alistair left me here so he could answer the door.”
“Oh.” Pritchard pursed his lips.
“I wouldn’t dream of walking by myself normally,” Reggie said.
“Hmph.” Pritchard continued to assess him with the finesse of an army inspection officer eying a row of young soldiers’ uniforms, eager for an opportunity to showcase his ability to intimidate.
“In fact, I’m becoming tired now,” Reggie said. “Alistair?”
He held his breath, but Alistair rushed over to him obediently, even though Reggie and he had just discussed Reggie’s good health and plans to amble the city.
Alistair offered Reggie his arm, and Reggie took it.
“You should probably go before His Grace faints,” Alistair offered, and this time Reggie made certain to avert his gaze to hide his smile from Pritchard.
“That’s a good idea,” Reggie said. “I’m certain Pritchard doesn’t want me to faint. That could damage me further.”
“Right. That wouldn’t be good,” Pritchard agreed reluctantly. “I suppose I can find someone else to do the match.”
“Yes,” Reggie said.
“You don’t think you’ll be healed sooner?” Pritchard asked wistfully. “All of London is talking about you. You got battered in the last match.”
Reggie cringed. “Then they’ll have to continue to talk.”
“They’ll suspect you’re truly injured,” Pritchard said. “Might be more difficult later to get any of the good bets.”
“I trust your promotion abilities,” Reggie said.
Pritchard frowned, but said goodbye.
Soon, Alistair and Reggie were alone.
“Thank you,” Reggie told Alistair.
“I suppose no walk for you?” Alistair asked.
“No. Better not.” Reggie eyed the door, lest Pritchard suddenly storm inside. “I’ll read the newspaper in the drawing room.”
Alistair nodded, and Reggie moved to the drawing room.
Alistair was right. He would never have walked outside before. Yet, his knee didn’t ache in its customary manner. He moved his legs over the carpet, waiting for that familiar jolt of pain, but he didn’t feel anything. Evidently, Dr. Fitzhugh had been correct: the doctor in Bath was good.
Perhaps he’d been hasty in telling Pritchard he couldn’t join the ring. He’d always loved boxing before. But the excitement that should have surged through his body didn’t appear. Leaving would mean not seeing Miss Daisy Holloway anymore.