Page 28 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
Jameson raised a brow.
“But I assure you, I have hated every moment.”
“That much has been obvious,” Jameson said. “Come on. Let’s get the boat down.”
They heftedRedoff the stand and flipped it. Then, they walked it outside and carried it over wet, trampled weeds and mud down to the floating dock’s edge.
As he fitted a scull into position, Matthew said, “All these frivolous society events are killing me with fake smiles, shrill platitudes, and over-perfumed bosoms.”
Jameson gave him a crooked smile. “Pass some of the over-perfumed bosoms my way. I’d make good use of them.”
Matthew scowled. “No.”
Jameson gave a long-suffering sigh. “And I thought we were friends.”
They climbed into the boat and Matthew pushed off with one of his sculls, then fitted it in the oarlock. He glanced over his shoulder at Jameson. “I have engaged the services of a matchmaker.”
Jameson’s brows rose. “Really?”
“Yes. She’s…” Matthew gazed over the gray water, sifting through the words that came to mind to describe Joanna Porter.
Pretty.No.
Intelligent.No.
Understanding.No.
Interesting.No.
Fascinating.No.
Someone I’d like to take to bed…No, no, no.
“Nosy,” he muttered.
“What was that?” Jameson said behind him as they turned the boat to prepare to begin rowing.
“Her name is Mrs. Porter… Well, that’s her professional name, in any case. She’s not married, and she’s quite young, but by all accounts, she is the best matchmaker in London.”
“Well, then…” Jameson’s voice trailed off as if he didn’t quite know what to make of this new information.
Matthew twisted his upper body to look at his friend. “She asked me about Fanny,” he said darkly.
All lightness left Jameson’s face. “Damn.”
Damn indeed. No one talked to him about Fanny Fleming. Even Jameson, who knew everything about him and was more comfortable in his presence than anyone else in this world, knew better.
“Let’s row,” he growled. And he turned his focus to dragging his oars through the rancid waters of the Thames.
…
Jo felt horrid about her meeting with the duke. She’d been doing well—he’d actually been lowering some of his guards, and she’d been learning more about him, surprised to find there were parts of him she truly liked, and then she’d pushed him. Too far, too fast.
She was furious with herself.
After the duke had walked out, she’d gone upstairs and found Lilly back in bed, her eyes puffy from crying. Jo had spent the remainder of the afternoon tending to Lilly until her head pounded with an ache born of frustration and defeat.
After night fell, the household shared a simple dinner of broth, bread, and cheese at the table in the kitchen. Just as Jo and Bess were clearing the dishes, a knock sounded. Not on the front door—on the door leading to the mews. The door to Jo’s office.
