Page 36 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
Matthew had busied himself for the last few days with rowing, Parliament, and contacting experts to help him find a solution to the strange fungus that had been attacking the trees in the apple orchard at Hanford Castle.
Certainly afungusshould have been enough to keep his mind off the matchmaker and the list of potential brides she’d provide him with on Friday.
It wasn’t.
Actually, it was Miss Porter herself, not her list, keeping his mind occupied. Her final question on Saturday had made long-tamped emotion well up—rage and impotence and those feelings of inadequacy that had plagued him since he was a youth, doubling when his father had died, leaving him an untarnished legacy and shoes too big to ever be filled. His father had been one of the most respected men in England, and Matthew understood exactly why. Compared to the wisdom of his father, he was still, at three-and-thirty, a bumbling, inept, impulsive youth.
That had been made clear to him, a final and undeniable message that he’d never be the man his father was, when, just two months after the duke’s death, he’d run away to Scotland with Fanny Fleming.
He’d been rude to Miss Porter by stomping away, but it had been his only option. If he’d stayed, he would have certainly lashed out, and Miss Porter didn’t deserve that.
Truthfully, he’d never met a woman who’d annoyed him to such an extent, a woman who was overbearing, nosy, and superior while at the same time intriguing him, and not only physically, though he found her curves erotic as hell. As much as he’d attempted to hold onto his reserve in her presence, she’d drawn him out. Therealhim.
He didn’t know how she’d done it, but when he’d been in her office on Monday, he’d felt comfortable. Like he could tell her anything, and she’d look at him with those pretty gray eyes without judgment. Like she respected him for who he was. Not for his title, who he could never be, or even who heshouldbe. But just for him.
Matthew left his house on Friday at noon, giving himself a full two hours to walk the mile to Miss Porter’s office. Of course, it would not take him that long, but it was a pleasant enough day outside, and he could not stand another moment of prowling around his cavernous townhouse waiting for the time of the meeting to come round.
He took a most circuitous route to Marylebone, first going in an opposite direction to Hyde Park, taking his time to stroll along the paths adjacent to the Serpentine River, studying the young ladies strolling through the park with their chaperones and suitors and wondering if any of them would be on Miss Porter’s list.
Then, checking his pocket watch often to determine which twists and turns would get him to Miss Porter’s office at two o’clock on the nose, he walked along the edge of Kensington Gardens before striding north and winding through Marylebone. He turned south, passing the enormous, crowded workhouse just a few blocks from Miss Porter’s modest townhouse and doubling back to arrive at 18 Beaumont Street at 1:59 in the afternoon.
Clutching his walking stick, Matthew stood gazing at her door. What was she doing beyond the thick slab of wood? Was she finalizing his list? He imagined her writing, looking down at her desk, chewing absently on her plump lower lip as she wrote, those soft strands of hair curling around her chin.
Was she daydreaming about him as he was about her?
Of course she was not. She was professional and businesslike with him—never looked at him like all those ladies he was introduced to and danced with at the society functions. She was practical and focused on the end goal of finding him a bride.
Something he should be focused on as well. Something hewouldbe focused on, if he had any sense.
It struck him, standing in front of her door like this, that the thoughts going through his mind were similar to those he’d had when he was seventeen years old. Thoughts he’d had of Fanny Fleming.
And look what disaster those thoughts had led to.
He needed to stop. Immediately.Feelings—those pesky things led to disaster. They should be beneath him, but they were not, because he was weak. And he was a damn fool.
“You stupid simpleton.”
“You aren’t half the man your father was.”
“You don’t deserve the title of duke.”
Matthew sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. He needed to banish thoughts of Miss Porter, once and for all.
When he’d finally gathered himself enough to knock on the door, he was one minute late.
She opened it, and at her kind, welcoming expression, all those feelings he’d just squelched came roaring back.
Deuce it all, he washappyto see her. Happy to see her smile, her kind gray eyes, her not-quite-brown hair…allof her.
“Your Grace!” she exclaimed. “Please, come in.”
He entered, and they went through the ritual of sitting in their respective places. Once they’d done so, he placed a hand on her desk and leaned slightly forward. “Before we begin, Miss Porter, I should like to apologize. I fear I was unforgivably rude last time I was here.”
“Oh,” she said. “No, no, not at all. It was I who was unforgivably rude.”
“I refused to answer your questions,” he said, his heart beating fast, “and I know you were simply asking them to better help you choose an ideal bride for me.”
She hesitated. “That’s true, but it is all right. Truly. I didn’t mean to pry.”
