Page 48 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“I still think you should attend some of them with me.” Jameson would not qualify for a voucher for Almack’s—since he’d received his own, Matthew had learned that only the cream of thebon tonwere granted one—but there were a number of events to which he had been invited. Jameson was popular among the members of the aristocracy. He’d led a charmed life since those first years at Eton, where he’d been bullied mercilessly as a penniless commoner who’d relied on scholarship funds to attend. Now, he was richer than most of those poor titled fools who’d whittled away their fortunes on gambling, drink, and women, and many of them owed him either money or favors. Matthew had the utmost respect for his friend—the way he’d fought to rise out of poverty, and how he’d done so with careful scruples, never stepping on others’ coattails but relying on his own intelligence and hard work.
“What?” Jameson asked, taking the plank Matthew was holding out to him. “You wish I would hold your hand, lad?”
“Something like that,” Matthew admitted. “You cannot understand how degrading and miserable those events are.”
“Degrading?” Jameson scoffed, hefting the saw again. “How is that? I’m certain that it’s the opposite. Those people want nothing more than to fall to their knees and lick your boots.”
Matthew shook his head but didn’t respond. Even though Jameson was right once again, it didn’t change the fact that Matthew found all that highly degrading. All those boot-lickers didn’t see him as a person. Rather, they objectified him, and it disgusted him. Made him feel cheap.
He knew he shouldn’t complain. Matthew was well aware he had been born into immense privilege and would continue to live with that privilege for his entire life. Unlike Jameson, who only in the past few years had been able to reap the benefits of his hard work.
Matthew and Jameson continued to work, their outward focus on cutting, planing, and creating the intricate angles of the boat they were building. Jameson had designed this latest project: a fours boat he claimed would be the fastest in the world. After watching his friend, first at Eton and then the years of building and racing with him afterward, Matthew had no doubt Jameson’s creation would destroy the competition, and he couldn’t wait to row it.
But as they worked, thoughts of Joanna Porter circulated through his mind, first about how she’d been so interested in his antics on the Thames, then how she’d said she’d like to learn to row. He’d bring her here someday, show her the boats he and his friends had built, take her out and teach her to row. Afterward, she’d be flushed, flashing that playful smile at him, and he’d kiss her. Maybe draw her to the floor right here on the sawdust. He imagined the softness of her body beneath him, her breathy sighs, the way she touched him.
Those thoughts were making him hard. Rather inappropriate while kneeling on the boathouse floor next to Oliver Jameson.
Teeth gritted, he thrust thoughts of Jo to the back of his mind.
He’d see her tomorrow. He couldn’t wait.
First, though…Almack’s.
…
By midnight, Matthew was finished with Almack’s. There had been much of the metaphorical boot-kissing on the parts of the attendees, especially the patroness on duty for this evening who’d introduced him with relish to several young ladies, including the three Jo had on her list: Miss Gainsborough, Miss Buckman, and Lady Janet Astley.
He’d seen enough of them, to be honest. They were all perfectly adequate. Appropriate. They would all make acceptable duchesses. Unfortunately, he’d already promised another dance to each of them, and he was honor bound to remain here till the bitter end.
In any case, he knew Jo would ask him if any of them could be perfect. He damned himself for using that word on their first meeting, because he was beginning to doubt there was anyone in the whole of England who would really be a perfect duchess for him. He was no longer exactly sure what that even meant.
Did Miss Gainsborough have the ability to be a perfect duchess? Did Lady Janet or Miss Buckman? Or even Miss Cherrington or Miss Islington?
Yes? No?Maybe?Hell if he knew. All he knew was that it was rather a miracle that he remembered their names. They all seemed to flow into each other, their looks and personalities overlapping and merging together.
Well, except Miss Cherrington. She stood out somewhat, he supposed. She seemed to align with the rules he’d established in his mind, and that he’d given Jo on paper, most closely. Also, she was rather pretty, which, as much as he’d argued to Jo that looks didn’t matter, was a positive.
She wasn’t as pretty as Jo, though.
He shook his head as if to fling that thought away. He shouldn’t compare his potential matches to the matchmaker. That was just… Well, it waswrong.
No one could compare to Jo. Jo was one of a kind.
He pressed his handkerchief to his temple before tucking it back in his pocket. It was damn hot in here, and crowded. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why it was considered such a coup to gain entry into this place. They didn’t even serve decent refreshments—in his brief foray into the refreshments room, Matthew had only found a plate of stale, thin-sliced bread and butter, and the lemonade was barely palatable.
“Your Grace.”
He turned toward the feminine voice to see a young lady curtsying before him. A blonde. Which of the two of tonight’s blondes was she? Damned if he knew. Beside her stood a glowering older woman, also blond, and it was only then that he remembered. This was Miss Buckman, a granddaughter of Queen Charlotte’s Keeper of the Robes, with her rather terrifying mother, a broad matron of German descent who looked as though she might be hiding a dagger in those voluminous skirts. A dagger that she wouldn’t hesitate to impale him with should he dare glance askance at her daughter.
It was refreshing, actually. This was the one woman here who probably wouldn’t kiss his boots if he asked her to.
He bowed. “Mrs. Buckman. Miss Buckman.” He held out his arm, realizing the music had been stopped for a few minutes, and people were starting to line up again. It was time for their dance.
“Shall we?”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Miss Buckman said.
He led her to the dance floor, feeling her mother’s gaze skewer him the entire way. They took their places, and Matthew smiled at his young partner, though his back teeth were clenched hard. Just a few more hours. And tomorrow, he’d see Jo.
