Page 19 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
Turning away from his coachman, Matthew stepped onto the stoop of what once had been the door to a scullery or a larder at the back of a relatively modest townhouse tucked on a street in the parish of St. Marylebone. The small room had been converted at some point and now served as the office of Miss Joanna Porter.
He knocked on the door, and, like last time, it was answered promptly by the lady herself, wearing the same day dress in pale blue she’d been wearing the last time he came to her office—a color that suited her and brought out the color in her cheeks. Her thick, lustrous hair was piled into a roll at her nape, and the only jewelry she wore was a pair of simple pearl earrings.
She was very pretty, though not in the traditional sense. She was older than society considered respectable for an unmarried lady—he had learned that she was seven-and-twenty, though he’d believed her much younger when she’d first informed him that she was “Mrs.” Porter. Her hair was light brown streaked with gold, her eyes a stormy gray, and her body—well, it had curves in all the right places. Luscious curves he could fill his hands with—
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said brightly, then moved aside. “Come in. This rain is wretched, isn’t it?”
“It will depart from the area shortly,” he said automatically, trying to banish the carnal images. They weren’t the first he’d had of her. They’d intruded the last time he’d come here, though he’d been quicker to shove them aside that day. Then, they’d returned in full force at that blasted rout, where she’d been wearing a white, low-cut dress that revealed the creamy tops of her full breasts, and soft curls had framed her lovely face while her plump cheeks glowed pink in the flickering lights of the chandeliers. Matthew had had to forcibly scour his brain of thoughts of her even as he’d danced with three other, very different women.
“Do you think so?” She gave a hopeful sigh as she shut the door, closing them into the tiny room furnished with only the desk, her simple desk chair, the green monstrosity of an armchair, and a pair of wall sconces. At least there was a fair-sized square-paned window beside the door that let in some light, even on this gray afternoon.
“Although the rain isn’t all bad,” she said. “It will keep the grass green and the flowers in bloom. There’s nothing better than London in the springtime, don’t you think?”
He could think of many better things than London anytime of the year, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he muttered a noncommittal answer.
“Do sit down,” she said, gesturing to that awful green chair.
He removed his hat, laid it near the edge of her desk, and propped his cane against the rigid back of the chair before sitting. Right on top of a particularly lumpy area of the stuffing. He shifted uncomfortably. “What do you require of me today, Miss Porter?”
They needed to get this over and done with quickly. He hoped a sweat-inducing, muscle-mashing row up the Thames would stop these annoying, inappropriate thoughts.
At least he’d come prepared today. Tucked in his coat pocket was a list of everything anyone could ever wish to know about his future bride.
She took her seat on the other side of the desk. “I have several questions I’d like to ask you today. I’ll use the answers to help me find a compatible match for you.”
“Several questions, you say?”
“Yes.”
“How many is that?”
She looked surprised. “I haven’t counted them.”
“I see.” Wonderful—more than she’d bothered to count. It was a good thing that he’d taken the time to pen all the answers in advance.
“Shall we get started, then?” She smiled at him, and it lit up her gray eyes until they shone the color of the moon. Her smile was genuine and kind, but it also sparkled with intelligence and mischief at the same time. A complex smile for a complicated woman, he supposed.
“If you like.”
“Very well. I shall listen, and, on occasion, take notes, but most of all, I like to think of this as a conversation between friends.”
He raised a brow. “Yet, you are not my friend.”
“Well, Your Grace, I would certainly like to be.”
Matthew had few friends. None of them were women. In fact, he’d never had a female friend, and the idea of having a friendship with a woman struck him as highly irregular. He pressed his lips together so as not to give a sarcastic “we’ll see about that” kind of retort. She didn’t deserve his sarcasm, after all. Neither did her pretty smile.
Her face remained friendly and open, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t thinking, at this very moment, what a complete snobbish ass he was. And she’d be justified in thinking it.
He gritted his teeth, forced a smile that he was certain emerged more like a grimace, and drew the list from his pocket. “Fortunately, I won’t need to take up your entire afternoon with this. I am prepared.” He slid the paper across the desk toward her. “I’ve already answered every possible question you might ask.”
Miss Porter took the sheet, and he watched myriad expressions play over her face as her gaze scanned over it. “Thank you, Your Grace. This will be helpful, I’m sure, but I wanted to start with something else today.”
“What else could there possibly be? I described my requirements in very specific detail.”
She lowered the page. “And, while knowing that ‘any hair color is acceptable, though I’d prefer my bride neither to be balding nor entirely bald,’ is quite helpful indeed, I was interested to hear about your experience at the Dickersons’ soiree on Wednesday evening. I saw you danced a few times. Tell me about it. What did you think of those ladies? They were quite different from one another but all very lovely in their own right.”
He stiffened. “Unfortunately, none were acceptable.”
