Page 5 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“The Duke of Crestmont.”
The words whacked into her like a jab to the sternum, and she struggled to hide the resulting cringe. She knewofthe Duke of Crestmont, of course, like she knew the names of the princes of England, but she didn’t know anythingabouthim. People like him were so far out of her realm of existence, she hardly paid any attention.
She had been extremely forward with him, and impolite, given his position on the ladder of prominence—one tiny step down from royalty.
Oh, dear.
Well. Maybe it had been for the best he hadn’t told her right away. She’d already presented her true self, free of the nervous, polite facade she surely would have borne if she’d known of his title. She must continue to be herself. He might be a duke, but he was also a human being, just like her.
“Ah.” She forced her voice to smoothness, though her heart was galloping as if it intended to leap straight out of her chest. She prayed he couldn’t hear it. “Forgive me for addressing you incorrectly, Your Grace. It won’t happen again.”
“The fault is mine,” he said stiffly, the formality in his tone icing over her attempt to be warm and welcoming, “for not identifying myself immediately upon entering your”—he looked around the tiny space—“er…establishment.”
Tilting her head in acknowledgment of his apology, she opened the drawer to her right, produced a folded sheet of paper, and slid it across the desktop to him. “This is my fee schedule and a detailed description of what you might expect from the process, Your Grace.”
He took the sheet without opening it and tucked it into his coat pocket without saying a word. Since the aristocracy usually found it vulgar to openly discuss money and payment, this was not surprising. Indeed, Jo had experienced similar behavior before. He would pass it on to the appropriate person, who would then ensure she was paid. He would have nothing to do with it.
Her services were expensive, but nothing a duke would have a problem with, surely. And her customers…well, they had all been quite pleased with their happily ever afters. Not one of them had ever complained about her fees.
She gazed at the Duke of Crestmont. His lips were still flat, his features taut, his eyes seemingly in their natural state as suspicious slits.
Happily ever after might not be so simple with this one.
Still, she was a skilled matchmaker, and he was aduke. Her heart gave another excited surge. If she could match a duke, then everyone in London—no, all of England—would want to work with her. She could hire an assistant. Maybe start saving a few shillings here and there for emergencies, or even have some pretty new dresses made for everyone in her household. Talk of her skills would spread like wildfire, clients would be pounding her door down, and she’d have enough money that the giant ice slab of worry she carried around on her shoulders would finally melt.
She scooted forward on her seat and opened her mouth to explain her method, but the duke stood abruptly.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall return in two days. I expect you will have a suitable candidate for me at that time.”
She rose as well. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. That is absolutely impossible. I cannot wrap a suitable bride up in a bow and hand her over to you.”
At the door, he turned to face her, his perpetually narrow eyes even narrower. “Why not?”
“Because your bride must be matched to you as an individual. The Duke of Crestmont would require quite a different bride than, say, the Duke of Edevane, for example.”
She waited a moment to allow that to sink in. The Duke of Edevane, unlike the Duke of Crestmont, often headlined the scandal sheets. He was in his sixties and had fathered a half-dozen children by his wife and another dozen by his two mistresses. The man in front of her was thirty years younger and had never—as far as she knew—fathered children. And there had been rumors—that she’d paid little heed to but was grateful now to pull from the cobwebs of hermemories-of-things-that-have-nothing-to-do-with-me—that the two dukes despised each other. “So I cannot just pluck your future duchess from the pool of eligible young ladies. That simply won’t do!”
The duke cocked a skeptical brow at her. “Matched to me as an individual? That seems hardly necessary. I simply require someone who will fulfill her duties as the Duchess of Crestmont. Perfectly, of course.”
“If you will allow me to explain to you how the process works—” she began, but he scoffed.
“I am familiar with how it works, madam. You procure me a bride. Legal documents are drafted. I marry her, she produces my heir and my spare, and that, as they say, is that.”
Jo fought from reeling back. She struggled not to clutch her hand to her chest in abject horror.
What a poor, pathetic, sterile idea of marriage this man possessed! It was tragic, really. Awful. She’d feel sorry for him if he didn’t have that disdainful, haughty look plastered on his snobbish, aristocratic face.
“No,” she snapped, “that isnotthat.”
Now she could see him checking his own body from reeling back. She doubted anyone ever spoke to him so sternly. Poor duke. So accustomed to people groveling and saying yes to his every pronouncement, no matter how ludicrous.
Sounaccustomed to a person standing her ground.
Well, Crestmont just might have met his match with her. She was not a duke, but she was also no simpering miss who would allow a client to walk all over her. In matters of the heart, she knew her business, and he would do it her way or she’d wish him the best and watch from a distance as he sabotaged his own happiness as well as the happiness of the unfortunate lady he chose for himself.
Of course, her very soul howled at the prospect of letting him go. Lord, but she didn’t want to give up all the opportunities he’d bring to her business.
Still, she couldn’t sacrifice her standards merely to find him an expedient wife. Ultimately, he and his duchess would be unhappy, and Jo’s reputation would suffer.
