Page 7 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“What, exactly, does ‘duchess-like’ mean?” she queried.
Hell if he knew. Wasn’t thisherjob?
“It means,like a duchess,” he drawled.
Her pretty brows arched. “And what’s a duchess like?”
This was the oddest encounter he’d ever had. Aside from his closest male friends, people rarely, if ever, questioned him. Young, unattached women neverdaredquestion him. And generally speaking, if one were to meet a woman in a dark room in this part of London, it would be for an entirely different purpose.
And yet, here this young lady was, flouting propriety, attempting to interrogate him about his future wife. She was a woman he didn’t even know yet, asking him about things—private things—that men like him never discussed.
“A woman who possesses the qualities of a duchess,” he answered.
She gave him a patient look, something akin to how a governess might regard a headstrong child. “I certainly do have an idea of what a duchess is like, but I am positive my image doesn’t match yours. What I want to know is, in your mind, what are the characteristics of a duchess—aperfectduchess, to be specific?”
He ground his back teeth together, not liking how this Mrs./Miss Porter made him feel so off-balance, like she was attempting to tear apart, board by board, the rigid tower of guidelines by which he lived. As if she was enjoying every moment of it.
He remembered how, when he’d told Sir Harry that he intended to seek out the matchmaker, the man had slapped him on the back. “Just go along with whatever she demands of you, Crest,” Harry had said. “She doesn’t make matches by the book, exactly, but she’ll get you the results you’re looking for. I promise.”
Then, he’d winked. That bastard.
Harry hadn’t warned him that she was so lovely.
Wait…had his mind truly conjuredthatadjective to describe her? Of all the others available, like presumptuous, impudent, brazen, bewildering…
He was addled. Maybe it was the heat.
Yet it was a cool day outside.
Matthew blinked, then hesitated. He stood at a crossroads. He could stand up and leave this tiny space and pursue the task of bride-finding alone. Or he could stay and see what happened.
He’d already spent the better part of the Season attempting to procure a wife. The whole process had been…well, it had beenhell, for lack of a better word. The parties, the balls, the dancing. Half of the ladies and their female relatives squawking at him, the other half fawning over him. A few of them, to be sure, had appeared to be adequate at first glance. But when he’d attempted to converse with them in order to see if they would measure up to his expectations, they’d all fallen flat. They were all ambitious for his title, a fact that overwhelmed every other aspect of their personalities and caused a sour taste to well in the back of his throat.
There could be no harm in staying and seeing what Mrs./Miss Porter had to offer, he decided. What did he have to lose? If this was a waste of time, he’d simply go back to attending various dreadful events of the Season in a desperate attempt to find a proper bride.
“The characteristics of a duchess,” he said slowly, “are…many.”
“Excellent,” Mrs./Miss Porter said. “I shall make a list.” She dipped her pen in the inkpot and rolled her other hand in a “proceed” gesture.
He’d start with an obvious one. “Well, she must be able to work closely with my housekeepers to keep my houses in order.”
“Your houses?”
“Right. My townhouse in London, Crestmont Manor in Northumberland, and Hanford Castle in Nottinghamshire.”
“Ah, that’s right,” she murmured, “Hanford Castle is yours.”
“It is,” he said. That historic pile was his favorite of the three homes, the oldest, mustiest, and most drafty, too. Likely his wife would hate it—women always hated drafts—but the future duchess would have to suffer living there for a third of the year. Unless he went alone. He supposed that could be arranged if she preferred one of the other homes. She could stay in one of his other homes while he resided at Hanford.
Draft problem, solved.
“I love those old castles,” Mrs./Miss Porter said with a wistful sigh. “So much history within their walls.”
“Indeed. Have you ever visited my castle?” The staff did conduct tours on occasion when he wasn’t in residence.
“I haven’t,” she said. “But my family is from Nottingham—my father was the rector of St. Nicholas Church—so I’m familiar with it.”
He considered her name—had he ever known a Porter family? He didn’t think so. Probably because they never entered his exclusive circle.
