The Matchmaker and the Duke
Autore
Ann Lethbridge
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17
Chapter One
‘Jasper, it is high time you married.’
Jasper Simon Warren, Duke of Stone, Marquess of Felmont and Earl Blackmore, despised conversation at breakfast. He did not raise his gaze from his newspaper. ‘I see.’
‘Jasper, did you hear what I said? You have a duty to the dukedom.’
The sharp edge in her voice indicated Aunt Mary was not going to take the hint.
He lowered his newspaper a fraction. ‘Are you accusing me of neglecting my duties, Aunt?’ He let the ice in his tone sink into her awareness.
The spring sun, streaming through the windows of the ducal town house, gave no quarter to the elderly lady. Dressed in a forest-green gown and lace cap of the latest fashion, the wrinkles in her cheeks and around her mouth, the thinness of her carefully primped hair, proclaimed a woman well past her sixtieth year. ‘Certainly not, Jasper. I simply want you to be happy.’
He stared at her in astonishment. ‘I assure you, I am perfectly content.’
The creases in her forehead deepened. ‘Contentment is not the same as happiness.’
‘Who defines happiness? And since when has society latched upon the idea that happiness is vital to a person’s existence?’
After years of observing the marriages of his peers from the sidelines, he had few illusions.
And yet... ‘My parents were happy, were they not?’
‘I never heard anything to the contrary.’
Hardly a ringing endorsement. Had he perhaps imagined them as happy? Created a fantasy to ease the loss? Was he wrong to aspire to the sort of joy he recalled in their presence? And could he have been mistaken about the truth of it?
Aunt Mary made a sound of impatience. ‘Besides, no matter what, the dukedom needs an heir.’
The real reason for her fussing. ‘All in good time.’ He raised his paper, focusing on the article on the latest arguments for Parliamentary reform.
‘You are not getting any younger,’ she muttered.
Really! He folded his newspaper and put it down beside his plate where a few crumbs of toast and a smear of marmalade were all that remained of what had been a very fine breakfast. ‘I am thirty-five. Not exactly in my dotage.’
‘You will be thirty-six next month. I want to see things settled before I go to my final rest.’
His jaw dropped. ‘Are you ill? Shall I send for a physician?’
She coloured high on her cheekbones. ‘Certainly not. But, Jasper, time is running out. The Season is well underway and those looking for wives will snap up the most eligible girls in a trice.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you suggesting that should I indicate an interest in a female, she will turn me down for someone she met earlier in the Season?’
‘Of course not. No woman in their right mind would turn down an offer from the Duke of Stone.’
Even if they wanted to, as he had learned in his youth. He pushed the unpleasant memory aside. Dwelling on the past helped no one. ‘Well, my dear Aunt Mary, since I have no intention of offering for a woman who is not in her right mind, I can see no reason for haste.’ He eyed his newspaper. He would take it to his study. No one would dare interrupt him there.
‘They would refuse you if they had already accepted another offer. How do you know there is not a lady among this latest group to come out whom you would not prefer above all others?’
‘I am sure all of them are respectable young women whose parents would leap at a crown of strawberry leaves. I do not expect to encounter any difficulties.’
‘How can you know, Stone, if you do not look?’ Her voice was full of exasperation. She shook her head. ‘There is no point in talking to you about this, I can see. But take my advice, marry now while you are still in your prime. No one knows what the future holds.’
He frowned. Aunt Mary was making more of a fuss about this than she had about anything since...since he could not remember when. And, yes, he knew he had to bestir himself at some point. Find the right sort of woman to be his Duchess. He simply had not thought of it as urgent. Nor was it. Yet his aunt seemed genuinely distressed. ‘Very well. To please you, I will take a look at this year’s crop.’
A veritable study of nonchalance, she picked up a pile of invitations set by her plate and sorted through them. She didn’t fool him for a moment.
‘Was there something you wanted to add?’
She put the cards down with a snap. ‘There are two girls whom you might wish to meet. The Mitchell sisters. Both outrageously lovely, reasonably well bred and exceedingly well dowered. I saw them at Lady Dobson’s musical evening last night.’
‘Lady Dobson?’ A chill invaded his veins. ‘Not exactly the cream of the ton, my dear. Not the sort of company I like to keep. And I assume by reasonably well bred you mean not of the peerage?’
His aunt grimaced. ‘Sally Jersey suggested I attend to take a look at them. She’d heard much about their beauty and accomplishments and requested my opinion. Both presented exceedingly well. Another pair like the Gunning girls, I would say.’
The Gunning sisters were still talked about in the drawing rooms of the ton. They had taken London by storm and married well above their station. ‘Not the sort of wife I seek.’
‘Then you are looking.’ She sounded so relieved, he did not have the heart to disabuse her of the notion. Aunt Mary was one of the few people whose feelings he cared about. Not that she usually got up in the boughs about anything. She certainly must be feeling her age if she was panicking about marrying him off. And she wasn’t entirely wrong to be concerned. It was time.
He sighed. ‘Do not expect me to attend events hosted by the likes of Lady Dobson.’ Her husband, a banker, had been knighted by the King for services rendered. Likely a personal loan or an inside tip on a profitable investment. Not a member of the nobility.
‘Certainly not. You know better than to ask. Mrs Durant has them in hand. After my endorsement you will meet them at all the best parties.’
‘Durant?’
‘Three years ago, her husband broke his neck in a steeplechase.’
Ah, yes. ‘I remember him. A reckless idiot. I do not recall a wife.’
‘She was a Linden. Her cousin holds the viscountcy now. She has become well known for her matchmaking skills.’
‘You seriously think I should consider one of these girls?’ It sounded so unlike his aunt, he could not keep the curiosity out of his voice.
‘I have been throwing eminently eligible daughters of the ton in your path for the past ten years and not once have you shown any interest. I thought perhaps your taste was so jaded, I should try something different.’
Jaded? He wasn’t jaded. Cynical. There was a description he could own, too. He’d had enough toadies and sycophants trying to get his attention since he inherited the title at the age of fifteen that he could spot one a mile off. But he wasn’t jaded. He was comfortable. He had a small group of friends, mostly male, whose wealth meant they did not seek to use him for their own ends and therefore whom he trusted.
He also had a mistress, Jane Garnet, whose favours he had enjoyed to the full for many years. A woman with whom he had agreed upon an exclusive arrangement, who was quite content to entertain him whenever he felt the need.
‘I suppose next you will be telling me I should pay off Mrs Garnet.’
His aunt rifled through the invitations and did not meet his gaze. ‘It might be as well.’
Damn it all.
It seemed his life of comfort was slipping away.
‘I thought the older girl might be ideal for you. And the younger for Albert.’
She spoke this last in such a low tone, he almost missed it. Aunt Mary continually thought to push Albert Carling, the only surviving relative on her mother’s side, up society’s ladder. Marriage to an heiress would certainly gild his path.
At one time, Jasper had been close with Albert. Unfortunately, Albert had not proved true and now they remained cordial but distant.
Three ladies tried to ignore Mr Mitchell pacing the drawing room of the town house he had rented close to Bedford Square. Two were his daughters, Charity and Patience, both blonde, pretty and making their come out in the London Season. The other, Mrs Amelia Durant, a lady with dark hair and eyes, was approaching her thirtieth year. While she was sure that she herself had never been deemed a great beauty, she had been born into the highest of society’s circles and she wearied of Mr Mitchell and his tirades.
‘Mrs Durant, I was told you know all the best people and can find the right husbands for my daughters.’ He paused and stared over his pince-nez at Amelia on the morning after his daughters’ first foray into the ton. ‘Now you tell me there wasn’t a single earl or duke at that party.’
‘Oh, Papa,’ Charity Mitchell said, raising her blue eyes from her needlework to meet his stern gaze. She gave him a sweet smile. ‘Lord Philpot was there and Sir Robert...something. I forget.’ She glanced over at Amelia.
‘Lord Robert Partere,’ she supplied. ‘A very old family with excellent connections.’
Amelia had explained her plan to Mr Mitchell more than once, but he didn’t seem to grasp the need for a light touch. Marrying girls off to suitable gentlemen, especially those of the nobility, was a very delicate matter. The girls might be utterly lovely, but their background was strictly middle class.
She repressed a sigh of exasperation. ‘Last night was not about seeking suitors—’
‘Then what was it about?’ he grumbled.
‘It was about assuring the ton that your lovely daughters can safely be invited to the most exclusive of parties and behave like proper young ladies.’ She beamed at the girls. ‘And they both passed muster, I can assure you. Lady Mary Warren was most complimentary about their looks and demeanour.’
It had taken Amelia nigh on three months to ensure that the girls knew exactly how to behave in polite company and to eliminate any trace of the broad Yorkshire vowels that coloured their papa’s conversation.
The ton would not care about the merchant father, as long as he settled a suitable amount on his beautiful daughters and stayed clear of their new families. On the other hand, the daughters must be untainted by their humble origins if they were to attract an offer from the most eligible of bachelors.
Amelia knew exactly how to ensure such young ladies met suitable and honourable gentlemen. Honourable being the key word. She had been doing it for years. The ton trusted her to endorse only the sweetest and most rigorously trained young women to the scions of the nobility. The parents of those hopeful young people quickly learned to follow her directions to the letter if they wanted to utilise her services, for which she was paid handsomely. Her fees were based on the settlements negotiated between the parties once the marriages were arranged.
The Mitchell sisters were proving to be more of a challenge than any before them. True, their undeniable beauty made them viable prospects and their amiable natures had made her like them from their first meeting. So much so, she had willingly taken them under her wing.
Unfortunately, their widowed papa, a man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps, as he was proud to tell all and sundry, was irascible and inclined to want to rush things. He did not value her counsel as he ought and the lack of a wife to make him see reason was a drawback. Mind you, it would have to be a pretty strong woman to stand up to Papa Mitchell. His daughters certainly were not up to the task. Amelia was beginning to think she had not made a wise decision in offering to assist them in their search for husbands among the nobility.
‘Who is Lady Mary Warren, when she is at home?’ Mr Mitchell asked, folding his arms across his chest. He was a portly man with a round florid face and his once blond hair was now mostly grey and thinning on top. ‘I have never heard of her.’
‘Papa,’ Patience Mitchell said, pressing her hands together. ‘You really should have paid more attention to Mrs Durant’s lessons from Debrett’s Peerage. She is the aunt of the wealthiest Duke in all of Britain.’
‘And he is the youngest,’ Charity said. She frowned. ‘Though he is thirty-five.’
‘A man in his prime, then,’ their father said.
Both girls looked uncertain. ‘Thirty-five seems awfully old,’ Charity said. She looked at Amelia for confirmation.
‘Thirty-five is not terribly old,’ Amelia said. If it was then she would be terribly old in five years’ time. ‘But the Duke of Stone has been on the town for years and has shown no interest in settling down. Honestly, he is not a man I would recommend setting your cap at. The Duke is very high in the instep. He is unlikely to make an offer for anyone below the daughter of an earl.’
‘You sound as if you do not like him,’ Patience said.
Patience was both the younger of the sisters and, in Amelia’s estimation, the brighter. Their papa seemed to favour his older daughter Charity. But there really wasn’t much to choose between them. Like most young ladies in their first Season their heads were stuffed full of romantic notions. Amelia’s had certainly been, which was why it had been so easy for Lieutenant Durant to sweep her off her feet. He’d been every young lady’s vision of a knight in shining armour. Amelia no longer believed such men existed. Or if they did, then they certainly did not make very good husbands.
‘I was introduced to him,’ she said, recalling that day as if it was yesterday, ‘I truly cannot say I know him, except by reputation.’ And by observation over the years. The man was insufferably proud, though always exceedingly polite. He struck her as a man without any great feelings or emotions.
Yes, she had felt a spark of attraction at their first meeting, but it had been quickly extinguished when a few days later his gaze passed over her as if she had never crossed his path. Clearly, he did not care to remember any of lesser mortals who floated through his orbit.
It wasn’t long after her encounter with him that she had met and married Tarquin Durant. Widowed two years’ later, she had returned to London to set up her own modest establishment and found herself helping a cousin avoid a marital disaster by uncovering the prospective bridegroom’s shady past.
Not only that, she had guided the young woman to catch the most eligible bachelor of the Season, or at least the second most eligible. Stone was always the first. From there, she had built a reputation as a matchmaker par excellence. The money she had earned these past three years had provided her with a decent life, a small town house of her own in a select neighbourhood and she was able to help young people enter into good sensible marriages. Something she had failed to do.
‘Are you saying you think my girls are beneath him?’ Papa Mitchell said, glaring.
‘Certainly not.’ Amelia smiled calmly. ‘Your daughters will be a credit to any gentleman. But the Duke is very conscious of his family pedigree.’
The belligerence in Mr Mitchell increased tenfold. ‘Then I say he is not good enough for my daughters.’
Amelia closed her eyes briefly. ‘Let us not focus on Stone. Let us turn our attention to the bachelors whom we will meet over the next few weeks and who will make fine husbands for your daughters.’
‘Titled gentlemen,’ Mitchell snapped.
‘Young gentlemen with good prospects and honourable intentions who will make excellent husbands. I do not promise a title, but any gentleman I recommend will be acceptable on every ground.’
‘One of the Gunning sisters married a duke and the other an earl,’ Patience said.
‘One of them married two dukes,’ Charity added.
The girls burst into giggles. They looked so merry and so pretty, Amelia let their amusement pass without comment. However, she would caution them not to model themselves on the Gunning sisters. Yes, they had both married well, but they had also been embroiled in scandal.
The ton turned a blind eye to a certain amount of indiscretion from among their own, but not from outsiders like the Mitchell girls. If their papa continued to reject her advice, her reputation for bringing only the most suitable young ladies to the notice of the upper one thousand could be tarnished. She might be forced to terminate their agreement.
As Jasper had expected, Lady Jersey’s ball could only be described as a squeeze. But then it would be. The Countess of Jersey was one of the patronesses of Almack’s and not one to be lightly snubbed. By the time Jasper arrived, guests already blocked the stairs up to the first-floor drawing room while they awaited their turn to be announced. With an impatient sigh, he did what he usually did upon these occasions, he headed for the green-baize-covered door tucked discreetly beneath the impressive staircase and, with a nod and a coin slipped into a waiting palm, ascended by way of the servants’ stairs.
Why on earth people felt the need to have their names blared into a room full of chattering guests he would never understand. No one inside was listening apart from the host and hostess. Besides, everyone knew everyone else anyway. And if they didn’t, they probably were not worth knowing.
He glanced around the crowded ballroom, seeking a friendly face. His hostess spotted him and immediately left the line at the door to greet him. ‘Up to your usual tricks, Duke?’ she said with a smile.
She’d caught him entering this way when he was much younger and had teased him about it ever since. He continued the practice almost as a point of honour. Well, that and the fact that it saved him from having long arduous conversations with people who saw it as an opportunity to curry his favour on some matter or other.
‘What else can I do when you insist upon inviting every member of the ton to your balls, Sally?’
She made a face. ‘I hate anyone to be disappointed.’
It was why she handed out tickets for Almack’s in such a free-handed way. She was the despair of the other patronesses.
‘You are too soft-hearted.’
‘Whereas you are as cold as stone.’
He grinned, enjoying that she said exactly what popped into her head instead of beating around the bush as so many ladies did when they spoke to him. ‘And here I thought no one had guessed.’
She shook her head at him. ‘One of these days you will get your comeuppance, Duke. Mark my words.’
He bowed and moved on. He joined a group of gentlemen at the end of the room furthest from the orchestra. Men he’d known for years, some from his university days, others from his first Season. Most were now married with children and were in town to take their seats in the House of Lords. Parliament was the reason the nobility came to London for the Season. Somehow, the ladies had turned it into a marriage mart.
Jasper looked about him.
The ball was the same as every other event he had attended. The latest crop of debutantes stood in little clumps around the edge of the dance floor, trying to look as if they didn’t care that no one had asked them to dance and failing miserably. The diamonds of the first water smiled happily as they proved their superiority on the dance floor and the matrons gossiped while they kept an eye on their daughters. Meanwhile, the wallflowers, those gals who had been out a Season or three, lurked in the corners as if they had lost all hope.
Now he remembered why he preferred his club to a night of dancing.
It was not long before Sally sought him out once more. ‘It is time you met the Mitchell sisters. Let me make the introductions.’
Jasper did not like the feeling of being swept along willy-nilly and almost refused. But dash it, his curiosity was aroused. Sally guided him towards a large group of people gathered near the orchestra. At the centre of the cluster of young ladies and gentlemen were two blonde girls with shining blue eyes and curvaceous figures, dressed in white, tastefully modest gowns.
To Jasper’s surprise, Sally did not make a beeline for these two lovelies, but to the woman hovering near them. A woman certainly past the first blush of youth, but who was quite exotically beautiful with dark hair and dark eyes, and skin that hinted of warmer climes than chilly England. His heart seemed to miss a beat. It was as if his recognition of her beauty had interrupted its rhythm. A most unpleasant sensation. And why on earth did he have the feeling he had met her before?
‘Mrs Durant, may I introduce to you the Duke of Stone,’ Sally said.
Ah, yes, Mrs Durant, the matchmaker Aunt Mary had mentioned. He had not expected her to be such a beauty, given her line of work. And there was that odd sensation that he had met her somewhere before.
The woman’s eyes widened a fraction as her gaze met his. Her irises were the colour of toffee with a starburst of gold in their centres.
Beautiful eyes, with unexpected warmth. He knew those eyes. The colours changed, darkened.
‘I believe we are old acquaintances,’ he said. If only he could recall the occasion of their meeting.
A flash of surprise crossed her face, quickly replaced by a cool smile. ‘How kind of you to remember, Your Grace.’
Devil take it, he prided himself on never forgetting a face. It had taken him years to hone the skill, but it stood him in good stead when dealing with the myriad of people for whom he was responsible in some way. Then why was he having troubling recalling where he had met her? And when? And why did he have the odd feeling she did not like him? Had he given offence in some way? He bowed. ‘My pleasure.’
‘Let me introduce you to my charges.’ The briskness of her words took him aback. She definitely did not like him.
‘It seems you are in good hands, Duke,’ Sally said. ‘I will leave you to Mrs Durant’s good graces.’ She sailed off as swiftly as she had arrived. The woman could not be still for a moment.
Turning towards the blonde girls, Mrs Durant presented him with a startlingly striking profile. A sculptor would have had difficulty imagining such a combination of strong yet purely feminine features. They were features that might give a man endless hours of fascinating exploration. And her skin, so warm in colour, so delicately smooth—he found himself wanting to stroke a finger along her angular jaw to see if it was as silky as it appeared.
He forced his gaze to the two young ladies looking at him expectantly. Yes, they were young and very pretty, but beside their chaperon they paled into insignificance. At least in his opinion.
‘Your Grace,’ Mrs Durant said with a measure of pride, ‘may I present, Miss Charity Mitchell and her sister, Miss Patience. Ladies, the Duke of Stone.’
Both girls curtsied and showed their dimples.
He bowed. ‘How are you enjoying your first Season, ladies?’ he asked.
It was a trite question, but it had served him in good stead over the years.
‘We are having a grand time,’ the younger, Miss Patience, said.
‘This is only our second ball,’ Miss Mitchell added. ‘I do not think I have seen so many people in a ballroom. I had no idea people had ballrooms of this size in their houses.’
Their honesty and frank way of speaking surprised him. It was refreshing. They spoke like normal people instead of giggling twits.
He glanced back at their chaperon. Mrs Durant seemed to be eyeing him warily as if she suspected his motives for seeking an introduction. He racked his brains for some misdemeanour in his past that would account for her attitude.
Or was she simply assessing him as a likely suitor? The idea she would presume that she could choose a wife for him appalled him. Though it did not surprise him one whit. As soon as people heard his title, they sought a way to use him to further their own ends. Why would she be any different? To be sure, the girls were tricked out as fine as five pence and looked as pretty as pictures, but they did not hale from the nobility. It was from those ranks he had always expected he would select a bride.
Mrs Durant lifted her chin in challenge, as if reading his thoughts. Why on earth had he thought her beautiful? Her features were arresting, yes, but they gave her face and expression strength, not beauty.
Unfortunately, since he had sought an introduction, if he did not do his duty and ask one of them to dance, the ton might well see it as a mark of his displeasure, when he really felt nothing at all.
He smiled briefly at the older of the two. ‘Will you do the honour of joining me in the fourth set of the evening, Miss Mitchell?’
The girl blushed and glanced at her chaperon, who nodded. She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
He bowed. ‘I will return for you then.’
As he strolled away, whispers and giggles broke out behind him as everyone realised that the Duke of Stone had actually unbent enough to invite the latest diamond of the first water to dance.
Would Mrs Durant see it as a feather in her cap?
