Swipe Right for Mr. Perfect
Yazar
Justine Lewis
Okur
19,6K
Bölüm
14
Will a duke find his dream duchess in the world of online dating? Find out in Justine Lewis's latest story for Harlequin Romance! THE ART OF DATING A DUKE For art conservationist Laura, suffering chronic endometriosis means no relationships. Only, thanks to her interfering mother, she's matched online with @FarmerDan and can't bring herself to swipe left… But then she learns "Dan" is really her new boss, Henry, and their attraction is as intense in person as in cyberspace! Being a modern-day duke, Henry's duty-bound to produce an heir. So while meeting Laura is thrilling, it becomes clear that her condition makes her fertility uncertain. With life pulling them in different directions, is their connection strong enough to flourish offline?
CHAPTER ONE
LAURA HIT SEND on the condition report she had just prepared for a client on one of their paintings and stretched her arms high into the air. Outside, the London air was warm and the sky still bright as the city shook off winter and the evenings stretched on a little longer. Laura loved that she’d be walking home in daylight; the prospect buoyed her. It had been a long winter, one that had felt particularly dark given the pain she’d been in, and being bedridden following her last laparoscopy, which had taken her longer to recover from than usual.
The offices of the art conservation firm where she worked were not too far from her flat. Laura was glad to be up and moving again and, for the moment at least, able to enjoy the beautiful weather. Before packing and leaving for the day she checked her phone and smiled. There was already a message.
@FarmerDan: How was your lunch?
Laura replied as the online alias she used on the dating app.
@SohoJane: Lunch was delicious, my mother on the other hand...
@FarmerDan: Not so tasty?
@SohoJane: Ha-ha. You’d like her. You’d both have at least one thing in common. You both want me to meet you.
Laura stopped before she hit Reply on the last message, deleted most of the words and simply replied with:
@SohoJane: Ha-ha.
@FarmerDan: How was her date?
@SohoJane: Which one? She goes on more dates than either of us.
@FarmerDan: The one with the guy you think did time?
@SohoJane: Oh, him. Yes, he wasn’t an ex-crim just an ex-local councillor.
@FarmerDan: Fair enough. Is she seeing him again?
@SohoJane: No, there are too many better prospects apparently. The sixty-plus dating pool is where all the action is at.
Was it normal to talk so much about your mother with a guy you’d never even met? Laura shut down her computer, bid good evening to her colleagues, a close group of like-minded people who shared her passion for art and conservation and who had been amazingly supportive through the last few years of her life. Outside, the air was even warmer than she imagined. The temperature in their offices was kept constant to ensure the pieces they worked on were not further damaged. They did a lot of their work in their London studio, but also travelled frequently to their clients. As she walked across Hyde Park, marvelling at the number of people who had come out to enjoy the evening, she kept messaging Dan. It had become an early evening ritual for both of them to check in with one another at this time of day. Sometimes it was just a brief chat, other times their conversation would stretch on into the night.
@FarmerDan: Your mum could write the book on online dating. There’s definitely a market for Fiona’s dating wisdom.
Laura grimaced. He was probably right. Laura’s father passed away nearly a decade ago. Fiona had struggled for many years after losing her husband, but the passage of time had eased her grief and Fiona had launched herself into her sixties and recent retirement with gusto. She called it her ‘Fi-naissance’ and had thrown herself back into the world: dating, learning photography, volunteering and travelling. Her mother’s activities exhausted Laura but fascinated Dan.
@SohoJane: Yes, but you’re not her daughter.
Fiona had a lot to say on the topic of online dating, and dating in general, though Laura was not in the right space to be receiving her mother’s particular brand of advice at this point in time.
Laura had been messaging Dan casually on a dating app for a few weeks when she’d had a particularly devastating discussion with her doctor about her fertility status and future treatment options. She had told Dan she was stepping away from dating for a bit, but Dan had written back wishing her the best. Somehow they hadn’t stopped messaging. Their conversations had been much more honest from that point on, as well. Once a relationship was taken off the table they both seemed to speak more openly, about life and in particular, dating. Dan would tell her about his dates and online dating disasters and she shared her mother’s escapades.
Since then, Laura had had further surgery in an attempt to relieve her symptoms. After a terrible start, she was beginning to feel well. She was cautiously hopeful. She had to be. If this didn’t work there were few other options left, apart from the most radical of all. A hysterectomy.
Dr Healy, who had been treating Laura for endometriosis for a decade, since her early twenties, said she almost never resorted to those steps in women who had not had children.
‘Almost never?’ Laura had questioned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I mean, it’s not a decision you make until we’ve tried everything else.’
Laura wasn’t even sure if she wanted children; it was something she’d never really allowed herself to contemplate, knowing as she always had that it would likely be more difficult for her. Her main priority over the years had been trying to be pain free enough to live a full life.
Over the past few months, chatting with a farmer from Gloucestershire, a man she should have nothing in common with but appeared to have everything in common with, was a kind of solace. Most of her friends and colleagues knew about her condition—they had to. Her frequent absences from work, her need to cancel dates when her symptoms were too bad, made concealing her condition from people close to her impossible.
But Dan didn’t know anything and that was freeing.
While she was laid up at home his messages were the bright point of her day. All her friends and workmates wrote to her with sympathetic questions about how she was doing, but Dan was oblivious to everything else going on in her life and she liked that. She liked having someone who was not part of her world.
He didn’t constantly ask her how she was. How she’d been. Didn’t ask for a pain status update. He just chatted. About everything and sometimes nothing.
Would you rather drink coffee or tea for the rest of your life?
Tea, though just writing that makes me long for my morning latte. You?
It would be an impossible choice, but I’d say coffee.
Would you rather be attacked by a shark or a crocodile?
Is neither an option?
Apart from silly quizzes, she told him about her job as an art conservator. Usually once a new acquaintance had asked what her job involved the questions ended, but Dan had plenty more: What do you love about it? What era do you specialise in? Who are your favourite artists? She couldn’t resist talking about her work. What did she love about it? Everything! She loved the science, the problem solving, the history and most of all making sure that beautiful and important works of art survived for generations to come.
In turn, she asked about his work. Why had he become a farmer?
@FarmerDan: Family business, I’m afraid.
@SohoJane: You’re afraid? Did you not want to be a farmer?
@FarmerDan: No, I did. I do. I’m happy to do it. I love it.
Something about his choice of words indicated a level of hesitancy, but Laura let it go.
@SohoJane: What do you like about it?
@FarmerDan: Many things! The animals. Being outside. And it probably sounds corny, but I like the satisfaction you get by helping things grow.
She didn’t think that was corny at all. It made her smile. Dan often made her smile. He seemed like a lovely, down-to-earth man. So different from many of the other men she met in London. Maybe she should listen to her mother’s advice and meet him already.
No. She stopped that thought there. She and Dan worked well as friends. And she wasn’t going to date anyone until she had a better idea about her condition and her next steps.
But they kept chatting. About life in general. They both had mothers who were very keen to see them settled. Dan’s mother was a greater meddler even than Fiona, going so far as to invite single women along to occasions when Dan was expecting a lunch or dinner alone with his mother.
Laura knew their friendship had moved on from potential partners to friends when Dan started mentioning some dates he’d been on. At first Laura had a pang of sadness, but then quickly reminded herself that not only was she the one to say she didn’t want a relationship, but that she actually didn’t want a relationship. Not at this point in her life anyway.
At home, Laura sat on the couch in her small apartment, eating a sandwich she had been too distracted to eat at lunchtime and messages bounced between them.
A Deux was an exclusive app. Exclusive and expensive. The cost had given her pause, but she paid the money to have her identity protected and to know that the users of the app had been vetted first. By an actual person, not an algorithm.
Many of the users revealed everything about themselves—there were some celebrities who were very keen for everyone to know who they were—but just as many users remained anonymous, or partially anonymous, like Laura. The app had allowed her not to worry that the person she was chatting with was a scammer. Or a stalker. Laura had been burnt before by a man who had created fake profiles to keep chatting with her once their brief relationship had ended. Despite reporting him to the managers of the app, he kept finding ways to reach her. She had almost given up online dating entirely at that point, until her mother had told her about A Deux.
Laura didn’t use her real name, and while her profile picture showed her face, it was in black-and-white and didn’t expose every pore. She wasn’t unrecognisable to someone who knew her well but was anonymous enough she wouldn’t be spotted by an acquaintance. She hadn’t had nearly as many matches as she did on other apps, but A Deux promised to keep its clients safe and kicked off anyone about whom a complaint had been made.
As an unexpected bonus, Laura wasn’t on the same site as her mother. She loved her mother, but dating alongside her was strange. Fiona knew about Laura’s friendship with Dan and had gently been encouraging her to meet him, even just as friends. ‘A trip out of London would do you good,’ Fiona had suggested.
Meanwhile, Dan had let it slip that he did spend some time in London to visit his mother and ‘do business.’ Laura wasn’t exactly sure what visiting London entailed for a farmer.
A farmer. She’d never known any farmers and couldn’t quite get her head around what he did each day, but she was curious to know. And dating stockbrokers and lawyers hadn’t exactly worked out for her so she was open to anything.
But you aren’t dating Dan. You’re just chatting.
The next morning broke bright and clear again. Each day that was pain free filled Laura with hope. It was wonderful to be able to go so long without spending a day at home, curled up in bed. She was planning on continuing an assessment of a John Everett Millais painting. Working on a painting she’d known and loved for years was exhilarating, but also an honour.
‘Laura, good news. They signed off on your trip to Abney Castle.’
Laura took off the magnifying glasses and torch with which she was assessing the canvas and refocused her gaze on her supervisor, Brett.
‘You’re going to Gloucestershire next week.’
Laura’s mentor, Archibald Peterson, had been the conservator requested by Abney Castle for years, even when he was meant to be retired. He loved the collection so much and the family was so fond of him, he visited them biannually, as long as his health permitted. Before he’d passed away he’d recommended Laura take over for him and, much to Laura’s delight, the family had taken his recommendation. It included an important and thoughtfully assembled collection of eighteenth-and nineteenth-century British art, including many by Laura’s favourite artist, J. M. W. Turner.
It was a wonderful opportunity, and further evidence that something was turning around in her life.
‘Great! I’ll book my accommodation.’
‘No need. They’ve said you can stay there.’
‘At the castle?’
‘Well, in the servants’ quarters anyway. There’s a cottage you can use.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. You’ll have all the privacy you need. But if you’d rather stay at a B & B in the village, you can.’
‘I’m sure the cottage will be fine.’
Archibald had visited Abney Castle regularly for as long as she’d known him and come back with stories about how welcoming the elderly Duke and Duchess of Brighton were, even inviting him to join them for meals on occasion. While she doubted she’d obtain the same degree of intimacy Archibald had, she hoped she wouldn’t let them, or Archibald, down.
Back at her desk, Laura googled Abney Castle and gasped. She was familiar with the paintings in the Duke of Brighton’s collection, but not his seat of Abney Castle. England being England, the Duke of Brighton was based in Gloucestershire, nowhere near Brighton.
The website showed that Abney Castle was still privately owned, but opened to tourists six days a week. The castle was a Grade I–listed property and had been owned by the Dukes of Brighton for over four hundred years. It was also a functioning organic farm, with an animal nursery and cider distillery. The photos of the grounds made her breath catch. The place was gorgeous. And it would be her home for the next few weeks.
There was also a photo of the duke and his duchess. They were seated, straight backed, in an opulent room. He in particular looked frail, but both held friendly smiles. She hoped they were really as kind as they appeared in their photograph. While clients generally treated their conservators well, everyone had at least one bad story about a client who had unrealistic expectations. Laura’s job was primarily to protect the art works from further degeneration—she cleaned the paintings and suggested steps for further care—but it was rare to recommend attempting to restore the art to its original condition. As conservators, they did not do anything to the artwork that was not reversible.
The job at Abney was significant. Several hundred paintings, some particularly large. The paintings would have been well looked after under Archibald’s care, and assessed very regularly, which allayed most of her concerns. But it was a big job. She’d be away for several weeks. What if she became ill during her visit?
She closed the browser.
She was going to Abney Castle. For a few glorious weeks she would escape her mother’s interrogation, concentrate on her work and have space to figure out her next steps. And if she got sick, she’d manage. She always had before.
She might even meet a real-life duke.
That evening Laura met two girlfriends for a drink on the way home. It was later than usual by the time she finally connected with Dan.
@FarmerDan: How was your day? Best thing? Worst thing?
She loved that he took the time to ask this, it was like her father had once done when she was a child. The memory of her father was bittersweet; if she hadn’t had a wonderful childhood then his loss wouldn’t hurt so much.
@SohoJane: Worst thing was the coffee. We tried a new place and urgh. Won’t be going back. But that probably means I had a pretty good day.
@FarmerDan: So the best thing?
@SohoJane: A career highlight, I think.
@FarmerDan: Amazing, congratulations. Do tell!
Laura stared at her phone. Even if Dan was unlikely to say anything, she doubted the duke and duchess would be happy with her telling a stranger about her new assignment without their prior approval. She knew her firm would certainly not be. They had very strict policies around discussing their clients, which included royalty, celebrities and of course the aristocracy. Besides, if she told him what the assignment was and that she’d be staying close to where he lived for a few weeks then she’d feel extra pressure to finally meet him. He wouldn’t press her, but it would feel strange to go to his part of the country and not suggest they meet.
@SohoJane: I can’t say exactly, but I’ve been given a very prestigious collection to work on. It’s very exciting.
@FarmerDan: Congratulations! I’m sure it’s very well deserved because I’m sure you’re fabulous at your job.
His absolute confidence in her made her entire chest warm with pride.
Should she tell him she was coming to Gloucestershire? It was hardly a small place, but she’d be closer than she was in London.
No. She’d wait a little.
At times she was overwhelmed with the urge to tell him everything about her, about her life. At times she wanted to call him, longed to hear the sound of his voice, but she had to keep those feelings in check. She had good reasons for holding back.
Henry took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder as he walked down Piccadilly, towards Hyde Park. It was an unseasonably warm spring day and he was close to concluding the business on one of his monthly trips to London. He’d attended a board meeting of the children’s charity of which he was a patron and met with the family accountant. He’d also managed to squeeze in a quick lunch with one of his university friends, but was now, thankfully, making his way back to his house in Mayfair.
His phone buzzed and he looked at it immediately. This was usually the time of day he’d start to expect a message from Jane. He had a self-imposed time of not messaging her before five in the afternoon. His impulse was to send her a brief message first thing in the morning, but he knew that not only would he be coming on too strong, but the rest of the day would be spent messaging with her. Chatting with her was like a compulsion for him; it seemed they had an endless number of things to talk about, especially for a couple who had never met in person.
Henry had almost given up on online dating when his friend suggested A Deux, an exclusive site with people who were vetted by the business owner. Women were attracted to the site because it was considered safer—Henry had been attracted by the idea that he could maintain his anonymity for longer than usual. He liked to get to know someone—and for them to get know him—before meeting in person.
Before they found out he was a duke.
He’d made the mistake of putting his full name, not even his title, on the dating sites before, but not this time. This time he was FarmerDan. He wanted to meet a person who liked him—not his name or his title.
He knew he had to marry, preferably within the next few years, because, and there was no way of getting around it, he needed an heir. In the absence of a direct heir—male or female—the Duchy of Brighton would cease to exist. A four-hundred-year-old title would end with him, the thirteenth duke.
Dukedoms and titles had become extinct in the past, probably not mourned by many people, except their own family. His own family—but particularly his own parents—had made too many sacrifices to preserve the title for Henry to lose it.
Besides, getting married? Having children? Those were both things that Henry longed to do—title or no title. He wanted a family and a woman to love and share his life with.
But so far, finding a woman who loved him, Henry Daniel Weston, not Henry, Duke of Brighton, hadn’t happened. And he was beginning to doubt that it would.
Henry was in London for one more night. There wasn’t an hour that went by that day, during his meetings, his lunch, his drinks that he hadn’t started mentally composing a message to Jane.
Hey, I’ve just popped down to London for business. Don’t suppose you’d fancy catching up for a drink?
But knowing her as he did, he didn’t send that message.
She was not looking for a romantic relationship at that point; he didn’t know why, but he respected it. Yet even though they both understood their relationship would remain platonic, they hadn’t stopped messaging one another. He’d expected her to stop. But she hadn’t, so neither had he. Knowing she didn’t want a relationship hadn’t made him less interested in maintaining a friendship. They understood one another, from nearly the outset, and talking to her was like talking to an old friend.
Back at Brighton House, a five-storey Georgian era townhouse near Grosvenor Square, he slipped off his tie and was just about to take off his shoes when he heard voices from the next room. The door to one of the reception rooms was wide open and he paused. Could he walk past and up the stairs without being noticed?
It was a decision he didn’t have to make because his mother called out, ‘Henry? Henry, darling? Is that you? Come and join us?’
His heart fell.
He didn’t want to be speaking to strangers; he wanted to be messaging Jane.
But he was the thirteenth duke of Brighton and he had two jobs: first to keep the family estate largely intact without running up debt for the next generation. Secondly, produce that next generation.
Henry took a deep breath and made himself smile as he walked into the room. There were perhaps a dozen people mingling around, women of all ages, though he guessed that attractive women in the twenty-five to thirty-five age bracket were over-represented. He went over to his mother, Caroline, and kissed her cheek. ‘Mum, good evening.’
‘Henry, please join us.’
Even knowing he didn’t have a choice, he said, ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to intrude.’
‘Nonsense. We don’t mind. The more the merrier.’
‘Really, I’m sure I could have nothing to add to your...’ He looked around the room. Matchmaking party?
‘Book club. I’ve just started a book club.’
Henry bit back a laugh. His mother was the last person on earth he’d imagine in a book club. A walking club, yes. Anything to do with horses, certainly. Art appreciation, maybe. His mother was cultured, but the type of reading matter by her beside was strictly magazines. In all his thirty years he’d never heard her discuss a book.
‘Let me introduce you to everyone.’
Twelve sets of eyes looked up at him from where their owners were perched on the various sofas in the room. There was a decent spread of ages, he had to give his mother that. But how on earth she’d managed to hand pick them all and bring them here under the guise of a book club, and tonight of all nights, he could only begin to guess. But Caroline Weston, the Dowager Duchess of Brighton, was known for her organisational skills and powers of persuasion.
Henry sighed, walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a Scotch. He wasn’t going to get a moment to himself anytime soon.
‘What book did you read?’ he asked as he sat down on the nearest sofa and turned to the first candidate, surrendering himself to the evening.
At least, he thought, Jane is going to get a laugh out of this.
‘You’re angry,’ Caroline said three hours later after she bid the last guest/prospective bride goodbye.
‘No, I’m just tired.’
‘Did you...that is...’ Caroline fussed with the sofa cushions, though they both knew full well their housekeeper would come through in the morning to tidy.
‘Did I like any of them?’ he asked.
Her expression was so hopeful, so earnest.
‘They were all lovely. Smart, attractive, good company.’
Her face fell. ‘But?’
‘But nothing.’ He couldn’t explain to his mother what the problem was because he didn’t understand it himself.
He knew he had to marry and produce an heir. That was not in dispute, but why, when so many eligible, suitable women came across his path was it so hard to choose one? Probably because he used words such as ‘eligible’ or ‘suitable’ to describe his future wife. What he was looking for was ‘amazing’, ‘heart-stopping’ or ‘soul lifting.’
‘I just want you to be happy,’ Caroline said.
‘I know.’
Henry knew his mother wished for his happiness, but only because she believed marrying one of the suitable women she had invited tonight would lead to his happiness. Marrying a suitable woman and producing an heir was in fact the very reason for his existence. The very reason he’d been born in the first place.
His mother kissed him goodnight and Henry finally kicked off his shoes before flopping back onto the nearest sofa and taking out his phone.
There was a message from Jane waiting for him, asking him how his day was.
@FarmerDan: Send wine. And pity. You will not believe what I just walked into.
@SohoJane: A wall?
@FarmerDan: You’re on the right track. My mother just ambushed me with a speed dating event disguised as a book club meeting.
@SohoJane: Wow! That’s hard core. We must never introduce our mothers to one another.
@FarmerDan: It would probably cause a fissure in the space-time continuum, such would be their combined power.
@SohoJane: Absolutely and I don’t know if we can trust them to use their power for good instead of evil.
He liked how he was with her. He felt funnier with her. Was that possible? Was she laughing at his joke? If he saw her in person, he’d be able to tell. He’d be able to watch her face as he spoke, hear her voice...
He was a fool. He should have continued talking to one of the eligible book clubbers, not be spending his time thinking about how to make a woman who wasn’t interested in him laugh.
@SohoJane: You’re in London?
His heart began to hammer against his ribs. Jane knew his mother lived here.
Just ask her. It’s still early.
It was nine thirty. Late enough for anyone who had to work tomorrow.
@FarmerDan: Yes, I’ve popped down for a brief visit. I thought about letting you know, but I know how you feel so I didn’t.
He sat back, waited.
But she didn’t respond.
Two days later Henry still hadn’t had a response from SohoJane to his message telling her he was in London. He was particularly glad he hadn’t said more than that or asked her to meet, but two days was a long time for her to go without replying.
The damp morning gradually brightened into a warm, dry day. Henry spent the morning driving around the grounds and checking the progress of the calves and the lambs. It was spring and they expected two thousand lambs to be born and maybe three hundred calves. They employed a small team of farmers to oversee the farm, but he liked to help out where he could.
The duchy owned fifteen thousand acres of land, one thousand was farmland under his direct management. He had close to fifty tenants, over thirty tenants in the vicinity alone and the rest on the other ducal properties that were scattered across the country.
Then there was the castle.
Abney Castle, the seat of the Dukes of Brighton, was picturesque, but like anything that was several centuries old, it needed constant upkeep and regular health checks. Not to mention a significant budget to pay for them. Opening the castle to the public went some way to paying for its upkeep, but it brought other challenges as well—additional staff, operating costs and further maintenance.
He was fortunate that his father and grandfather had also been good managers and the bulk of their estates was in good order giving them a large buffer for the future, should disaster occur.
Later in the afternoon he had a teleconference with the conservation firm in London about the replacement conservator they were sending. Archibald, the man who had been visiting the estates for the past thirty years, had recently passed away, but they assured him they would send a highly experienced replacement to assess the art collection that his family had collected over the centuries.
The art collection at Abney Castle consisted of over five hundred paintings. From old masters to a significant collection of nineteenth-century British art, including Turner and the Pre-Raphaelites. The entire collection, some of which was lent to the National Gallery and the Tate, numbered in the thousands. The art collection was particularly special; his ancestors had had not only good taste and judgement but exceptional foresight.
Henry meant to see the buildings and the art collections housed inside them protected for generations to come. Other aristocratic families had sold off parts of their collections to fund maintenance of the rest of the estates, but Henry, like his father, saw this as a failure of his management. The estate needed to be maintained, protected and passed down to the next generation. He was only the temporary caretaker of his family’s legacy. If anything, he wanted to be in the position of adding to the collection, rather than selling it off to pay for building repairs.
It was after four by the time he finally collapsed, famished, into a chair at his kitchen table. A plate of sandwiches that had been left on the table for him for whenever he finally wandered in sat in front of him. He realised he hadn’t even stopped for lunch. Being a duke in the twenty-first century was much the same as being a CEO of a company. It was an exhausting role that needed every one of his skill sets and every ounce of his energy. It was then that his phone finally pinged.
@SohoJane: Hey there, sorry about the radio silence. I collapsed with exhaustion not long after your message. Are you back home?
He exhaled the breath he’d been holding for the past two days.
@FarmerDan: Yes, back home and back to the grind.
He pulled up one of the photos of the newborn lamb he’d taken that morning and sent it to her. She sent back half a dozen love hearts.
When it came to the farm he did what needed doing, but welcoming baby animals was one of his favourite parts.
