James Grafton, Viscount Gowthorpe, needs a wife. Recently returned to London, he reluctantly seeks out Lady Match, affectionately dubbed so by the ton for her excellent matchmaking skills, only to discover that she's the last person he wants to find...
Penelope Ward, the Dowager Viscountess of Mapleton, stared at the door in front of her while trying to calm her racing nerves. It had been a full week since she saw James Grafton again, but she still couldn't quite believe he was back in her life. Not after exiting in such a grand fashion. Or, rather, conveniently fading into the background as her world came crashing down around her. She had yet to forgive him for that. She wasn't even sure she wanted to.
Friends should be there for each other, but he'd completely disappeared when she needed him most. Considering that he was at least partly to blame for her predicament, it made his transgression all the worse. And now she had to find him a wife. It was laughable, but laughter was the farthest thing from her mind. But, she took pride in her matchmaking skills, and she wouldn't risk her reputation by refusing someone her aid. Even if that someone didn't deserve it.
She'd arrived at Winterbourne Hall, the ancestral home of the Duke of Winterbourne, a few hours ago, and when she'd found out that James had arrived as well, she knew she ought to see him. He had yet to tell her his requirements in a wife. She just needed to find the strength to knock on this door. Steeling herself, she raised her hand to do just that when the door suddenly wrenched open and she found herself face to face with the man who had haunted her thoughts for the past week.
He looked about as shocked as she felt, his eyes wide as he stared at her.
"Pene—" He cut himself short. "Lady Mapleton. What can I do for you?"
You can go back to America and stay out of my life.
"I came to discuss our arrangement," she said. "It would be helpful to me if I know what you are looking for before the ball tonight."
For a moment he just stood there as if he had no idea what she was talking about, then he took a step back and opened the door wider. After a quick glance to make sure there was no one around to see her enter a man's bedroom, she entered, stopping in the middle of the room. Like everything at Winterbourne Hall, it was immaculate, furnished with beautiful pieces that had probably been in the family for generations.
She gripped her notebook a little tighter, trying to appear cool and collected. James closed the door, watching her without saying anything. It made her nervous. As if she wasn't already a bundle of nerves around him. Ten years had done little to dull his good looks. If anything, he was more handsome now than when she had last seen him. The boyish good looks were gone, replaced by an exceedingly attractive man in his prime. His thick blond hair was the same, always looking a little untamed as if he couldn't quite get it to obey a comb.
"Have you had a chance to consider what you want in a wife?" she asked, trying to steer her thoughts away from the angular set of his jaw. Did she need to remind herself that she was angry with him? It didn't matter how handsome he might be.
He motioned to a set of two chairs and a small table, and she sat down, placing the notebook on the surface and gripping her quill.
"Not really," he admitted as he sat down in the other chair and leaned back, crossing his stretched out legs at the ankles.
"That's not very helpful."
He groaned. "I know. I'm sorry. Truth is, I do not know what I want. A woman willing to marry me, I suppose. That should be a good start."
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she suppressed it. "I think we can probably set the standards a little higher than that."
"Are you saying she can have all her teeth and perhaps a full head of hair too?"
Despite her best efforts, a little giggle escaped her and he looked inordinately pleased at having provoked it. She'd missed his sense of humour. "I think I can find you a wife with those qualities, at least," she murmured.
"Oh good. I worried I might have set the bar too high."
Still smiling, she shook her head at his comment. "In all seriousness, you must have some requirements. Does she need to be the daughter of a titled gentleman?"
"No. As long as she's from a good family, I care little either way. Perhaps don't match me to a fishmonger's wife. Mainly because of the smell."
"I suspect that would be difficult in any case, considering she would already be married."
"That's a good point." He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling merrily. She'd forgotten that he had dimples. If that grin combined with those dimples made her stomach lurch, she refused to consider it.
I'm angry with him. I'm angry with him.
It wasn't helping. He wasn't any less attractive simply because of her anger. Opening her notebook, she stared down at the page she had dedicated to finding him a match.
"What about her dowry? Some of my clients require it to be on the... larger side," she said, trying to be tactful on a topic where there was no tact. It was, however, something that steered many a marriage proposal.
When he didn't answer, she glanced up to find his relaxed grin replaced by a knotted brow, his lips set in a grim line.
"My lord?" she queried softly, and he startled, giving her a guilty look.
He straightened in the chair, his posture tense. "I'm afraid I do have that requirement," he admitted tersely.
It reminded her that she had heard some rumours since his return to London about him having fallen on hard times, even if she didn't know the particulars. From the shift in his temper, it was obviously a sore spot, so she quickly moved on. "Any other preferences? Other than all her teeth and a full head of hair?"
The small jest sparked a smile, and he visibly relaxed, the tension leaving his shoulders.
"No, I believe that's it. What's next?"
She closed her notebook again, putting it in her lap. "I will seek you out during the ball and point out ladies I think might be a suitable match. If you don't know them, I will introduce you."
He watched her as she stood before standing as well and following her to the exit. When he reached around her to open the door, she caught a whiff of the sandalwood soap he had always favoured. She supposed some things didn't change. Neither had, apparently, her attraction to him. Not that it mattered. She was here to find him a suitable wife, and that was not her.
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