Page 2 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter One

Surely, it couldn’t be that difficult to catch a duke.

Emily White’s gaze locked on the gilded crest emblazoned on the carriage door as it swept into the courtyard of the inn with a flourish. The crest was unmistakable: a wolf, two crossed swords and a crown. Her breath hitched as she recognised the crest, and her steps faltered.

It might be difficult, yes—but not impossible. Although, Emily mused, some might argue that catching this particular duke might be impossible, indeed. A fool’s errand, they would say; and perhaps not an endeavour worth pursuing in the first place, and certainly not worth contemplating.

Yes, it would be folly.

Most definitely so.

And yet…

Yet here she was, contemplating it all the same.

Emily's mind reeled with a whirlwind of possibilities and probabilities. Her fingers clenched around Cissy’s woollen cloak, damp and muddy from their long journey, which she’d taken to the well across the courtyard to wash.

She might as well not have bothered. For as the Duke’s carriage rolled past her, its wheels hit a puddle, sending a spray of mud over her. She froze, standing in the middle of the yard, as the steaming horses came to a halt just behind her.

Emily hissed, ostlers shouted and rushed past her to attend to the horses, the coachman bellowed orders, footmen leapt from the back of the carriage. The inn’s courtyard, silent only moments before, burst into life as people ran from every corner to attend to the newest arrival. Even the innkeeper himself appeared, carrying a tray of steaming mugs of cider.

Muttering under her breath, Emily wiped the mud from her skirt and wished, not for the first time, that the owner of this coach would be cast into the deepest, most infernal pits of hell, whence he’d undoubtedly come.

Then the carriage door opened.

A pair of well-polished Hessian boots appeared, followed by elegant legs and a tailored coat that billowed back as the owner stepped down, pausing for a moment in front of the carriage to survey the inn through his quizzing glass. Then he stepped around the puddle—which was now half empty, as most of its contents adorned Emily’s dress—and, without so much as a glance at her, strolled into the inn, where he promptly disappeared.

Emily’s mouth dropped open.

So that was him.

Wolferton.

The Devil Duke.

His reputation had preceded him long before he’d even set foot here.

He didn’t look as sinister as she’d imagined, Emily thought as she stared after him. Nor had she envisaged him to be the picture of fashion. His dark hair was elaborately swept back in an affected style known as à la Brutus, his cravat intricately tied, his shirt points so high and starched they almost poked him in the cheeks. A tulip, that was clear. A dandy and a nincompoop. Who could have known?

Emily snorted with disdain.

Shaking her head, she turned to see the coachman leap from his seat, skilfully dodging the puddle, and shouting instructions to the ostlers. He was a tall, burly fellow with broad shoulders, wearing a double-breasted greatcoat, leather breeches and a hat. His boots were muddy.

“I say, sir,” Emily called out. “Are you blind?”

The man glanced over his shoulder.

“Did you not see me standing here?” Emily walked up to him, pointing at her mud-stained dress. “Not only did you almost run me over, you splashed me when you drove through that puddle.”

The man towered over her. His gaze swept across her, down her figure, then back up to meet her eyes, which inexplicably made her blush.

He had unsettlingly piercing amber eyes, framed by dark lashes.

He raised an eyebrow.

She forced herself to hold his gaze.

“A miss like you has no business standing in the middle of the yard of a busy coaching inn woolgathering,” he growled in a deep voice. “And if you do, expect to get splashed.” He turned to leave as if the matter was settled.

“A ‘miss’ like me?” Emily gasped.

“Aren’t you a miss? A missus then?” He gave her a second, more lingering appraisal. “But no. You look decidedly unmarried.”

Emily stuttered, not because he was wrong, but because he’d hit the nail on the head. Was ‘spinsterhood’ written on her forehead for all to see? And even if it was, how dare he point it out so rudely?

He strode over to the innkeeper, took a mug of cider, downed it in one gulp, and returned the mug before turning towards the inn.

“Wait!”

Emily’s mind whirled.

This was an opportunity if ever there was one.

He paused and turned. “What else do you need? Your coat to be brushed? Your shoes to be polished?”

Ignoring the sarcastic undertone in his voice, she sidled up to him as if they were best friends.

“That man—” She pointed her chin towards the door where the Duke had disappeared only moments earlier. “That nincomp—I mean, that gentleman who just went into the inn earlier, the one whose coach you are driving. He’s the Duke of Wolferton, isn’t he?”

The hand that reached out to open the door froze. “And if he is?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Just curious, nothing more. It’s not every day you cross paths with a real duke and get splashed by a duke’s carriage. An experience to tell my grandchildren about one day, God willing, if I ever have any.” She looked up at him with wide eyes, placed a hand on his arm and lowered her voice confidentially. “They say he’s very rich, isn’t he?”

Something flashed in the man’s eyes. Once more his penetrating gaze swept over her, taking in her travel-worn, mud-stained gingham dress and crushed bonnet. Then he lowered his face. “Very,” he growled. “He has three thriving estates and twenty thousand pounds per annum. Not to mention a mansion in London and a castle in Scotland.”

Emily pressed her lips into a thin line. She’d known, of course, but she’d needed confirmation. Who better to verify these facts than his servants?

Her grip on his arm tightened briefly as her mind raced.

“They also say,” she continued, “that there is to be a grand country party at Ashbourne House.”

His face remained blank. “Is there, indeed?”

Emily nodded. “They say it is unusual because His Grace never entertains. They say he likes to keep his own counsel. I wonder why he’s holding it at Ashbourne House of all places, where he never resides... ” She stopped, noticing his openly curious gaze.

“How extraordinarily well informed you are.”

“Just kitchen gossip.” Emily shrugged, as if her words had no meaning. “I hardly believe half of it. You wouldn’t believe how much the maids chatter. And as a lady’s maid myself, I can’t help but overhear.” She lowered her eyes to avoid his unsettling stare. “But one servant to another, tell me: is there any truth in it?”

He crossed his arms. “There may be. This kitchen gossip is most amusing. What else do they say, I wonder?”

“It is said that he is looking for a bride, which is the sole purpose of this country house party. Is it true?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Why? Are you thinking of throwing your hat into the ring?”

Emily smiled sweetly, unimpressed. “Silly.” She slapped his arm playfully with her other hand. “Of course not. I am but a lowly servant. A duke and a lowly servant? That could never be. But my sist—that is, my lady, of course—should not miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I am enquiring on her behalf.”

He stared at her, openly fascinated. “Your lady? Why?”

Emily put her hand to her heart and sighed dramatically. “Because she is so very beautiful. As beautiful as Aurora, the Roman Goddess of Dawn. In fact, more beautiful.”

“Egad. Is she really?”

She nodded eagerly. “She would be a perfect choice. Lady Lydia has the looks and breeding of the perfect duchess. She is an earl’s daughter, you know. Why, if she were to meet the Duke, it would save him the trouble of hosting an entire house party to begin with. It must be such a nuisance. He’d find his bride on the spot. Think of all the time and effort he’d save! Men cannot help but see her and fall in love immediately.”

“How absolutely terrifyi—I mean, of course, what an incomparable she must be.”

“She is indeed. She is well known in the ton.” Emily waved her hand. “And generally very well liked. She is not only beautiful, but gently bred, with a kind disposition. Which brings me to my point.” Because he was so very tall, she grabbed his arm as she rose on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, but even then she barely reached his neck. “Can you help us get an invitation to Ashbourne House? My lady would be so very grateful if you could.”

He looked down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. “My dear. I am a mere coachman, not His Grace’s personal secretary. And even if I were, I don’t think I’d have that kind of influence on His Grace’s guest list.”

Emily sighed. “I was afraid of that. I thought, since you so ruthlessly ran me over with your horses and brutally splashed me with mud from head to toe, that you might go out of your way to help me in this minor matter... who knows, His Grace might be very grateful if you helped arrange the match of the century. In the end, you might even find yourself promoted to Head Groom or Master of Horse, or perhaps even Estate Steward?”

“Match of the century, eh?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Indeed. Of course it’s no use expecting a mere coachman to grasp the importance of the matter at hand.” Emily sniffed.

“Alas. I’m afraid you’re right. The fault is definitely mine. I seem to lack the ambition for the role of head groom.” He looked pointedly down at her hand, which was still clutching his arm.

Flushing, she dropped his arm as if it were a burning log.

His lips twisted into a smile, and then, to her utter astonishment, he winked.

“What an insufferable boor of a man,” Emily stammered, red as a beetroot, as she watched him swagger away.

He paused and turned once more. “But for what it’s worth. I truly did not see you standing there, Miss... ”

“Meggie Blythe is my name.”

“Meggie Blythe. I shall instruct the maids to have your clothes cleaned at our expense. I do apologise.”

The apology was so unexpected that it left Emily speechless.

“No need,” she called after him, raising her voice. “I would rather die than have His Grace inconvenienced on my account.” But he obviously chose not to hear her, for he continued to stride towards the inn.

She turned to the well, where she began scrubbing at the mud stains on her skirt and shawl, muttering under her breath. “Really, like master, like servant. Why am I surprised? High-handed, arrogant, insolent, chuckle-headed oaf.” She scrubbed the cloth vigorously with each insult. “Insufferable lickspittle. Maddening lackwit. Preposterous beetlebrain.”

Did she mean the Duke? The coachman? Both? She wasn’t sure who she was referring to. An involuntary chuckle escaped her. There was no point in fuming. It wouldn’t change anything about her situation.

It was unfortunate that the man she hated most in the world was so close and yet so unreachable. As she worked, her anger subsided, and she heaved a sigh. Then she began to hum to herself. Gradually her voice rose, sweet and clear, with the melody of a childhood folk song she often sang while doing her chores.

A shadow fell over her.

She looked up, shading her eyes with one wet hand, to see the coachman hovering over her, with an odd expression on his face.

“My goodness, you gave me a fright,” she gasped, almost dropping the shawl into the dirty water. “Why are you standing there scowling at me as if I just cursed the King?”

“That song. What is it called?” His sharp amber eyes bored into hers.

Emily tilted her head, studying him. “Why? Do you collect folk songs in your spare time? Or is this part of a new hobby for His Grace’s servants? Cataloguing peasant laundry melodies?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, but he didn’t smile. “Where did you learn it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. My mother used to sing it. Why?” She wrung out the shawl and shook it out with a snap, splashing some water on him.

“Was she from around here?” he pressed, not taking his eyes off her face. “Are you from this area? Meggie Blythe, you said your name was?”

Emily shifted uncomfortably under his stare. “What if she was? What if I am? What’s it to you? Why this interrogation? Would you like to know my age, weight and shoe size while you’re at it?”

He said nothing for a moment, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingered on her for half a beat too long, and he opened and closed his mouth as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, his boots crunching on the gravel.

Emily stared after him with a frown. “Well, what an excessively strange man. Charming manners, too.”

She shook her head and bent over her work once more, scrubbing the fabric with more vigour than was necessary.

Then it came to her—an idea, bold and reckless, but thrilling in its simplicity. She froze, her hands stilling in the cold water.

“This could be it,” she whispered. A rush of excitement shot through her, banishing all thoughts of mud, songs and strange coachmen. “This might actually work.”