Page 6 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Three

Jasper Sinclair, Duke of Wolferton, raised his glass with a languid hand. He did not see the interplay between ruby and gold in the wineglass as the Madeira caught the glimmers of the firelight from the hearth. His gaze was far away and a steep furrow darkened his forehead. He was deep in thought.

The taproom had fallen silent the instant he entered. His name and reputation had preceded him, as usual. He’d become used to the reverent hush by now, the furtive glances, the fawning and cringing. He had to command the respect of his inferiors. It was expected, demanded, all part of the game. But tonight it grated more than usual. These were people who’d known him in his salad days when he’d been green behind the ears, half the man he was now.

Everything had changed the moment he’d inherited the title, and people had never treated him the same since. Now they feared him and treated him like a half god. And they had reason to.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised about the people’s reaction to him; after all, he hadn’t shown his face in these premises for years. He owned many estates, and this was not one of his favourites.

It was insufferably tedious.

The innkeeper had stumbled forward, his eyes widening slightly as he took in his appearance. “Your Gr-Grace. It is an honour beyond words.” He rubbed his sweating hands together nervously. “If you would follow me to your private room.”

Wolferton had ignored him and sauntered towards a table in the corner, close to the fireplace. “Bring me your best wine,” he ordered.

“At once, Your Grace. M-may I offer you my best bottle of Madeira? It is nearly fifty years old. Or would H-His Grace prefer my twenty-year-old port? Or claret?”

“Bring the Madeira.”

“Y-yes, Your Grace. Immediately, Your Grace.”

The innkeeper was true to his promise. The Madeira turned out to be excellent.

He drank one glass swiftly and poured himself a second.

Then he passed a weary hand over his face.

Why had he chosen to come here? And what was this strange, blue-devilled sentiment that had come over him?

It was because of all the memories; he concluded. Entirely useless things, which only served to remind him that somewhere in this idle body of his there might still be an organ called a heart, and with it the most shocking thing of all: feelings. And that was something he didn’t want to examine too closely. He’d got through his life quite well without that useless organ.He’d prefer to forget that he had one altogether. And those blasted memories, may they be consigned to perdition. For look at what was happening now: he was getting all soft and sentimental and nostalgic.

Zounds. Was that a lump in his throat? And why did his eyes itch? He wasn’t about to start bawling like an infant, was he? He blinked, put down the wine glass and pressed his thumbs to the area between his eyes, praying that this, too, would pass.

He poured himself a third glass.

He asked himself, not for the first time, what the deuce had possessed him to come to this god-forsaken part of the country. What was the point of chasing after a past that was long gone?

Was that what this was all about?

One last desperate attempt to find what he’d lost so long ago? Before the iron shackles of matrimony closed about him with finality.

He shuddered.

He had no answer to that, except that it must be sentimentality.

Blast it all.

The buzz of conversation in the room resumed around him, though a little more subdued than before, as if people were afraid to disturb him. A moment later, the door swung open and his companion strolled in.

Friendship was an odd thing, the Duke mused, as he watched his friend make his way through the taproom towards him. It was very rare and very precious. It was surprising who would step forward to be a true friend. They were the most unlikely of people. He hadn’t experienced it too often, but when he did, he felt a strange warmth in his heart. Like gratitude.

Blasted sentimentality!

“Ah, there you are,” his friend said lightly, sinking into the seat opposite him. “Hiding in your corner, brooding as usual. Are you already regretting coming here?”

“Even if I did, it would be too late to change my mind. Besides, I have obligations to fulfil. My aunts are expecting me.”

“Ah yes. Your venerable aunts. I must say, I am fairly quaking in my boots at the mere thought of them. I hear they’re quite terrifying.” He shuddered visibly.

The Duke’s face softened infinitesimally. “They are the only family I have left. It would behove me to remain in their good graces.”

His companion nodded. “Fair enough. Anything to keep your family happy.” His face took on a mocking expression. “Including getting shackled and starting a nursery if they command you to.” He grinned as he leaned forward. “I hear they’ve arranged a bridal show to present you with a selection of the prettiest damsels in the entire empire, served on a silver platter. All you have to do is choose. Convenient, I must say. And very practical. Think of the time you’ll save.” He picked up an empty wine glass on the table, lifted it and inspected it for cleanliness.

The Duke grimaced. “Where did you hear that?”

“Common knowledge, dear friend. Common knowledge.” His companion poured himself a glass of Madeira and took a sip. “Hm. That’s a delectable drop of goodness.” He picked up the bottle and inspected the wax seal that hung from the neck of the bottle on a fine string. “Who would have known this shabby little inn offered something as exquisite as that? But back to the topic at hand. So yes, word has spread faster than a horse on the track at Newmarket that the Duke of Wolferton is in search of a bride. And that he will select her at Ashbourne House, of all places.” He leaned forward. “The interest is unprecedented.”

“Is it?” The Duke seemed indifferent. “How well informed you seem to be.”

His companion waved his hand. “I speak to the servants, you know.” He chuckled. “I have just had an interesting conversation with the kitchen maid. You will want to hear about it. It seems there’s a Lady Lydia Featherstone living under this roof at the moment. A most exquisite creature. How did she put it? Ah, yes. She is, and I quote, ‘more beautiful than Aurora’.” He leaned back in his chair, pleased.

“Is she?” The Duke raised a brow, sipping his wine. “Have you actually seen her?”

“I have, indeed. Saw her looking out the window earlier. It’s true what they say. She’s a prime article, all right. I almost forgot my own name. Look at me, struck dumb with admiration at her beauty.” He put his hand over his heart.

“Hm.”

“Doesn’t that move you at all? That in this very house resides such an Incomparable?”

“The name is unfamiliar.”

“Featherstone? I believe there is an earl in Northumberland with that name, is there not? If she’s the daughter, you ought to show a little more interest, for she would be quite eligible, considering the fact that you are doomed to get yourself shackled. Especially when the ton consists of—by your words, I quote— ‘pasty-faced, insipid-looking debutantes’. Especially when they hound you to death, those ambitious mamas and fortune hunters. If you must marry, you might as well choose an Aphrodite.”

“Aurora,” the Duke murmured. “Or was it Athena?” He pondered on the matter for a while. “It could have been Artemis. Or a mixture of all three.”

His companion’s shoulders shook with amusement. “Egad, you are an indifferent creature. I marvel at your cold-bloodedness, for nothing moves you. But that is who you are, Wolferton. It is what distinguishes you from all the others.” He finished his wine. “What are you going to do now?”

A slight smile played about the Duke’s lips. “Invite her to the party, of course.”

His companion blinked. “Who?”

“Aurora.” He finished his wine and set it down on the table, adding, softly, “And her maid.”