A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

P hilip pressed the seal stamp onto the hot wax of the letter sitting on his desk. He set the letter on the pile of those already sealed and stamped, straightening them so that the edges all lined up.

The library in his London townhouse was but a fraction of the size of the one at Oxley Court. It housed a respectable number of books, but it fell far short of the towering shelves of his country estate’s grand library—the accumulation of centuries-worth of books, acquired by the five Viscounts Oxley who had come before him.

He glanced up, grateful that here, at least, he didn’t have to gaze at the looming portrait of his mother on the wall. The painting was every bit as large and imposing as the room that housed it, and the artist had managed to capture the similarly grand presence of the subject—her clear, perceptive gaze, her regal posture, as though she looked down from a throne onto her kingdom below. He preferred not to have her eyes watching him while he conducted his business.

Philip wondered if she would be proud of what he had done with Oxley Court—the way he was managing everything. He had been working tirelessly at it since his father’s death six years ago. He thought she at least would be pleased with his selection of Miss Devenish for a wife. But perhaps he was wrong. He never had been able to accurately judge what would please her.

He had few memories of his mother, but they were all wrapped up in the same feeling: the wish for her approval and the uncertainty of obtaining it. He could still remember picking a bouquet for her, setting each bloom in a neat pile on the grass as he had taken turns selecting the most exemplary flowers. He had been so certain she would be pleased. She loved flowers, and she had been thrilled with the last bouquet he had brought her. He didn’t remember what she said when he handed her the offering, only the way she had barely glanced at it, ordering one of the servants to take it away and ensure Philip had a bath. He could still remember how confused he had felt at her reaction.

There was a knock on the door, and Philip shook out of his daze, inviting the servant inside. A footman came in with a silver salver, on top of which sat two notes, apparently sent by the penny post. “These arrived with the morning post.”

“Thank you, Stephen.” Philip took the letters in hand, and the footman bowed and left.

He watched the servant’s departure with a slight frown. He had found that his servants responded best to him when his expectations were high and his approval expressed readily. He doubted his mother had been one for praising the servants. Miss Devenish at least would manage the household capably and kindly.

He opened the first piece of correspondence—a simple invitation to an al fresco party to be held in a week. Miss Devenish would be there, he imagined.

The thought of her made him feel slightly warm about the gills. He had made a complete fool of himself the other night. Seeking the counsel of the Swan was sounding a bit less ridiculous now.

He glanced down at the unopened letter in his hand and recognized the stamp on the back as Finmore’s. He sighed as he broke the seal.

Ox,

If you’re feeling a bit humbler today:

The Swan

Office of The Marsbrooke Weekly

High Street

Marsbrooke

Your servant,

Fin

Philip stared at the address for a full minute, his mind working, his pride rearing its head, even while his sense of duty swatted it back down. Little though he liked to admit it, he needed help. It was a humiliating realization. Someone in his shoes shouldn’t need assistance making a match. And Finmore was right—he could have paid a visit to any number of fathers in Town and received nothing but resounding “yeses” to an offer of marriage.

But he didn’t want them. It was Miss Devenish he wanted—he wanted her gentleness as much as he needed everything else she possessed.

When Philip understood what was expected of him, he found it quite easy to meet those expectations. He merely needed to find out what it was Miss Devenish wished for in a husband. And for that, he required help. What if this Swan fellow was just what he required? No one—not even Finmore—need ever know Philip had employed his services. He could pay for discretion. Just one meeting to help him get ahead of the other suitors. That was all it would take.

With a determined breath and a setting of the jaw, he put down the letter and pulled a sheet of foolscap toward him.