“Yes, because for those in need of larger dowries, I require a commitment I can already tell you would not be willing to make.”
Curiosity had him asking, “What sort of… commitment?”
A soft knock sounded behind him, and Titan entered the office bearing a tray with two cups and saucers, a pot of tea, a sugar pot, a small pitcher of milk, and a plate upon which were arranged three flavors of biscuits.
The unmistakable scent of almond wafted past Matthew’s nostrils, and he hoped the growl that emanated from his stomach wasn’t loud enough to be heard by either Titan or the matchmaker.
“Do you take milk? Sugar?” Titan asked, setting the tray down on the table near the fireplace.
“Both,” he answered. “Please. And what’s the commitment to which you referred?” he asked again, redirecting his attention to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
“The willingness to gamble for a prize.”
“I am not a gambler.”
“As I’m aware,” she replied, accepting a cup of tea from Titan.
He accepted the teacup and saucer Titan offered and noticed a ratafia biscuit was already perched on the edge of the saucer.How did Titan know almond was his favorite flavor?Matthew once again furrowed his brows. “What sort of prize?”
“A wife, of course,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated. Once again, he had the impression she was rolling her eyes behind the black netting.
“Well, then we are at an impasse,” he said before biting into the biscuit. Still warm from the oven, it tasted better than the biscuits his cook baked at his country estate in Berkshire. “This is heaven,” he murmured.
A grin appeared beneath the black netting. “Tell me, Lord Wingfield. If I were to find you the perfect wife, what qualities would she possess?”
The query caught Matthew off guard. “I… I, uh, I don’t know,” he admitted at the same moment he realized Titan had quietly taken his leave.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon scoffed softly. “Surely you’ve given some thought to what qualities you would like in your future countess?” she pressed.
Matthew finished the biscuit and washed it down with a gulp of tea. “She must be educated. Able to read, of course.”
“Because you are a voracious reader yourself?” the matchmaker asked. She had a quill in one hand and was already taking notes on the sheet she had for him.
Although he was beginning to realize she knew entirely too much about him, Matthew was still surprised she was aware of his reading habit. “Well, yes, I suppose. I should like someone with whom to discuss what I’ve read.”
“What else?”
“Uh… she must be… not fresh from the schoolroom.” He noted how Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s head jerked, apparently in surprise. “I would prefer someone a bit older,” he clarified. “Someone who hasn’t been sequestered in her bedchamber, only to be let out for the purpose of attending the entertainments considered appropriate for young ladies. No one who is… insipid.”
The matchmaker’s quill lifted from the paper. “So someone who has been outside of London. A traveler, perhaps?”
He blinked. “I suppose,” he hedged.
“What else?”
He leaned back in his chair, finally giving into the matchmaker’s questioning. “I suppose she should know how to run a household,” he murmured. A thought occurred to him, one of practicality. “Work with the cook to come up with the menus. My housekeeper despises that responsibility.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon displayed another look of humor. “As an earl, do you require a daughter of the aristocracy to be your wife? A blue blood?”
He chuckled softly. “I’d rather have a bluestocking.” When Mrs. Dove-Lyon paused her quill, he added, “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I really would prefer a wife who can read. Who likes books. Who is open to learning. Who respects a library.”
“Ah, now we are getting somewhere,” the matchmaker said with excitement. “Alibrarian.”
Matthew gave a start. “Well, not if she’s too staid or…” He winced at the thought of a woman who might not enjoy the marriage bed. “A prude.”
“So, no prudes,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said as she made another note on his sheet. “Tall, short, lean, fleshy? Any particular hair color?”
“You make this sound as if I’m shopping for a wife,” he accused.
