Page 2 of A Match Made On Duchess Square

James merely arched an eyebrow, for he did not want his boys to know what the woman had said about his children outside of their hearing. They could be little devils at times. But they were his devils, and any woman he married would have to accept them wholeheartedly. Nor did he like that Felicity had purposely encountered him and his boys “by happenstance” on a London street and proceeded to insincerely fawn over them.

He had been adamant about not introducing any of his marital prospects to his sons until he was ready to do so, and considered Felicity’s obvious attempt little more than a calculated ambush. “Whose side are you on? Have I not been a good parent?”

“The best,” Jordan said, “but we are not the ones you need to sway. We already love you. It is the ladies presented to you by Lady Gwendolyn that you ought to be trying to win over instead of dismissing them out of hand.”

Robert nodded. “Lady Gwendolyn has been ever so patient with you, but you’ve rejected all the young ladies she has put forward so far. One was too tall. One was too short. Another had a laugh that irritated you.”

“Well, she did,” James retorted in a grumble.

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Don’t forget the one whose hands were too big.”

Robert nodded again. “And another whose feet were too big.”

“Or the one you claimed wore too much perfume and made you sneeze.” Jordan wrinkled his nose. “Well, I cannot blame you for that one. But I think you are mostly making up excuses because you do not really wish to remarry.”

Perhaps his sons were right, for James had come up with the most paltry of excuses to dismiss several ladies who were considered ton diamonds in their day.

But did he not have the right of it with Lady Felicity? She was not yet finished railing at poor Gwendolyn. “He’s beastly!”

Got it.

I’m a beast.

Hence, Lady Gwendolyn’s frown as she watched him descend from his carriage and march up the front walk with his boys.

“Your Lordship,” her butler said, inviting him in while trying not to look distressed by the one-sided battle royale going on in the parlor. “Lady Gwendolyn is expecting you.”

“I’ll bet she is,” James muttered. “Thank you, Biggs.”

He was about to suggest his boys wait outside for the moment when the parlor doors suddenly burst open and Felicity sailed out in a tempestuous huff. “You!”

She knocked him out of the way, snarled at his boys, and stormed out.

Gwendolyn had not been far behind Felicity, but paused in the parlor doorway, her face slightly ashen after the dressing-down she had just endured. “Another successful match,” she remarked dryly, upon spotting James.

This was her polite way of indicating she was not amused and he was not likely to leave this visit unscathed.

James and his boys entered the parlor as she waved them in.

She stared at him with a look of impatience and folded her arms across her chest, which only served to accentuate the shapeliness of her bosom that was rising and falling with pronounced splendor in her agitation. “What is it this time? She had a moustache? Cursed like a sailor? Smacked her lips while she ate? Too dull? Too lively? Laughed too much? Did not laugh enough?”

“Of course not.” He tried to ignore the heavenly heave of Gwendolyn’s bosom, but it was an impossible sight for any man with breath left in him overlook.

Not that his response signified anything.

He should not have been noticing. Why was he suddenly noticing how pretty she was?

She shook her head. “Then what could the reason be this time? You have used every excuse imaginable to find these perfectly lovely ladies unsuitable for you.”

He had no answer for this.

A gust of breath escaped her lips as she motioned for them to be seated. “Well, I suppose you had some cause about Felicity. She shouted at me for ten minutes straight before you arrived. Dear heaven. My ears are still ringing. We’ll discuss this latest fiasco over tea.”

James waited for her to take a seat on her blue silk settee before he sank into a blue-and-white-striped, cushioned chair beside her. Robert scrambled to sit beside Gwendolyn, almost knocking over the tea cart laden with teapot, cups, cakes, and buttered bread that Biggs had just rolled in, in his zeal to claim that seat of honor.

Jordan grunted and plunked himself in the chair beside his own.

“Boys, would you prefer lemonade?” Gwendolyn asked with remarkable poise, pointing to a glass pitcher that was also on the cart.