Henrietta’s lips quirked. “You forgot the bit about her being at the very least passably pretty, if not a diamond of the first water.”
“Ah—but you already knew that.” From under heavy lids, he slanted her a glance. “You know me so well.”
She humphed. “I know your type well enough, that’s true.” She mentally reviewed his responses, then asked, “Are there any physical characteristics you prefer? Blond rather than brunette, tall rather than short—that sort of thing.”
Dark brown hair, taller than average, soft blue eyes—rather like you. James kept the words from his lips and substituted, “In all honesty I’m more interested in the substance than the package—on what’s inside, rather than outward appearance.” He glanced at her. “In the circumstances, it’s more important that I marry a lady of sound character who accepts me as I am, and accepts the position that I’m offering for what it is, and is willing to devote herself to the position of my wife.”
She’d caught his gaze; she searched his eyes, then inclined her head and faced forward. “That’s an admirable attitude and an excellent answer.” After a moment, she blew out a breath. “So we know what manner of lady we’re looking for.”
“Now, how do we find her?”
“Did you bring your invitations as I asked?”
He fished in his pocket and drew out the stack of cards he’d received.
She took them, placed them in her lap, and started leafing through them . . . and stopped, frowning. “These aren’t sorted.”
No . . . “Should they be?”
She glanced at him, perplexed. “How do you keep track?” When he blinked, not quite sure what she meant, she huffed and waved. “No—never mind. Here.” She regathered the stack and gave it back to him. “Sort them by date, starting with tonight. And we’re only including events at which marriageable ladies of the ton will be present.”
“Hmm.” That cut out a good half of the invitations he held. Somewhat reluctantly laying the others—the invitations to dine with friends at clubs and the like—aside, he combed through the untidy sheaf, extracting and ordering as she’d instructed.
Meanwhile, she opened her reticule, rummaged inside, and drew out a medium-sized calfskin-bound book. She opened it, smoothed the page, then set it in her lap.
He glanced over and realized the book was her appointment diary. It was roughly five times the size of his and, he noted, had roughly five times the entries for each day.
She waited—with reined patience—for him to reach the end of his sorting. “Right, then,” she said as he neatened the pile. “Let’s start from this evening.” She tapped an entry in her diary. “Do you have an invitation to Lady Marchmain’s rout?”
He had. They progressed through the next two weeks, noting those events she deemed most useful for their now-shared purpose for which he already had invitations; where that wasn’t the case, she made a note to speak to the relevant hostess. “There’s not a single hostess who will refuse to have you, especially if she suspects you’re bride-hunting.”
“Ah . . .” A horrible vision flooded his mind. “We’re not going to make any public declaration of my urgent need for a bride, are we?”
“Not as such.” She looked at him—as if measuring how much to tell him, or how best to break bad news. “That said, as you’ve already been courting Melinda but have parted from her, most will know, or at least, as I said, suspect that you’re actively looking about you, but as long as you’re with me, under my wing so to speak, I seriously doubt you’ll be mobbed.”
“Oh—good.” He wasn’t sure whether to feel reassured or not. After a moment, he added, “I purposely haven’t let it get about that I’m under any time constraint. I imagine that if I let my desperation become known, I won’t be able to appear in public without attracting a bonneted crowd.”
She chuckled. “Very likely. Keeping your deadline a secret is indubitably wise.” Returning to her diary, she flipped through the next weeks. “But as to that, as I didn’t learn you had a deadline even though I learned the rest, I can’t imagine any other lady will readily stumble on the information, so you should be safe on that score.”
He nodded, then realized she hadn’t seen. “Thank you.”
She glanced at him, her soft blue eyes glowing, her delicately sculpted, rose-tinted lips curved in an absentminded smile, and he felt a jolt strike his chest, reverberating all the way to the base of his spine, even as he realized just how deeply he’d meant the words.
He trapped her gaze. “And thank you in the broader sense, too. I honestly don’t know what I would have done—how I would have forged on—if you hadn’t offered to take me and my campaign in hand.”
Her smile deepened, her lovely eyes twinkled. “Well, it is something of a challenge, and a different challenge to boot.” Shutting her diary, she slipped it into her reticule, then nodded across the lawns. “Now we’ve defined the essential elements of our campaign, we should make a start on assembling a short list.”
He rose as she did. He would have offered his arm, but she lifted her parasol, shook it out, then opened it, angling it to shade her face. Then she looked at him and arched a brow, distinct challenge in her eyes. “Shall we?”
He waved her on, then fell in beside her, strolling bravely, with no outward sign of his inner trepidation, across the lawns toward the Avenue and the carriages now crowding the verges, and the surrounding hordes of fashionably dressed young ladies and elegantly garbed gentlemen chatting and taking the air.
He paced slowly, adjusting his stride to hers. While some wary part of his mind still found it difficult to accept that she—The Matchbreaker—really had agreed to help him, she was indeed there, and was indeed helping him, and he was absurdly grateful for that.
Regardless, he hadn’t expected to dream about her last night, yet he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed about a specific woman, rather than a womanly figure, yet last night it had definitely been Henrietta in his dreams; it had been her face, her expressions, that had . . . not haunted, but fascinated. That had held his unconscious in thrall.
The dream—dreams—had not been salacious, as most of his dreams of women were. Which was just as well; Henrietta was his best friend’s sister, after all. But the tenor of the dream had puzzled him and left him just a tad wary, a touch wondering. His attitude in the dream had felt worshipful, but perhaps that had simply been his gratitude manifesting in a different way.
Assuring himself that that was most likely the case, he focused on the rapidly nearing crowds. Dipping his head closer to hers, he murmured, “What should I do?”