The Duke’s Meddlesome Matchmaker (The Unconventional Oliver Sisters #1)

Chapter One

Miss Aphrodite Oliver settled deep into the luxurious seat of Rules, the best restaurant in London, and beamed across the room at the gentleman making his way back to the table.

It had all been perfectly planned. Of course it had. She had planned it.

A proposal at New Year, after all, was a wonderful idea.

When Aphrodite—or Ditty, to her sisters—had first heard of the idea, she was rather astonished she had not thought of it herself.

Preening ever so slightly, and who could blame her, she smoothed down her long skirts and held her fan just above her nose, her hazel-green eyes wide above it. It would not do to be recognised…

‘Another glass of champagne, Miss Oliver?’

Ditty looked up and beamed at the serving-man. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

The man hesitated, evidently unsure what on earth she could possibly mean. ‘It…it is?’

She nodded at Mr Matthews, who was still weaving his way through the many tables. ‘He. Mr Matthews. He’ll be proposing marriage tonight.’

The serving-man’s eyebrows raised. ‘He—he will?’

‘Naturally,’ Ditty said smoothly. ‘It was a delicately made introduction, has been several months of courting, a most respectable time. This is, after all, one of the best restaurants in London—and it took a great deal to convince the chef to prepare my preferred menu, I can tell you. The finest champagne—yes, I will have a glass, thank you. And the speech! Oh, the story I could tell you about the speech…’

Her voice trailed away.

She had worked hard on that speech. Being one of the most respected proposal planners in the ton—far more difficult than a matchmaker—one had to make sure each proposal speech was quite different. It was one of the things that made her the best.

‘He is going to sit, then speak of his affection. The speech is all prepared,’ said Ditty proudly, sweeping back a curl of her chestnut mane which had escaped its pins.

‘Then just as one would think no more romance could be packed into an evening, he will slowly lower himself onto one knee, take her hand in his, and present it with a promise of his devotion and a request that he be made the happiest man in the world.’

She sighed happily. It was the perfect plan. Thank goodness she had put so much work into it—those late nights in her cramped rooms shared with her sisters, Thalia and Calliope, were all worth it.

Strings. The violinist she had organised for just this moment started to gently play a melody from Handel’s Rodelinda—a favourite opera.

The serving-man cleared his throat. ‘And…and you do not mind? Knowing so much about the proposal before it occurs, I mean. Is it not unusual for a woman to know precisely all the details? No offence meant, miss.’

Ditty blinked. What was he talking about? ‘I beg your pardon?’

She fixed her stare onto the man standing beside her table who suddenly looked as though red-hot coals had been applied to his feet.

‘I just—I only meant—’

But Ditty could not listen to him now.

Breath hitching in her throat with all the excitement, she watched a beaming Mr Matthews walk toward her. Their gazes met. He is so happy, she could not help but think. So happy. And so was she.

And then he strode past her table and sat at another. ‘I am sorry for taking so long, my dear, I wanted to ensure our order was exactly understood.’

Miss Evans, soon to be Mrs Matthews, smiled. ‘Not at all, my love.’

Ditty nodded and made a small tick in the notebook before her.

Everything had been going to plan—his walk to the kitchen had taken approximately ninety seconds longer than they had scheduled for, but the violinist had managed to cover the gap.

She would have to remember to tip him an extra half crown—not something one would have been able to do in Almsbury.

Her stomach lurched and she forced aside the emotion she could ill afford at such a crucial juncture. She did not miss living in Almsbury. She was perfectly happy in London.

Ditty looked up and saw to her surprise that the serving-man was still standing there, his mouth now open.

‘He…he’s not proposing to you?’

Ditty frowned, bemused. ‘Why on earth would he?’

Only too late did she realise the misunderstanding. Stifling a laugh, she tried to see it from the man’s perspective.

She had been speaking as though Mr Matthews and herself—of course. ‘I’m a proposal planner.’

‘A proposal planner—’

‘Hush!’ Ditty glanced around the restaurant, then glared severely at the serving-man when her gaze fell back on him. ‘Do you want to put me out of business?’

Not that it would be hard, she could not help but think.

After her father’s death, matchmaking had been considered a respectable way for her to support her two sisters and their rather unconventional mother: a wonderful way to bring together what ought to be romantic, and imbue it with the practicality and organisation she had become famous for—even during her time in finishing school.

Most people were…well, so slapdash with their courting.

But not Miss Aphrodite Oliver. Her proposals were perfect.

The trouble was, fewer and fewer people were investing in a matchmaker these days, let alone a proposal planner.

Love matches, heaven forbid, were starting to become the fashion.

Mamas hoped for introductions, rather than made plans for matchmakers.

It was ridiculous. It was starting to make finding clients difficult.

A small movement just ahead of her made Ditty focus. ‘Go away!’ she hissed to the serving-man, flapping her hands.

It was about to happen. The moment she had spent the last three weeks planning, considering, obsessing over and finalising within an inch of her life.

Ditty glanced at her notebook.

7:11 pm: Mr Matthews begins making romantic speech. Key points: gratitude for her support as he finished studying medicine, his recent introduction to her sister and family, finally finding the perfect home for them to live in.

She nodded approvingly. Achievements any couple should be proud of. She had insisted Mr Matthews include them.

The table she had chosen was expertly positioned—just close enough to listen in on each word her client uttered, but just far enough away that she could not be under suspicion.

‘Miss Evans, you know that I have been courting you for five months now—’ Mr Matthews began.

Ditty had to work hard not to nod along. Yes, precisely as they planned. She had forced the gentleman to practice in a looking-glass for the last four days, so he should be well rehearsed by now.

‘—and your support while finishing my medical studies, I cannot thank you enough—’

It would have been a better idea perhaps, Ditty mused, doodling on her notebook, if Thomas had been able to attend.

He would have made a perfect excuse to sit here.

Sitting with the gentleman who was courting her would have given her the perfect excuse to continually look up…

and over his shoulder and beyond him to her client.

But Thomas was busy tonight, apparently.

‘On New Year’s Eve?’ she had asked earlier today on their customary Thursday morning walk.

He hadn’t really seemed to be listening. ‘Happy New Year’s Eve to you!’

Ditty had closed the door in his face none too gently, and put it from her mind. She had a client proposal that evening, after all.

And Mr Matthews was doing a rather superb job of it. She examined him with an expert eye—she had been organising matches for…what was it, four years now?

Ditty worked hard to keep her eyes open as Mr Matthews continued. She’d been up late all last night, putting the finishing touches to this proposal. It had to be perfect.

‘—and with the property I have now found, everything just seems to be falling into place…’

Two proposals a month, every month, for four years—though the festive period had naturally slowed that down. No wonder she was tired—but then, London hardly lent itself to slowing down since losing her father five years ago, because she had two sisters and a mother to support.

Ditty ticked off another element of Mr Matthews’s speech in her notebook.

This had to be perfect: she had no further matchmaking clients, something deeply concerning.

True, it was near the end of the Season, but she had not expected such a decline.

She would have to hope new clients would emerge in the New Year, as they always—

Her shoulders stiffened. Though her thoughts had wandered in another direction, her ears had still been listening all the while to Mr Matthews’s speech. The speech had been going so well, and now was going so wrong.

Ditty glanced up, trying desperately to catch the eye of the idiot. What does he think he is doing? He has now completely deviated from my script!

‘—and I adore you, everything about you,’ Mr Matthews was saying, eyes bright. ‘Every day spent with you is one I want to continue forever. You complete me in a way…’

Ditty rolled her eyes. Romance! What, did the man think one could just pluck romance from the air, like ordering a cravat from a haberdasher!

Romance was what she orchestrated, but it took weeks of planning, more coin than most people knew what to do with and her own special approach! One couldn’t just spout romance at the drop of a hat!

Oh, this was going to be a disaster. From the angle she was sitting at, Ditty could not see into the eyes of Miss Evans but she could well imagine.

With a heavy sigh, Ditty prepared herself to rise from her seat. Well, this could not be blamed on her, at the very least. She had prepared for all eventualities, as she always did, and—

‘Yes! Yes, I will marry you!’

Ditty blinked. What? Miss Evans wasn’t scheduled to finish hearing, much less accept Mr Matthews’s proposal for another six minutes. She didn’t need to look at her notebook for that detail; she had memorised the schedule. Naturally. As any good proposal planner would.

The fool! The festoons of rose petals to be showered on them would now be entirely mistimed!