Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“You say your name is Lucy? Lucy—” The Duke of Langridge paused, his dark blue eyes narrowing as he regarded her with a measure of scrutiny that made her stomach tighten. “Crampton?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lucy said quickly, curtsying.
Lucy’s pulse quickened, and for a fleeting moment, she questioned why she had left the comfort of her aunt’s home to take on this task.
Her thoughts drifted to the journey that had brought her here, the jolting carriage over rutted lanes, the tense silence between her and the driver.
Each mile had carried her further from her aunt’s house, further from the life she had known, and closer to this moment.
Standing before Rowan Clawridge, Duke of Langridge, a man whose reputation was equal parts fearsome and infuriatingly intriguing.
“I was sent by my aunt, Your Grace,” Lucy said, bringing herself back to the present, to the intensity of his gaze. “She thought I might be of assistance regarding… well, a matter requiring discretion and careful attention.”
The study had fallen into a strange, attentive silence, as though the room itself had paused to listen.
Lucy stood where she had been directed, hands neatly folded before her, her back straight despite the long wait that had preceded this moment.
She had been shown in, informed that His Grace was indisposed, and left alone with the slow ticking of the mantel clock and the weight of her own thoughts for company.
Long enough, certainly, for doubt to creep in.
Long enough for her to wonder whether her letter had been misplaced or worse, dismissed.
He had not been expecting her. That much had become painfully clear.
Now, standing before the Duke of Langridge, she understood why anticipation had coiled so tightly in her chest. He was taller than she had imagined, broad-shouldered, his presence filling the room with an ease that suggested command rather than effort.
Dark hair, brushed back carefully, framed a face cut with decisive lines, and his eyes.
.. dark blue, cool, observant, seemed to take her in entirely without the least embarrassment for doing so.
Lucy found herself doing the same, quite against her will.
It was not vanity that struck her first, nor beauty in the way poets so often ruined it, but solidity. He looked like a man accustomed to being obeyed, to carrying burdens without complaint, to standing his ground while others adjusted themselves around him.
She had known very little of him before this moment, and that, she realized, was precisely what unsettled her.
London had never been short of gossip, and Lucy had grown up hearing it over tea tables in half-whispered conversations.
Affairs, scandals, alliances, ruined reputations, she knew those stories well.
Yet Rowan Clawridge had remained conspicuously absent from them.
A duke with estates and influence, and yet no steady presence in the ballrooms or drawing rooms of the ton.
He was spoken of rarely, and when he was, it was always with a certain hesitation, as though no one were quite sure where to place him. Reserved, they said. Intimidating. Devoted to his household. A man who appeared when necessary and vanished again just as swiftly.
Lucy shifted slightly, acutely aware that she was alone with him, the door firmly shut behind her, the fire casting warm shadows across the shelves of leather-bound books. The study smelled faintly of woodsmoke and ink. His gaze flicked to her hands, still folded, still waiting.
“Is there a particular reason... Miss Crampton,” he asked, adjusting a ledger on his table as he sat down, “... I should know who your aunt is?”
Lucy blinked, unsure if she ought to remain standing. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
He inclined his head slightly, as if she had responded exactly as expected. “You mentioned her with the confidence of someone invoking authority. I wondered whether it was authority I was meant to recognize or merely familial enthusiasm.”
“Oh,” Lucy said, heat rising faintly to her cheeks. “I did not mean to presume. My aunt is Selina Mullens.”
“Ah.”
The sound was neither approval nor dismissal. It was simply… acknowledgment.
Lucy waited, but nothing followed.
“She is,” Lucy added carefully, uncertain whether silence was invitation or warning, “... a matchmaker. She is… well known in certain circles.”
He tilted his head, considering this, and Lucy’s confusion deepened. “I find,” Rowan said at last, “that ‘certain circles’ are often very small.”
Lucy blinked again. “Selina Mullens is probably the most famous matchmaker in all of London.”
He nodded once, as though she had informed him the weather was changeable. “I see.”
Lucy pressed her lips together, uncertain whether she was being reprimanded or mocked. “I am confused, Your Grace. It was my assumption that I would be welcome here.”
“Miss Crampton, if you are confused, then you and I are aligned,” Rowan said evenly. “For I have yet to determine why you are standing in my study at all.”
She inhaled slowly. “I came in response to a letter. Your letter?”
“My letter?” he questioned with raised eyebrows.
“Which one? Perhaps, the one regarding the shipment of the Langridge estates’ new textile venture?
Or was it the matter of the East India import contracts?
I send so many letters, Miss Crampton, it becomes difficult to track which one inspires unexpected visitors. ”
Lucy blinked, momentarily thrown. “I… I thought—” she began then faltered, unsure if she should explain further.
Rowan’s lips curved faintly, just enough to suggest amusement though not wholly a smile. “The one where I discuss my enterprises? The ventures into silk, tea, and the new trade agreement with Bristol merchants? You have to be specific, Miss Crampton.”
He leaned forward just a fraction, and she caught herself staring.
His dark blue eyes seemed to pierce through the room, assessing her in a way that left her stomach tight.
She noticed the slight curl of his lips, the strong line of his jaw, the way the light caught the waves of his dark brown hair, and she had to remind herself not to linger.
Concentrate, Lucy.
She could feel her pulse quicken, but she pressed on. She took a seat and leaned forward, letting the edge of the desk mark the distance she intended to close. “Your Grace—”
The faintest movement caught her eye. He shifted back slightly, as if surprised by her forward posture and the deliberate way she now faced him directly. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it made the room feel smaller, more intimate, and entirely hers to occupy.
“About a week ago,” she began, “a letter arrived at my aunt’s estate.
It was addressed to her, though she was otherwise occupied with other matters.
” Her hands folded neatly in her lap. “The letter stated, quite plainly, that you required the services of a matchmaker to find a wife and a mother for your children.”
Rowan’s eyes flickered, just slightly.
“My aunt...” Lucy continued, gaining a touch of confidence, “...is much sought after, as I’m sure you are aware.
She could not attend personally, and so she sent me in her stead.
I was to meet with you to understand your needs and to begin the process of discerning a suitable match. That is why I have travelled here.”
Her voice had steadied, her posture firm, but the uncertainty lingered beneath the surface, a tight knot in her stomach. She glanced at him briefly and noticed again, with a shiver she quickly dismissed, the stern look on his face.
Rowan’s gaze held hers, unreadable. He leaned back slightly, hands crossed in front of him, and for a long moment, he said nothing.
“I see.” His eyes narrowed, assessing. “You expect me to believe that a stranger, sent by a busy aunt, has arrived to conduct matchmaking for me?”
“Yes,” Lucy said, resolute. “I assure you, Your Grace, I would not have come otherwise. The letter—” She paused, searching for the right words.
“—detailed your requirements, the children’s welfare, and the urgency of ensuring the household is properly managed.
My aunt believed, as I do, that this is a matter that cannot be entrusted to just anyone. ”
Another silence fell, heavier this time. She could feel the tension, and she knew he did not believe her, not fully.
Finally, Rowan’s expression shifted, a faint shadow of something sharper crossing his face. “Miss Crampton,” he said slowly, “it was mildly entertaining to watch you unravel as you attempted to justify your presence, but that amusement has reached its end. I have business to attend to.”
Lucy’s heart skipped.
“I will not,” he continued, voice steady, measured, cold even, “employ a matchmaker. I will never employ one. Not through letters nor through proxies nor through you.”
Lucy’s heart skipped, and she straightened in her chair, gripping the edge of the desk. “But… you sent me a letter, Your Grace. It was addressed to my aunt!”
“I did not,” he said, the faintest edge of incredulity cutting through.
“Yes, you did! It arrived a week ago! It requested the services of a matchmaker!”
Rowan raised a single eyebrow. “I assure you, I sent no such thing.”
“You did!” Lucy exclaimed, flustered. “It—” She bit her lip, suddenly aware of how desperately she was waving her hands in the air. “It clearly asked for someone capable for the children—”
“I did not!” he interrupted sharply, leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed on hers, unyielding. “I have neither need nor desire for a matchmaker. Do you understand?”
“But—” she stammered, trying to hold her ground though her stomach had twisted.
“I did not,” he repeated, slower this time, each word deliberate. “You are mistaken, Miss Crampton. Entirely.”