The Perfect Fiancé (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 0) Read Online Free

employer.
    “Now listen here, Quinn. I hope you’ve kept this all hush, hush.” The baronet poked his head in the mirror and straightened his wig.
    Quinn’s eyebrows darted up.
    Sir Seymour lowered his voice to a whisper Marcus hadn’t been aware he’d possessed. “Wouldn’t want the young lady to happen upon my dear wife. Wouldn’t work at all.”
    Quinn’s face paled. “I’m afraid—”
    Sir Seymour swung his gaze toward Marcus. “Pay attention, young man. Juggling is a feat every man must learn. One day you’ll be married too.”
    Usually Marcus would have retorted that he had no desire to see such a state befall him.
    Usually he might profess some gratitude that he had a few more years of freedom before he’d take the marital plunge all titled men must make.
    Usually he might have chuckled at the baronet’s comment, though he’d never seen the need to take on multiple women.
    But instead an image of bronze hair and sun-kissed skin flooded his mind, tangling with the sensation of a soft muslin gown. He mused over dark eyes that sparkled and wide lips not afraid to berate him.
    “Her ladyship is speaking with her now.”
    Sir Seymour’s mouth gaped, and he seemed to struggle to close it. “By Hades, tell them I’m not here! And that I don’t know that chit! Tell them she must be mad. And—and—”
    A pained expression descended upon the butler, and the man interrupted Sir Seymour’s stutters. “The young lady is here to see Lord Somerville.”
    Sir Seymour blinked.
    “She asked for him expressly,” Quinn continued, his voice gathering force in the absence of any response from the baronet except shock.
    Marcus rose.
    “Right. Right,” Sir Seymour said finally, rubbing his hand through his hair. “That’s much better. I mean—what young lady could there be to see me?”
    Quinn offered him a tight smile, evidently interpreting Sir Seymour’s question as rhetorical.
    Sir Seymour emitted a painful laugh and slurped down the rest of his brandy, averting his eyes from either Quinn or Marcus.
    Marcus strode toward the door.
    “Righty-ho,” his host said meekly. “Enjoy.”
    Marcus lowered his torso into a slight bow, striving to retain a placid expression on his face even as his heart rate quickened.
    Miss Rosamund Amberly.
    It might be her! He hoped it was her.
    Though he considered himself less prone to anxieties over attire than the dandies in his set, he did allow himself a cursory glance of his reflection in one of the gilded mirrors that lined the baronet’s corridors before following Quinn into the drawing room.
    His dark hair curled, its unfashionable length attributed to his habit of spending more time in his library than under the watch of hairdressers. His cravat was rumpled, and he smoothed the ivory knot. He wished he’d chosen another claw hammer coat, since this one struggled to contain the broad width of his shoulders.
    A pleasant alto voice resonated from the drawing room, and he turned toward the sound.
     
    *
     
    Goodness, the man was perfect.
    His lips broadened, and she found herself beaming back. His appearance resembled more that of a professor than one of the foppish men in her
Matchmaking for Wallflowers
pamphlet, and she was reminded that he was lauded as one of England’s greatest rising scientists.
    Lord Somerville strolled into the room and his Hessians clicked against the polished wooden floor. Rosamund observed the instant his dark eyes fell on her and the manner in which his pupils flared. Her stomach tightened as if his very gaze were capable of pulling and twisting every organ in her body.
    “It’s you,” he murmured, and his rich, baritone voice seemed to cause all her nerve endings to tingle, as if they were arching closer to him.
    She shook her head. Such things were impossible. Rosamund knew enough about science to appreciate that. Her governess had managed to teach her some knowledge that extended past the studies of poetry and art which she’d