Aunt Margery rushed to the sofa. "I am so sorry! I thought you were an intruder! You made such a terrible noise!"
Rowan opened one eye. The other was squeezed shut against the light. He looked at his aunt with betrayal written all over his face.
"I made a noise because you just tried to blind me with the sun," Rowan rasped. His voice sounded like gravel. "And then you hit me. With a book. A very heavy book. Was it the Romans? It felt like the Romans."
"It was the Romans," Margery admitted. She fussed over him, patting his arm. "Are you bleeding? Let me see."
"I am not bleeding," Rowan grumbled, pushing her hand away gently. "I am just... dying. Slowly."
He sat up, wincing as his head throbbed. He looked terrible. His eyes were red-rimmed. He had a shadow of stubble on his jaw. His cravat was untied and hanging around his neck like a dead snake.
"I have a headache," Rowan announced. "A headache the size of London."
"Serves you right," Margery said, her sympathy evaporating instantly. She crossed her arms. "Simmons told me. You were at the club all day and night. Drinking with those hooligans you call friends."
"We were celebrating," Rowan defended weakly. "Weston is getting married. We toasted him. Many times. To his health. To his wife. To his future children. To his dog."
"And look at you now," Margery tutted. She reached out and poked his shoulder. "You look like a scarecrow that fell off a wagon."
Rowan groaned and flopped back onto the cushions. "Please, Aunt. Lower your voice. You are shouting. Even your dress is shouting. It is very... yellow."
"It is 'Daffodil Delight'," Margery corrected him. "And you need to get up. Now."
"No," Rowan said. He grabbed a throw pillow and put it over his face. "I live here now. On this sofa. Tell the tenants to send my mail here. I'm very tired."
Margery grabbed the pillow and yanked it away.
"Rowan Hamilton!" she barked. "Get up! You have a guest arriving in less than ten minutes!"
Rowan squinted at her. "A guest? I didn't invite a guest. Did I?" He looked panicked. "Did I invite someone while I was drunk?"
"No, you idiot," Margery sighed. "I invited her. Or rather, we invited her. Remember?"
Rowan rubbed his eyes. His brain felt like it was wrapped in wool. "Remember what? I hope it's not another debutante?"
"No! It's Madame Coeur," Margery whispered dramatically. " You promised me you would meet her."
Rowan paused. The name filtered through the fog of his hangover.
Madame Coeur. The matchmaker. The woman his aunt had hired to ruin his life.
"Oh," Rowan said flatly. "Her."
"Yes, her," Margery said. She started pulling at his arm, trying to heave him upright. "And she is arriving at any moment. You cannot greet her looking like this. You look like a cautionary tale against gin."
Rowan resisted. He felt heavy. "Send her away, Aunt. Tell her I am indisposed. Tell her I'm sick or tell her I have moved to France."
"I will do no such thing!" Margery huffed. She gave a mighty tug, and Rowan finally sat up, swaying slightly. "This woman is costing me—I mean, costing us—a fortune. She is the best in London. She is going to find you a wife, Rowan, whether you like it or not."
Rowan rubbed the spot on his head where the Roman Empire had collided with his skull.
"I don't need a matchmaker," he muttered. "I can find my own wife."
"Oh, really?" Margery raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you are single at thirty? Is that why you chase ghosts?"
Rowan stiffened. "I do not chase ghosts."
"You chase women who jump out of balconies," Margery retorted. "Same thing."
She grabbed his arm and steered him toward the door.
"Now, march," she ordered. "Go upstairs. Wash your face. Shave that fuzz off your chin. Put on a clean coat. And for the love of God, drink some coffee."
Rowan stumbled toward the door. He felt like a ship in a storm.
"You are a tyrant, Aunt Margery," he grumbled. "A tyrant in yellow silk."
"I am a woman who wants grandbabies," Margery called after him. "And I will hit you with Volume Two if you are not downstairs in twenty minutes!"
Rowan fled the room. He needed silence. He needed darkness. But mostly, he needed to get away from his aunt before she decided to throw the entire library at him.
Margery stood alone in the drawing room. She smoothed her dress. She checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked composed.
She looked at the heavy book on the floor. She picked it up and placed it back on the table, patting the cover affectionately.
"Good book," she whispered.
Just then, she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside. Another carriage was arriving.
Margery rushed to the window. She peeked through the sheer curtains.
A hired hackney carriage had pulled up. It wasn't the fancy carriage she had sent—Delaney must have insisted on arriving independently.
The door opened. A small boot stepped out. Then a gray dress.
Margery smiled. Her heart beat a little faster.
"She is here," Margery said.
She looked at the ceiling, praying that Rowan was currently dunking his head in a bucket of ice water.
"I hope this works out."