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“Vegetables?” His bafflement made her want to laugh. “As in, to eat?”

“Yes.” She smiled serenely at his flummoxed expression. “It is far more efficient to grow one’s own food than to go to market. Vegetables are much more productive a plant than flowers.”

This comment seemed to have discombobulated him completely, and his gaze unfocused as if he was trying to make sense of what she was saying. After all, nobles did not grow their own food. Not directly. They grew frivolous, pretty plants that had no use other than decoration. Mei had just rather indirectly told him that she and her grandmother were not wealthy enough for decorative gardens.

Hopefully, that would put him off.

She seized the opportunity to study the interactions across the table from her. Lady Juliette was demurely answering a question put to her by Bolton, and he was very focused on listening to her answer, looking at her as if there was no one else at the table. Mei had been the focus of such attention from him, and it did not hurt, exactly, to know that he was so intent on any young lady he was speaking to, but…

Lady Darcy moved, appearing to accidentally jostle his elbow and breaking his concentration. It was no accident. Mei lifted her wine glass to her lips as Lady Darcy prettily apologized to the duke, whose attention had now shifted. Lady Juliette frowned before smoothing out her expression. Even more entertaining was when Lady Darcy finished apologizing and turned back to the elder Fenley son, who had escorted her to the dining room.

Though both young Mr. Fenleys were handsome men in their own right, neither of them could hold a candle to the duke. Unlike his younger brother, the elder Mr. Fenley was more serious, less puppy-esque, with a more stately bearing, but his stature and confidence fell far short of any of the dukes. The idea that Lady Darcy was more interested in him than in the Duke of Bolton was absolutely ludicrous.

Perhaps if she’d had a different dinner companion, such as the Duke of Montagu, her ploy would not have been as obvious. In this case, Mei nearly laughed aloud. Though men were not as quick to read the currents of the room, and when Bolton looked across the table and met Mei’s eye, he appeared befuddled. It was only when he caught her expression that he glanced back at Lady Darcy and understanding dawned.

He glanced at Mei again, with a tiny smile of amusement curving his lips, before turning back to Lady Juliette. Unfortunately, the lady had already turned to speak with the Duke of Hereford, who was on her other side. At least he was not competition for Bolton’s interests, as he was already married, but for the moment, Bolton was left at loose ends.

Their gazes caught again, and it felt like there was a sizzle in the air between them from across the table. Mei’s breath caught in her throat, and she suddenly felt very exposed. Vulnerable.

“I say, do you ever grow beets?” Mr. Fenley had recovered, startling her and jerking her attention back to him.

“I, ah… yes, we have been known to grow beets.” Her mind felt oddly off-kilter at the interruption. When she glanced back, Bolton was once more engaged in discussion with Lady Juliette, his focus entirely on her.

It was like the moment between them had never happened at all.

“I do enjoy a good beet salad,” Mr. Fenley mused. “No one else in my family likes beets. It might be advantageous to grow my own for myself.”

Oh my. Mei pressed her lips together, trying to decide if she was delightedly amused or utterly exasperated with the man. It could go either way, really. She was not here as anyone’s potential bride; she was here to facilitate the Duke of Bolton finding his match. And as a friend to the hostess. But since the hostess did not know that Mei was here to help Bolton… Mei sent a suspicious glance down the table toward her friend.

Was it possible that Tiffany was trying her hand at a bit of matchmaking herself?

“Mei, what can I do to make her talk to me?” The Duke of Ormonde had leaned in to mutter his question in Mei’s ear on her other side.

She snorted.

“You can stop thinking that you can make her do anything,” she retorted softly. “You have to make her want to talk to you.”

“I am trying. I even told her that I’ve framed and hung another of her paintings, and she just turned up her nose.”

Her paintings—it took all of Mei’s willpower to hold still and keep her face from showing her shock before she realized he did not mean those paintings, of course. If he knew about those paintings, he would have thrown a conniption, not framed and hung it. He was talking about Astrid’s watercolor landscapes. Of course.

“I, ah… have you thought about showing up on time instead?” Mei rallied, focusing on what could actually make a difference for Ormonde rather than his betrothed’s secrets.

Ormonde growled.

“I cannot always control what time I arrive.” He glanced past Mei and glared, and when she turned to look, Mr. Fenley was talking to his other supper companion. Her lips twitched. It was very much like watching a mastiff scare off a lapdog.

“Then you must continue to deal with the consequences.” Mei shrugged. She liked Ormonde, she did, and she thought he might even be a good match for Astrid, as he was one of the few in Society who was not intimidated by her. However, just like his betrothed, he was keeping secrets.

Mei did not know what he was up to, but unlike Astrid, she did not believe for one moment that he was gallivanting about London, whoring and carousing, sowing his wild oats before he settled down to marry. She was not sure Astrid even truly believed that, but she was so determined to dislike Ormonde, or perhaps she was so annoyed that he had not told her the truth, that she was holding to that line. At least until he told her the truth about his activities.

At some point, all of their secrets were going to come out, and Mei fully expected explosions when that finally happened. She just hoped those secrets didn’t wreck whatever chance the couple had at happiness.

Feeling someone’s eyes on her, she lifted her head away from Drake, and her gaze caught the Duke of Bolton’s again. His dark eyes bore into hers, and her heart did a little skip in her chest.

Because that was Mei’s secret, and she wasn’t able to deny it any longer—she was attracted to the Duke of Bolton in a manner that a matchmaker should never be attracted to a client. She deliberately turned away, returning to Mr. Fenley and his youthful admiration. There was no point in letting her fantasies get away from her.

The duke needed a bride, and that could never be her.