Page 60 of Calling on the Matchmaker
Riley wasn’t sure what big hands and strong arms had to do with being a good wife, but before he could say anything more, other men in the pub chimed in with suggestions of additional women. And soon he was being guided into a chair at the back table with Oscar, interviewing prospective fathers-in-law.
The din of laughter and coarse joking, the haze of tobacco smoke, and the polishing off of another drink, this one a Guinness, had Riley’s head throbbing even more, so much more that the heat of the room became suffocating.
At one point, Riley caught Bellamy’s eye across the room. Bellamy’s expression lacked the usual mirth, was instead filled with censure, possibly even disappointment.
Riley shrugged. Maybe he was letting Bellamy down. But it was partially Bellamy’s fault for guaranteeing Finola was the only one Riley would want and none other. Even if that hadbeen true, clearly Bellamy hadn’t counted on Finola not reciprocating.
But if Finola didn’t want him, then he’d show her that other women liked him, women he didn’t have to work so hard to convince to give him a chance, women who would eagerly marry him, women who would be honored to be with him.
He’d prove to her—and himself—that he was above crawling back to her and groveling at her feet. He wouldn’t go to her and draw her into his arms and kiss away the furrow in her brow and get her to change her mind.
He was done with her. And that was all there was to it.
Releasing a tight breath, Riley tried to give his attention to the next big fellow, Daniel Allen, who’d apparently rushed to the pub the moment he’d gotten word that Saint Riley was back on the bidding block.
But Riley could hardly focus on the details of the dowry Daniel was promising to give him with Bets. Oscar seemed to think Daniel’s offer was the best yet. As the two men finagled over the dowry, their voices rose until Riley’s head felt like it was being beaten by an anvil.
His chest ached, and his body was suddenly exhausted. The events of the day were finally catching up to him so that all he wanted to do was drop into bed and sleep.
“What do you say, Riley Rafferty?” As Oscar started to chug his pint of stout, his bloodshot eyes above his purplish nose watched Riley expectantly.
Riley was past ready to be done with the matchmaking for the night. “I’ll think on it.”
“Then tomorrow night, you’ll go meet Bets. When you’re done, you stop by the pub.” Oscar slapped the thick leather book in front of him. “After that, I’ll sign your name with the match in my ledger and make it official.”
Daniel beamed at Riley. “Bets will be thrilled.”
Riley only felt dead rotten inside, but he nodded anyway.
Oscar set his glass down forcefully before sitting back in his chair. “Don’t think on it too hard, Riley. I always say: You young people can’t be too finicky. Marriage will take work whether it’s one woman or another.”
Riley had the sudden urge to stand up and shout out his protest. But he swallowed the words. He had to do this. It would keep him from going back to Finola.
Even so, what was he doing? Why was he considering a union to Bets Allen when the only woman he wanted was a petite beauty with the prettiest brown hair, the brightest blue eyes, and an adorable dimple in her chin. And her freckles. He could lose himself in those freckles.
She was the sassiest woman he’d ever met, didn’t care about impressing him, and he loved that about her. But she was also the sweetest person he knew, genuinely caring about people with no consideration to herself.
Had he just made a mistake in giving hope to Daniel Allen and Bets that he could be a match?
His gut began to toss and turn, and he had the sudden feeling he was about to be sick.
As the bile began to rise at the back of his throat, he shoved his way through the men. Swallowing hard, he stumbled toward the rear door, past Bellamy’s sister Jenny and her husband, who ran the kitchen. Riley managed to hold it inside until he stumbled out into the alley. Once there, he hunched over and vomited until he’d emptied the contents of his stomach.
Resting his hands on his knees, he remained bent, a wave of dizziness assaulting him again. A cold breeze blew against his face, but it couldn’t take away the heat radiating from his skin. Or the rolling in his stomach.
The nausea rose again swiftly, and he retched into the half-frozen mud.
He’d only had a couple of drinks, not enough to make him sick. Maybe this rejection from Finola was getting to him morethan he wanted to admit. Because that’s what it was. Rejection. He’d tried to win her over, had thought he was making progress, thought she was beginning to trust him and envision what life could be like with him.
But neither his efforts nor his affection had been enough. Maybe he’d moved too quickly, been overly intense with his ardor. Maybe he should have been more patient with her. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed her to admit she cared for him.
Bother it. What in the blazes had he done?
With a groan, he spit out the bitterness of the bile on his tongue. When he’d started out today with her in the gig, he’d been so full of hope. This wasn’t how he’d pictured he’d end the day. A broken man in a back alley.
Another spasm started to twist his innards. He had nothing left to expel, but he retched again anyway, this one so violent, he nearly collapsed.
A hand on his shoulder steadied him.
