A Lady's Virture
Page 1
Can a broken engagement ignite the spark of true love?
Sylvia Dowder had almost made it to the altar when her fiancé unexpectedly became a viscount, and dropped her like a stale crumpet to make a more “suitable” match. Though Sylvia’s heart has been crushed, her spirit has not. She puts her wits and social savvy to use as a secret gossip columnist—and as the Everton Domestic Society’s party planner to the ton. Luckily, she’s not in danger of ever falling for an aristocrat again…
Especially not one like Anthony Braighton, Earl of Grafton. Raised in America, Anthony sees no reason to marry when he can enjoy all the perks of being an eligible earl. Determined to convince his family he doesn’t need a wife, he hires Sylvia to act as hostess and decorator for upcoming parties. Yet Sylvia is as adept at captivating his interest as she is at beautifying his home. And despite this Everton lady’s aversion to titled men, some attractions can’t be denied—and love rarely does go where it’s told . . .
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
Books by A.S. Fenichel
The Demon Hunter Series
Ascension
Deception
Betrayal
Forever Brides Series
Tainted Bride
Foolish Bride
Desperate Bride
The Everton Domestic Society
A Lady’s Honor
A Lady’s Escape
A Lady’s Virtue
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Lady’s Virtue
The Everton Domestic Society
A.S. Fenichel
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Books by A.S. Fenichel
A Lady’s Virtue
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Meet the Author
A Lady’s Escape
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by A.S. Fenichel
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.f.
First Electronic Edition: March 2019
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0586-1
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0586-9
First Print Edition: March 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0589-2
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0589-3
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To Dave Mansue, for believing in me even when there was nothing to believe in and for being proud of every tiny accomplishment. Thank you for knowing that staring out into space is sometimes the same as working and for loving me with all my quirks and the random thoughts I share at the oddest moments.
To my dear friend, Karla Doyle, for having the wicked sense of humor that inspired Sylvia.
Acknowledgments
Whenever I write a book it is with the love and support of fabulous friends. Thanks for all your support: Gemma Brocato, Juliette Cross, Kristi Rose, Janna MacGregor and CD Brennan. You ladies make my mornings bright and keep me rolling.
Special thanks to Debbie and Chad for all the support and cheering on. No one has ever had better friends.
Chapter 1
Late again, Sylvia Dowder ran down the stairs at the Everton Domestic Society as if her skirts were on fire. It was impossible to read her handwritten pages while moving at such a pace, but she needed to send her article to the Weekly Whisper’s editor before the day was out. She’d been late last month and nearly lost her post at the newspaper.
At the bottom of the stairs, she noted her failure to sign the article. Quill in hand, she dripped ink on her brown skirt, leaned on the banister and scribbled Mable Tattler at the bottom. She would ask Gray to have a footman carry it to Free Market Square. Jumping down the last step brought her up against a wall that toppled her to the floor.
Stunned, she lay still with her papers strewn around her and the light from the transom windows blocked by whatever had felled her.
A masculine, ungloved hand reached toward her. “I’m terribly sorry, miss. Entirely my fault. Are you hurt?” His accent was strange, American perhaps.
Having no gloves on, she was hesitant to touch him, but there was no help for it. She couldn’t remain on her back like a turtle. The warmth of his skin traveled up her arm, and her cheeks heated. His fingers were strong and rough. This was no gentleman’s hand. She stood as he eased her to her feet. “Not at all,” she said. “I was distracted.”
He towered over her. At her full height of barely over five feet, she craned her neck and was frozen by the most stunning pair of golden eyes, olive skin and full lips. She blinked to focus on the whole rather than the parts. “Anthony Braighton?”
He bowed over her hand, which he still held firmly in his. “Lady Serena or Sylvia? I’m afraid I don’t know.”
The mention of her twin’s name brought reality crashing back on Sylvia. She pulled her hand back and made a curtsy. “A common mistake, sir. I am Sylvia Dowder. My sister is still living at home.”
Cocking his head, he gawked at her. “And you are now living here at Everton House, Miss Dowder?”
“I have joined the Society.” While he seemed only curious, it still rubbed her wrong, and she forced herself not to defend her decisions. Anthony Braighton was just a rich gentleman from America. His opinion didn’t mean anything.
“Because of Lord March?” The problem with Americans was they said exactly what they thought rather than keeping a conversation polite.
Sylvia bit down on the inside of her cheek. The last thing she wanted was to recount the demise of her engagement to Hunter Gautier, the current Viscount of March. She had been so close to the altar before disaster struck. No. She wouldn’t think about that anymore. “My reasons are not your concern, Mr. Braighton. If you’ll excuse me, I have to see the butler.”
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His eyes were wide. “Have I been rude, Miss Dowder? I assure you, it was not my intention. I only meant to convey that March’s treatment of you was abominable and no one blames you.”
Despite his effort to make things better, his mention of what everyone in London knew of her life and failure only exacerbated her mortification. Still, she could see he was sincere, if mistaken. “There is no harm, Mr. Braighton. I am uninjured.”
“I am pleased to hear that. It seems I have a bad habit of offending the English with regularity.” His smile created the most charming dimple in his left cheek, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.
If she were honest, she did not mind looking at Anthony Braighton. Best not to be too honest. “I am made of tougher stuff than most.”
“Indeed.” That dimple deepened, and he raised an eyebrow. Looking at the pages in her hand, he said, “I’m keeping you from something. Forgive me. I was on my way to see Lady Jane Everton.”
Curiosity over what troubles might bring a rich young man to the Everton Domestic Society warred with her need to have her article delivered to her editor before her deadline passed. Her training as a lady won the battle. She gestured toward the hallway, which led behind the stairs. “Lady Jane’s office is the first door on the right.”
“Thank you, Miss Dowder. Very nice to see you again.”
“And you, Mr. Braighton. If you will excuse me.”
He bowed, and she rushed from the foyer to find Gray, the Evertons’ aging butler.
Gray shuffled through the servants’ door into the dining room when Sylvia found him. “Hello, Miss Dowder. How may I help?”
How the man managed to stay upright was a mystery, as was his age. No one seemed to know, and Sylvia didn’t have the courage to ask him. She admired his fortitude and tried not to giggle at his wild tufts of white hair when they protruded in every direction.
She folded her parchment into a small packet. “Can you have a footman deliver this to Mr. Cane at the Weekly Whisper’s office? It must get there before three o’clock.”
Taking the packet, he nodded. “I’ll see to it, miss.”
“Oh, Miss Dowder, there you are.” Jane Everton stood in the entrance, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun and her hands clasped in front of her gray skirt.
“Did we have an appointment, my lady?” Sylvia prayed she hadn’t forgotten.
“No. However, if you have a few minutes, I would like to speak to you.”
The notion that her crashing into Mr. Braighton had become known spiraled her stomach into a knot. Surely, he wasn’t upset because she’d been preoccupied and bumped him. After all, it was she who had tumbled to the floor, not him. “Of course, my lady.”
Following Jane out of the dining room, through the foyer and past the stairs to her office, Sylvia practiced her apology for the incident. Not that she was very sorry, but it was easier to make amends than fight a tyrant most of the time. Perhaps she was fussing over nothing and Anthony had left the house already.
Besides the masculinity of the room, there was always the warm smell of cherry tobacco, which Lord Everton favored, and the fresh-cut flowers he had delivered nearly every morning for his wife. Today a large vase full of tulips decorated the table to the right of Lady Jane’s desk. Seated next to the table, Anthony Braighton waited.
When they entered, he stood.
Jane rounded the desk. “Miss Dowder, this is Lord Anthony Braighton.”
Heart pounding, Sylvia made a curtsy. Anthony Braighton’s sister was a countess, but he held no title. At least she didn’t think he did. “I am acquainted with Mr. Braighton, my lady.”
Both of Jane’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, well, I suppose that is not surprising as your backgrounds likely afforded you the same friends. Please be seated, Miss Dowder. Lord Braighton has recently become the Earl of Grafton.”
“I apologize, my lord.”
Anthony waved off the apology. “My cousin passed away without an heir, and now it seems I am an earl.” He turned to Lady Jane. “Indeed. Miss Dowder and her sister were at several house parties and balls, and we do indeed share many friends.”
“Will that be a problem?” Jane asked.
“Not for me.” His gaze fell on Sylvia while he waited for her reaction. Golden eyes surrounded by dark lashes, it was hard not to be mesmerized by his stare.
Clearing her throat, Sylvia realized this was one of those times when keeping quiet could be very detrimental. “If I might ask, my lady, what exactly are we talking about?”
“I apologize, my dear. Lord Grafton has just signed a contract for a hostess to assist him with some necessary events required by his new status and title. I thought you might be the perfect Everton lady for the assignment.”
“What type of events?” Her chest tightened. Why it should worry her to spend extended amounts of time with Anthony Braighton, she didn’t know, but trepidation shook her from the inside out.
Sitting forward, Anthony rested his chin on his hands, elbows propped on his knees. It had been several years since she’d last seen him, and he was no longer lanky, but tall and filled out. “My mother insists I host at least one dinner party then a ball this season. She would prefer I find a wife, but I intend to prove to her that marrying is not necessary. A respectable lady of the Everton Domestic Society can handle all the details of a hostess.”
Jane said, “If you would like to find a wife, I can suggest another lady who can help with matchmaking.”
His expression soured. “I’d really rather not.”
Sylvia was sure he had more to say on the subject of his not marrying, but he simply gave Jane a warm smile.
“It seems a simple enough task. I’m sure I can manage to plan a dinner party and a ball if his lordship has a guest list in mind.” Sylvia had helped plan many events with her mother and sister. This would not be an issue.
“I do. There are a few other things I require.” He pulled his lips into a line, and Sylvia wondered where their fullness disappeared to.
Jane raised a brow. “I’m sure we won’t be shocked, my lord. What do you require?”
Standing, he paced to the window and ran his hand along the table to the left. “I inherited the Collington townhouse. It’s on Grosvenor Street. My great-aunt Daphne has lived there a long time and I offered to purchase a new home for myself, but she insists she’d rather move to the dowager’s cottage. The townhouse is nice, but very formal. I’ve never been comfortable there. I need some assistance with the decor. Are you able to help in that area as well, Miss Dowder?”
Once Jane nodded her approval, Sylvia said, “I’m sure I can be of assistance, my lord.”
He turned, and the strain had eased, leaving his lips full again. “Do you think we can schedule the dinner party for one month from now? If I don’t do something soon, Momma will drive me to madness.”
It wasn’t easy to keep from laughing. Sylvia had met Mrs. Braighton once and found her petite and charming. The fact that her strapping young son was afraid of her was much funnier than was polite.
“It’s all right, Miss Dowder. You may laugh. I know I’m a coward where my mother is concerned. Still, I’ll not let her bully me into marriage. Not yet.” His smile was sweet, and he ran his fingers through his shock of dark hair.
Swallowing her laugh, Sylvia stood. “I will be happy to help you, my lord. Lady Jane, do we have a dowager available? I fear this short schedule will require a lot of my time to be spent at his lordship’s townhouse. I’ll need a chaperon.”
Jane went through the ledger on her desk. “Lady Chervil arrived home yesterday. I’ll go and see if she will consent to the assignment.” Jane stood and walked out of the office, leaving the door open.
At a loss for what to say, Sylvia tugged on the lace along the bottom of her bodice.
A shadow passed in front of her, and she glanced up to fin
d Anthony staring at her. “I know you said you didn’t want to speak on why you joined the Everton Domestic Society, Miss Dowder, but may I ask if you are still speaking to your family?”
Normally she would have said it was none of his business, but there was genuine concern etched in the lines around his mouth. That mouth was a distraction that Sylvia could hardly afford. “My sister and I are still in regular contact. As twins it would be difficult if not impossible to sever the ties. Mother is less understanding about my choices, but I go for tea with her every week whether she likes it or not.”
“That must be very difficult for you?”
Refusing to show any weakness, she lifted her chin. “I manage. My mother and sister are only concerned with finding Serena a husband this season. They feel it is the last hope. As their attentions are focused there, they leave me in peace.”
“Why are they not focused on finding you a husband as well?” While impertinent, the question was softly asked and sincere. Yet there was no pity in his expression. None of the censure a failed engagement and a life of spinsterhood usually garnered.
Swallowing her disappointment had become a regular meal. “Mother feels I already wasted enough of their time and money. I don’t disagree, and I’m happy here. At least here I can do as I please and wri—do some good.” She closed her mouth before she said too much. She’d nearly told him more than was safe. What was it about Anthony Braighton, Earl of Grafton, that loosened her tongue? Whatever it was, it had to be controlled.
He leaned down until his distracting lips were inches from her ear. “You are not to blame for March’s abominable behavior.”
Sylvia’s heart raced, and she drew in a quick breath. He was too close and the scent of fresh-cut wood and something delectable swamped her senses. She ducked under his chest and around to the back of the chair. Her cheeks were on fire and she was sure she was blushing like an idiot. It would not do.
He rose to his full height and watched her.
“Mr.—I mean, my lord, I am under no delusions.” There. She had sounded quite sure of herself.