A Convenient Engagement

by Kimberly Bell

Her eyes narrowed. Probably not his best idea, bringing up the renovation.

  “It’s unusual to find a woman of such beauty, talent, and—”

  “Why are you here?” she interrupted.

  Gavan searched for an answer that would pacify her. Flattery wasn’t working, and flirting would most likely end in injury again. What would a woman like Miss Howard want to hear? Inspiration struck.

  “I needed to set our first meeting right.” For good measure, Gavan added a contrite expression that never failed to soften hearts.

  She eyed him doubtfully, but Gavan could see the telltale signs of a woman’s guard coming down. “You came to apologize?”

  For flirting with an attractive woman? Never.

  “I came to undo the damage that has been done.” Let no one call Gavan Dalreoch a liar. He considered that rather neatly done.

  Her head tilted with puzzlement. “Damage?”

  “Half the square saw you assault me. It’s been the talk of the town.” Gavan watched comprehension dawn on her features.

  “You!” she shouted. “You are the reason no one will talk to me. People cross the street when I pass because of you?”

  He moved to put the armchair between them. She looked to be turning feral on him again. The woman truly had no self-control.

  “Technically, your violent behavior is the reason. I’m still not convinced you weren’t trying to negotiate through salacious means,” Gavan mumbled, mostly to himself. “One might argue the entire mess is, in fact, your fault.”

  Apparently she was not so enraged that she missed his aside. She looked downright murderous. Gavan needed to get the situation in hand.

  “Listen, blame is beside the point. You have a problem, and I have a solution.”

  Long moments passed with the woman attempting to glare him to death as she struggled silently with her temper.

  “What is your solution?” she asked eventually, through clenched teeth.

  “We announce our engagement.” Gavan added a hopeful smile for good measure.

  * * *

  That last rakish smile was too much. Hannah advanced on him, the frustrations of the day, the week, the last twenty bloody years boiling up under her skin.

  “My lord, you are the worst sort of man imaginable. I would never agree to marry someone like you.” Hannah clenched her fists and—what? What could she do, slug him? That would certainly convince society she was civilized.

  She sat down hard on the settee and stared at the ceiling. The day was determined to see her in tears, but she would not cry in front of this man. To have come this far and be completely undone by a brigand like the Earl of Rhone. She might as well have married Lord Powell; her landlord’s son had offered an equally uninspiring proposal shortly before she left Suffolk.

  “Valid argument, I’ll grant you that. I think you mistake me, though.”

  Hannah felt a glass being pressed into her hand. She looked down to see one of the crystal tumblers she had ordered from Germany. It was generously filled with the whiskey she had stocked in anticipation of entertaining visitors in this room. How foolish she had been. She sipped the pungent liquid. A burn that wasn’t quite soothing but was ever so welcome traveled down her throat.

  The earl continued. “I am not proposing marriage, merely engagement.”

  How could one man be so infuriating and confusing at the same time? He seemed to be fond of inebriation. Perhaps he would make more sense if she weren’t quite so sober. Hannah downed the glass and felt a shudder run through her.

  “One traditionally follows the other,” she said around a fit of coughing.

  He was still holding the matching decanter, so she held out her glass for him to refill. The man had the audacity to lift an eyebrow at her, but good sense prevailed, and he poured another half measure with an elegant shrug of his shoulder.

  “In this case, we would be nontraditional.” He set the decanter down and took the seat across from her.

  How would one get engaged nontraditionally? Even lapses in virtue had an accepted protocol to follow. Marriage, and the contracting to be married, was one of the most traditional acts of civilized society. Even primitive societies attributed all sorts of fuss and negotiation to the concept. One explorer had published that the natives of southern—

  She was rambling. In her head. While she stared at him like an imbecile.

  “Please explain yourself.” Hannah sipped the whiskey and tried to look like she was in full command of her senses.

  He peered at her. “You’re taking this remarkably well. Logically, even.”

  “My father was a man of science. He did not approve of emotional responses,” Hannah explained absently. What could he mean by nontraditional?

  The earl’s eyebrows raised, and he chuckled. “Your temper must have been quite the topic of discussion, then.”

  “I wasn’t allowed to have a temper in my father’s house.” Hannah realized what they were discussing and brought her attention back to the conversation. “Please, explain what you are proposing.”

  He let the discussion of her past go. “You have heard of a marriage of convenience?”

  The earl spoke casually enough, but there was a tension about him that he wasn’t hiding very well with his arrogant slouch. Could he be nervous? Certainly not. Penniless? Likely. He had probably gambled away all his money and thought she was an easy mark now that he had sabotaged her reputation.

  “Of course, but I won’t—”

  He held up a hand. “This would be an engagement of convenience.”

  * * *

  Hannah leaned back in the tub and let the day soak out of her. Between the steam and the whiskey, her bones turned to liquid in no time at all. His suggestion was outrageous. It was fraudulent, is what it was. A pretend engagement to fool the ton into accepting her? Surely decent people didn’t do things like that. Of course, it was becoming abundantly clear that the earl was not decent people. It wasn’t fair for Hannah to have to give up her dreams because of his despicable behavior.

  She had come to London to experience all the joys she had been missing under her father’s restrictive guardianship. Who could be more opposite Sir Thomas than the unfettered Earl of Rhone? She wouldn’t need to use her inheritance to bait people into accepting her. As a presumed countess, she wouldn’t just be buying her way into the fringe of society. Hannah would be in the center of the ton. It was very tempting.

  He’d suggested she find someone else to throw him over for, but Hannah had no intention of marrying anyone. She could potentially agree to keeping it a secret from everyone, including the staff, but she would not lose control over her life ever again. If she did go through with this farce of an engagement, when she ended it she would be even more outcast than she was now. But with no social future to look forward to either way, shouldn’t she have just one London Season of her own?

  Ever since she had stolen a peek at the society news in one of her father’s periodicals, Hannah had dreamed of a normal life. She wanted to be like the girls people wrote about. No more formulas or experiments. Hannah wanted gorgeous satin dresses under the lights of glittering chandeliers. She wanted to have friends and go riding in the park and attend musicales. She wanted to dance, just once.

  The situation wasn’t completely hopeless yet. If she left now, Hannah could retire to the country and find a decent man in financial trouble before the scandal made its way to England’s rural residents. They could be married and live a quiet life. A life like the one she had run from with her landlord’s son, Lord Powell. Or, she could make an outrageous deal with a very handsome devil.

  The arrival of Betsy broke Hannah out of her contemplation. She stood to accept the towel the maid handed to her and let herself be led to a straight-backed chair by the fireplace. Betsy started brushing out her hair, and Hannah’s eyes drifted to the letter on the
dressing table. It had arrived while she was out and was waiting for her after Lord Rhone left.

  Dear Miss Howard,

  My employer was most distressed to hear of an incident between yourself and the resident of Number Fifteen. As you know, my employer had extreme trepidations about leasing Number Fourteen to an unwed female tenant. It was only your excellent comportment during our meeting that allayed his concerns.

  Rubbish. It was Hannah’s excellent fortune, and the ridiculous sum she agreed to in the rental contract, that allayed Lord Archer’s concerns.

  It is my deepest hope that the incident has been misrepresented to my employer and a reasonable explanation can be supplied to ease his mind. I look forward to your response clearing up this matter with all haste.

  With Gratitude.

  Mr. George Peabody

  on behalf of Lord Archer

  Hannah’s aggravation returned just looking at the folded page. She might have tried to win back society’s good opinion on her own now that she knew what the trouble was, but that would take time. The earl’s spurious engagement could buy her that and keep her from having to leave St. James’s Square in disgrace. Aside from the personal embarrassment, Hannah truly had nowhere else to go.

  It was provoking to no end that the repercussions were all falling solely on Hannah. She had not encouraged the outrageous things he had purred at her, no matter what he claimed. Just the thought of what he had said to her brought a crimson flush to her face.

  “Is something the matter, miss? Am I brushing too hard?” Betsy eased the pressure of her strokes.

  “It’s not that.” Hannah tried to think of how to pose the question forming in her mind. “Betsy, do you have any experience with men? Physically?”

  The brush stopped moving through her hair.

  “I’m not . . . I don’t mean . . . Never mind. I didn’t realize how it would sound coming out. I just don’t have anyone else to ask.” Hannah’s face was practically on fire now. She was thankful Betsy was behind her.

  The brush started moving again with slow, deliberate pulls. “I don’t mind helping if I can, miss. The other girls talk a lot, and I know a few things I probably wouldn’t repeat to my mum.”

  Hannah thought of some of the things Lord Rhone had said and tried to imagine repeating them to anyone’s mother.

  “A man said some things to me. I was wondering if . . . if people actually do the things he mentioned.” To date, Hannah’s experience of what went on between a man and a woman was limited to a vague and confusing conversation with Mrs. Weaver when her monthly had come in.

  Betsy put the brush down on the dressing table with a concerned frown. “If someone’s bothering you, miss, the footmen can scare him off. That’s what they’re around for.”

  “Oh no. I already—” Hannah smiled a little. “I hit him, and then he fell down the steps.”

  At Betsy’s urging, Hannah stood up. She let her towel drop to the floor as the maid returned with her nightdress and wrapper.

  “The man’s the earl, then, from next door?” Betsy gestured for Hannah to raise her arms.

  “Yes,” she confirmed through the voluminous linen as it settled over her head. Hannah sat back down, pulling her feet up under her on the chair. She gestured for Betsy to take the seat across from her.

  “The way they tell it, that one is quite the rake,” Betsy said with a thoughtful nod. “What exactly did he say, miss?”

  “I couldn’t possibly repeat it,” Hannah said quickly. It did pose a problem. How was she to find out anything without specifics? “The general idea was he wanted to . . . with his mouth . . . between my thighs . . .” Hannah trailed off in mortification.

  Betsy’s eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline.

  “He was just being offensive, wasn’t he? They don’t actually do that.” Hannah knew it had sounded too outrageous to be true.

  “Oh, they do it. The good ones, anyhow.” A speculative expression had taken up residence on Betsy’s face.

  “What do you mean ‘the good ones’?” Whoever the good ones were, Hannah had difficulty imagining Lord Rhone among their number.

  Betsy paused a moment before appearing to come to a decision. She leaned forward to explain. “What you’re talking about is all about pleasing the woman. The kind of men who like that, they’re considerate. It’s rare for a man to be after more than his own release.”

  Pleasure? Release? Lord Rhone being considerate? Hannah felt like she was missing some very key information in this equation.

  “I think we might need to start from the beginning,” Hannah said, preparing to learn a great deal.

  * * *

  Gavan lounged in the wingback chair and stared into the study fire while a note rotated idly in his fingers. Her answer had come faster than he expected. It shouldn’t have been surprising, he supposed. Miss Howard was certainly a woman of action. He looked down at the note again.

  Lord Rhone,

  I accept.

  Best,

  H.H.

  It would appear that, for the time being at least, Gavan was betrothed. Recalling their earlier meeting, he grinned. He certainly wouldn’t be bored. It took a great deal of thinking on his feet to keep up with Miss Howard.

  “Magnus,” Gavan shouted. He waited a moment, but no footsteps sounded on the parquet. Not that they would; for a big man, his butler moved with excessive stealth.

  “Magnus!” No change. They had been playing this particular game of wills for most of their acquaintance. Gavan was hardly going to give way now. He downed the last of his whiskey and assessed the room. He settled on the wainscoting a safe distance away and let the glass fly with a satisfying crash.

  “Was that really necessary?” Magnus appeared in the doorway without warning. He looked pointedly at the bellpull over Gavan’s shoulder.

  “Magnus. Excellent timing. I need a message delivered. Two, actually.” Gavan stood and moved behind the mahogany desk. The authoritative pose was slightly diminished by the fact that he had never actually used the desk.

  “The nature of these messages?” Magnus remained ramrod straight in the doorway.

  “The first should go to Miss Howard,” Gavan dictated. “Tell her to expect me tomorrow afternoon for tea.”

  The butler raised an eyebrow but nodded his compliance. “And the second?”

  “The other should go to . . . Who handles my affairs, Magnus?” The deliberate negligence Gavan maintained regarding matters of import was a necessity. The less people expected of him, the better.

  “Mr. Bailey has been in your employ for a year and a half.” Magnus remained impassive. He was very familiar with the terms of their game.

  Gavan wondered, not for the first time, what would finally break his butler’s starchy façade. “Tell Bailey I want to see him immediately.”

  Business concluded, Gavan poured himself a new drink and returned to his chair.

  “I suppose it would be futile to point out that it is late in the evening for such a summons?” Magnus asked as he directed a newly arrived maid toward the broken glass.

  “Entirely. Oh! Also, send round a note to the Conduitts. Let Catherine know I’ll be over for breakfast.” Gavan took a satisfied swallow of his whiskey. He felt positively productive.

  “It is my understanding that the Conduitts generally take breakfast in the morning, my lord.”

  Gavan sighed. “We will have to manage. Send the note.”

  Chapter 4

  Hannah questioned the sanity of her decision for the hundredth time. Lord Rhone had not asked if she was available for tea—his staff had informed her that they would be having tea. This wasn’t even a real engagement and already he was issuing orders.

  “Calm down, Hannah,” she said aloud. “You knew what he was like when you agreed to this.”

  “Do you regular
ly converse with yourself?” Lord Rhone’s voice came from the doorway.

  Hell and damnation. Of course no one announced him. She started to rise and greet him formally but changed her mind. If he refused to adhere to protocol, she would not inhibit herself trying to maintain it.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “But generally not out loud.”

  Hannah fought the urge to be polite and met his stare head-on. It was a harder feat than yesterday in the wake of everything she’d learned from Betsy. He grinned at her boldness and sauntered over to one of her armchairs. The instant indolence he achieved when he sat down reminded Hannah of the giant orange cat that had taken up residence in the dairy shed back home. She would not be surprised to discover Lord Rhone had a tail, or to see it lazily twitching.

  Hannah leaned back against the settee in an approximation of his sprawl. Good Lord, was this how men sat all the time? It was decadently comfortable. “Did you need to discuss something with me, or are you merely enamored of my chairs?”

  “Both,” Rhone said. “Before we make this farce official, we need to coordinate our stories.”

  “That’s a remarkably sensible reason to visit.” If Hannah hadn’t been completely distracted by last night’s discussion with Betsy, she probably would have thought of that herself.

  “If you would rather be seduced, I am more than happy to change my plans.”

  Heavens, could he tell what she was thinking? Of course not. He was just being scandalous. Hannah shook her head and tried to get her thoughts back under control.

  “Suit yourself,” he said with a wink. “Firstly, Lady Hawthorne and her niece, Miss Bailey, will be arriving this afternoon. They will reside here and serve as chaperone and companion, respectively.”

  Hannah sat up straight. “I do not require your assistance in this area.”

  “Clearly you do or you would have managed it already. A title cannot excuse everything.”

  “I am surprised to hear you say so,” Hannah declared as Betsy entered with a tea tray. “The way you behave one would believe an earldom is a free pass to do as one pleases.”