A Convenient Engagement

by Kimberly Bell

Hannah heard herself being hailed and cringed. They had been spotted. She might as well get it over with.

  “Miss Howard,” Lord Powell huffed, coming toward them at an uneven jog. His portly build did not lend itself to vigorous activity.

  “Lord Powell,” Hannah said coldly.

  “Now, now, Miss Howard. You ought to be happy to see me.”

  “Ought I?” Hannah was fairly certain that would never happen.

  “This absurd little plan to live on your own has failed. I’ve heard the gossip. It’s time to come home.” His tone was probably intended to be consoling, but it failed miserably. “If you apologize for the trouble you’ve caused, making me come all the way out here, I’ll take you back to Suffolk where you belong.”

  Hannah gaped at him. Apologize? She tried to think of something vile enough to call him but failed.

  “I’d heard you were practical—logical, even—but I suppose one must put it into the perspective of your gender. You want the romantic gesture, then? Fine.” Lord Powell started negotiating his bulk to set one knee on the pavement.

  The idea that simply kneeling could ascribe the notion of romance to any of what had transpired between them was beyond comprehension. There was no reasoning with Lord Powell.

  Jane saved the day once again, taking Hannah’s arm and lifting her chin imperiously. “Miss Howard has no need of your empty gestures, you brigand. Do not bother her again.”

  They bustled past the still-kneeling Powell into the sanctuary of Number Fourteen.

  Chapter 7

  The following day, Gavan had recovered enough to make it downstairs for a late breakfast. “There’s a man,” he said from the window.

  “Hmm?” Ewan responded around a piece of toast.

  “There is a man. Going into my fiancée’s house,” he elaborated.

  “Oh aye? Who is he?” His cousin forked a rasher of bacon onto his plate and went back to reading the paper in front of him.

  “I don’t know,” Gavan said suspiciously.

  “Mayhap he’s a friend?” A cup of coffee joined the bacon and toast.

  “She doesn’t have any friends. If she had, she wouldn’t be engaged to me.”

  Ewan looked up from the periodical and considered before pouring gravy over a biscuit. “I suppose that’s true, aye.”

  Gavan waited. And waited.

  “Well, are you going to go find out who he is?” Who could think of eating at a time like this? The situation could be serious.

  “No, I dinnae think I will,” Ewan said placidly. The periodical advanced to the next page.

  “Why the bloody hell not?” Gavan pushed away from the windowsill to glower at his cousin from a more advantageous position.

  The paper lowered far enough for the Scot to make eye contact. “If ye want to know who’s visiting yer fiancée, go over there and find out yerself.”

  “I can’t do that. Look at me.” He gestured to the dressing gown he’d been wearing for the past two days.

  “Oh aye. Ye’d certainly need to get dressed. Probably a bath as well. Remember what happened the last time ye went over there smelling ripe?” Ewan narrated Gavan’s tumble down the stairs using only sound effects, chuckling to himself.

  Gavan left the dining room to the echoes of his cousin’s mockery and called for a bath. Despite his impatience to be off, the entire ordeal took far too long. First he had to wash, then Bennett insisted he couldn’t leave without shaving. Apparently he had thrown half of his wardrobe in the fireplace during an especially low moment, so finding proper attire was delayed as well. By the time he left Number Fifteen and approached the Howard town house, over an hour had passed.

  He had just ascended the stairs when the door opened and the villain in question stepped out. Gavan glared as the man passed him to get into a hired coach. He turned back to find Ambrose smirking in the doorway. For a moment it looked like the man might try to stand his ground, but Gavan raised an eyebrow and the coward gave way.

  Miss Howard came around the corner into the hall. She was leaning on the arm of one of Bailey’s female relatives and had her head back in an unrestrained laugh. Ambrose cleared his throat to draw her attention, and she quickly composed herself. Gavan was sorely tempted to strangle the man.

  “Rhone,” she said, surprised. “I did not expect to see you today.”

  “I saw a man,” he said without preamble.

  “Any man in particular?” she asked slowly, with great care.

  Perhaps it had come out slightly deranged. “The one that was just here. I thought there might be trouble,” he added.

  “Why on earth would there be trouble?” Her puzzled frown creased her forehead.

  Miss Howard’s companion discreetly took her leave, and she offered her a warm smile and quick nod in parting before turning her attention back to Gavan.

  “Well, I didn’t know him. What if he was unwelcome? Ambrose is next to useless at dissuading intruders.”

  The butler sputtered in affront.

  His fiancée arched a delicate eyebrow at him. “My lord, I am going to take a walk in the park. Would you like to accompany me?” Her tone suggested that he would be wise to comply, and he was in no shape to go two rounds with her temper.

  “It would be my pleasure.” It was going to be hell on earth. It was unseasonably warm, and he had imbibed enough whiskey to fell a plow horse.

  She stepped out the front door and looked back expectantly.

  “Now? Don’t you need to change your dress or retrieve a parasol or something?” Any plausible delay that would give England’s changeable weather a chance to turn dismal would suffice.

  “It’s a walk, Rhone. I’m not meeting the queen.” She arched that perfect eyebrow at him again, and he sighed. He followed her out with resignation, squinting inelegantly in the sunlight. She set off toward the park at a robust clip, and a groom fell into place a few yards behind them.

  “Who was the man?” he asked after he caught up to her laborer’s pace.

  She cocked the same eyebrow at his winded breathing. “Master Fiorelli is a dancing teacher,” she said.

  “Why on earth would a dancing teacher be visiting you?” Fiorelli sounded like distinctly insidious name. It was certainly Italian. Magnus was Italian, and Gavan’s butler was a suspicious character if there had ever been one.

  “I should think that would be obvious.” Her demeanor turned icy.

  “The obvious answer is that you cannot dance, but that is absurd,” he said dismissively.

  “Why is it absurd?” she retorted, bristling with offended pride.

  “You are clearly an educated woman.” Gavan tried to make his tone as placating as possible. The woman hadn’t flown into a rage recently, but there were no guarantees with her temper.

  “Yes, I am,” she responded with frustration. “However, my education was about as traditional as our engagement.”

  He pondered that fact for a moment. The misunderstanding with the Latin suddenly became clear. “Well, dancing is overrated. If you’re sensitive about it, you can always rely on the pretense of a turned ankle.”

  The suddenness of her laughter eased his guilt over the misstep regarding her education. “What is amusing?”

  “Jane said almost the exact same thing before we hired Master Fiorelli.”

  “Ahh. The unerring wisdom of the Baileys.” Having successfully navigated her back to docility, Gavan let the conversation lapse for a time.

  “Do you always walk so fast?” he asked after a few blocks. While he was generally considered to be athletic, the briskness with which they traveled was making Gavan sweat profusely. His fiancée slowed her step dramatically.

  “Are you alright?” She reached out with concern when he started to sway.

  “Perfectly,” he said. He just needed to lie down in a dark room for the rest
of his life, and he would be fine.

  She ushered him over to the nearest wall. “You’re a very unflattering shade of green.”

  “Nonsense. All shades flatter me.” Black spots began to swim in his vision. His fiancée’s reply was distorted as the air around his head suddenly took on an increased viscosity. The last thing he saw was her stern face inches from his own, no doubt enumerating her disapproval even on his deathbed.

  * * *

  “Ye come a bit closer to killing him each time ye meet. I think the next time might just finish the job,” he heard Ewan say jovially. A very careful perusal with his senses told him he was on a sofa in his fiancée’s sitting room with a cold towel on his forehead.

  “It was just a walk. I thought some fresh air would do him good. I didn’t mean to damage him.” Miss Howard sounded genuinely distressed. At least someone was concerned for his well-being.

  “Och, settle down, lass. He’ll be right as rain in no time.” The big man came over to the sofa. “Welcome back. Had a bit of a swoon, did ye?”

  “I did not swoon.” Gavan adjusted the cold cloth over his eyes to block out Ewan’s insidious grin.

  “No? What happened, then?” He heard the man settle into the armchair across from the sofa.

  “I was poisoned.”

  “Oh aye?”

  Such a patronizing tone could not be born silently. “Absolutely. Summon a magistrate. I want the cook investigated immediately. It was likely the eggs.”

  “I’m nae involving the law because ye drank too much.”

  “Miss Howard, when the magistrate arrives, please include that I want my cousin investigated as a co-conspirator.” He tried to sit up, but the attempt produced a singularly unpleasant nausea that he barely contained.

  “Just toss it and have done. Ambrose has brought ye a bucket.” Ewan’s cheerfulness had abated, but not his complete betrayal of familial loyalty.

  “Ambrose can go swiftly and directly to the devil. If you come near me with that bucket, I shall strangle you with my cravat.” Some kindly soul had untied it while he was unconscious. Gavan took hold of it in both hands to demonstrate his conviction.

  “Yer nae strangling anyone, ye ridiculous jackanapes.”

  Miss Howard’s firm tones interrupted the ensuing exchange of insults. “Mr. Dalreoch. Why don’t we give Rhone a few moments?”

  He heard her usher the Scot out to the hallway.

  “Ambrose, leave the bucket outside.”

  He couldn’t help but admire her ability to take command of the situation, especially when the commands benefited him so heavily.

  “You should have said something,” she said after the room emptied. “We’re in this together, Rhone. Our ruse only works if you are here to play your part. If you are unwell, physically or mentally, you must tell me. You must let me help you.”

  “And you? Will you tell me when you are not at your best? I doubt you’ve ever been unwell a day in your life.” The last was said with a bitterness that he didn’t actually feel.

  “I know more about it than you think.” She didn’t try to keep him from seeing the truth of it. For the first time, Gavan wondered what her life had been like before coming to London. She held his eyes for a moment before she turned and left.

  He lay there listening as she joined the others, the noises of happy chatter coming through the walls. Miss Howard’s belief that he needed help was ridiculous. Why, then, did he feel compelled to call her back and ask her to forgive him? His imagination supplied him with the image of her face right before he had kissed her. Her confusion and her need, pointed at him, believing he might have answers. He tried to change her expression to the dismissive lack of expectations he was used to from everyone else, but his mind refused to construct that image.

  He didn’t want anyone to need him. His whole life was orchestrated to keep people from trying to do that exact thing. Even if he was having an uncharacteristic desire to be reliable, it certainly wouldn’t come to any good. He was selfish and indulgent with no concern for consequences—just like his parents. Eventually she would realize that was all there was to him, and she would see him just as everyone else did. It would be better for them both if it was sooner rather than later. He tried again to imagine the look of disappointment onto her lovely face, but he found himself unable.

  He needed to get out of this house, away from her lingering scent and the sound of her laughter in the next room. Sitting up, he almost lost his breakfast all over her brand-new carpet. He breathed heavily through his nostrils with his head in his hands until the feeling subsided. A second, gentler testing told him he would not be going anywhere anytime soon.

  As he eased himself back into the welcoming softness of Miss Howard’s sofa, he wondered if he might somehow escape the inevitable. Surely he could live up to her expectations for one Season. Once Miss Howard found herself a new fiancé, their contact with each other would become infrequent by necessity. He could dabble as the kind of man that could be counted on and leave her none the wiser when they went their separate ways. Gavan decided to indulge his uncharacteristic desire to have her admire him, if only for the time being.

  When she returned at the supper hour with a tray of bread and tea, he knew what he had to do.

  “Hannah, I’m sorry.” She froze in the process of putting the tray down. Was it the use of her Christian name or the fact that he apologized that stunned her?

  “For what?” She straightened, her lovely mouth in a tight line.

  “What?” Gavan was taken off guard. He didn’t have a lot of experience apologizing. He assumed it would be an easy thing. One expresses regret and everything goes back to normal.

  “Which things are you apologizing for?” She sat down in the armchair across from him and adopted a formal posture. Clearly she was going to take more convincing, but at least she was still in the room.

  “Erm, well, all of them, I suppose?”

  “I see. So you’re apologizing for standing me up to have a self-indulgent fit, terrorizing my staff, being selfish, being stubborn, being arrogant, belittling my personal difficulties . . .” She seemed prepared to go on for quite a while, but Gavan wasn’t sure his ego could take the full litany.

  “Yes. All of it,” he interrupted. “I am sorry for all of it. I know I have been extremely difficult.”

  “And you recognize that you need my help, and will accept it gracefully?” She was getting a bit out of hand now.

  Gavan almost snapped off a quip but held it back just in time. “Grace may occasionally be beyond me, but I will do my best.”

  She nodded decisively. “We will start with supper, then.” She returned to the tray and began pouring a cup of weak, light brown tea.

  “I don’t think that is going to improve my malady.” The thought of adding anything at all to the disagreeable concoction in his stomach put Gavan in a mild panic.

  “When was the last time you put a wholesome substance in your body?” She held out the teacup and a plain roll on a napkin.

  “Are you disparaging the quality of my whiskey, madam?” Gavan joked as he backed himself as far from the biscuit as possible. The confines of the sofa made it an extremely inadequate distance.

  “When? Please remember that only moments ago you agreed to let me help you.” Her frontal assault with the tea and bread halted but did not retreat.

  “Dinner.”

  She arched one of those perfect eyebrows at him. Damn the harpy.

  “. . . Day before yesterday.”

  She nodded triumphantly. Hannah perched on the edge of the sofa, trapping him in place.

  “You are dried out. Your body needs fluids and bland food to restore your constitution.” She placed the roll on his lap and put the teacup in his hand. “Small sips. Slow and steady. If you start feeling ill, you can stop.”

  “I feel ill.”
>
  “More ill than you do already,” she retorted.

  Gavan eyed her suspiciously and took a small sip of the tea. It had been steeped only for a touch of color and was almost entirely without taste. He waited for the imminent internal rebellion, but it didn’t come. He took a second sip, and she gave him a small smile. Whenever she smiled at him, Gavan felt like he was someone else. He could definitely apply himself to the business of making her smile, if only for that.

  “Give the bread a try. If you can manage half of it that will be excellent progress.” She stood up with another encouraging smile.

  “You’re not going to stay?” He hoped it hadn’t come out sounding quite so pleading to her ears.

  “Your cousin and I are going to have a look through some of my father’s books and papers. Mr. Dalreoch expressed an interest in some of the recent scientific discoveries my father studied.” She moved toward the hall and stopped in the doorway. “Would you like me to look for anything for you?”

  Again Gavan stopped himself from firing off a flippant remark. No one else would imagine he would have any use for boring academia. With his new resolve in mind, rather than crush her expectation he decided to nurture it.

  “Actually, I’ve been wanting to dabble in the production of whiskey.” Gavan silently cursed himself. He couldn’t have expressed an interest in saving orphans or curing some disease? Despite his improvisational failure, she was showing genuine interest, so he soldiered on. “I wouldn’t mind applying some innovations to the project.”

  Her mental wheels were visibly turning as she bit her lower lip and looked toward the ceiling.

  “Not a terrible idea, given the current state of taxation. During dinner, I’ll let you know if I find anything.” With a whisper of rustling skirts, she was gone.

  After a moment, he freshened his cup from the teapot on the side table and stared at the bread roll in his lap. He doubted she would find much to admire about him if he spent the rest of his life on her sofa, weak as a kitten. He straightened his shoulders. If it made him worse, perhaps she would be devastated with guilt. Imagining a weeping Hannah throwing herself across his chest, begging for forgiveness, Gavan finally worked up the courage to swallow the bread.