AN ILLICIT ENGAGEMENT

The Gentlemen Next Door Series

by

Cecilia Gray

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* * *

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Copyright 2011 by Cecilia Gray

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written consent from the author/publisher.

Published by The Alpha Division, LLC

Praise for Cecilia Gray’s Novels

“A compelling mix of action, drama and love.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) (Best of 2012)

“Gray’s characters are so full of life, hope and dreams, it’s a pleasure to read about them.” —Schenni’s Book Nook

“Captures your attention from the first page.” —Ed and Em’s Reviews

“Cecilia has a talent for instilling warmth and weight into her characters.” —Romancing the Book

“Will have you captivated from beginning to end.” —Can’t Put It Down Reviews

Acknowledgements

Oh Shelley, I want to write you a haiku but then you’d have to copyedit it and that would be embarrassing.

Thank you also to Ingrid and Lisa for turning poo into woo-hoo!

Chapter One

Chastity Drummond mused that, despite her best efforts, despite her carefully designed gold silk gown, despite the way she’d viciously confined her blonde curls into an artful knot to showcase her blue eyes, she was all but invisible in the ballroom.

Which was a shame, since she had designed this evening specifically so she might stand out.

Chastity was the one who had encouraged her best friend Francesca to throw this very ball on this very night.

Chastity was the one who had gently nudged Francesca to invite Mr. Highster, who was known to be responsible for forging Britain’s trade lines—trade lines that her father’s company, Drummond Shipping, desperately needed.

Chastity was the one who had commissioned her gown of gold silk even though such a dress was a disaster to clean, and sickeningly expensive.

Tonight was not a night for her frugal tendencies. Tonight, Chastity was on the hunt for a husband.

She knew that if she could but take that first step onto the ballroom floor, the ethereal threads of her gown would sparkle beneath the flickering candlelight of the ballroom and she would win Mr. Highster’s heart…or at least his good sense of advantageous unions.

If only someone could introduce them. If only there were a friendly face in the crowd of revelry.

Chastity had spent years regaling Francesca with tales of London society life—the packed ballrooms, the joyous dancing, the dashing men—while her best friend had been isolated in the countryside mourning her mother’s death. But they had been just that. Tales. Fanciful falsity designed to lift her friend’s spirits, and perhaps her own.

The truth was far more pathetic. In most social circles, no one paid Chastity any attention, except Francesca, whom Chastity had had the good fortune to befriend before anyone had gotten wind of the Drummonds’ common birth.

Of course, anyone who was anyone invited Chastity Drummond, heiress to the Drummond Shipping empire, to their social gatherings. Of course, anyone who was anyone was polite to Chastity Drummond, especially if one wanted a piece of her father’s company were he ever to offer shares to the public as it was rumored was inevitable. His only heirs were female and a board of well-informed men would be needed to ensure the company’s continued functioning.

But these tokens of polite society did not a friendship make.

Chastity shifted her weight to her left slipper so she could watch Mr. Highster’s progression across the ballroom floor. Mr. Highster, with his clean manners, advantageous connections to Parliament in the shipping trade, and need for an heiress—because what good gentleman didn’t need an heiress?—would do nicely.

He was a fair bit older than she, with a shock of gray hair almost white, but he had a youthful smile, which he bestowed on a young lady with a tittering laugh by the piano. He was a good man, which was more than she could say of many.

She could marry him. She would. If only he would propose. If only she had a reason to make her way toward the piano and introduce herself, he would realize she could be more than a mere person of interest to him.

She glanced quickly around the ballroom for another ally now that Francesca had retired for the night with apologies. Besides Francesca’s husband, Chastity was the only other person who knew Francesca was expecting and could barely go an hour before being hit with wretched nausea, the poor girl. All the regular symptoms of morning sickness had been worsened by an ear infection that had left Francesca in a constant state of vertigo to be borne for several more weeks. That left hardly anyone appropriate to make introductions. It wasn’t as if her paid companion, who shadowed her so well and so silently that Chastity often forgot she existed, would be appropriate.

Ah, but wait—there was a familiar face.

Chastity’s neighbor, Lord Lucas Willoughby, occupied a similarly lonely bit of wall at the other end of the ballroom directly across from her. Although he would never be one to fade into the background.

Lucas Willoughby was a sight for anyone to behold. His broad shoulders strained the cut of his coat. His coal-black hair curled angelically at the nape of his neck. He was often complimented for his approachable grin, as if he’d been told an amusing jest that he couldn’t wait to share.

Yet today, he stood stiff against the wall, holding a glass of something that had to be more than punch. His dark gaze shifted across the ballroom until it landed—quite decidedly—on her.

A sweet shiver tickled her spine and the small of her back, so she straightened to her full height and tossed back her shoulders. She felt her blonde curls sweep the side of her face as they sprang free from their confinement. She brushed them aside.

Lord Willoughby inclined his head and lifted his glass to his lips—a rather perfect set of bowed lips, if Chastity was going to be precise—and tilted his head back to swallow the entire contents of the glass. A dancing couple cut between them. She found herself sidestepping to put him back in view, but by the time she had, he was motioning to a waiter for a refill. Instead of turning back to her, he set the glass down on a neighboring pedestal, stuck his hands in a rather ungentlemanly way into his pockets, and leaned against the wall, looking outward toward the ballroom floor.

Yes, her neighbor Lord Willoughby would do. It was well known that their town houses adjoined, and it wouldn’t be untoward if they were to greet each other without formal introduction should their paths cross in a ballroom. Lord Willoughby was also immensely popular and friendly with nearly everyone—even her and her sister.

She had spent considerable effort timing her outings that first year in the town house to coincide with his, simply for a glimpse of his face—the same way one would put a little extra effort into viewing a rather fine specimen of horse or a true proficient at the piano. One’s senses yearned for excellence, after all. As a result, in four years a fair amount of polite conversation—as well as one brief but amicably resolved confrontation—had resulted between them.

Chastity began her slow prowl around the dance floor. She was stopped only once for polite conversation by a gentleman and his mother who were interested in Drummond Shipping’s foray into the East, and likely equally interested in his marrying an heiress although he had nothing to offer Chastity in return. What did a title matter unless it came equipped with the business connections she needed?

As she approached Lord Willoughby from his right side, he turned abruptly to face her.

His body swayed with an unsteadiness about it. His cheeks and chin were darkened with stubble. Never say he’d come to the ball with his face unshaven? Why, even his cravat was loosely tied and on the verge of coming undone entirely.

"Miss Drummond," he said, with a loose bow. Loosened from drink, perhaps?

"Lord Willoughby," she greeted him in return. "How are you this evening?"

"You’ll excuse me for speaking frankly, but if you’re looking for someone to relieve you of your wallflower status, you must know I’m not that gentleman."

"Or not a gentleman at all," Chastity said. His words and biting tone startled her. Their conversations had been mostly formalities until now. The requisite comments on the weather. How lovely the day was. That the smell of bread from the baker’s rickety cart as it rolled down their cobblestone street was welcoming in the mornings. Certainly nothing that would invite such censure, such informality, or such rudeness.

"No, I’m not a gentleman," he agreed, swooping his glass, which had been discreetly refilled, back into his hand. "Not tonight." He turned back to face the ballroom and leaned ever so slightly against the wall.

Chastity squinted, studying him closer. His shadowy eyes. The pout of his mouth. The swirl of brandy in his glass—which she gathered had been refilled more than this once—and not from the wine the staff were circulating but from the personal collection of stronger spirits in the library. If she didn’t know any better, she’d come to the conclusion that Lord Lucas Willoughby was brooding.

Which seemed ridiculous. He was not a rake, not ill-tempered, not dramatic, and not given to fits of poetry like some of the more ridiculous men who shared his Byronic looks. He was an agreeable sort, kind, generous. Why, that was why the gentleman had been engaged so many times—six, to be precise.

Chastity followed his deceptively idle gaze and realized it had landed squarely on the chit from Northanger. Then moved to the lady from Bath. Then a third—the young miss from Knightsbridge.

"Ah, it’s all clear now," Chastity said.

"What is clear?" he asked, turning sharply to her.

"Why you are in such a foul mood."

"Lord Willoughby is never in a foul mood," he parroted with a smirk. He downed another swallow of his drink.

So it seemed he was aware of his own press. He swallowed hard as his latest fiancee danced by in the arms of his brother, whom she had married the year before. "Might I offer my condolences, Lord Willoughby, on the demise of your engagement."

"Which one? There are so many to choose from."

Chastity suspected he did not want an answer, so she settled against the wall next to him as if that might offer him some comfort. She had never before considered how Lord Willoughby might feel about being jilted six times and to be honest, she still wasn’t sure of his feelings.

His brother danced by again.

Lord Willoughby turned away and stared at his shoes. "They say she was after my brother and his earldom to begin with," he said, nodding in the happy couple’s direction before they were swept off to the other side of the ballroom.

"At least they haven’t said she was after his fortune."

"How could they," he said, "when he came into it a month after their marriage?"

Lord Willoughby downed another swallow and his Adam’s apple tightened in his throat again.

"You know what they call me now, don’t you?" he asked with a sidelong glance.

"Besides your name? No, I do not. I assure you that they are more likely to speak behind my back than to my face."

He bowed his head to stare deep into the contents of his glass. "I hadn’t realized you were also the subject of ton gossip."

"The street urchin turned heiress? Not the subject of ton gossip? How limited your imagination must be." But she smiled as she said it, having made peace long ago with her status, and he in return grinned into his glass.

"Shall I guess what they call you?" she asked, tapping her right pointer finger against her bottom lip.

His gaze traced up from her elbow to her finger to her lip, and as his gaze darkened there she felt the heat from his stare like a physical thing. She dropped her hand, shaking it behind her back.

"Don’t bother. You’re far too clever to think of such a banal nickname."

He thought her clever?

He leaned in close, his lips a breath from her ear. "They call me the Matchmaking Baron."

"How jolly," she replied, trying for composure, not quite sure why her breathing was so shallow and fast.

"Indeed." He pulled back. "What is more jolly than knowing six of your engagements have ended with the lady happily wed to someone else? How could I not be happy in knowing all six women are ecstatic, having gotten exactly what they wanted? And that each of the men who benefited from my loss came into mysterious and fortuitous titles and riches mere weeks after their marriages?"

Chastity felt a surge of pity for him—she knew the stories. The first had wed his best friend, who went on to inherit a sizable tract from a distant relative. The second, his cousin, whose investments in arcane literature paid off handsomely when they were revealed to be the anonymous works of some long-dead respected author. The third, his other cousin, who discovered coal in the mountains off his land. The fourth, his fencing partner, who earned a title after his entire male line died rather tragically. The fifth, the very vicar who was to marry them and was later given a permanent post by Prinny himself. And the sixth and most recent had just last year married his brother, who infamously inherited a wealth of gold to accompany his title. In the case of the latter, upon receipt of his good fortune, he had given Lucas Willoughby a barony and made him a lord. Not a poor apology gift by many estimates.

"They all got what they wanted," he mused softly, taking another swift drink from his glass.

"And what is it you want?" Chastity asked.

"Another drink."

He turned toward the study, but his balance gave way and his elbow knocked into her side. He reached out to still her, his hands curving warm around her ribcage.

She froze and swore she could hear a crackle in the air, a momentary tightening of his palm before he released her. His gaze dropped to her lips.

"I’m sure you’ve had enough," she suggested, tugging the glass from his fingers and setting it back on the pedestal.

"Do you know what I want?" he asked, his voice hypnotic, his midnight eyes still on her lips. "I want to want."

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, resisting the urge to turn her face away.

He shook his head and stepped back against the wall, but she still felt the phantom presence of his hand curved around her, his gaze on her mouth. How could she feel something that was no longer there? How could she feel what had never touched her in the first place?

"It’s nothing, Miss Drummond. I’m speaking nonsense. I want nothing more than to have another drink."

"And not a dance?" she ventured.

He smirked. "A dance with me would be ill-advised."

"That’s all right. I wasn’t really looking for a dance, only an introduction to Mr. Highster."

"Mr. Highster?" he asked. "Whatever for? He’s twice your age."

"And three times none of your business, I’m sure."

He pursed his lips, picked up his drink, and took another swallow, shaking his head. "An introduction through me will not do. Every matron is waiting to see who my next project will be."

"What project could you mean?"

"My next matchmaking project. What woman will shackle herself to me, and who will she truly marry by the Season’s end, and how will that man come into good fortune? They are taking bets at White’s on the lady’s name and the manner of fortune. Triple the odds should you guess both."

Chastity felt the stir of anticipation. A palpitation of her heart. A contraction of her lungs. She straightened as the idea took form. She tried to shake it off, but it roped itself around her.

Lord Willoughby stilled under her study, his gaze suspicious. "Is something the matter, Miss Drummond?"

"Not at all," Chastity said. "I believe everything is exactly as it should be."

* * *

If he had any sense, Lucas would walk away from Miss Drummond, polite manners be damned. They’d been speaking for nearly ten minutes and he’d had the bad sense to touch her and the even worse sense to like it. Already the sharks churned with the scent of bloody gossip in the water.

The sizzle of energy he’d felt when he’d laid his hands around the curve of her waist must have been palpable from across the room. Groups of society matrons were gathered in whispering herds, glancing in their direction.

Worse yet, Miss Chastity Drummond had a speculative gleam in those blue eyes and he had the gnawing feeling that it had something to do with him.

"It just so happens, Lord Willoughby, that I am in need of a matchmaker."

She was one to speak her mind, but he still wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. "Are you mocking me, Miss Drummond?"

"Mocking you? Of course not." She shook her head, sending loose more curls from her barely confined bun.

He studied her eyes—clear, blue, and guileless—but each of the six fiancees who had jilted him had been an innocent young miss without a modicum of the intelligence and cunning he knew Chastity Drummond to be capable of.

"I didn’t mean to offend," she continued, lowering her voice. "It just so happens that I am set on marriage to a particular gentleman who has yet to express interest. If there is supposition that I am engaged to you, then perhaps—"

"The position of my fiancee is not to let," Lucas interrupted before she could finish her asinine suggestion. "I would do neither your father nor you the dishonor."

"My father is out of town and don’t you see—we need not dishonor anyone, not even you. Especially not you, Lord Willoughby. This would be something else entirely. A different kind of engagement."

He felt his body responding to her eagerness, felt his palms itch with the desire to touch her again. Which would not do at all. "I will not become engaged under false pretenses. It is a promise I do not make lightly, despite the inevitable demise of my previous engagements."

"Do you think I would propose something that could further compromise you or not provide an adequate benefit in return?" she asked.

He didn’t know, to be honest. Miss Chastity Drummond, despite being his neighbor for the past four years, was a bit of an enigma.

She leaned forward conspiratorially at his silence. Too close, really, so that only a quick dip of his head would mean the meeting of their mouths. Her blonde curls swung forward to hide her face and a soft strand brushed against his cheek. "Do you really think so little of me?"

He swallowed hard and pulled away. "I don’t think of you at all, Miss Drummond."

He felt a pang of guilt at her swift intake of breath, but it was true. He hadn’t thought much of Chastity Drummond and her sister Cassandra since their family had moved next door. His brother was forever going on about using the neighborly connection to gain shares in Drummond Shipping whenever he visited from across town. Lucas had, of course, noticed his neighbors were both very pretty girls, motherless, and given to more intelligent conversation than the average well-bred young lady. But he’d always been too…engaged…to think seriously about other women.

Of course, he was thinking about her now. Of how warm she’d felt beneath his palms. Of how her mouth never, ever seemed to stop moving—the endless talking!—and even when she listened, her lips parted with a sort of breathless anticipation. Even now, when she should be stalking away, she was opening that mouth to answer him.

"I suppose it is fortunate for me, Lord Willoughby, the less thought of me, the better."

"It isn’t that I think less of you," he said, "only that my mind is often preoccupied with other things."

"Perhaps had you been less preoccupied with other things, you would not have misplaced all six of your fiancees?"

He should have felt a painful tightening in his chest at her remark, at the reminder of his failed relationships, but something about her tone, about the twinkle in her blue eyes, about the hint of a curl at her lips, had him smiling instead. "Touche, Miss Drummond."

"Consider this—it’s no secret you want a share of Drummond Shipping."

"You’re mistaken. It is my brother who wants shares of Drummond Shipping."

"And as your brother has taken something you wanted, should you not have something he wants in return?" she asked with a challenging lift of her brow.

Lucas glanced back to the ballroom floor—at his brother holding his last fiancee in his arms as they twirled across the set.

Did he want her back? Did he want any of them back?

He did not.

He may not have wanted any of them in the first place—and therein lay his problem.

He turned back to her, noting her confident and satisfied smile. "My understanding is Drummond Shipping is not open to public shares."

"It so happens that several shares are at my discretion to dispense, and I would be willing to consider selling them—nay, gifting them—to the right individual. The kind of individual who could assure I was married to Mr. Highster."

"Him again?" Lucas asked. The idea felt all wrong. Highster was a bureaucrat. A stuffed suit. He wouldn’t keep Chastity Drummond entertained for five minutes, much less an entire marriage. "Are you sure you would like to set your cap for him?"

"Yes, him," she said firmly.

She couldn’t be serious. Or was she? There was one way to find out. "Presuming I didn’t find your choice of groom completely inappropriate and agreed to go along with this farce, how would this…engagement…of yours work?"

"Consider this—as a future investor in Drummond Shipping, you and I should be expected to spend a certain amount of time together, especially in my father’s absence, as he is not due to return from Haiti until week’s end. However, other people will not assume we are engaged in business. They will assume we are, quite simply, engaged."

"You mean for them to assume it?" She was mad, this girl.

"Of course. Gossip will spread. I’ll be questioned, and I’ll deny it. However, people will assume we have a romantic understanding to be formalized when my father returns. Only upon his return, they will realize the understanding is financial and related to your investment in his company—the first public investor, I might add. The figurehead nature of your investment shall not matter. By then, our engagement will not matter, either. I’ll have caught Mr. Highster’s eye and, eventually, his hand."

She was diabolical, but he couldn’t help but admire the elegance and daring of her plan—although there was one undeniable flaw. "You’re gambling a lot, aren’t you? On the supposition that I really am a Matchmaking Baron."

"Perception trumps reality every time," Chastity said.

She was serious, he realized. She was positively vibrant with the idea. He was drawn to the flush on her cheeks, the quickening of her breath. The parting of those pink lips.

He drew his attention back to her eyes, but that didn’t seem to derail the train of his thoughts, so he fixed on the furrow of her brow at the top of her nose.

He couldn’t agree to her proposal. He wouldn’t.

Although he couldn’t deny that the idea of spending more time with Miss Drummond was enticing. Entertaining. Was something he wanted. And he so rarely wanted.

He saw her excitement in his hesitation. That he might say yes. She leaned in again and he was struck by the heady, floral scent of her, with a longing to run his hands through her curls, palm her head, and kiss her senseless. That shook him up more than anything.

He’d been engaged to a woman who wanted another man before. Six times, to be precise.

But he’d never wanted a woman who went on to marry another man…and that was another matter entirely.

"I’m sorry, Miss Drummond," he said as he turned to walk away. "I cannot help you."

Chapter Two

Chastity Drummond frowned as she squinted to study the disarray of dark ink masquerading as handwriting in her father’s shipping ledgers. She reached across her desk to brighten the lamplight and squinted closer.

With a sigh, she scratched out the figures and wrote in her corrections. Her father had done it again—transposed several numbers in the receivables. The occasional error was to be expected when he’d only learned to read and to add figures in his late years. Besides, her father’s genius was not in his business sense but in his keen navigation, his daring on the seas. Give him numbers and he was lost, which was precisely why Chastity always checked his figures before sending them to their financial manager, but Father was slipping more and more of late.

And not just with the ledgers.

Chastity’s grip tightened around her quill as she recalled how he’d forgotten the name of the Chinese emissary, which had been interpreted as a sign of disrespect, costing them the valuable trade lines through their waters. Loss of the Shanghai port cut off all their operations through the Pacific—a quarter of their business—gone! Disappeared in a snuff. Their only salvation lay in Britain’s recent establishment of Singapore as a major trading post—assuming they would be one of the first companies granted access by His Majesty.

They had to be. There was no other option.

If they lost the Pacific, they would have to cut operations. If they cut operations, they would have too many ships sitting in port, paying hefty rental fees and not bringing in cargo. Their available capital would decrease, meaning there would be no money to fund building better ships. They would fall behind, their company left to crumble.

Not on her watch.

Peter Highster was the answer to her problems. He would not only gain them valuable trade lines, including the Singapore port, but he would also have the experience to run her father’s company without the financial mistakes and business errors, so Father could forever enjoy a life on the seas where he was happiest.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t love Mr. Highster, for she respected him. Or that he was twice her age, for she was old in soul. Or that he didn’t seem to want children, as he already had two grown from the marriage to his first wife, who died several years ago.

She was sure that in raising a shipping empire, she would not have time to raise children, no matter how much her heart whispered with joy when she held her hand to Francesca’s belly, eager to meet the little one inside. How much her heart quickened with excitement when she imagined a little boy or girl running up and down the decks of her ships.

Mr. Highster and the company would suffice, and she would not be deterred by Lord Willoughby’s reluctance.

She checked the time, waiting for the inevitable.

She’d given her sister Cassandra leave to continue with her experiments nearly an hour ago. Cassandra was very reliable when it came to her experiments.

Any moment now…

Just as she leaned forward over her desk to recalculate the expected returns, a boom made the house shudder. Chastity slapped her hand down on the accounts so they wouldn’t slide to the floor, but she couldn’t stop the inevitable avalanche of her father’s books and the plume of dust that followed. She coughed, waving her hand back and forth before her face.

She rose quickly from her seat and scurried toward the parlor, tucking the blonde curls escaping her coiffure behind her ear and affecting the best possible look of innocence her baby blue eyes could achieve.

"Tea, tea," she hissed at Jeffrey, who only rolled his eyes before bustling to the kitchen to return with a heavily laden silver tray—a steal of a find at the craftsmen’s market, if she did say so herself.

She’d barely settled on the settee when Lord Willoughby stormed into the parlor, past her companion embroidering on the piano stool, and straight up to her tea set, which practically trembled at the sight of him.

One could hardly blame the tea set, Chastity mused as she peered up at him from behind her cup. It was really incomprehensible how someone so distractingly attractive had managed to lose six fiancees.

The muscles in his neck strained as he fought to maintain decorum. "Today?" he said with a hint of disbelief. "Miss Cassandra is back to experimenting despite your promise of last year that she would not embark on any scientific inquiries in this house? So soon after I turned down your proposal? You expect me to believe this is coincidence?"

"She bolted out of bed this morning screaming eureka. She cannot control her fits of genius, and you can hardly begrudge my sister her academic proclivities," Chastity pointed out with a neat sip, "not when her innovations have tripled the profits of our father’s company, of which you will soon become a shareholder."

"Not that again," Lucas said. "Besides, Miss Cassandra’s academic proclivities are not under attack. I am more concerned with her proclivity toward burning down my house…again. Perhaps you can afford to rebuild your townhouse for a second time, but-"

"We repaired your home at our expense as well, if you recall. In any case, you told me last year you much prefer the style of the new architecture that I commissioned for your remodel."

"I much prefer not being temporarily homeless."

Chastity shot him a hard look. "I assure you, Lord Willoughby, that you have no notion of any kind of what it feels to be homeless. No notion of the gnawing hunger. The cold London ground chilling your bones. How your fingernails never feel clean."

"My pardon, Miss Drummond," Lucas said with a slight inclination of his head. "I meant no disrespect." She expected him to look away, but instead his nearly black eyes held hers and suddenly she was the one feeling uncomfortable.

"Come, sit," she said, gesturing to the sofa across from her. "Might I offer you a cup of tea for your shattered nerves, my lord?"

Lucas raised a brow but took advantage of the broken, awkward silence to take the seat on the sofa.

Another boom shook the house.

Chastity was so focused on saving the tea tray—she absolutely would not lose another set of fine china to Cassandra’s experiments—that it was only when the floor stopped shaking that she realized she and Lucas were entangled.

He had thrown himself over her at the first sound. His chest molded to her side. His large, heavy hand pressed down on her thigh to anchor her to the chair. His cheek rested on top of her head and she could swear that for a moment, she felt his lips play amongst her curls.

She felt cradled, protected. Her body flushed with heat—from embarrassment? No, she was honest enough with herself to know it wasn’t mere embarrassment.

Her companion shot to her feet from the piano stool, dropping her embroidery to the ground. Her companion, while always a source of decorum, had never actually had to enforce any reasonable protocols and likely did not know how to address his lordship.

She motioned for the poor woman to reseat herself and cleared her throat. "Lord Willoughby, if you please," she said.

"Of course." His breath whispered across the back of her neck.

He released her slowly, lifting his hand off her leg and settling back into his seat as she hurriedly repositioned her teacup on its saucer.

He cleared his throat. "I’m surprised your set survived the shattering ruckus from your sister’s exploits."

"We’re made of sterner stuff here at Drummond House."

Lucas studied her a moment. "Indeed, you are," he said softly.

Chastity’s cheeks heated. He was looking at her. He’d of course looked at her before, but now he was studying her. Almost in the way Cassandra studied the mixture of two completely unsuitable compounds or the way Chastity herself considered every material purchase they made.

She set about pouring his tea to distract herself from her thoughts, which were straying toward the inappropriate when they should be focused on the matter at hand: matchmaking.

"Should we check on her?" he asked as another shudder, gentler this time, trembled through the house.

"I assure you that quiet, and not noise, is a sure sign that something has befallen my sister."

"Has she at least taken the proper precautions for her health?" he asked.

"She is swathed in eye protection and gloves, absolutely," Chastity said. Expensive gloves at that—the ones they had purchased last season with the hem of lace, and which were perfectly good to wear if one wanted to trim them with blue ribbon. Alas, Cassandra had no notion of what things might cost. It was enough to drive Chastity batty.

Lucas reached for his cup and Chastity could have sworn his finger brushed the back of her hand. She almost felt it happen, a soft zip of energy, a sizzle of his fingerpad against the tiny hairs of her skin, but at the last moment he corrected his hand and took his cup without contact.

"I’m certain her latest experiments will yield incredible profits for us," Chastity continued, steadying her tone. "Don’t you at least owe it to yourself to see what we have to offer?"

"I owe it to my home to ensure no harm comes to it," he said.

***

She walked with purpose, he noted. It was as if she didn’t know how to stroll. She clutched her parasol tightly at her side and strode through the streets with her body braced forward.

He followed a step behind and to her right, his long strides matching hers without much effort. The walk to the docks was a long one, but she had pshawed his suggestion to hire a hackney.

"Pay someone for what I can do for free with my own two feet?" she had said with disgust. And then they were off for the walk.

She couldn’t seem to stop talking. She had begun with the history of her father’s company, how they’d managed expansion, and their plans for the future. Plans which seemed to include influencing Mr. Highster’s decisions on drawing routes in the east and gaining access to the recent lines drawn through Singapore.

"You’re invited to tonight’s dinner party, correct?" she asked.

"My brother is." It was to be a veritable who’s who of the high seas and his brother wanted in. It occurred to him that unlike Chastity, his brother actually had no notion of what it was like to be involved in a shipping empire beyond his romantic ideas. Meeting Chastity would be a dose of much-needed reality.

"Your brother is attending, ergo, so are you. It will be the perfect opportunity to set our plan into motion."

"A plan I haven’t agreed to," he pointed out. "Why do you want to marry Mr. Highster anyway?"

"I already explained."

"You explained why you need his business connections, but that doesn’t justify marriage and certainly doesn’t justify a complicated façade with me."

Her pace faltered but then she forged forward with even more speed, forcing him to quicken his step. "Father can’t run the company forever."

"I’m sorry," he said. "I hadn’t realized he was unwell."

"He’s not in danger of losing his life," she said quickly, "merely his company. He’s just…not what he was. He was never very keen on the business aspects of the company and has been abandoning them for life on the seas, where he’s comfortable."

"Do you feel abandoned?" he asked.

She looked up at him with surprise, as if she hadn’t considered the question or whether it was normal for one’s father to prefer a boat to his daughter. "No," she said after a pause. "I suppose I should, but I don’t. Father learned to love the sea because of his love for us, and now that we’re old enough to be on our own, it makes sense that he seeks refuge there."

"Well," he said, "I’m still sorry that you’ve found yourself in this position."

She paused again mid-step and stared up at him, puzzled. "Thank you."

"But I still don’t think it answers my question," he said. "You seem more than capable of taking over your father’s company."

"And you seem more than capable of ignoring the realities of our society," she said, speeding ahead.

"Me? The one refusing to accept reality? You’ve proposed giving me public shares without the approval of your father, on the supposition that a false engagement may lead to yet another engagement by one particular individual."

"For someone who believed me capable of running my father’s company, you vastly underestimate me in other arenas."

He smiled at her comment. He realized that he wasn’t one to smile lately, although his good humor was his trademark. It felt good to smile again—it felt as though he were himself. In his past engagements, whenever he felt the need for humor his fiancees had been confused, had felt teased. Not Miss Chastity Drummond. He could barely toss a teasing comment to her before she batted it back with twice the force.

As they neared the harbor, the stench of sea and fish mixed with the muggy humidity. He saw a swinging wooden sign that read Drummond Shipping a few yards away. He tried to open the door beneath it, but he apparently wasn’t fast enough for her. She yanked it open herself.

Miss Drummond greeted the gentleman by the front door and introduced them. Lucas didn’t miss the wide-eyed surprise at his presence. He nodded at the man and gollowed Chastity as she began a tour through her port offices, showing him their maps and equipment as well as an entire warehouse dedicated to inventories.

Everyone seemed to know her and she, everyone. Most of all, everyone seemed to respect her, even the burly delivery men as she barked at them about taking the longer route to countryside deliveries. It would actually save more money when one accounted that the smoother roads led to a faster commute with less overnight accommodations.

When she’d finally managed the last of the men, she glanced up with a secretive smile. "Do you want to see the girls?" she asked.

"Who are the girls?"

"You’ll see." She walked him out the warehouse door back to the docks, to the shadow of three of her family’s vessels. The ships rose out of the water, their bows curving into the air high over their heads. Seagulls squawked as they dove through the air, landing on the bowsprit.

She reached out and laid her hand on the dark wood with a sigh. She caressed it almost as she might a horse, almost as though she loved it. Her eyes hooded, she had a look of complete satisfaction.

Lucas was struck with the realization that he wanted her to look at him that way. As though he were the answer to her every need.

He hadn’t always wanted this in a woman.

At first, he’d been content with the idea of a partner—someone to be by his side day by day. Hence his first engagement, a match made by his parents. Then he decided the woman he married should be a good mother to his children, hence the second engagement to a woman he’d seen charm the candy from children, she was so sweet to them. As his idea of marriage changed, so did the women he chose, but one by one, they’d chosen another, leaving behind nothing but faint memories, apologies, their engagement rings, and the realization that he hadn’t…quite…minded.

Oh, it had stung to be rejected. But their leaving left him as happy as before, and that thought left him more and more depressed. How could he have agreed to become engaged to someone whose absence meant so little? Surely his motivations for marrying were as good as any. Yet yesterday, as he watched his latest former fiancee dancing in the arms of his brother, he’d been struck by the foulest of thoughts—that he wasn’t ever going to find someone who mattered to him.

That he wasn’t ever going to want someone.

He certainly didn’t think he could expect Chastity Drummond to look at him the way she was staring at her ship. He realized why she did not begrudge her father his love of the seas—because she loved their ships just as much.

She dropped her hand and turned to him with shining eyes and a gleaming smile. "She’s beautiful, isn’t she?"

He stared at her, and as the seconds ticked by, her smile slowly shifted into a questioning look.

She seemed in that moment to have more life, more vibrancy, and more emotion—toward wood and rope—than he’d felt toward any woman in his life.

"Lord Willoughby?"

He couldn’t stop himself from bending and pressing his lips to hers.

Quick heat lanced through him as she gasped beneath his mouth. He stole the opportunity to deepen the kiss. He gripped her shoulders, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her pelisse.

Unspeakable fantasies dashed through his imagination. The feel of her legs wrapped around his waist. The soft tendrils of her hair dragging down his chest. He caressed her mouth, drugged by the very taste of her.

She pulled away and somewhere in the heady fog of passion he found his sense of reality. "Isn’t this what engaged people do?" he teased.

He felt the sting of her palm against his cheek. "This is what women do when men take advantage." She sashayed away, leaving him staring after her, his blood boiling, his nerves quivering. He was feeling, feeling, for the first time, and he had no intention of letting it go.

Chapter Three

Chastity walked in a daze back to the house, clutching her satchel to her chest. Her fingers gently prodded her lips, which still tingled from the kiss.

She knew what Lord Lucas Willoughby was about. He was taunting her. He was trying to make her run. He was trying to convince her that their engagement was a bad idea. He was provoking her into admitting she was wrong and her idea was ridiculous.

Perhaps it was, but that wasn’t going to stop her.

She walked inside, only to be distracted by clanging from the kitchen. She made her way back there to find Cassandra bent over the sink, which was steaming with God knows what. One second in the kitchen and she felt the condensation on her face, sticking strands of her hair to her cheeks.

"There you are," Cassandra said. Although a year younger, she was practically a mirror of Chastity, but with green eyes instead of blue and sleek blonde hair that swept gracefully from her face, although presently it was also plastered to her cheeks by sweat and steam. "Where’ve you been?"

"Out."

"Why are you touching your mouth? Have you a sore?"

Chastity dropped her hand. "Of course not!" She wiped a smudge of dirt from Cassie’s face. At least the house was still steady, which was more than she could say about herself.

He’d kissed her.

Scratch that. He’d devoured her mouth, hungrily, searchingly. What could possibly have possessed him to think that would deter her?

Cassie turned her attention back to the sink and when she spoke, her voice was mouse quiet. "I don’t think I can attend dinner tonight."

"Cassandra! You know how important tonight is. Mr. Highster and his cronies will be there and some would rather speak mechanics than business."

"So?"

"So? I need to tell them about…your things." Chastity waved her hands at the sink.

"It is this very thing," Cassandra said, "that demands my presence at home. You know I’ve theorized that our fuel burning is inefficient, which does no good until I solve the inefficiency. Well—I think I finally have, but I need time to test my theories."

"Can’t you continue this tomorrow, after I’ve had time to charm Mr. Highster?" Chastity begged, which was ridiculous because she knew very well that she could handle Mr. Highster and his kind without help from her sister—that, in fact, wondering whether her sister was comfortable would distract her from her true goal. No, managing Mr. Highster did not worry her. It was the handling of Lord Lucas Willoughby she was less and less certain about.

"You know they’ll be serving meat and how much I detest unnecessary cruelty to animals."

"Of all the—"

"Please, Chastity." Cassandra dropped her metal pieces with a clank and gripped the edges of the sink. She blinked, her long eyelashes shimmering with tears. "Don’t make me go. You know how these events make me feel."

Chastity laid a hand on Cassandra’s back. "It will get better with time."

"It doesn’t," Cassandra said. "Please just leave it be. I can’t."

Chastity didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if it was right to push her sister into social situations. Cassandra was beautiful and intelligent, yet lacked the confidence for it. She couldn’t be in a crowd more than a few minutes before being hit by crippling anxiety. It was this anxiety that had forced Chastity to become the face of the company in their father’s absence, though it was Cassandra’s inventions that had brought the company to new glory—and were the only thing that kept them afloat now that they had lost a quarter of their business.

She gave Cassandra a tight squeeze. "So…shall I wear the teal ribbon?"

Cassandra smiled. With a sniffle she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I’d recommend the red."

"But if I wear the red I’ll have to change my dress."

"If you wear the teal, you’ll realize I tore it when it snagged in my comb."

"Cassandra! It was satin!"

"And the red is grosgrain." Cassandra wiped her hands on the front of her dress and Chastity resisted the urge to tell her that no cleaning agent on earth would salvage the threads from the stain. "Come, I’ll help you change."

* * *

Lucas couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t meeting his eyes, though he was making rather a fine point of staring at her from the other end of the table through three courses. Instead, she was focusing all her attention on Mr. Highster, which for some reason made him want to stab his quail repeatedly. Especially because Mr. Highster was failing to pay her any meaningful attention.

Not that he wanted Mr. Highster paying her the same sort of meaningful attention that he himself wanted to pay her, but the man could have the decency to be more than merely polite.

"—and if the routes were connected, then we’d have the advantage of inter-trading," she finished breathlessly.

Mr. Highster nodded politely, his jaw desperately masticating. How was he not taken in by her enthusiasm? By her pinked cheeks and bright eyes?

"I was also thinking," Chastity continued before launching into another round of benefits to linking the new Singapore route through the Pacific with another being planned around India. What kind of man was Mr. Highster that his eyes could glaze over with boredom?

Lucas noted that his brother, at least, was listening with interest, leaning forward over his plate. But then, his brother was a mercenary man—he would have to be in order to steal Grace from under his nose.

"How are you, Lord Willoughby?"

Lucas moved his gaze to Grace, his most recent ex-fiancee, who sat across from his brother but next to him at the long dining table.

"Hungry, which is fortunate, given the occasion." She frowned at him. He’d never been able to make her laugh, he realized. Not once, as much as he tried. "And you?"

"I am well. I hope…I hope you are well, too." She didn’t meet his eyes, instead staring intently at her quail.

She hoped he was well? He was well, of course he was. But he shouldn’t have been. That was the feeling that nagged at him. The idea that one shouldn’t be well when the sixth lady one has been engaged to runs off with one’s brother.

One should be miserable.

Especially when that lady was reasonably attractive, incredibly well bred, and of moderate fortune to boot.

"That is incredibly insightful," he heard his brother say.

Lucas snapped his head up. His brother was speaking to Chastity, who, for the first time, looked up from her end of the table although her gaze continued to avoid him.

"Thank you, my lord," she said to his brother, and this time Lucas did stab his quail.

"Do you think your ships capable of the journey through both routes?" he asked.

"They looked capable enough," Lucas found himself saying.

The table went still and quiet for three heartbeats.

"You’ve seen the ships yourself?" his brother said sharply. "When?"

Just then, Chastity looked at him. Finally—and then, slowly, reluctantly, she smiled. For the first time that dinner, he smiled, too.

"I saw the ships just this afternoon when I visited the port offices," Lucas said.

"You visited the port offices?" Mr. Highster said, drawing himself up in his chair.

The whole table went silent again, the only noise being the ticking of gazes as they flew between Lucas and Chastity and back to Lucas again.

"Was that…wise?" Grace asked finally.

"I assure you the port offices are very safe," Chastity answered.

Lucas wondered if Chastity had deliberately misinterpreted Grace’s question and the insinuation behind it. That what wasn’t safe was the idea of the two of them, together, engaged…in something.

"Are the port offices open to visitors?" Mr. Highster asked.

"Not to the public," Chastity said, turning her smile away from Lucas. "However, we can make an exception for good friends."

"Great friends," Lucas chimed in.

Chastity threw him a sharp glare. He raised a brow—did she think his last remark was too much for her charade?

He couldn’t believe Mr. Highster was succumbing to this game, but the man who had barely looked at Chastity a moment ago was now practically devouring her with his beady little eyes.

"Visiting ports now, are you?" his brother said. "That seems very industrious. I thought you’d mentioned a relaxing season this year. One without any…surprises."

His brother meant one without any engagements. They’d had a surprisingly candid one-sided discussion about it at the start of the Season, in which his brother said that it would be better for the family if Lucas avoided any future embarrassments, if he could last one Season without becoming engaged. Never mind the fact that his brother had contributed to the family embarrassment by stealing Grace. "I was going to spend a relaxed Season," Lucas said, "but I can hardly turn down a worthwhile opportunity with such an interesting investment."

"You can hardly afford more interesting things in your life," his brother retorted.

The table hushed again.

Lucas looked away from his brother to Chastity, who was studying him with the strangest look on her face—a mixture of ferocity and compassion. But why should she feel either emotion?

"Your well-being is our primary concern," his brother said.

"What your brother means to say," Grace said after clearing her throat, "is that we worry you might be too…stimulated."

"You know what could use stimulation?" Chastity interrupted quickly. "This conversation. Might I suggest another topic? Mr. Highster?"

Mr. Highster chimed in with something—something boring, no doubt—but Lucas barely noticed. If he didn’t know any better, he would say Chastity was playing the hero for him.

* * *

Chastity waited until the street was dark and deserted before venturing into the cold London night. She drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders and quickly tripped down her stairs to the sidewalk and back up the neighboring stairs to Lucas’s home.

With another quick glance down the empty sidewalk, she knocked on his door.

Nothing happened after several moments and she wondered if she should run back home. This was stupid, this was folly. But she had to speak to him. Tonight.

Not tomorrow. Tonight.

Things had been going so well at dinner. He’d engaged in her charade—finally! She wasn’t sure what had convinced him. Not the kiss. Why was she still thinking of the kiss, anyway? It hadn’t been her first—it was amazing how many tried to steal a kiss when one assumed your morals were as low as your birth. But it had been, by far, the most interesting. She’d never realized that one’s body could become so attuned, so eager for something…though just what, she didn’t quite know.

She knocked again. What she did know was that she was eager to clarify their charade. As she predicted, Mr. Highster had become interested in her the moment he assumed that she and Lord Willoughby had an arrangement.

But after what had happened between Lucas and his family, how hurt and still he had become at their comments, she wasn’t sure there was an arrangement anymore. How could he want to continue after their horrid treatment of him? She had to be sure he was all right.

She knocked again.

Nothing. She didn’t know if she could wait until tomorrow to see him. Surely she should be able to wait. Dawn was hours away. But for some reason, she absolutely felt she had to see him now.

The street wouldn’t remain empty forever. She had just turned on the step when she finally heard the door open behind her.

When she turned back, Lucas was standing in the open doorway holding a candle. He was still dressed as if he’d fallen asleep without changing. The top button of his shirt was undone, his cravat hanging down, and his hair was in disarray, as if he’d run his hands through it over and over.

His dark eyes widened at the sight of her and he reached out to grab her shoulder and haul her inside. With an expletive, he looked out onto the street and shut the door before whirling around.

"Are you insane?" he said, practically seething. "What are you doing here?"

"You stopped talking to me." She rubbed her shoulder, not because he’d hurt her, but because it felt strange. As though she’d fallen asleep on it and it was now all pins and needles.

"What do you mean, I stopped talking to you?" he asked, taking a step closer. "I’m speaking with you now."

"At the dinner party," she said. "I was worried that after that episode, you might have changed your mind."

He shook his head, as if waking himself up. "You’re not making sense. Changed my mind about what?"

"About helping me."

"To be fair, I never formally agreed to help you in the first place," he said. "You keep assuming I will."

"But you did."

He breathed out a quick, frustrated breath and set his candle on a table near the front door. "Why, exactly, are you here again?"

"After your brother and his wife baited you, you were so quiet and you barely looked at me." He hooded his eyes, not answering. "I never meant for you to endure ridicule and pain on my behalf," she said. When he wouldn’t look up, she rested a hand on his forearm. It felt so easy to lay it there.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said darkly, staring at her hand.

"I know—believe me, I know—but I was worried about you."

"I assure you I’m fine," he said.

"But truly? If my sister had spoken to me the way your brother spoke to you—"

"Would your sister steal your intended?"

Chastity blinked at his interruption. "Of course not."

"Then already her character is worthy of far more concern than my brother’s. I assure you, Miss Drummond—" He laid both his hands gently on her shoulders. "—I am not hurt by his remarks."

"Truly?" She rested her own hands on top of his. They were warm, and a little rough, although from what she couldn’t imagine.

He nodded and gulped, his eyes intent on where their hands joined over her right shoulder. She felt a jolt of energy.

"Our agreement continues, then?" she asked, her voice cracking.

At this, he finally released her and pulled back. "How can you continue the agreement knowing you’ve no real affection for Mr. Highster?"

"I’ve affection enough for a marriage," she said in her own defense. "And we’ve plenty in common, including our love of the high seas."

"He has no love for the sea like you do—it’s only a post to him."

She opened her mouth to defend Mr. Highster, but couldn’t. Because part of her had considered this to be true. He hadn’t seemed one bit interested in anything she had to say. She’d been a nuisance, but nuisance or no, he was the best candidate she knew of to take over her father’s administrative duties. "Please, Lord Willoughby, I beg of you, help me continue our farce."

He gave a short laugh. "Farce? Tell me, what part of this is farce?"

"The presumed engagement," she said. Perhaps waking him from sleep had been a bad idea—he seemed confused. "Please tell me you haven’t forgotten the plan."

"Ah yes," he said mockingly. "My presumed interest in you. A farce, isn’t it?"

He moved swiftly. One moment she was standing a foot away from him. The next he’d gathered her against his chest, his hands splayed at her back, his lips on hers for the second time.

But unlike the first time, this wasn’t his mouth pressed against hers. This was his mouth savage upon hers. He tilted his head, pulling her closer.

There was no dry brush of lips as there had been before. Her head tipped back, her pulse hammered through her, making her flush with heat. One of his hands trailed up her shoulders to her throat and his mouth slid down to meet it. He dragged his lips across her skin, as if drinking her pulse.

He slid his fingers to tilt her face back toward him and brushed his thumb against her lower lip before dipping his head again to take her mouth. The brush of his tongue sent silken sweetness writhing through her.

She melted against him, molded to him, clawed at his shoulders and it seemed they might be sinking to the floor…but then she realized he was pushing her away.

With a stream of expletives, he held her at bay. "See," he said bitterly. "A complete farce. All of it."

He seemed unhinged, but no more than she. They were both breathing hard, their chests rising and falling in unison.

With that he opened the door and checked the street. She could hear a carriage clattering by and he waited until it passed before hustling her outside. As the cold night air bit at her cheeks she finally found the voice to say, "So we’re in agreement that our engagement shall continue?"

But the door shut behind her.

That was twice now he’d kissed and then discarded her.

* * *

"You have a caller," Jeffrey announced.

"We do?" Cassandra asked looked up from her design sketches.

"Show him in," Chastity said as she rose from her chaise, butterflies dancing across her skin.

"How do you know our visitor is a he?" Cassandra asked. "Are you expecting someone? Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’m in no state to receive visitors."

Chastity peeked in the mirror and pulled back the stray curls escaping her knot before taking her seat. She couldn’t very well tell her sister that she’d kissed a man—twice—and there was so much left to be said between them that he likely was visiting. Although she didn’t know what to say once he arrived.

She’d barely slept during the night. Memories of his drugged kisses, his mouth on her throat…

"Chastity, please," Cassandra croaked. "May I leave?"

With a quick glance to make sure her companion was comfortably posted on the piano stool, she nodded.

"Thank you," Cassandra sighed. "It took you long enough—who is this visitor?"

But before Chastity could answer or Cassandra could take her leave, Jeffrey returned. "Mr. Peter Highster," he announced.

Chastity swallowed her disappointment and pasted a smile on her face as she rose to greet him, then retook her seat on the chaise.

She should be ecstatic. That Mr. Highster was here meant her ploy with Lord Willoughby had worked wonders—and after only one dinner, at that. At this rate, by tomorrow’s ball she’d have a proposal in hand.

"Miss Drummond," Mr. Highster said with a bow. "Miss Cassandra" he said to her sister.

A tea service was discreetly brought.

"I’m sorry you were unable to join us for dinner, Miss Cassandra," Mr. Highster said.

Cassandra coughed what may or may not have been a yes or a strangled cry. Her hands shook and she dropped her sketches to the floor.

"Let me help you." Mr. Highster picked up the pages, standing up slowly as he studied them. "Are these engine designs?"

"Ye—ye—yes." Cassandra gathered the pages against her chest.

Chastity furrowed her brow. Cassandra’s discomfort was obvious, even when discussing her favorite of all subjects, but at least she was speaking…out loud…to someone who wasn’t related to her or in the family’s employ. Still, it wasn’t wise to test Cassandra’s mood once her stuttering began.

"Might you return the drawings to father’s study?" Chastity suggested.

Cassandra nodded on a gasp, giving Chastity a look of thanks before escaping.

Mr. Highster stared after her, his jaw working as he took his seat. "Those were very interesting modifications. Is that your father’s newest endeavor?"

"You’ll have to ask my father when he returns at week’s end," Chastity said apologetically, not eager to admit she knew very little of the company’s engineering.

"Ah," he said. "Surely your sister—"

"Has plans for the morning," she said. "But should you wish to discuss other aspects of our company … our plans for expansion, perhaps? As we discussed last night—"

"Perhaps we can make arrangements for me to discuss those with your father upon his return."

"Oh. Absolutely." Her hand shook so her tea sloshed a little over the rim. She wiped it away, brushing aside the discomfort that her cotton frock should be soaked right away to avoid staining. He was eager to discuss engineering with Cassandra but not financials with her?

Well, of course he wouldn’t want to discuss anything related to operations with her. She was neither the owner of the company nor its operator. She had no public means of affecting operations, only private.

"It so happens, Miss Drummond, that I may have other business to discuss with your father. Business of a more personal nature, should that be pleasing to you."

The supposition hung in the air—did he mean to declare interest in her?

That was precisely what she wanted. She wanted to marry a man of his position who would be able to help secure her father’s company’s future.

But now that he’d said it, she couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t excited at all.

Chapter Four

Normally, Chastity would not feel awkward about wearing the gold silk gown that she had worn days ago to another event. Especially since she’d taken care to accent it with an ivory shoulder wrap and, instead of confining her hair in a knot, she’d swept it back. But at tonight’s ball, she felt self-conscious.

Francesca was still sickly and unable to attend. Cassandra, of course, had begged off. Worse yet—worst of all—Lord Lucas Willoughby was nowhere to be found, leaving Chastity feeling very much alone.

She should not feel alone.

In fact, she had never been more popular.

Mr. Highster had fetched her half a dozen drinks. Her dance card was nearly full. Several ladies had stopped by for polite conversation, which were merely veiled attempts to unwrap the rumor that she may or may not be engaged to Lord Willoughby.

"How long have you lived next to Lord Willoughby?" one particular lady asked.

"Four years," Chastity answered, struggling to remember the woman’s name. She was tall, sleek and sophisticated, every bit the lady Chastity would never be.

"Do you know the others?" the lady asked.

"The rest of his family does not reside in Lord Willoughby’s home. My understanding is his brother resides across town and his parents remain in the country."

"Not the others in his family." The lady leaned close. "I meant…the others."

The other fiancees.

She hadn’t given them much thought until now, but it occurred to her that Lucas Willoughby had cared enough for six women, six years in a row, to propose marriage. Combined with the knowledge that he’d kissed her twice in the past week, she wasn’t sure what to think of the man.

Was he fickle? He didn’t seem so. A rake? No, there were no rumors to suggest that.

"I recently met his brother’s wife, but cannot claim to know her well nor any of the others at all," Chastity said. "Can you?"

"Two of them," she said triumphantly.

"And?" Chastity asked, hating herself for stooping so low as to ask.

"And…they were very different women. In fact, if you consider it—not a single one of them looks the same or acts the same or comes from the same pedigree. Isn’t that curious?"

Chastity hadn’t considered any patterns among Lucas’ fiancees before, but it was true. Each lady was different from the next, which bothered her. A lot was bothering her tonight, and by the time she consumed another glass of punch delivered from Mr. Highster and Lord Lucas Willoughby made his grand entrance and gave her a charming smile from across the ballroom, she was irked and annoyed.

"Miss Drummond," he said in greeting as he approached her. Everyone surrounding them scattered as if they would have better viewing from afar.

"Why did you propose to all those women?" she asked.

He frowned. "What women?"

"You can’t possibly have forgotten your six prior engagements."

He grabbed her forearm and walked her toward the French doors swinging out toward the gardens. His expression darkened as he glanced around the ballroom. All eyes were on them, watching, every tongue whispering.

Once they reached the terrace where the number of couples fell from several hundred to a half dozen, he spun her away. "Ask me again." He was breathing heavily, his hands anchored to his hips. Almost as though he was daring her to ask the question.

She cleared her throat. "Why did you propose to all those women?"

"I don’t know," he said.

She blinked, wondering if she’d misheard. If she’d been too distracted by his angelic dark curls. It was ridiculous how attractive he was sometimes. "You don’t know? You were struck by memory loss prior to the proposals? Six times?"

"Are you quite finished?"

"No," she said, feeling the anger clawing its way up her throat. "Did you love any of them?"

"Which answer would you prefer?"

"The truth."

"Are you sure?" He stepped closer, towering over her now, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. "Would you rather I loved them all and was heartbroken? Or would you rather I was a callous, unfeeling ass who was stupid enough to become engaged to six people toward whom I was completely indifferent?"

"I don’t know," she cried. She felt so out of control, so annoyed with herself. "I wish…."

"You wish what?"

"I wish…."

He sighed and brushed his fingers over her forehead. He gazed into her eyes, his expression softening. "Yes?"

"I wish you hadn’t proposed to those women."

"But then I wouldn’t be the Matchmaking Baron," he whispered.

"Is that who you are, Lucas?"

His eyes darkened and he guided her backward into a dark corner against a Doric column. Her back pressed against the cold, hard surface and he brushed the length of his body against hers.

She cried out softly, which seemed to awaken him. He swore as he studied her disarray but didn’t step back, not this time. This time, his hands pressed at the small of her back. "I’m sorry I was carried away. It’s just…you’ve never called me by name before."

"Lucas?"

His eyes darkened again and he kissed her with a groan.

His lips were magic, were drink in themselves. "Lucas," she murmured against his mouth.

He deepened the kiss, straining against her, searching almost blindly for her tongue.

"Lucas," she teased again.

This time he pulled away and laughed, pressing a kiss to her hair before resting his forehead against hers.

When he finally pulled away, he gazed at her face, almost peaceful and contemplative. "Listen to me, Chastity. I proposed to those women because I wanted to be in love and married, but that doesn’t mean I was in love with them. I was young and naïve, and I assumed the rest would follow. But it didn’t. And it won’t—not for you and Mr. Highster, either."

She shook her head. She was forgetting herself and her purpose—that she was here to tempt Mr. Highster into marriage. Not be kissed senseless by her altogether too attractive neighbor.

She couldn’t let herself be distracted by her personal needs, not when her family was more important. "My arrangement with Mr. Highster will be different. It will be more than a marriage."

"There’s no such thing as more than a marriage," he said.

She pulled away from him and after a moment’s hesitation, he let her go. But he threw his parting words at her back. "You’re either in a marriage or not. And everything else is less."

* * *

Chastity laid a wet washcloth over Francesca’s sweaty brow. "Thank you," her friend moaned, closing her eyes and snuggling further under the covers.

"Is this normal?" Chastity asked. Her friend’s condition worried her.

"It’s insanity, but I suppose the two are not mutually exclusive. I’m sorry I keep my eyes closed, but I fear once I open them, yet another meal will find its way up."

Chastity hiked her hip onto the bed to sit at her friend’s side and prepared another cold towel in the basin of water on the bedside table. "How can I help?"

"Distract me," Francesca said. "It should be easy enough. I’ve heard rumors of not one, but two possible engagements in your future." Chastity wrung the washcloth harder and replaced the one on her friend’s forehead. "I don’t need to open my eyes to know when you’re avoiding an answer."

"To be fair, in truth I have no meaningful engagements."

"That is not what Phillip says."

"Since when does your husband engage in gossip?" Chastity found it hard to believe Francesca’s husband could be engaged in anything not having to do with his wife, with whom he was smitten.

"Since I’ve asked him to keep an eye on you."

"Francesca!"

Francesca moaned as the bed shifted with Chastity’s movements. "Please, no—I beg of you. Amnesty."

"Only because your misery is punishment enough," Chastity said, arranging the sheets more closely around her friend’s shoulders. "Although I hope your doctor is correct that the vertigo will resolve itself once your nausea passes."

"Your hope is a distant second to my own. And don’t think you’ve distracted me—are you saying the rumors of your understanding with your neighbor, the Matchmaking Baron, have been grossly exaggerated?"

"I’m sure they aren’t exaggerated enough," Chastity said with a sigh.

Francesca opened one green eye. "Explain that comment, please. I would rather not orphan my unborn baby, but if Phillip must dust off his dueling pistols I’d rather know sooner than later."

"There’s been nothing untoward," Chastity promised. "I merely propositioned him."

Francesca sat up in bed and in one smooth motion bent over its side to heave the contents of her stomach into a bedpan.

Chastity set to wiping her brow and mouth and turning her gently on her back. "For that, you owe me an explanation," Francesca said, closing her eyes.

"As you know, Mr. Highster unknowingly holds my father’s company hostage as he continues to determine which routes England will allow, and as you know, a marriage to him would be quite advantageous."

"I know nothing of the sort," Francesca said, "so please get to the part about your understanding with Lord Willoughby."

Chastity quickly recapped her arrangement with Lord Willoughby, as well as the charade’s success with Mr. Highster. She left out the more intimate physical details of the past week. "It’s all spiraling out of control," she said.

"Illicit engagements often do," Francesca said knowingly.

"What should I do?"

"It depends on what you want."

"I want Father’s company secure," she said. "I can tell that continuing with the administration of the company is killing him slowly. His trips to sea are longer and longer. He can barely bring himself to look at a ledger and if he continues this way, we’ll be in ruins. I can’t keep covering for him."

"Then you must end your understanding with Lord Willoughby immediately. You’ve already caught Mr. Highster’s interest. Surely there’s no need for the continued charade."

Chastity mulled over Francesca’s sensible answer. Surely there wasn’t a need for it. But what did she really want?

* * *

Lucas felt anxious as he made his way to Chastity’s home per her invitation. She seemed to be avoiding him since their encounter at the ball. She’d been mysteriously absent all of yesterday and he’d only just learned she’d been staying with a friend across town.

He could only hope she’d come to her senses about her desire to marry Mr. Highster.

Not that he knew if he wanted to marry Chastity. He was understandably tentative about becoming engaged to anyone…ever…again.

Her butler, Jeffrey, led him to the study, where her companion was seated on a perch in the corner and her sister was nowhere to be found. Chastity was seated nervously on her chaise, twisting a piece of paper in her hand.

"My lord," she said, rising to her feet.

"I thought we’d agreed Lucas was more appropriate."

He knew he was in trouble when she didn’t even smile. Instead, she held the paper out to him.

He snatched it from her fingers. It was a certificate of shares in Drummond Shipping that had been transferred to his name. Here in his hands, he realized, he held enough money to care for himself, his children, his children’s children and many more, as well as his entire barony. He held an object his brother had desired for years. And he wanted nothing more than to shred it to bits.

"What’s the meaning of this?" he asked, tossing the shares on the table between them.

"We had an agreement."

"We never formalized any agreement," he said.

"Don’t be stubborn."

"You’re accusing me of stubbornness?" he railed. "Me? You’re the one who insists upon marrying a man who would make you miserable."

"We could never work—you don’t know what you want in a wife. How else can you explain your six engagements, each to a woman more different than the next?"

"This isn’t even about me," he said. "Do I wish you’d come to your senses and give us a chance? Yes. But this is about more than that. This is about you marrying a man to take over the company you should be running. You. Not him."

"It’s impossible," she said.

"What’s impossible is living with the mistake you’re about to make. Do you know how long I’ve waited to feel something, anything—to feel the way you feel about those ships? Now that I’ve found it, now that I feel it, I can’t let it go, Chastity. I don’t know how you can, either."

She picked up the certificate and held it out to him with shaky hands.

"Say something to me," he begged.

"You said this isn’t about you," Chastity said quietly. "Well, it isn’t about me, either. My family has known what it is to want something. We’ve known what it is to want to eat. To want to be safe. To want to sleep at night without rain pummeling our cheeks."

"I wouldn’t let that happen to you," he promised.

"If I’ve learned anything about poverty, it’s that it’s not something you let happen. Now, please. Leave."

Lucas grabbed the certificate, ripping it into shreds and leaving a trail to follow him out the front door.

Chapter Five

Chastity fussed with her father’s cravat.

"I’ve got it, dear," he said, pulling the silk from her fingers. "Goodness, I was only gone for a few months and there was occasion for me to wear a cravat on my travels." He gripped her hands in his to calm her. "I remember how to do this."

"Of course you do," she said with a breath of relief.

"Is something the matter, dear?" He rested his hands on her shoulders, for they were nearly the same height now—her father always having been a shorter man. She remembered when she would have to crane her neck to see anything above his knees.

"Everything is perfect," she said, but her tone felt false even to her ears. "Come, we don’t want to keep Mr. Highster waiting."

Chastity called for Cassandra, who reluctantly descended the stairs in a green muslin dress that matched her eyes—good. At least she’d made an effort.

Neither Cassandra nor her father were too pleased about attending tonight’s ball—or any ball, for that matter—but Mr. Highster had made it clear he wanted to discuss personal matters and personal matters were therefore to be discussed.

Personal matters that had nothing to do with Lucas Willoughby.

She steeled herself against any reaction to him. She repeated over and over during the carriage ride that she would be friendly and smile, but not speak with him. While their wraps were being taken, she made herself promise not to dance with him. And by the time they entered the ballroom and she saw him across the dance floor, every good intention fled from her mind.

"Is that our neighbor?" her father asked, his expression foggy as he found the object of her attention.

"Yes," Chastity answered. "It is Lord Willoughby." Lucas, she thought. It was Lucas.

"Never remembered him as such an intense fellow."

"Me, either," Chastity sighed.

She deliberately forced herself to find Mr. Highster in the crowd. He raised his brow when he saw her and came toward them, waiting patiently as she introduced him to her father.

"Might I have the next dance?" he asked finally.

Chastity stared at his outstretched hand. She felt the weight of her decision. She could see it now—her future laid out for her. She’d never wanted to run from anything more in her life—not from poverty, not from social cruelty.

But she forced herself to glance at her father, who was watching her with his kind face and forgetful expression. At her sister, who was anxiously glancing about the room with tightly pinched eyes.

She forced a smile and took Mr. Highster’s hand.

* * *

Could it really have been a week ago that he’d been at a ball much like this one watching his six fiancees dance with other men—and hadn’t felt a thing?

What a difference a week could make.

As he watched Mr. Highster lead Chastity onto the floor, Lucas was struck not just with wanting, not just with feeling, but with a sickness for her. With the knowledge that she had somehow infected every ounce of him so that if he left the room, she’d still be in every thought, in every pore.

He’d wanted to want, and now he’d gotten what he wanted, he thought with a sardonic laugh.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked to his left to see his brother and sister-in-law. "At least this time, she left you before the engagement was official," he said.

He walked away, leaving Grace behind. She gave him a sympathetic smile. "If you’d looked at me the way you’re looking at her," she said, "I wouldn’t have left."

Lucas stared at her, surprised. She gave him a shy smile.

He bowed. "I’m sorry I did not give you the attention you deserved."

Her gaze found his brother’s back. "I’m not," she said, walking away.

Lucas looked back to Chastity as she waltzed across the floor in Mr. Highster’s arms.

He was walking toward her before he even knew it. Couples separated as he pushed between them. He was halfway to her when the violin music screeched to a deafening silence.

The whispers began at once. The whispers he’d tried so hard to avoid.

Chastity’s blue eyes widened with alarm as Mr. Highster released her. He knew how he must look—dark and avenging.

"May I help you?" Mr. Highster asked, looking between them.

"You may release my fiancee," he said.

The crowd gasped, as did Chastity. But Mr. Highster stepped back, mumbling apologies, and Lucas smoothly stepped in, taking her hand in his.

"What are you doing?" she said in an outraged whisper.

"Dancing with my future wife," he said.

The music swelled over the hushed murmurs of the ton and they moved, stepping in a square, coming together and apart, placing their palms together and turning in a circle.

"You’ll ruin everything," she said.

"If you tell me you love him, I’ll walk away."

"Love? Don’t be ridiculous—this isn’t about love."

"Yes, it is," he said quietly.

She stopped dancing, frozen in the middle of the floor. "It is?"

"It is," he said, swelling with the feeling, finally putting a name to it.

"But…the company, my father, my sister—"

"Exactly," he said. "That’s all you need. The company, your father, and your sister. You don’t need Mr. Highster. You never have, and you don’t now."

"But shareholders will never—"

"Your father never wanted shareholders to have your company. Why do you think he hasn’t opened it to public shares?"

Chastity glanced over to her father and Lucas watched the unspoken conversation between them. She turned back to him, eyes shimmering.

He wondered if he’d gone too far. The entire ballroom was watching them now. His brother was staring, aghast. At least Grace was smiling at the scene. He looked back at Chastity’s face. Her lips parted slightly. He felt the ticking of time with every beat of his heart.

"Say something," he begged.

Chastity leaned forward with a smile and brought her lips to his ear. "Lucas," she said.

He grinned as she pulled back. "Here?" he said. "In the ballroom?"

"Lucas," she repeated with a devilish wink.

And with that, he lowered his lips to hers.

The End

* * *

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A Delightful Arrangement

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To say Lizzie and Dante are polar opposites is the understatement of the century. He’s a snooty Exeter transfer with more money than Google. She’s a driven study-a-holic just barely keeping up with tuition. It’s obvious that Dante thinks he’s way too good for Lizzie. And Lizzie knows Dante is a snob with a gift for pressing her buttons.

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The Jane Austen Academy series are modern retellings of Jane Austen classics set at a beachside California boarding school.

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Fall For You: A Modern Retelling of Pride & Prejudice

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Only With You: A Modern Retelling of Emma

Always You: A Modern Retelling of Persuasion

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About Cecilia

Cecilia Gray lives in Oakland where she reads, writes and breaks for food. She also pens her biographies in the third person. Like this. As if to trick you into thinking someone else wrote it because she is important. Alas, this is not the case.

Cecilia has been praised for “instilling a warmth and weight into her characters” (Romancing The Book Reviews) and her books have been praised for being “well-written, original, realistic and witty” (Quills & Zebras Reviews).

Her latest series of young-adult contemporary Jane Austen retellings was named a What’s Hot pick (RT Book Reviews magazine) and is a Best of 2012 pick (Kirkus Reviews) where it was praised for being a “unique twist on a classic” and offering “a compelling mix of action, drama and love.”

She’s rather enamored of being contacted by readers and hopes you’ll oblige.

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