A Convenient Engagement Read online

  A Convenient Engagement

  Kimberly Bell

  InterMix Books, New York

  AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC

  375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014

  A CONVENIENT ENGAGEMENT

  An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2016 by Kimberly Bell.

  Excerpt from A Dangerous Damsel © 2016 by Kimberly Bell.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about The Berkley Publishing Group, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-99126-8

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  InterMix eBook edition / February 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Excerpt from A DANGEROUS DAMSEL

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Gavan Dalreoch, Earl of Rhone, was dying. The pounding in his head was going to kill him. And if what he could remember of the previous evening was even close to accurate, he would not be peacefully drifting up to heaven’s glorious heights. The activities of the past week were enough to damn him for most of eternity. Cracking an eye to survey his situation, Gavan determined he must still be in the good graces of at least one angel. His valet Bennett had not yet come to open the drapes.

  There was a rustling beside him, and his peripheral vision supplied the view of a distinctly feminine head of raven hair settling back into place on his left. He turned—gently—and tried to recall where she came from. Remembering, he turned again, this time to the right. An identical countenance snored softly on his other side. Ah yes, the twins. The self-satisfied smile taking up residence on his face was stifled as the reason for his present circumstances intruded on Gavan’s consciousness.

  That damned letter. His cousin, Ewan, had sent him a vigorous accounting of all the ways he was failing as a man. Firstly, Gavan was a miserable excuse for a laird, having successfully avoided his homeland and clan for the last sixteen years. Secondly, he was an abysmal guardian to his sister. He had never even seen her, largely due to the first complaint. She had been born while he was away on the Continent, and Gavan had never come home after that. Thirdly, he spent far too much money on the indolent, dandified lifestyle he had come to enjoy here in London.

  The fourth and true complaint of the letter, as articles one through three were hardly new occurrences, was that Gavan was going to be thirty in a few days and had no wife. He didn’t even have the prospect of a wife or a twinkle in his eye that might evolve into a proper courtship. Without a wife, there could be no heir, and Clan Dalreoch desperately needed a lawful heir. Gavan tendered his response in the form of drinking the entire bottle of one-hundred-year-old whiskey set aside for the birth of new Dalreochs.

  In the dismally sober light of day, Gavan considered the possibility that his cousin might not have been completely out of line. Listening to the tandem snoring of the identical actresses in his bed, he was willing to admit he could potentially benefit from the settling influence of a gently bred woman. After all, it was one thing to enjoy the company of morally unfettered women, but quite another to bring them back to one’s residence.

  Gavan was preparing to weigh the pros and cons of a wife when the unique noise of his bedroom door shattering inward interrupted him; a familiar figure in a kilt stepped through the wreckage brushing wood shards off his irritatingly wide shoulders.

  “Ewan?” Gavan had gotten himself properly foxed over the last week, but, as far as he knew, his cousin should not be in London breaking down doors.

  He should have been home in Scotland writing interfering letters and keeping the clan out of Gavan’s business. Yet here he was, standing in the remains of Gavan’s bedroom door surveying the room like a conquering Norseman.

  “I thought ye drowned in yer own bile or had yer throat slit by some doxy. But here ye lay, sweet as ye please.”

  The doxies had woken up in the commotion and squinted at the Scotsman in the doorway.

  “Lord, look at the size of that one,” one of them said, eyeing Ewan like prime horseflesh at auction. Damned if Gavan could tell them apart.

  “Is ’e joining the fun?” the other asked with interest.

  “No.” Gavan’s morning was already ruined thoroughly enough without that. “Ewan—”

  “Ewan,” the big man mimicked, enunciating both syllables in mockery of the cultured accent Gavan had spent years perfecting. “Like we caught sight of each other at Sunday Mass. Like I dinnae just have to break down the bedroom door, because ye were too piss drunk to hear me knocking.”

  Ewan gathered articles of women’s clothing as he spoke, holding them up next to the doorway. “Out ye go, trollops. It’s been a pleasure, but there’s twenty pounds in a hack downstairs if ye hurry.”

  The twins did not dally. They sprinted out of the room, giving Ewan a few playful squeezes on their way past him in the narrow entrance. Ewan walked to the window looking out on the street and waited until he saw them dash naked and laughing into the waiting coach.

  “If I dinnae love ye so much, I would beat ye senseless. Have ye no shame?” he asked, throwing a pile of rumpled clothing off the chair next to the bed before settling into it.

  “Not much, no.” Gavan grinned. “Not everyone is cut out for a life of responsible industry, Ewan.”

  “Aye,” his cousin replied. “And yet, most do manage to avoid a complete descent into sordid buggery.”

  “Only due to a deficiency of imagination.” Gavan sat up and immediately regretted it. With his head in his hands, he asked, “Where in God’s name is Bennett? I need a bath, breakfast, and something to stop this damned pounding.”

  Ewan fished a dressing gown out of the pile and tossed it to him. “Magnus said ye discharged yer man three days ago. He couldn’t help ye with the pounding anyhow. That racket next door is enough to drive any man to drink.”

  “I sacked Bennett?” Gavan rubbed his hand over his face, trying to recall. The raucous banging sound finally registered as coming from the window, not his skull. “God above, is that next door? I made myself very clear about hours suitable for construction!”

  He cursed and disapp
eared into his dressing room. Emerging with breeches and a shirt half on, he shoved his arms into a waistcoat without bothering to button it. More curses issued forth as he jammed on his boots. The renovation crew at Number Fourteen was about to regret disregarding the edict of an earl.

  “Magnus!” Gavan yelled as he stormed down the stairs to the ground floor, a bemused Ewan in his wake.

  The butler appeared at the bottom of the stairs like a specter. “My lord, has something gone amiss with your bellpull? I will send someone to repair it immediately.” He snapped his fingers, and a footman appeared from nowhere.

  “Nothing is wrong with the damned pull, Magnus. Are you hearing this next door?” Gavan finished his descent and glared at his butler.

  “My humblest apologies, my lord. I assumed you would only bellow through the house like a dockworker because of a malfunction in the pull system. My mistake.” The butler stared flatly back at him.

  Gavan ignored the comment. He had much more important battles to fight this afternoon. “Magnus, I’m off to thrash our neighbor. Kindly track down Bennett and inform him that I will forgive his egregious dereliction of duty if he is back at his post by this evening.”

  The Earl of Rhone chose not to notice his cousin’s tactless eye roll as he strode out the door of Number Fifteen, full of righteous purpose.

  * * *

  Hannah Howard wanted to scream. Her renovation was weeks behind schedule purely because some spoiled aristocrat complained that the noise kept him from sleeping through the afternoon. All Hannah wanted to do was start her new life in London and achieve some small measure of happiness. Why was it proving so difficult to accomplish? Half of England tried to stand in her way, insisting she needed to marry or refusing to do business without a male relation to represent her. Hannah didn’t have any male relations. She didn’t have any family at all after her father’s sudden stroke. What she did have was a substantial inheritance, and a promise to herself that no one else would ever control her life again. That included the unconscionable Earl of Rhone.

  Hannah sat down at the writing desk in her study and began to compose a letter.

  Dear Insufferable Jackass,

  That wouldn’t do. She crumpled the paper and started again.

  Dear Overbearing Sycophant,

  Still not very refined. Another paper crumbled and found its way to the floor.

  Dear Resident of Number Fifteen,

  That would do very nicely. Hannah moved to the next line.

  Dear Resident of Number Fifteen,

  You are an imbecile.

  Damn it all. Writing an entire letter while she was this angry was going to take forever.

  Hannah closed her eyes and tried to remember what Old Garrett had told her during their secret boxing lessons in the barn. “Anger makes you reckless and clouds your judgment. Never fight angry.” If only Mrs. Weaver, the housekeeper, hadn’t discovered the lessons and threatened to brain Garrett with a horseshoe, Hannah might be better equipped to deal with her temper now. Hannah missed the staff at Idyllwild already. Old Garrett, Mrs. Weaver, and Cook had been the only friends Hannah had been allowed to have.

  After her mother died, Hannah’s father devoted his and his daughter’s lives to scholarship. There was no room for friendships or frivolity in Sir Thomas Howard’s pursuit of all subjects logic based. All of that was behind her now. Sir Thomas had passed away six months ago, leaving Hannah with his sizable fortune and lucrative investments. While Hannah couldn’t claim to miss her father—they had barely spoken, beyond his terse instructions regarding her education—it was strange to suddenly be free to follow her own whims. Her first order of business had been to move to London, to a very fashionable town house in St. James’s Square. The very same town house she was standing in now, which should have been renovated to her specifications but was not because of a certain interfering earl.

  Hannah rubbed at the pulsing ache forming in her temple. Perhaps she should go for a walk around town. The sights of London would take her mind off of the nuisance living next door, and a little exercise certainly couldn’t hurt her temper. Hannah had been cooped up in the town house since her arrival yesterday afternoon, sorting out the disaster that had greeted her. She exited the study with purpose, collecting her cloak and bonnet before striding through the front door, and straight into the chest of a man in extremely wrinkled evening clothes.

  “Pleasant morning, madam,” the stranger said politely, as she recovered her composure. “Kindly bring your rag-mannered ponce of a lord out here. I intend to pound the man into the cobblestones.”

  The words were delivered so sweetly, Hannah almost missed their meaning. “Excuse me?”

  “You can bring him out here, love, or I can go in and retrieve him myself. It’s your choice.” His tone continued to be jovial, contradicting the threats he delivered.

  “Who on earth are you talking about?” Hannah considered the possibility that he was deranged, but then the wind changed directions. “Good heavens, are you drunk?”

  “I am not drunk. Not any longer.” He stared down at her imperiously. “I am talking about the unmannered scoundrel with the audacity to disturb the peace of this fine square at such an unfashionable hour. Step aside, woman. You’ll soon realize I am doing you a favor.”

  He moved to step past her, and Hannah put her arm up to block the doorway. The identity of this disheveled stranger was all too obvious, and Hannah was not about to let the Earl of Rhone traipse about her home as if he owned it. His sensual baritone might allow him to charm his way through most situations, but this was not one of them. Hannah was not about to let a pair of light green eyes and coffee-colored hair distract her from the fact that this man was the bane of Hannah’s short existence in London.

  “Let us be clear about one thing,” she said firmly, with the eye contact to match.

  He raised an imperious brow at her, taking in her stance and tone.

  Hannah straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “There is no man here for you to assault in some barbaric tantrum. This is my town house and my renovation you have sabotaged with your arrogant interference. If you intend to continue your assault on my patience, I strongly advise you to reconsider. I will not brook any further interference into my affairs.”

  * * *

  The woman had challenged him and lifted her mouth to the perfect angle to be kissed. Gavan had naturally assumed his neighbor was a man, but this was not an unwelcome development. Her bosom was dismally lacking, but everything else appeared to be in excellent order. Caramel curls rested softly around a flawless, heart-shaped face. Slightly tilted almond eyes had an exotic flavor that was echoed in her overly full bottom lip. If she wanted to seduce her way out of trouble, Gavan was more than willing to let her.

  “If you represent yourself in this matter, my lady, who do I have the honor of addressing?” He poured on the charm as he leaned toward her, closing the last of the distance.

  “It’s Miss. Miss Howard.” She stuttered slightly.

  “Lord Rhone,” he drawled into her ear. “But you may call me Gavan.”

  He saw a shiver run over her as his breath whispered across her ear. He raised his hand and placed it next to hers on the doorframe. Murmuring softly to her in Latin, he outlined exactly how she could compensate him for his troubles. Women didn’t learn Latin, so he didn’t bother keeping the sentiment polite. The words didn’t matter. The right rhythm and tone could turn a woman’s knees to jelly, regardless of context. He heard her quick intake of breath and watched a blush rise on her cheeks. The day was definitely on its way to improving.

  Until her elbow slammed into his midsection.

  He doubled over as the wind rushed out of his body. Her elbow connected again, this time with his right eye, at the same moment her heel came down firmly on his instep. Gavan would have yelled, cursed her to hell and back, and possibly done her
some sort of violence, but he was having trouble getting his lungs to accept air. He stumbled away from the she-devil. His injured foot lost its purchase, and her outraged glare was the last thing he saw before he pitched backward down her front steps.

  Gavan landed faceup on the pavement, squinting at the afternoon sky. He tried to decipher the exact moment the universe had turned against him. The door slammed shut as a shadow fell over him and his cousin’s face came into view, full of undisguised amusement.

  “Ye tried that nonsense on her, dinnae ye? I knew yer education would be wasted on ye.” Ewan extended a hand and heaved him back to his feet.

  “Indeed,” Gavan finally wheezed out, sending speculative glares toward the closed door.

  Ewan peered at Gavan’s eye and the swelling rising around it. “Ye’ll have a shiner for sure, and yer lucky ye dinnae meet yer maker falling down these stairs. She walloped ye solidly. Leave her be.”

  Gavan continued to glower in his neighbor’s direction until Ewan put an arm over his shoulder and steered him away.

  “Ye smell like a whorehouse, ye know. It’s no wonder that business with the Latin dinnae take.” Ewan insulted him good-naturedly. “How tall would ye say the lass is? She’s nae much bigger than a child. Fierce, though, aye?”

  The pulsing in Gavan’s foot and eye kept time with the hammering coming from Number Fourteen, confirming that today was not going to be the Earl of Rhone’s day.

  Chapter 2

  Once the swelling in Gavan’s eye reduced enough to for him to see, he resumed his evenings of excess. That was the intention, at any rate. It proved impossible with his cousin trailing his heels, dissuading fallen women and purveyors of mediocre whiskey with equal effectiveness. After two days of painful sobriety, they had come to an accord. Ewan could choose the entertainments if Gavan could continue to inebriate himself as he saw fit. Had Gavan realized exactly how tedious Ewan’s choices would be, he might have chosen differently.

  The Marquess of Waverly’s ballroom was as opulently decorated as the rumors implied. The sweeping hall was themed after a meeting of the gods on Mount Olympus. Corinthian columns were draped with a staggering quantity of gold and silver brocade, creating small alcoves and sitting areas for those who preferred to watch rather than dance. Gavan was not lucky enough to be among their number.