An Illicit Engagement (The Gentlemen Next Door)

  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 Seaso
n’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—"