An Illicit Engagement (The Gentlemen Next Door) Page 2

  "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 ther
e 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 tal
king. 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."