Never Fall for Your Fiancee, page 2
“It is a very striking illustration. So much so I am tempted to invest in some of the stuff myself. You are a talented artist, Miss…?”
“Merriwell. And thank you for the compliment, sir.”
“I am no expert on the subject, Mr. Pinkerton, but it would seem to me that this splendid illustration is well worth nine shillings—and some.” Hugh purposefully looked down his nose at the fellow. While it was obvious Mr. Pinkerton was a gentleman in the most basic sense, it was equally as obvious that Hugh was from the aristocracy.
“This has nothing to do with you, sir.”
Perhaps it wasn’t that obvious. “It is ‘my lord,’ not ‘sir.’”
Hugh had never called anyone out for not using his title before, because he hated upsetting people, but Mr. Pinkerton deserved knocking down a peg or two. “Do you refuse to pay because you cannot afford it? Are you financially embarrassed, sir?” He purposefully allowed his voice to carry, mindful of the curious passersby who had slowed their pace to eavesdrop. “In which case, maybe Miss Merriwell will allow you to pay your outstanding debt to her in installments?”
The insult had the most splendid effect on Mr. Pinkerton, who turned positively purple. “How dare you!” But he had already pulled out his fat purse and began to rummage in it, keen to get the pair of them off his doorstep. Hugh couldn’t resist holding out his gloved hand and audibly counting each coin as it was slapped in his palm.
“There! Devil take you! Nine shillings.” The older man went to shove his purse in his pocket.
“And threepence.” Hugh winked at Miss Merriwell. “Don’t forget the threepence, sir.”
The coins were practically thrown at him. “Good day to you both! I shan’t be using your services again, Miss Merriwell!” Mr. Pinkerton then wrestled with his key in the lock before running back inside and slamming the door.
Left alone on the pavement, Hugh smiled. “Here you are.” He dropped all the money into the center of her mitten. “We got there in the end.”
She beamed back, and it was like being bathed in liquid sunshine. Her face turned from exceedingly pretty to beautiful in a heartbeat. She had the loveliest eyes. Deep green, a little feline in shape and ringed with long, dark lashes.
“I am indebted to you, my lord. Thank you for your timely interference. It was very kind of you.”
“Think nothing of it. I have a particular weakness for damsels in distress.” Much as he tried to ignore it, Hugh had a weakness for all distressed things, from damsels to stray dogs, from the forlorn and the feckless to all the world’s foundlings. A weakness he would never admit to. Carefree, rakish bachelors about town didn’t waste time worrying about such nonsense. “I’ve always fancied myself as a knight in shining armor.” Damsels were one thing, a rampant social conscience was quite another. Hugh would become a laughingstock if his philanthropic nature were made public.
“Well, you were certainly mine.” For some reason, that made him feel ten feet tall. “I’ve tried everything to get him to pay up. Accosting him today was my last resort. One which would have failed if you hadn’t turned up when you did.”
“Oh, I doubt that. You did seem rather determined.”
“Nine shillings is nine shillings.” She shrugged dismissively as she said this, as if it were the principle that mattered more, but he knew differently. Her clothes had seen better days, her boots were old and down at the heel, and nobody would be seen dead demanding payment in even this unfashionable part of Mayfair unless they really needed the money. “If word gets around I allow a debt to go unpaid, then I might as well work for free.” She carefully put her money in her reticule and smiled again. “Thank you once more, my lord knight. I wish you the pleasantest of good days.” She was going to leave, and he didn’t want her to.
“So you are an artist?”
“I am hardly an artist. I create woodcuts.”
“Woodcuts?”
“The little blocks with pictures carved into them … you know … that printers use in the presses.” She mimed what he assumed was a printing press with her arms. “I’m an engraver of sorts, I suppose. Bespoke designs to the client’s specification—flowers, banners … liver salts.”
“That’s a fairly niche occupation.”
“It is.” Her smile seemed resigned. “Very niche.”
“Well, I’ve certainly never met an engraver, and it’s Hugh, Miss Merriwell.” He offered his hand. “Hugh Standish, Earl of Fareham.”
She shook his hand, which bizarrely wanted to hold hers forever.
“I have never met an earl before, so we are equal. And it’s Minerva.”
The world seemed to stop. Surely not?
“Minerva?”
“I know … it’s a little pretentious. My father fancied himself a scholar. He named all his daughters after Roman goddesses. Mine is the goddess of wisdom and the arts, so I suppose it is fitting in its way.”
“I’ve never had the good fortune to meet anyone called ‘Minerva’ before today.” Hugh felt himself grin as the tiny shoots of salvation instantly bloomed. “How positively, perfectly serendipitous.”
Chapter Two
“What happened to the real Minerva?”
She hoped her expression appeared understandably suspicious rather than pained as she tried to ignore the frigid slush seeping into her shoe. It wasn’t every day a peer of the realm offered to pay you to pose as his fiancée for an entire month at his grand estate in Hampshire. In fact, it was such a bizarre request, only an idiot wouldn’t be wary of such a proposition—and Minerva was no idiot. Especially as far as men were concerned. She was less wary than common sense dictated, however, because he had offered her twenty pounds for her trouble.
Twenty whole pounds!
A king’s ransom.
Certainly more money than she had ever held in her hands and more than the hard-earned nine shillings and threepence currently nestled inside her battered old reticule. Not that those nine shillings would last long. She owed five of them to her landlord for the rent to prevent her imminent eviction and another shilling for the next month up front. The seventh would have to be spent in Ackermann’s Repository of Arts in the Strand because a woodblock engraver, even an occasional and impoverished one, needed pens, inks, and sharp little chisels. That left just two shillings and threepence for luxuries like food until another commission came along, which, in the current climate, might take weeks.
Despite working for half of what her rivals charged, Minerva lacked the contacts necessary to get regular work. Her own fault. For years she had worked exclusively for the same printer near St. Paul’s. Old Mr. Morton threw plenty of commissions her way because his well-heeled society customers, especially the ladies, had adored the designs she created for calling cards.
There was more money in the intricate pictures used in posters and advertisements, but those commissions had been few and far between, while the simple calling cards had been her bread and butter. At the time, when bread and butter had been plentiful, she had failed to nurture a broader clientele because there had been no need. Until Mr. Morton died and his thriving business had swiftly closed nearly a year ago. Since then, she had been scrabbling around for work with no respected sponsor to recommend her.
If only she could afford to advertise, then she was certain she would double her income overnight. People took advertisements very seriously, especially if they were eye-catching—which hers always were.
“There is no real Minerva. I made her up.” Her knight in shining armor looked delightfully sheepish at the admission. Sheepish suited him, although in fairness, everything probably suited him. He had the face and physique to carry off sackcloth.
“Whatever for?” Surely a man who looked as attractive as he did, an earl no less and one clearly in possession of an impressive fortune if his impeccably tailored clothes were any gauge, wouldn’t have trouble finding a woman who would happily be his real fiancée rather than an imaginary one. He certainly did not have holes in his shoes. If anything, with his height, gloriously broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and twinkling blue eyes, he looked exactly like she imagined a real knight in shining armor would. If she ever had reason to draw one, Lord Fareham would undoubtedly be her muse. In a greatcoat he was impressive; in chain mail he would be devastating. If she were being honest, that was another reason why she was still lingering in his presence. Her artist’s eye was drawn to manly perfection.
He sighed and then winced. “You will think me pathetic, but I am afraid I made her up to put an end to my mother’s incessant matchmaking.”
“That seems a little extreme.” Why on earth would he need a matchmaker? Surely women threw themselves at him? Simply walking alongside him was playing havoc with her pulse, and it was not just her. Minerva had clocked at least three admiring glances from other women in the last five minutes. That was an average of one smitten female every ninety seconds—and the street wasn’t particularly busy. In a crowd, he’d probably get at least one a minute.
“Extreme?” He stopped dead and faced her. The not-sensible smitten female inside almost sighed before she remembered she did not trust any man as a principle and hadn’t for many years for good reason. “Do you have family, Miss Merriwell?”
“I do indeed. Two younger sisters.” And she assumed she still had one errant father somewhere. He could be dead for all they knew. A part of her hoped he was, because at least that gave him an excuse for abandoning them, but a bigger part expected nothing less and never had. Her father had never been a particularly reliable parent. He had preferred the Dog and Duck pub beneath their miserable rooms, only climbing the dank, rickety stairs home if he had run out of money or someone carried him up.
“Do they drive you to distraction?”
Constantly. Most days, she could cheerfully murder the pair of them. “Occasionally, my lord. As families are prone to do.”
“Then you will understand how the closest family members can push you to the very edge of your patience and make you act rasher than you would normally. My mother is such a person. I adore her.… Obviously I do. She is a wonderful woman. Kind, generous, well meaning. She brought me up single-handedly after my father died and I owe her everything … but sometimes I could…” He sighed, vastly put upon.
“Strangle her?”
He grinned then, showing a row of pearly white teeth and introducing her to two very charming, rakish dimples on either side of his mouth. Gracious, he was handsome.
Dangerously so. She would need all her wits about her with this one.
“Indeed. She is a formidable woman, and used to getting her way, who seems to think I’d be happier with a wife by my side.”
“And you are entirely opposed to the idea?” She started walking again in case the peculiar effect he had on her pulse showed on her face, and because standing still allowed the slush to find its way past the piece of oilskin she had used to plug the hole in the sole of her left boot.
“Obviously!” He seemed surprised by her question. “My life is wonderful as it is. Why on earth would I want to shackle myself to a woman who will only nag me?”
“Not all women nag, my lord.”
“Very true—but I am the sort of man who would try the most even-tempered woman’s patience and would ultimately turn her into a nag. It is as inevitable as night following day.” That mischievous smile was doing the strangest things to her insides. “My mother never used to be a nag. I take full responsibility for driving her to it. I’m too frivolous, you see … too selfish. I’d be a complete disappointment as a husband and a father.”
“In my experience”—which was extensive—“many men are disappointing husbands and fathers.” As well as disappointing sweethearts. “It doesn’t seem to be a barrier to them becoming husbands and fathers.”
“Again, very true … However, unlike those men, I am keenly aware of my shortcomings and suffer horrendously from guilt. I’d never forgive myself for making my poor wife’s life miserable, never mind what sort of example I would be for any offspring.” For a moment he seemed sad, but the emotion faded so swiftly she might have imagined it. “Any sons are bound to turn out the same and I’d make any daughters jaded well before they should be.”
It was an unconventional perspective. In many ways, a refreshing one. “You avoid all responsibility.” She wished she could.
“Wherever possible.” At the admission, he paused as if he greatly disappointed himself. The twinkle in his deep blue eyes dimmed, and instantly she missed it. Then, in a flash it was back, and they sparkled with mischief again. “And they do say all work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy—and I would loathe to become dull, Miss Merriwell. I am simply not cut out for marriage. It takes a level of commitment and selflessness I am not capable of. I am far too shallow and happy to be so.” He paused and slid her a troubled sideways glance. “I suppose I sound like a thoroughly spoiled and self-indulgent chap to you.”
“It is not my place to judge you.”
He grinned, and once again it set her pulse fluttering. “Then you will be the first woman who hasn’t. It’s very decent of you.”
She smiled back. She couldn’t help it. Despite his many self-confessed faults, he had also selflessly come to her rescue when nobody else had in a very long time.
Not that it would tempt her to accept his ludicrous offer.
“As a rule, Lord Fareham, I believe nobody has the right to judge others until they have walked a mile in their shoes.”
Although she pitied whoever was fool enough to want to walk a mile in her leaky boots or experience her daily hand-to-mouth existence. Unfortunately, she suspected it would take more than twenty pounds to change it. “I don’t blame you for wanting to avoid responsibility. Responsibility can wear a person down.”
As it had her. But the responsibility of two younger sisters and all that entailed had been foisted on her. Thanks to her feckless sire, she had been both mother and father to those girls since the day after her nineteenth birthday. She had had no choice other than to shoulder it and do what was necessary until the girls were safely married.
As much as she loved her sisters, at least once a week Minerva fantasized about how nice it would be to be solely responsible for just herself. Wouldn’t that be a luxury? New shoes, a few new dresses, better-quality pens and chisels for her woodcuts. A place of her own to sit and be at peace. A few hours of solitary tranquility every day … Was that too much to ask?
Instead, they were all bundled together in three tiny rooms, and every penny went to necessities. As if to remind her of one of those necessities, her stomach growled in protest at the absence of the breakfast she couldn’t afford to buy this morning. Or yesterday morning either, thanks to Mr. Pinkerton. With twenty pounds, she could buy breakfast, lunch, and dinner for all three of them for a year …
Good gracious! At this rate, she’d be biting his hand off to accept his outrageous proposition, seduced by just his presence and the alluring thoughts of toast and butter.
Minerva schooled her features into an unimpressed and slightly dubious mask. “You were explaining how your mother’s matchmaking became intolerable?”
“Intolerable and suffocating. I endured it for as long as I could. For years, she shoved young lady after young lady under my nose. Wherever I went, whatever I did, there would be someone there—eyelashes fluttering. Even my own house became a torture chamber.” She caught a whiff of his cologne and was sorely tempted to lean closer to inhale it. “I suffered through endless teas and interminable dinners, making small talk with determined young ladies all too eager to sink their claws into me. And some of those ladies were quite tenacious, I can tell you. They resorted to all manner of devilments, Miss Merriwell. Unimaginable machinations which my mother was often fully complicit in. That I managed to remain single is, frankly, nothing short of a miracle. Just shy of two years ago, on the spur of the moment while at my wits’ end with dear Mama, I invented Minerva to put a stop to it.”
“I see.”
Although she didn’t. Inventing a fiancée, even under such trying conditions, seemed a bit extreme. Maintaining the ruse undetected for a prolonged period of time seemed highly implausible. Especially as his mother obviously wanted to see him wed. Surely, she would have investigated his claim? Sought out his imaginary fiancée?
“I take it your mother lives exclusively in Hampshire?”
That might explain why she was yet to meet his Minerva. Unlikely, but possible, she supposed. And there she went again, believing the unbelievable. Why did she keep giving him the benefit of the doubt when bitter experience had taught her that men usually were that shallow? A silly question, when she already knew the answer: twenty whole pounds and an aesthetically pleasing broad set of shoulders. Two shameful truths that probably made her shallow, when she had always prided herself on her substance.
“She resides in Boston. The one in America, not Lincolnshire. Did I mention my stepfather is American?”
“She continued matchmaking all the way from America?” Now, that really was quite a feat and did not help to give credence to his story despite the shoulders.
“My mother is a determined woman, Miss Merriwell. And a romantic. It is her sole mission to see me settled and she wasn’t the least bit deterred by the distance. At least when she was here, I could keep an eye on things or escape well in advance if I got wind of her plans.” He pulled a face. “After she left, her scheming became much more unpredictable. Her campaign to see me shackled continued with a vengeance via correspondence, and thanks to her wide circle of acquaintances here in town, she was able to recruit an army of minions to continue the work she had started. Within a few months of her departure, I found myself inundated with invitations and daily surprise visits from every society matron or social-climbing gentleman eager to marry off a daughter. I was accosted at entertainments and harangued if I ventured outside.”
“Poor you.” How the problems of the rich and entitled differed from hers. Minerva would give her back teeth to swap. Living in his world certainly held more appeal than living in hers. Fancy clothes. Comfortable furniture. Servants there to serve your every whim …
