Never Fall for Your Fiancee
- Автор: Heath Virginia
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- Жанр: Исторические любовные романы
Электронная книга - «Never Fall for Your Fiancee». Краткое содержание книги:
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Virginia Heath's fun characters and situations will have you laughing out loud! Don't miss this wonderful read! - Sabrina Jeffries, *New York Times* bestselling author**
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The first in a new historical rom-com series, a handsome earl hires a fake fiancée to keep his matchmaking mother at bay, but hilarity ensues when love threatens to complicate everything.**
“Mr. Pinkerton—I earned that money.” She had a nice voice, confident and mellow. Mature even. She was also very well spoken, something that surprised him in view of her outfit. From the style of her coat, easily ten years out of date, he assumed she was a widow of somewhere between thirty and forty, perhaps left with several children she had to feed all by herself. The world could be a cruel place for some—something he often pondered long and hard when he worried about the world during his most introspective moments.
Her spine stiffened, and she pulled her slim shoulders back proudly. He could imagine her looking down her nose at the fellow and found himself approving of her stance. “I have already waited four weeks, sir, and I flatly refuse to leave this time until you pay me.”
The older gentleman noticed Hugh staring, and his face colored. “How dare you accost me on my own doorstep and cause a scene!”
“How dare you employ me to do a job and then avoid paying me for doing it. It’s been a month, Mr. Pinkerton. A cold one. I have waited long enough.”
Hugh felt his blood boil. The scoundrel! The poor woman was clearly in dire need of the money. She shouldn’t have to resort to humiliating herself on the street to receive what she was clearly due. “May I offer my assistance, madam? It looks as though you could use some.” For good measure, he glared at the man with haughty disdain.
She turned, and he realized she wasn’t a madam at all but a miss. A very pretty miss. Very pretty indeed. So much so, she took his breath away.
“Why, thank you, sir. What a gentleman you are.” Her eyes flicked back to the miser who had swindled her, and she gave him a thoroughly disgusted look that could have curdled milk. “Mr. Pinkerton here engaged me to create an illustration to accompany an advertisement, and whilst he has published the advertisement in The Morning Advertiser, The London Tribune—twice—and in today’s Times, I am still to receive the funds we agreed upon for my labors. He owes me nine shillings and threepence.”
Hugh had to tear his wandering Standish eyes away from her lovely face. “And what do you have to say on the matter, Mr. Pinkerton?”
“I shall pay her when I am good and ready and not before.”
“Were you unsatisfied with the lady’s work?”
The older man bristled at being challenged. “I’ve seen better.”
“But you deemed it good enough to place in The Times, The Morning Advertiser, and The London Tribune?”
“Twice,” added the bewitching young lady decisively. “And I daresay the advertisement has garnered him lots of new trade. Far more, I suspect, than the nine shillings and threepence he has neglected to pay me, because it is a very striking illustration.”
Out of her reticule she pulled a torn square of newspaper and handed it to Hugh. In the center of the picture was an intricately drawn medicine bottle with “Pinkerton’s Patented Liver Tonic” emblazoned on the label. To the left of the bottle was a haggard-looking man who appeared ready to keel over from exhaustion at any moment, to the right the same man invigorated and in fine fettle after just one week on Mr. Pinkerton’s patented potion. The bold banner across the top of the advertisement proclaimed “Purge Fatigue Forever with Pinkerton’s.” Very catchy.
“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.”