Never Fall for Your Fiancee

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.”