A Pretend Betrothal, page 1
A Pretend Betrothal
Book 2 of
A Victorian Romance
Lana Williams
USA Today Bestselling Author
A Pretend Betrothal
Book 2 of The Mayfair Literary League
By Lana Williams
JOIN THE LADIES OF The Mayfair Literary League as they pursue a new mission: For Better or Worse.
One bold move could change their futures...
The bachelors of London won’t know what hit them when these bookish ladies set their sights on the men in their lives who don’t see them for who they truly are—yet.
Can she reclaim her childhood best friend AND convince him to love her?
Lady Tabitha Malton spends her days caring for her mother who feigns illness to keep Tibby at her side. Tibby can’t bring herself to protest until The Mayfair Literary League proposes a new agenda—perform a bold act to catch the notice of their secret crush.
Michael Shaw isn’t the same man who left England’s shores a decade ago to serve in the military, but his well-meaning mother doesn’t seem to understand. Her insistence that he take a wife is driving him mad. How can he consider marriage when he feels broken and battered inside?
A pretend betrothal might be the perfect solution for them both.
Tibby isn’t the same person either. She’s grown into a beautiful woman whose intelligence and grace intrigues him at every turn. A “pretend” kiss upends his world until he’s no longer certain what he wants with one exception—her.
Tibby knows she’s in over her head and has already lost her heart to the handsome captain. Will her bold move lead to love or heartache?
Table of Contents
Other Books in the Series
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Other Books by Lana Williams
About the Author
Copyright
Other Books in The Mayfair Literary League Series:
A Marriage of Convenience, Book 1
A Pretend Betrothal, Book 2
A Mistaken Identity, Book 3
Prologue
London, England 1870
Lady Tabitha Malton’s stomach fluttered with nerves as she entered the emergency meeting of the Mayfair Literary League. In the year since she’d been a member, they’d never held anything other than the normal monthly gatherings. She couldn’t imagine what had happened that called for an urgent summons.
The other five members of the book group were now dear friends. Considering how few friends Tabitha had, that made them particularly special. She would do anything for them and knew they felt the same.
Lady Phoebe Fitzroy, their host, was one of her closest friends. From her grave expression, something of weighty consequence had occurred.
Given the fact that their new secret agenda, For Better or Worse, was underway, Tabitha assumed the special meeting was related to it.
Well over a month and a half ago, Phoebe had proposed that in addition to discussing books, they take on a new mission—to catch the interest of the gentlemen for whom they held a secret tendre. She’d challenged them to perform a bold act to help the men who had caught their affection but had yet to return it, let alone notice them, to see them in a new light.
Phoebe had spoken with each of the league members privately, including Tabitha, and discovered that each of them had a man in their life they admired but who—to speak plainly—didn’t know they existed even after several London Seasons.
Tabitha had come to believe that, as a wallflower, it was her fate to be ignored. She wasn’t memorable or remarkable in any way. Her mother’s poor health, whether true or feigned, meant Tabitha attended fewer and fewer events as she didn’t like to leave her mother for long.
Phoebe viewed the futures of their members differently. Her impassioned call to action when she’d proposed the For Better or Worse agenda suggested they step into the light and do something out of the ordinary to catch the attention of the man they held in high esteem.
Phoebe would be the first to claim her curves were too generous and her features, along with brown hair and eyes, too plain. Tabitha, who had similar coloring but a slim figure that resembled a lad more than a full-grown woman, was envious of Phoebe’s curves.
Tabitha’s long legs and arms made her feel as if she’d never lost the gangliness of youth. She felt lanky and awkward much of the time. Unfortunately, the feeling intensified in social situations. Was it any wonder that few men asked her to dance or made any effort to further their acquaintance?
But here with the members of the literary league, she knew she belonged and could offer her opinion without worry. The group had become a haven where she could be her true self.
Phoebe cleared her throat, a subtle hint that she intended to call the meeting to order. “Thank you for coming to this emergency meeting of the Mayfair Literary League. Unfortunate circumstances have occurred, and I owe you an explanation.”
One of the many reasons Tibby, as she was known by most of her friends, admired Phoebe was because of her courage. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, even if some of her ideas were unconventional.
Thus far, Tibby had only managed to find that same bravery during literary meetings. Sharing her opinion on books wasn’t so difficult in front of the league. They listened to what she had to say, sometimes agreeing and sometimes not.
The first time she’d been brave enough to state her view had been incredibly liberating. A feeling that her ever-narrowing world rarely provided.
Now she worried whether she spoke too plainly at times during their book discussions. Who knew that Lady Tabitha Malton could be so outspoken? The thought nearly made her smile.
She hoped that meant she was making progress and finding her voice, but that had yet to be tested outside of the league.
“Are you all right?” Lady Harriet Persimmons asked Phoebe, concern puckering her brow.
Before Phoebe could answer, Frances Melbourne shook her head. “This is my fault,” she said in a trembling voice.
“Frances, that isn’t true,” Phoebe protested.
Frances held the gazes of the members. “The two of us were speaking at the Alexander Ball four nights ago about my potential bold act and were overheard.”
“By whom?” Tibby asked.
“The Earl of Bolton, for one,” Frances said.
Gasps met Frances’ statement followed quickly by murmurs of concern. To think Phoebe’s fiancé had heard their plan was shocking, indeed.
“A few others heard as well,” Phoebe added. “I’m afraid our For Better or Worse agenda is now public knowledge.”
Frances pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, her distress obvious. “If I hadn’t been talking about it, you wouldn’t have answered. Worst of all, I fear that I placed your betrothal in jeopardy.”
Phoebe shook her head. “This isn’t your fault. The agenda was my idea.” She paused to look at each of them briefly. “I still stand by it. I would’ve preferred our agenda remain private, but what is so wrong with what we hope to do?”
“I agree.” Tibby shared a sympathetic look with both Phoebe and Frances.
“As do I,” Harriet said, and the others chimed in with agreement as well.
At the last meeting, Phoebe had asked for a volunteer to be the next to implement her move, and Tibby had raised her hand. The moment had shocked Tibby to her core. Taking chances was not who she was.
“I never would’ve thought to volunteer if not for you, Phoebe,” Tibby added. Not that she had actually done anything as of yet. But she intended to be the next member to move forward. The commitment wasn’t one she took lightly.
The return of her childhood friend, Captain Michael Shaw, to England’s shores after ten years abroad in the British Army had been the catalyst for her volunteering.
She’d held a secret affection for Michael since her sixth year when he’d presented her with a frog, his finest possession at the time. Their fathers had been good friends before they’d both passed on, and their families still lived next to each other in London. Their country estates were near each other as well.
Michael had been her best friend. They’d been inseparable for many years. But when he’d gone to university—perhaps even before that—he’d slowly drifted away. However, they’d exchanged numerous letters during his time away, and she liked to think they’d come to know each other even better. But eventually those letters had stopped.
Of course, they’d spoken since his return home a month ago. Several times. The shadows in his eyes squeezed her heart, as did the distance that now stood between them.
Phoebe’s actions had made Tibby wonder if she could do something to change that. At the very least, she was determined to try. If there was even the smallest chance she could help Michael see her in a new way and help to quiet his demons, she intended to take it.
Just as soon as she found the courage to do so.
“Was your earl quite upset?” Winifred asked, returning Tibby’s thoughts to the conversation.
“Yes, he was.” Phoebe shook her head. “Words failed me when I tried to explain. He compared the league’s mission to a wager at White’s.”
“It’s not the same thing at all,” Millicent countered with a frown.
“No,” Phoebe said. “But it did sound terrible when he framed it in that light.”
“It truly did,” Frances added, her expression sorrowful as she held Phoebe’s gaze. “Everyone was staring. Including Lady Lucinda.”
“Oh, no. She’s such a notorious gossip.”
“How awful!”
“Of all people.” Tibby shifted in her chair, able to easily imagine Lady Lucinda wielding the information like a sword, stabbing holes in the confidence of the league members before they could move forward with their plans. The situation could turn into a disaster.
“It is concerning that she overheard,” Phoebe agreed. “That is one of the reasons for an emergency meeting. I’m afraid we will be thought of differently now that people know of our agenda. You may want to reconsider whether you wish to proceed with your bold act. Perhaps you’ll also need to reconsider your membership in the literary league.”
“Surely not.” Tibby frowned and glared at each of the other members, daring them to say they wanted to quit. The determination flooding her gave her strength, and it was a heady feeling. “I, for one, am proud to be a member.”
“I can’t imagine anything so drastic will be necessary,” Harriet said, her expression thoughtful. “I would hazard a guess that a far more interesting event will occur in a week or two and no one will remember our little book group or our secret agenda.”
“The league is so much more than either of those things.” Tibby’s gaze took in the members again. “You are all my dear friends. And friends stick together through thick and thin.”
Phoebe drew a slow breath. “While I would agree, my mother has suggested that we disband.”
“No.” Tibby’s mouth went dry at the thought. “That’s a terrible idea.” Where would she be without the group?
“Wouldn’t disbanding be the same as admitting we did something wrong?” Winifred asked.
The conversation continued while Tibby’s mind churned. The worry of losing the group was unbearable. Unthinkable, in fact. She needed them too much.
How could she move forward with her own daring move without their support?
Before an agreement could be reached, the door to the drawing room opened, revealing the Earl of Bolton. His startled gaze took in the members before holding on Phoebe.
The tender exchange that followed made Tibby’s heart ache with longing. Bolton looked at Phoebe as if she was his whole world. Though it seemed impossible to consider that something similar might happen to her, she had to try. The time had come to take action and claim her chance.
Much like Phoebe, she didn’t want to live with regret. To watch Michael from afar, wondering what if...
She need only find the right moment to share what she had in mind with Michael. Tibby pressed her hand to her stomach, wondering if she could find the courage to do it.
And if there was any chance he might agree to her plan.
Chapter One
One week later
Michael Shaw strode into the drawing room, unsurprised to find it empty. A glance out the window at the fine morning was all it took to determine where his mother would be—in the garden, tending her beloved roses.
He’d been home just over a month after being gone much of the past decade, serving in the 50th Regiment of the British Army. The last several years had been spent in New Zealand during the Land Wars. His final post had been a brief stay in Sydney, Australia.
Seeing so many parts of the world had been thrilling, from the Taj Mahal to the Himalayas to Victoria Falls. But military life was not easy. He had endured more than he’d thought himself capable of and much of that had left a mark on his soul, if not his body.
He was pleased to be home. Mostly.
Michael glanced around the room, still amazed by how little had changed in his absence. The house was the same. His mother and grandmother were certainly older but much the same. Even his rooms had remained untouched. In truth, the lack of change was disconcerting.
Especially since he wasn’t the same person as the young man who’d left.
Michael shook off his dark thoughts, not wanting to dwell on what he’d survived during his years away.
The time had come to turn over a new leaf.
Make a fresh start.
Begin anew.
But doing what?
That answer had yet to come to him. He was accustomed to having a purpose and though his mother, grandmother, and older brother, Markus, insisted he take time to relax and enjoy life after his years of duty, having this much free time was driving him crazy.
As the second son, it had been a natural path for him to enter the military and one he’d welcomed. He never would’ve guessed that leaving behind his duties in the army would be quite so challenging. Military life was far from pleasurable, though perhaps small moments of those days had been.
The sense of purpose was what he’d appreciated the most. Knowing that what he did mattered.
Whereas at home, whether he rose from bed each day didn’t. He was left rudderless on the rolling sea of life.
Michael scoffed at his ridiculous thoughts. He’d started a hobby, hadn’t he?
Botany was something Markus, his now married brother, the Earl of Trafford, had suggested. Michael had thought it a promising idea, and his mother had been thrilled given her love of flowers and gardening.
It was too soon to determine whether he enjoyed the activity. For now, it held his interest.
He’d been poring through a copy of Principles of Scientific Botany that Markus had presented to him. At least the text gave him something to read in the middle of the night when sleep eluded him, as it so often did. There was still much to learn, and the experiments he was doing would take time to yield results.
Unfortunately, patience wasn’t one of his strong suits. He hoped his new hobby might help him gain the virtue.
He walked quickly out of habit rather than need, which tended to startle the servants, and descended the stairs to the garden door and stepped out. The morning air was cool for June, but the blue sky hinted at warmer temperatures to come.
The sky was a different color abroad—sharper, deeper. London’s blue always seemed to be coated in a sheen of grey, whether from the fog or the soot that plagued the city, was difficult to tell.
He walked along the curving paths and past precisely trimmed boxwood hedges until he found his mother settled near a bed of roses that she pruned. “Good morning, Mother.”
Her beaming smile as she looked up at him from beneath the wide brim of her hat made him feel guilty. There was no denying how pleased the Dowager Countess of Trafford was to have him home. He was happy to be back as well.
It was just...
What? he wondered, not for the first time.
He was restless and often ill-tempered but couldn’t precisely name the reason why.
“Michael.” Her gaze raked over him as if to gauge his mood. That made him feel guiltier. “Good morning to you as well.” She set down her shears and glanced around the garden. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
“It is.” He could easily agree to that. Even more, he appreciated that she didn’t ask how he was. The question tended to put him in a foul mood. “I wondered if you remembered the name of the rose you were admiring at the Hawkins’ garden party last week.”
“It was a tea rose, one with pointed blooms. The color was wonderful, was it not? A perfect blend of peach and pink.”
“Indeed,” Michael agreed. It had caught his eye as well. So classic and delicate yet full and lush. The fragrance had been especially appealing. “I thought I might try my hand at growing a version of them.”
While there were only three main types of roses—old garden, modern garden, and wild roses—those could be divided into additional categories, very few of which he could remember. Perhaps that was a sign he’d chosen the wrong hobby.
His mother clasped her gloved hands together, her smile even brighter. “Oh, that would be lovely.”
