The Best Marquess by Nicola Davidson
Chapter 1
Kingsford House, London, late January 1816
“So. In conclusion, we have a most urgent and exceedingly grave Pippa Problem.”
Lady Pippa Nash grimaced at her grandmother’s icy words and slouched down further in her chair. This was probably how it felt to appear before a magistrate, except it was the Nash family sitting in judgement: alongside the dowager Lady Kingsford was her father the Earl of Kingsford, her twin brother Xavier, Viscount Northam, and younger sister Lady Georgiana. And rather than the docks, they were in her father’s library; a gloomy space dominated by dusty shelves of unread books, dark wood paneling, and a carved oak desk covered in documents, old newspapers, and broken quills.
A curious onlooker might think she’d done something truly dreadful; perhaps burgled the other houses in Hanover Square or sauntered naked through a performance of Bach at the Concert Rooms. But no. The Pippa Problem resulting in these lamentable theatrics was her failure last year to leg-shackle a husband. Naturally, the only acceptable remedy was to take part in a second Season. Her response that they had rocks in their heads and could all go bathe in the Thames had gone down as well as congealed sauce.
Ugh. To think she’d been forced to leave her current novel—a scandalously explicit French romance smuggled into the house in a hat box—behind in her bedchamber to hear this unabashed nonsense. In truth, she considered her nimble escape from the marital clutches of several boorish, turnip-brained ton bachelors as a great victory rather than a humiliating defeat. Unfortunately, only her oldest and dearest friend, Lord Finlay Knighton, applauded such antics and encouraged her to wait for just the right man.
One person cared about her happiness, at least.
Sighing, Pippa removed the spectacles she’d worn since childhood and cleaned them with a linen handkerchief. A necessary task, for the lenses attracted dust like honey attracted ants, but with the added bonus of blurring her surroundings. Rather useful when she needed to ignore a glare or her uninspiring reflection in a looking glass. Finn often played the jester and said she was beautiful, but if he truly thought nondescript height, blond hair, blue eyes, and lackluster curves equaled beauty, he needed spectacles as well. “The fact that I have little desire to wed is neither urgent nor grave, Grandmother. A second Season is entirely unnecessary.”
“Don’t be foolish. You’ll be twenty-one in May; practically on the shelf. Only the worst of daughters shame their family by refusing to marry. It is your duty. Lilian did, you must also.”
Pippa put her spectacles back on. Her older sister Lilian had been excused from this charade as she was due to give birth any day now and preferred to stay with her husband Gabriel, Duke of Exton. Apart from Finn; and Xavier, who was occasionally tolerable; her brother-in-law remained the only decent man in the ton. A real-life romantic hero: dashing and steadfast, lusty and faithful. The marriage might have started as one of convenience, but together Gabriel and Lilian had found true love. She was a rarity among society wives: happily and wickedly wed, content in the bedchamber as well as out.
Was it so wrong to want the same? To crave someone who shared news and random facts over breakfast, cuddled with books and blanket on a chaise, and ruthlessly pleasured in bed? No lofty title or fine address could ever make up for a lack of that.
Indeed, she would have a romance novel husband, or none at all.
“I’m well aware of my upcoming birthday,” said Pippa archly. “Mainly because Xavier and I will finally achieve financial and legal independence. Isn’t it interesting though, that twenty-one sees me as dried up and my twin as freshly bloomed?”
An awkward silence fell, rather common after she spoke plainly. Then her stout, ruddy-cheeked father cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. “My dear, a husband wouldn’t be so very bad—”
“Thank you for that ringing endorsement,” snapped Grandmother as she smoothed her immaculate silver hair and lilac gown. While half-mourning for a spouse usually lasted six months, she’d worn it for over thirty years. “But I won’t allow your second daughter to sabotage a second Season.”
“Come now, sabotage is a strong word, Mother.”
“But an accurate one,” said Pippa cheerfully. “I discovered what the suitor hated most, then mutated into that variant of moth. Fortunately, I kept a list to help me remember which moth I was to which man.”
“Ingenious, when you think about it,” drawled the lovable yet exasperating Xavier, saluting her with his brandy glass from where he lay half-sprawled on an embroidered chaise. He was the anti-Brummell, rejecting understated clothing to instead embrace ornate design, vibrant colors, old-fashioned knee breeches, and plenty of lace. Even more rebellious, he shunned shorter, military-style hair and kept his golden locks curling around the top of his cravat.
Grandmother glared at him. “No one will ever accuse you of thinking, Northam. I’m sure we all agree that Pippa must stop this silliness, especially when her bookish tendencies grow worse. She refuses to dance. She doesn’t like flowers.”
“I dance with Finn,” said Pippa. “And I like flowers. Just alive in a garden where they belong, not murdered in a bouquet.”
“Arghhh,” growled Georgiana, at nineteen years old the spoilt, headstrong, and uncommonly beautiful youngest Nash, from where she sat perched on Father’s desk. “Why do you have to be so odd? And selfish? Papa won’t let me marry until you do, and I’ve found my gentleman.”
Pippa raised a brow at her father, who had the grace to wince. The Pippa must marry first declaration was nothing more than a delaying tactic; the act of a man who didn’t want to farewell his favorite. Such a lack of gumption driving a wedge between sisters was another layer of the nonsense pile. Make that the nonsense mountain.
Irritated beyond all, she folded her arms. “I believe—”
“What you believe is irrelevant,” said Grandmother. “The truth is, you are selfish and stubborn and Lilian was far too lenient a chaperone. But now she is indisposed, I have taken the matter firmly in hand.”
Oh God.
“How?” she croaked.
Lady Kingsford smiled coolly. “I’m glad you asked. There are eight eligible dukes in the realm, including four royals. With my assistance, you’ll soon be a duchess like your sister.”
“I don’t want to be a duchess.”
“Yes, you do. Every woman does.”
Xavier snorted. “Well, a high percentage at least. But I must point out that St. Albans is an infant, so not exactly eligible.”
“Very well. Seven. And your tone is unbecoming,” said Grandmother frigidly. She loathed being corrected.
“Not as unbecoming as leg-shackling Pip to a man over twice our age. All those princes are, and Norfolk and Dorset to boot.”
Pippa beamed at her twin. Indeed, occasionally tolerable. “Quite right.”
Grandmother’s smile turned distinctly sharklike. “Which is why, at age twenty-five, Devonshire is perfect. The dear duke confided to me that he has no desire to be stalked like a stag at a hunt for years on end, but instead wishes to wed a sensible young lady who won’t disgrace him or herself with missish vapors, public scenes, or sinful indiscretions. He believes that woman to be you, Pippa, and his sisters agree. To celebrate, I’ll host a soiree next week, where you and Devonshire shall officially begin courting. What a triumph it will be!”
“No,” said Pippa. “Not unless the Romans retake England, swine sail over St. Paul’s, and Xavier becomes a monk. That is when I’ll wed a man I barely know and do not love.”
Lord Kingsford mopped his brow. “Perhaps, Mother, we don’t have to announce anything just yet?”
The dowager turned her chilly displeasure upon him. “How did I birth such an ungrateful son? I moved in and corrected your wife’s peasant mothering skills after she died. Last year I arranged a splendid match for Lilian. And now you throw such sacrifices back in my face? For shame, Kingsford. For shame.”
“I’ll consent,” he mumbled, crumbling as he always did. “Unless a better offer comes in, of course.”
“Then it’s settled!” said Georgiana as she clapped her hands, her perfect golden curls bouncing around her shoulders. “When His Grace proposes, no need for a long betrothal either, Pippa. You could be a spring bride. Go on a honeymoon trip to Paris now that hell-spawned Napoleon—”
“Language,” snapped Lady Kingsford.
“Now that moldering French turd—”
“Please, Gigi sweetheart,” said Lord Kingsford.
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Now the disgraced emperor is safely locked away on Saint Helena. It would be lovely.”
Pippa scowled at her family, while silently plotting vengeance. Under no circumstances would she be marrying Devonshire, no matter what schemes they hatched or honeymoons they planned. The duke was happiest outdoors. And good friends with Prinny, which quite prevented his ascendance to romantic hero. She wanted no part of the false, spiteful world at the top of the tree; bad enough she must attend balls, let alone endure the horror of hosting them.
This madness had to be halted, and as always, the first step was discussing the matter with Finn. Somewhere between his spontaneous creativity and her stoic practicality lay the perfect plan. Even better, she didn’t have to dash across the square to the townhouse he unwillingly shared with his parents the Marquess and Marchioness of Pinehurst, for they would be seeing each other later at a musicale.
Together they could resolve this.
Surely.
A thousand times, he’d ordered himself to fall out of love with Lady Pippa Nash.
A thousand times, he’d failed.
Defeated for the thousand-and-first time, Lord Finlay Knighton shoved aside the piles of invitations stacked on his mahogany bedchamber desk and instead opened his design sketchbook. But even this taunted him. Every page, he started drawing possibilities for Bliss, his secret pleasure toy business run from an unassuming townhouse a mile away in Golden Square. And every page included a tiny portrait of Pippa reading or laughing or poking her tongue out as she peered at him over the rims of her spectacles.
Christ, he adored those spectacles. She wore them with pride; fiercely rejecting anyone who lamented how they looked or pitied her poor eyesight. Her damned grandmother hated the spectacles, deeming them evidence of Nash imperfection. That Pippa ignored such horseshit was testament to her strength of character, for the dowager Lady Kingsford would make a dragon whimper. Indeed, Pippa was a goddess, and anyone who thought otherwise was a complete fool.
Well, a goddess apart from one tiny yet soul-destroying detail: she saw him only as her best friend. The man she would share her thoughts and dreams and last caramel with, but not her love. Not her future. Not her bed.
He tapped his quill on the desk and glanced over at the ornate clock resting above the fireplace. Still far too much time to mope before the musicale. Pippa didn’t know of his business; not because of what he sold—as an avid reader of explicit romance novels she was extraordinarily broad-minded—but because he wanted it to be profitable before revealing all. Facts and figures impressed Pippa, not hopes and dreams.
A sharp knock sounded, and he barely shoved his sketchbook into the desk drawer before his mother, Evangeline Knighton, Marchioness of Pinehurst burst into the room in a whirl of hunter-green skirts. An annoyingly constant occurrence when you were an only child living with your parents, even at age twenty-four.
“Darling!” she said breathlessly, tucking a stray lock of silver-touched brown hair behind her ear. “There you are. Your father wishes to see you before the musicale.”
“He’s not going?” Finn replied, surprised.
Her lips pursed. “Pinehurst is feeling poorly after getting caught in that rainstorm last week. I had a mustard chest poultice delivered from the apothecary, but he said true Englishmen required no such witchcraft, and to remove myself from his presence. So, I’m going to the theater with a friend.”
Finn merely nodded. It was a daily event; his father being a cold and pompous arse, and his mother lying about her whereabouts so she could meet her lover. Theirs was a typical ton marriage; apparently to keep England strong, just one society love match was legally permitted each year. The rest swayed between cool civility and outright loathing.
He and Pippa had discussed the matter at length and fervently agreed they would wed only for love. She didn’t know his ideal match was her.
“Finlay! Yoo-hoo!”
He blinked. “Yes?”
“You were gazing across Hanover Square,” his mother replied, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you still hold a candle for that girl. How many years is it now? Ten?”
“Sixteen, this summer,” Finn said with great dignity. “And rain, hail, or shine, we continue our year-round patronage of Gunter’s. Eating ices is how we met, after all.”
Indeed, he would never forget that day. As a reward for mastering sums, his tutor had taken him to the busy tea shop in Berkeley Square. He’d been so excited when the waiter brought a glass dish heaped with lemon ice over to where they waited with the horses, that he’d promptly dropped it. Mortified at his clumsiness and the waste of a delicious ice, he’d been on the verge of tears. Then a hand tugged his, and he’d looked down to see a small blond moppet with overlarge spectacles perched on her nose and a gap-toothed grin, holding up a nearly-full dish. “Don’t fret, master sir lord grace,” she’d said. “I am Lady Pippa Nash and you may share mine.”
Faster than the time it took to bow and introduce himself as the Viscount Knighton, he’d fallen in love. And in sixteen years that love had only grown stronger and more hopeless.
“Such tender sensibilities fall on barren ground with that bluestocking,” warned Evangeline. “Save yourself a broken heart and befriend Prinny, Devonshire, and the Carlton House set instead.”
He suppressed a wince. “The duke is amiable enough, but I cannot stand the others.”
“Quite beside the point. They are the men who rule society, who hold true power. You must strive to become part of the inner circle, not remain on the outside with all those ladies you dally with. Pinehurst is forever hearing complaints that you corrupted a wife or sister. It is quite beneath a Knighton.”
Quite beneath a Knighton.
Finn had heard those infuriating words so often they should be the family crest. But he knew all about the complaints; his father had lectured him over each and every one.
And they were all lies.
Despite what London believed, he was nothing more than a chum to the ladies. Conversation. Support. A dance partner for a wallflower or to provide rescue from an unwanted suitor. However, for their own reasons some had claimed a passionate affair, and now his peers were certain he fucked every woman he spoke to. Even Pippa believed he’d bedded half of London, calling those who flocked to him Finn’s Regiment, and that stung the most. He was a virgin, damn it!
Aside from the unwarranted rake reputation, the men’s hypocrisy infuriated him. All who complained regularly indulged in affairs; they just didn’t want their women to have the same freedom. Hell, back in the day, his father had strived to bed all the actresses in London, only turning puritan when one fell pregnant and birthed a daughter. Although the marquess had never acknowledged her, Finn had recently found his half-sister Abigail and offered her and her infant daughter Nerissa lodgings at the Golden Square townhouse. Abby agreed, on the provisos she earn her keep helping with Bliss and their blood tie remain unknown, for she loathed Lord Pinehurst.
Finn well understood that particular sentiment. But as long as he remained under this roof, he enjoyed both close proximity to Pippa, and the generous allowance that funded Bliss. While it grated his last nerve to be so beholden, the fortune held in trust for him would only be released on his twenty-fifth birthday; earlier if he married; or heaven forfend, if his father died and he inherited the marquessate.
“Better hurry, Mother,” he said at last. “Don’t want to be late for the theater. Your friend will worry.”
Evangeline blushed. “Er, yes. Have a pleasant time at the musicale. But do speak to your father first.”
After her departure, Finn brushed his too-long brown hair, smoothed his black jacket and fawn trousers, then straightened his cravat before walking to his father’s bedchamber. The less things for him to explode about, the faster the audience.
He knocked on the door. “Father? It’s Knighton.”
No point saying Finlay; his father only referred to him by title.
After a muffled bout of coughing, a voice croaked, “Enter.”
Unease coiled in his stomach, but when Finn opened the door and saw his sweaty, ashen-faced father in a heavy robe shivering in front of the roaring fire, he almost yelped in horror.
The man looked ill. Very ill.
“I’ll send for a physician,” he blurted.
Lord Pinehurst glared at him from the armchair, even as he pulled his robe tighter. “Don’t be a milksop. It’s just a mild fever. Pour me a brandy.”
Unwilling to argue, Finn did so. “Here.”
“Ah. That’s better. All a man needs when mildly under the weather, a decent drink.”
“You wished to see me?”
His father took another gulp of brandy. Eventually, he replied, “London is falling to rack and ruin. Pleasure clubs. Women making money and decisions. But the latest insult to decency? A business called Bliss selling dildos. Criminals and liars. What is the world coming to?”
“Er…”
“Silence. I never thought my own son would betray me.”
He froze. Fatherknew?“With Bliss?”
“No, you damned fool. You’ve been meeting the actress’s gel after I expressly forbade it.”
Finn’s breath expelled in a rush of relieved shock. His father was aware of Bliss but not who owned it…yet he also knew about Abby.
Shit.
“You mean my sister? Your daughter Abigail?”
Lord Pinehurst threw his empty glass at the marble fireplace, smiling grimly when it shattered. “You dare provoke me? She is not family!”
Finn waited as his father succumbed to another coughing fit. “Abby has a small child—”
“Another bastard!”
“My niece,” he said firmly.
“You’ve forced me to act,” snapped Lord Pinehurst. “I will not tolerate my money being wasted on lowborn trash. No more allowance for you, m’boy. The bankers have been informed, my secretary will refuse all bills apart from tailor or bootmaker.”
The whole world tilted. “What?”
“You heard me. Disobedient sons get nary a penny. When you publicly throw those guttersnipes back on the streets where they belong, then we’ll talk. Now get out.”
“Father,” he replied grittily, as his whole body thrummed with hate.
What the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t abandon his sister and niece, or lose the business he’d worked so hard to build. Bliss was the only thing truly his.
Thank God he would be seeing Pippa shortly. Even if he couldn’t reveal all the details, she would have some practical ideas to resolve the situation.
Surely.
“Which gown for the musicale, my lady?”
At her maid’s question, Pippa halted her frenetic bedchamber pacing and waved a hand in the general direction of the armoire. “Oh, any of them. As long as it doesn’t have lace at the bodice. That always makes me itch like a hound with fleas.”
Ruby exhaled so deeply it might have launched a sailing ship. “A color? Please?”
She glanced apologetically at the older brunette. Poor Ruby had received the runt of the litter; not only did Lilian and Georgiana have wonderful figures; they also loved fashion, shopping, and having their hair styled. In Pippaland, shopping was a waste of good reading time; anything other than a loose chignon an annoyance; and the best gown was one that covered what it needed to and could survive several hours curled up with a book.
As for a color, blue suited quite well, but which one? Cerulean, that lovely Latin extraction that meant sky-colored? Calamine, like a robin’s egg? Gah. If only she could remember the shade mentioned in her latest book to describe the hero’s gaze.
“Travails of a Lonely Pirate King,” said Pippa, tightening her robe belt then lifting her spectacles with one finger to rub the bridge of her nose. “His piercing yet tender eyes.”
Fortunately, Ruby was used to such responses; they often discussed their favorite romance novels while dressing or bathing. Even the naughty parts.
Especiallythe naughty parts.
“Celestial,” said Ruby. “An excellent choice.”
Relieved her wardrobe required no more thought, Pippa returned to rage-pacing over the library debacle. How utterly galling, that her reward for years of holding the family together after Mother’s death, for coaxing them through their grief at the expense of her own, of keeping their secrets and providing endless practical assistance…was an unwanted marriage.
In all honesty, it hurt. A lot.
But she would not be marrying Devonshire, even if this presented the greatest challenge possible: out-maneuvering her grandmother, the most calculating and ruthless woman in London. At least Finn understood the depth of dragon beneath the grande dame mask, and would offer diabolically creative ideas accordingly.
“Here we are,” said Ruby cheerfully, as she returned with a petticoat, light blue velvet gown trimmed with a cream satin sash, and that most despised article of clothing: stays. They were hardly necessary for breasts that barely reached the handful threshold; her future romance hero husband might well require a magnifying glass just to locate them. Not that he would mind, being an unashamedly bold adventurer.
Once dressed, with her hair styled and reticule crammed with a pencil, Latin phrasebook, several chewy caramels (Finn’s favorite sweets) a few coins, and a clean handkerchief, Pippa hurried downstairs to where Grandmother and Georgiana waited in the entrance hall. Her father was attending some political dinner and Xavier had fled to drink and play cards with friends.
“About time you graced us with your presence,” said Lady Kingsford, her lilac gown pristine and diamonds discreetly winking from her throat and wrists.
“Looking pretty, though,” said Georgiana earnestly, stunning in rose pink as they walked toward the carriage waiting outside. “Devonshire will fall madly in love with you, I’m sure.”
“I’m equally sure he won’t,” Pippa replied.
I’ll make sure of that.
Trapped with two women determined to extoll the virtues of hasty marriages, it seemed to take forever to reach Upper Brook Street. But when they finally arrived, Pippa scrambled out of the carriage and marched into the townhouse, thankfully remembering to greet the hostess before commencing her desperate quest to find Finn. Once she’d located him, as usual surrounded by the bevy of beautiful, laughing women she called Finn’s Regiment, Pippa near-sprinted over.
“Lord Knighton!” she said, bobbing a clumsy curtsy. Oddly, he didn’t make his usual jest about collapsing shipping rigging. In fact, his objectively handsome face looked grim; lines of tension narrowed his chocolate-brown eyes, and his square jaw was clenched.
“Lady Pippa,” he replied, bowing to the Regiment before ushering her away. “You are a vision of loveliness, as always. Perhaps a seat in the back row?”
She nodded at their long-established code. Front row meant they actually wanted to watch the performance; back row indicated a need to talk. That they had been friends since childhood and society was terrified of both her grandmother and his father meant no one fussed if they conversed sans chaperone. “Definitely the back row.”
Each paused at the refreshment table for a glass of lemonade to keep up appearances, before settling into the two seats nearest the drawing room wall.
Finn leaned closer. “What is your disaster, Pippet?” he asked in a hushed tone.
At the nickname only he dared, a blend of Pippa and poppet that she unaccountably found endearing, angry tears threatened. “The very worst,” she began. “Grandmother has decided I’m to marry Devonshire, his family agree, and the man himself will be attending a soiree at Kingsford House next week to commence our official courtship. Lilian is indisposed so cannot assist. Georgiana would serve me up on a platter with cream sauce, she is so eager to wed her mystery beau. I’m doomed, Finn. I’ll be a bloody damned duchess in mere weeks, forced to spend the rest of eternity in my personal purgatory, traipsing between parties and greenhouses. I couldn’t bear it. I don’t love the duke. He’s not my hero.”
“I know,” he growled.
Startled at his fierce, almost primitive tone, Pippa blinked. Finn never spoke like that. He was the playful spaniel, not the menacing wolf.
Wasn’t he?
Even more unsettled, she delved into her reticule. “Would you like a caramel?”
“Maybe later.”
Good lord. Finn never refused a sweet. Ever. The situation was officially alarming. “You’d best tell me your disaster. I feel like between us, the apocalypse approaches.”
“It does. Pinehurst cut off my allowance.”
Her jaw dropped. “What? Why?”
“Shhhh!”
Pippa sipped her lemonade until the curious onlookers grew bored and continued with their own conversations. “Why?” she repeated in a whisper.
Finn rubbed a hand across his face. “It’s complicated. I’ve been running a business from a house in Golden Square—”
“A business! And you didn’t tell me? For how long? Selling what?”
“Yes, a business. I wanted it to make a profit before saying anything. Ummmm, three months or so. As to what…I can’t reveal that here. But I need that allowance. It pays the rent, and for materials and employees. One staff member lives at the house with her adorable toddler, and she is the kindest, nicest woman, but…she is unmarried. Father found out and exploded like gunpowder. You know how he is.”
Yes. She did. Lord Pinehurst was second on her loathe list after Grandmother. “Are you cut off forever?”
“He said we can talk if I evict the mother and daughter. Which I won’t do. So, I’ll be penniless until I turn twenty-five. Or marry,” he finished with a humorless laugh.
“No, you won’t. I’ll lend you the money,” said Pippa impatiently. “I’m annoyed you didn’t ask me to be an investor, but shall magnanimously forgive such a shocking lapse.”
Finn’s eyes widened. “That is a spectacularly generous offer, but I need a rather large amount. For another year’s rent, staff wages, business expenses until we turn a regular profit…about two hundred pounds or so.”
“Well, you know I’m frugal with pin money, then Gabriel went and doubled the amount after he took over the family finances, so I have enough. I’ll arrange a draft. Now, back to my problem. Thwarting an unwanted marriage.”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “The dowager won’t retreat, nor will the duke. You have to be unavailable.”
“Yes. Good. Keep thinking. Any idea, no matter how outlandish. Desperate times and all that.”
“In a romance novel, this would be the scene where a long-lost lover stormed the soiree to claim you as his betrothed. In real life, it might have to be an actor. Or a gentleman courtesan. Are you secretly chums with either?”
“Alas not,” said Pippa drily. Then she went very still as a wildly ridiculous notion lodged in her mind. “However…”
“Yes?” he encouraged, taking a gulp of lemonade.
“I am chums with you.”
Finn choked on his drink, coughing and spluttering for breath until she abandoned discretion and pounded him on the back. Gah. Not the most flattering reaction.
“Beg pardon?” he wheezed eventually, accepting her handkerchief to dab the tears from his eyes.
Embarrassed, Pippa began to babble. “I’ll lend you the money no matter what. But if you wanted to do me a favor in return, swoop in as my secret betrothed. Then, when everyone departs for the country, I change my mind as ladies sometimes do, and we resume being best friends. See? Easy.”
“Er…yes. Easy. That’s all? A pretend engagement?”
“Hmmm. If you were amiable, kissing lessons. I need real-life experience for when I do marry, and you’ve kissed countless women. Plus, you wouldn’t tell, so would be the perfect tutor.”
At her utterly brazen words, Finn stared at her, and for the first time ever, she had no clue whatsoever to his thoughts.
“Pippa—”
“Or, you could forget everything I just said and I’ll go hire an actor,” she finished, trying to laugh and failing dismally. “But we have to pause this discussion, because here come Grandmother and Georgiana.”
“Yes,” he blurted.
“Excuse me?”
He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. Oddly, it made her tingle. “I hereby accept your generous investment offer. And freely agree to be your pretend betrothed. Also, your kissing tutor.”
Confusion at her body’s strange response and pure relief at his agreement made her light-headed; it was fortunate Finn held her, otherwise she would have tumbled to the floor.
Good lord. They were really going to do this.
Heaven help them both.