Lord Stillwell's Excellent Engagements

by Alexander, Victoria

  Books by Victoria Alexander

  THE PERFECT MISTRESS

  HIS MISTRESS BY CHRISTMAS

  MY WICKED LITTLE LIES

  WHAT HAPPENS AT CHRISTMAS

  THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING WICKED

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Lord Stillwell’s

  Excellent Engagements

  VICTORIA ALEXANDER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Victoria Alexander

  Title Page

  Part One: Felicia

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Part Two - Lucille

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part Three: Caroline

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Dear Reader,

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  Part One:

  Felicia

  The Right Honorable the Viscount

  and Lady Whitingdon

  request the honour of your presence

  at the marriage of their daughter

  Miss Felicia Obigail Constance Whitingdon

  to

  The Right honorable

  The Viscount Stillwell

  on Wednesday June ninth

  Eighteen hundred and seventy-nine

  at eleven o’clock

  Fairborough Hall chapel

  Chapter 1

  April 1879

  My dear Gray,

  Pack your bags, Cousin, and prepare to return home no later than June eighth as I shall be married on June ninth. You are, no doubt, surprised as I have always said I shall be quite long in the tooth when at last I take a bride and I have scarcely passed my twenty-fifth birthday. Marriage was not a state I was seeking, at least not yet. As you have likely gathered from my letters, I have had quite a good time of it up to now. I freely admit that there was a moment here and there, perhaps more than one, when I came perilously close to irrevocable scandal and one can only credit the prayers of my mother that I managed to avoid complete social disaster. But, on occasion, fate takes a hand and cannot be denied. The perfect woman has swept into my life, much to the delight of Mother and Father, and marriage is no longer the sentence it once appeared.

  She is exquisite, Gray, everything I ever imagined I wanted in a bride in one delectable package. Her hair is the color of darkest night, her skin like the finest porcelain, her eyes rival the rarest sapphire. And yes, I do realize I have never been especially poetic in the past, but she brings out the long slumbering poet in my soul. Even her name—Miss Felicia Abigail Constance Whitingdon—falls like poetry from the tongue.

  In a practical sense, she is indeed a perfect choice. Her lineage is impeccable, her education acceptable, her reputation unblemished. She is the only child of Viscount Whitingdon and as such will inherit a substantial fortune upon his demise. Her dowry is most impressive and though this is not necessary, it will nonetheless be appreciated as Miss Whitingdon is so obviously not a frugal sort. She has a penchant for fine jewelry and the latest fashions from Paris, and who can blame her? One would scarcely put an artistic masterpiece in a shabby frame.

  We are a perfect match, Gray. Everyone says so. Why, ours is being lauded as the most brilliant engagement of the season, which doesn’t matter at all, of course, although it is rather amusing. There are those, you know, who assumed I was headed directly to hell.

  The wedding itself is to be a grand affair here at Fairborough Hall and perhaps a bit more ostentatious than I might have preferred, although it has been pointed out to me that, given our stations, such a display is to be expected. I must confess, I find merely the discussions of what is required for a fete such as this to be daunting. But it is all in the capable hands of Mother, Felicia’s mother and, of course, the bride herself. Father and Lord Whitingdon are wisely staying out of the path of these forces of nature, as am I.

  Do come home, Gray, and help me survive my nuptials. I need my cousin, my closest friend, by my side. While I have the courage, my stamina is in question. You will like Felicia. She is beautiful and amusing, really very clever, and all I could ever ask for. We shall get on quite well together.

  Father thinks she is delightful....

  “You do realize . . .” Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, drew a deep breath and chose his words with care, sending a silent prayer of gratitude toward the heavens that, at the moment, he was more shocked than angered, although he suspected anger was not far off. He tried again. “You do realize Fairborough Hall is filled nearly to overflowing with guests of your family’s and mine?”

  “Of course I do.” Felicia waved off the comment.

  “And each and every one of them is expecting a wedding.” Win stared. “Tomorrow.”

  “I realize that as well.” She shook her head and sighed. “It is most awkward.”

  “Awkward?” His voice rose. “Awkward?”

  “If you are going to take that tone with me, Winfield Elliott, I shall leave this house at once.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And you shall have to deal with this awkwardness without me.”

  Win clenched his jaw and tried to remain calm. “Then perhaps you could desist referring to all this merely as awkward.”

  “Very well.” She shrugged. “How would you prefer I refer to it?”

  “I don’t know,” he snapped. “I have never been told on the day before my wedding by my intended, that while she was quite fond of me, she much preferred to marry someone else, thank you very much!”

  “Goodness, it’s not as if I have left you waiting for me at the altar. That would be most embarrassing.”

  “Ah well then, I do thank you for that.”

  “Sarcasm, Winfield, will not make this any less difficult.” Her brows drew together over her sapphire eyes. “And I should think you would indeed be grateful for that.”

  “Grateful?” He sputtered. “Grateful?” In his twenty-five years he didn’t think he’d ever sputtered. Never imagined he could. Why, his father sputtered. And Colonel Channing from Millworth Manor sputtered. And a number of older gentlemen at the club in London his father had insisted he join, as his grandfather had belonged and his father before that, sputtered. Indeed, Winfield Elliott was the kind of man who caused others to sputter in disbelief or surprise or, on occasion, shock, but he certainly never sputtered himself. “Grateful that you did not actually leave me standing at the altar?”

  “Well, yes.” She tucked a stray strand of midnight-black hair back into place. “I had hoped to make this as painless as possible.”

  “For whom?”

  “For both of us,” she said sharply. “This is not exactly what I had planned, you know.” She turned away and meandered around the perimeter of the library in a manner entirely too casual for the occasion. As if the topic of discussion was of no more importance than whether they should picnic near the lake or by the rose garden. It was as disconcerting as the discussion itself. “I fully intended to marry you.” She trailed her fingers over the edge of the desk. “I certainly wouldn’t have allowed all these preparations otherwise.” She glanced at him. “And I am sorry.”

  “Well, as long as you’re sorry.”

  Her brow furrowed and she stared at him. “You’re really quite surprised, aren’t you?”

  “Surprised is the very least of what I am.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Come now, Winfield, it’s not as if you were in love with me.”

  “I was not . . . not in love with you.”


  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “It means that I fully expected to love you someday. I expected love between us to grow.” Somehow, that didn’t sound quite as good as he’d thought it would. “I like you a great deal.” Oh yes, that was much better. “I thought we were well suited to one another.”

  “Yes, well, there was that.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “I must admit, the idea of spending the rest of my days with you was not the least bit daunting. Indeed, it had a great deal of appeal.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Nonsense, Winfield, of course you do. You’re simply letting the . . . oh, I don’t know . . . sentimentality of the moment confuse you.” She continued her casual progress around the room. “But even you admit you and I were never a love match.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “So, although we do like one another—and make no mistake about it, I do like you—”

  “Imagine my delight,” he muttered.

  She ignored him. “Our marriage was more of a practical matter, almost a business arrangement, really.”

  He stared. “That’s rather cold.”

  “Granted, it’s not quite that callous and, as I said, I do like you.” She thought for a moment. “But I’m certainly not in love with you, nor are you in love with me.”

  “I could be,” he said staunchly.

  “But you’re not. Tell me, Winfield.” She pinned him with a firm look. “Does your heart flutter when you hear my voice or your eyes meet mine?”

  “Well, no but—”

  “And when I kiss you, do your toes curl?”

  “Not that I have noticed but—”

  “Nor do mine. And Winfield . . .” Her gaze met his firmly. “Can you imagine living the rest of your life without me?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  She raised a brow.

  “Perhaps,” he muttered.

  “Of course you can. This would be an entirely different matter if we were in love with one another, but as we aren’t . . .” She shrugged.

  “Are you in love with him then?” He strode across the room, yanked open the bottom drawer of the desk where his father had long hid a bottle of his favorite Scottish whisky, as his mother did not especially approve of hard spirits. He grabbed the bottle and one of two glasses stored with it, and poured a glass.

  “It’s rather early in the day for that, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t.” He took a long swallow. “Indeed, on the day before your wedding when your fiancée informs you there shall be no wedding, I don’t believe there is any such thing as too early in the day.” He glared at her. “Do you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “And you have yet to answer my question.” He wasn’t sure why he cared, why it seemed rather important to him. And yet it did. “Are you in love with him?”

  “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m no more in love with him than I am with you, but I am confident I will be one day. I suspect he is in love with me, which is a delightful idea.”

  “One wouldn’t think he would come all the way here to propose marriage on the day before your wedding to another man if he wasn’t.” He considered her for a moment. “Unless, of course, he is interested in your inheritance.”

  “Nonsense. He already has an impressive fortune and is heir to a dukedom. If anything, I am interested in his prospects, not the other way around.” She shook her head and sighed as if he was entirely too simple-minded to understand. “Even in this modern day and age, women like myself of good family are expected to make the best match possible. It’s the way women improve themselves. And as Harold’s uncle is a duke, and he is his uncle’s only heir, his elderly uncle, it only makes sense for me to marry him as you will only ever be an earl.”

  “So you have found a better way to improve yourself than by marrying me?”

  “Exactly.” She cast him a satisfied smile. “Besides, he claims to love me, whereas you only plan to love me. All in all, Winfield, even you must admit Harold is a much better choice.”

  “You do realize you have broken my heart,” he said in a manner even he knew was perhaps more dramatic than necessary.

  “Nonsense, I don’t believe that for a moment. If I did . . .”

  “If you did, what?” He sipped his whiskey and studied her.

  “If I did . . .” She drew a deep breath. “I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to break it off with you directly. I didn’t have to, you know. I simply could have failed to appear at the wedding or sent you a carefully worded note. But your affections are not overly engaged and you well know it.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “It’s your pride that is, well, not broken exactly but bent a bit, wounded perhaps. As is to be expected.” She considered him thoughtfully. “Therefore if you wish to let it be known that the cancellation of our wedding was my doing, I would certainly understand, although . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I would much prefer if the rest of the world did not know I was the one who broke off things between us to marry a man with better prospects.”

  He snorted. “In spite of the fact that you are.”

  “I know that and you know that, but there’s no need for others to know.”

  “I daresay people will notice when you marry Mr. Hedges-Smythe.”

  She waved off his comment. “Oh, I have no intention of marrying Harold any time soon. We shall wait a suitable period.” She frowned. “I should think three months would be long enough, don’t you?”

  “No.” He huffed.

  “Perhaps you’re right.” She considered the question. “Six months would be better. I would hate to appear shallow.”

  “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “Sarcasm, Winfield.” She shook her head. “It would reflect poorly on you too, you know. My being seen as shallow and preferring one man over another simply because of his title. Why, you might even be viewed as somewhat pathetic. At the very least, people will wonder whatever were you thinking.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder that myself,” he said under his breath. Still, there was no need to make this worse. He drew a deep breath. “I would propose then that we simply let it be known that by mutual agreement, we have decided not to wed.”

  “That will do nicely.” She paused. “I do appreciate it, Winfield.” She hesitated. “This is not as easy for me as it might appear. I am exceptionally fond of you as well. I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to marry you otherwise. But I do have to think of my future and, well, you have my sincere apologies.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. She was as beautiful as she had always been, as charming and amusing as well. And she was right.

  He had no doubt he would have loved her one day, but he certainly didn’t love her now. His heart was not broken, although it did feel a bit chipped. Still, that might well be his pride.

  Felicia was perfect for him and would have been a perfect Countess of Fairborough one day. She did seem to be everything he had ever wanted. Or everything he had ever thought he had wanted. But perhaps this was for the best.

  Did he really want to marry a woman who was only his because nothing better had come along?

  Chapter 2

  “It’s amazing to me how quickly guests take their leave when there is the possibility of becoming embroiled in something awkward.” The Countess of Fairborough swept into the library and sank into the nearest chair with a sigh of exhaustion. “It’s only slightly less amazing than those who wish to linger and view the destruction firsthand. Like those people who flock to fires only to see the ruin they have wrought.”

  Win stood near the fireplace, yet another glass of whiskey in his hand. He and his father had retired to the library late this morning shortly after Felicia and her parents had departed, accompanied, of course, by Mr. Hedges-Smythe. Perhaps Felicia had had the courage to face Win directly, but facing anyone else was a different matter entirely. I
ndeed, her entourage had been prepared to flee the moment she’d called off the wedding, leaving Win and his family to deal with the guests and all else that accompanied cancelled nuptials. They had made a brief announcement to those who had gathered for luncheon, and his mother had spent the rest of the day bidding farewell to guests and agreeing that yes, it was a shame, but it was probably for the best. Win and his father had taken refuge—some might say hidden—in the library.

  He glanced at his father seated in the chair that matched his mother’s, a glass in his hand as well. “Why does every female here insist on calling this awkward? Awkward is the very least of what this is.”

  Father shrugged. “Perhaps because if they were to use words like devastating or disastrous it would seem so much more . . .”

  “Devastating?” Win raised a brow. “Disastrous?”

  “Perhaps a little less sarcasm . . .” his mother said under her breath.

  Win stared at her.

  “Oh dear, I am sorry.” She ran her hand over her forehead. “Forgive me, dearest, none of this is your fault. It’s been a very long day and not at all the day I expected, and I might be a bit, oh, out of sorts.”

  His father snorted.

  Mother continued without pause. “Indeed, I think your wit is most amusing. I can’t imagine any woman who wouldn’t think so. You are charming and handsome and dashing, you’re quite clever and really all any woman could possibly want.”

  “Unless she wished to become a duchess someday,” his father said in a cool tone.

  “There is that,” Win muttered and took another sip. He had resisted the inclination to drink steadily through the course of the day and drown his sorrows as it were. The realization that he wasn’t as much sorrowful as annoyed tempered that desire. Indeed, the thought had already crossed his mind that not marrying Felicia was a better idea than marrying her, even if it had not been his idea.