The Arrangement

by Sylvia Day

  “Fans of Amanda Quick’s early historicals will find much to savor.”—Booklist (Starred Review)

  “Wicked repartee, savvy wit, and energetic libidos.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A remarkably resourceful heroine who can more than hold her own against any character invented by best-selling Bertrice

  Small . . . deliciously fun retro flavor.”

  —Booklist (Starred Review)

  “Sexy and wildly entertaining.”—Bookpage

  “Spencer shines . . . an author to watch.”—Kirkus Reviews

  CHAPTER 1

  London, 1817

  Drusilla Clare plied her fan, using it for its intended purpose—cooling—rather than its expected purpose—flirting. After all, who would flirt with her?

  “Dru, you’re doing it again.”

  At the sound of her name, she looked at her companion. Lady Eva de Courtney should not, by all rights, have been sitting beside Drusilla in the wallflower section of the Duchess of Montfort’s ballroom. Eva was not only the most beautiful debutante in London this Season; she was also one of the most exquisite women Drusilla had ever seen.

  But she was also proof that a hefty dowry and a gorgeous person were not, alas, enough to overcome a fractious personality or notorious heritage. Or at least her mother’s notorious heritage. Because it was a well-known fact that the Marquess of Exley’s first wife and Eva’s mother—Lady Veronica Exley—had not only been a ravishing, mesmerizing beauty who’d driven men of all ages insane with desire and yearning; she had also been barking mad.

  Eva, reputed to be every bit as lovely as her dead mother, had neither the desire, nor the charisma, to drive anyone mad. Except perhaps her stern, perfectionist father.

  “What, exactly, am I doing?” Drusilla asked Eva, who had pulled a lock of glossy dark hair from her once-perfect coiffure and was twisting it into a frazzled mess.

  “You’re frowning and getting that look.” Eva thrust out her lower jaw, flattened her lips, and glared through squinty eyes.

  Drusilla laughed at her friend’s impersonation.

  Eva’s expression shifted back to its natural, perfect state. “There, that is much better. You are very pretty when you laugh or smile.”

  Drusilla rolled her eyes.

  “And even when you roll your eyes.” Eva’s smile turned into a grin. “Come, tell me what you were thinking when you were looking so thunderous.”

  Drusilla could hardly tell her friend she’d been wondering when Eva’s gorgeous but irritating stepbrother—Gabriel Marlington—would make an appearance, so she lied. “I was wondering if Lady Sissingdon was going to fall out of her dress.”

  They both turned to stare at the well-endowed widow in question.

  Eva snorted and then covered her mouth with her hand. Drusilla couldn’t help noticing her friend’s previously white kid glove now had something that looked like cucumber soup—one of the dishes at dinner—on her knuckle and a stain that must be red wine on her index finger. Drusilla could not imagine how Eva had managed the stains, as she had not been wearing her gloves to eat.

  Eva’s violet-blue eyes flickered from Lady Sissingdon’s scandalous bodice back to Drusilla and she opened her mouth to speak but then saw something over Drusilla’s shoulder.

  “Gabe!” She shot to her feet and waved her arm in broad, unladylike motions.

  Drusilla slowly swiveled in her chair while Eva attracted the attention of not only her stepbrother but everyone in their half of the ballroom. She knew she should remind her friend to employ a little decorum—it seemed to be her duty in life to keep Eva out of scrapes—but her heart was pounding, her palms damp, and her stomach was doing that odd, quivery thing it seemed destined to do whenever Gabriel Marlington entered her orbit. Something he’d been doing on an almost daily basis since the beginning of the Season when he’d begun escorting his sister—and, by extension, Drusilla—to every function under the sun.

  He stood near the entrance to the ballroom as the major-domo announced him. His name—as always—sent a frisson of excitement through the crowd. The women in the room—young, old, married, widowed, or single—raised their fans or quizzing glasses, the better to watch him.

  The men, also, took notice of his arrival. Especially the clutch of men who slouched near the entrance—as if they were undecided about whether they should remain at the ball or leave to engage in some vile masculine pursuit. The men closed ranks as Gabriel walked past them, like a pack of wild dogs scenting a larger, more dangerous, predator.

  One of the group, Earl Visel, a man with perhaps the worst reputation in London—if not all of England—said something to Gabriel that made him stop.

  The two men faced each other, Visel’s cronies hanging back as their leader stepped closer to Gabriel. They were, Drusilla realized, both tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped men, although Visel was pale, blue-eyed, and blond while Gabriel was golden, heavy lidded, and flame haired.

  Whatever Gabriel said to Visel put the men behind the earl into a flutter, their gabble of voices audible even over the noise of the ballroom. Visel was the only one who seemed unconcerned. In fact, he threw back his head and laughed.

  Gabriel appeared not to notice the reaction his response created among the ball denizens and scanned the crowd just like the Barbary falcon he resembled, his full lips curving into an easy smile when his eyes landed on his sister. His gaze kept moving and Drusilla couldn’t help noticing how his expression turned to one of mocking amusement when he saw her. She told herself his reaction was entirely natural, especially since she had done everything in her power to provoke and annoy him for the last five years.

  She also told herself that she disliked him because he was everything she despised in the masculine species: arrogant, too attractive for either his own or anyone else’s good, assured of his superiority, and so accustomed to female adulation he would never even have noticed Drusilla’s existence if she hadn’t forced him to.

  But she knew she was just lying to herself.

  AN INCONVENIENT COUNTESS

  KRISTIN VAYDEN

  For Rachel. Because you always remind me that I can, when I sometimes think I can’t. You’re the best sister ever, and I love you. Also for Grandma Hart, I miss you. Every stitch of bravery I have I learned from you.

  CHAPTER 1

  Charles Brook, Earl of Barrington, lacked only one thing. Well, perhaps lacked more than one thing, but most of those could be acquired by his fists or by his bank account. However, his money couldn’t buy the one thing he particularly needed at the moment.

  Respectability.

  He’d destroyed his, and had a jolly time doing it. In fact, he’d do it all over again if given the chance. However, it was rather bloody inconvenient to not have it, especially when the business partnership he’d been working toward depended on him acquiring said respectability.

  And it had to be authentic, not the kind where he could purchase a courtesan’s time, buy her new clothes, and fake a titled name. No. He’d tried that already.

  Which, in the end, only chipped at his respectability even more. He needed a wife, and not just any wife, but the kind who made an English businessman think of sheep, and muslin, and all other English things. One who was virginal, pure, and . . . utterly dull. The problem was that he didn’t know many of those types, avoided them like the plague actually. And time wasn’t on his side either—another bloody thing money couldn’t buy.

  As he saw it, he had only one option: leave London and hope his reputation didn’t precede him. Surely there was some remote village that had respectable daughters of gentlemen who didn’t use his name as a curse word. His reputation hadn’t stretched that far, had it?

  Hope was a heartless bitch, and soon his plan changed from anonymity to finding someone just desperate enough to deal with the devil.

  That he found readily enough, and in his own backyard—quite literally. It was after he had taken respite on his country estate in Sussex th
at he had picked up on an interesting article of news.

  The small, rather shabby estate bordering his own was rumored to be for sale. It was rather odd, since he distinctly remembered the gentleman who owned it because the man had turned down his earlier offers of purchase years before. Then the gentleman had sworn to keep it in the family, which had struck Brook as peculiar. After all, the gentleman had only five daughters, no sons to inherit. Assuming the man meant a son-in-law, Brook had disregarded his words and moved along.

  Could this mean that the son-in-law didn’t want the estate? Brook made the decision to inquire further in the morning. After breaking his fast the next day, he donned his riding coat, and had his gelding readied from the stables. The black horse pawed the damp earth with impatience, mirroring his master’s mood. The leather squeaked as Brook swung up onto the saddle, his horse sidestepping slightly. Soon Brook was at a gentle canter toward the edge of his property, riding along the narrow path that bordered the two estates.

  It was a welcome distraction, to do something that was unrelated to his quest to find a respectable woman. Damn, if he weren’t so invested in the venture already, he’d forget the whole business partnership deal and go about his life. But to do such would set him back financially, and he’d worked too hard to give up now. Besides, he had to marry at some point, and the ladies—if one could call them that—he’d spent his time with weren’t the kind a gentleman married. And he was a gentleman, after all, if only in title.

  A soft rain created humidity in the air that was far fresher than the air of London, and he slowed his horse to better enjoy the ride. The clouds scattered across the grey sky, allowing a slight blue to peek through. Perhaps the day would take a good turn; one could always hope.

  As he approached the manor house, he noted the disrepair of the gate. Frowning, he passed by the useless thing, the gravel crunching under his horse’s hooves as Brook paused just before the door. Swinging off the saddle, he then loosely tied the reins to a nearby post. The manor was clearly lacking some maintenance, which of course mentally required him to adjust the price he was willing to pay. He gave a solid knock on the door, and stepped back.

  The door swung open and a maid gave a quick curtsey. “Good morning, sir.”

  Brook studied the young woman, noting the unruly curls that defied their pins, and her face flushed as if she’d been rushing to the door.

  Or making love.

  He gave his head a quick shake and focused on the issue at hand. “Is the lord of the manor receiving callers?” he asked in his most polite voice.

  The maid frowned, then glanced away. After a breath she met his gaze directly. “I’m afraid not, sir. He passed around three years ago.”

  Brook chastised himself for not inquiring further before showing up on their doorstep. However, as he considered it, this turn of events clearly made sense and made his options toward purchasing the estate even more promising. “My condolences to the family.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would the lady of the house be available?” he inquired.

  The maid twisted her lips. “She is indisposed at the moment, but you may relay any message you wish to give her to me.”

  Brook noted the directness of the maid, wondering if she was as impetuous to all the callers. She didn’t have an air about her of servanthood; rather, she seemed to fight for dominance in the conversation, however quietly. He could sense the authority in her words. Odd, that.

  “It’s rather irregular to discuss this topic on the doorstep, but if you insist.” He glanced up, then back to the girl. “I’d heard the estate is for sale, and I wish to discuss the prospect of purchasing it.”

  The color drained from the maid’s complexion. “You’ve heard correctly.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  She arched a brow as if daring him to question her further.

  It was a strange impasse.

  “If you wouldn’t mind leaving my card for your mistress, so she may contact me if she is interested?” he said finally.

  “Perhaps.” She accepted the card, reading the name. “I remember you. Did you try to purchase the property a while ago?”

  Brook nodded, curious how a maid was privy to such information.

  “We aren’t interested in your offer.” The maid handed back his card, stepping back to close the door.

  “Pardon.” He put his foot in the way, keeping the door open. “I don’t believe it’s your place to say such a thing.”

  Fire danced in her green eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Maids don’t often make such decisions, and I’m quite certain if I notified your mistress—”

  “I am the mistress, the acting mistress, thank you kindly,” she bit off hotly. “And I’m quite certain I have all the authority needed to turn down your offer, sir. Now, please leave.”

  “You? You can’t be more than fifteen.” He spoke without thinking.

  “I’m more than eighteen, sir, and more than willing to notify the magistrate if you don’t leave, now.” She growled the last words.

  Brook stepped back, gave one final calculating gaze, then turned toward his horse. The door all but slammed shut as he mounted his gelding. As he left the courtyard, he glanced to the shabby gate and pulled up the reins on his horse.

  All the pieces fell together, and with almost lightning speed he saw the full picture of opportunity.

  Five daughters, a deceased father, a manor in disrepair—it was bloody perfect.

  He turned back his horse to the front of the house, preparing his words carefully. He’d have one shot.

  It had to be a good one.

  Because time was ticking away, and this was as promising as he was going to find on this short of notice, he could not delay. He knocked on the door, then took a step back.

  “Yes?” The woman answered the door once more, her dark brows arching high over her eyes a moment before her gaze narrowed, and she started to shut the door.

  “No, wait. I have a . . . proposition—”

  “I don’t wish to hear any of your—”

  “I think you’ll be interested in this one. May I come in,” and for good measure he added, “please?”

  The woman hesitated, just enough to let him know he’d won.

  At least this round.

  As she opened the door, he took a step inside and met the gaze of a small girl, no older than eight. She hid behind another sister, somewhat older. As he was shown to the study just beyond the foyer, he took in the details that helped him formulate his plan.

  The largest weakness he could exploit would be the care of the other sisters . . . he pushed away a slight twinge of his long-lost conscience, and took a seat when offered. She kept the door open, like a proper miss. As she sat down, she folded her hands and eyed him shrewdly.

  So perhaps this wasn’t going to be as easy as he anticipated.

  But he found the challenge exhilarating—the promise of a chase and reward.

  It was rather enticing.

  Motivating.

  And if it worked, this arrangement would be exactly what he needed. And, he told himself, it might be what they needed, too.

  For a price.

  Always a price.

  Perhaps money could buy respectability; maybe money could buy everything after all....

  CHAPTER 2

  Miss Diana Lambson squinted at the ledgers before her. Perhaps if she stared hard enough, everything would make sense. Rather, that was the problem. It did make sense, and she was desperately trying to figure out a way to make it not make sense. For there to be some mistake, some hidden money in some account . . . to give herself, and her family, some semblance of hope.

  But as she relaxed her gaze, the truth of it settled over her. The numbers didn’t lie, and she was an excellent accountant. Ever since she took over the management of their accounts at the untimely death of her father three years ago, she’d been warning her mother about this possibility. There simply wasn’t enough
money, and there was too many of them.

  Five sisters, one mother, and a dying estate. It wasn’t much, but as Diana looked around her late father’s study, it was dear, it was home. A home that would be lost to them if she didn’t find some sort of relief for their immediate financial needs.

  A knock sounded at the door. Diana quickly closed the ledgers—it was no use for one of her sisters to worry even more than they already were—and bid the person enter.

  “Is it bad?”

  So much for closing the ledgers. Diana twisted her lips, trying to find a silver lining for her dear sister. “There’s always hope.”

  “So, no.” Emily bit her lower lip and padded into the room softly. Diana noted the newly mended tear at the sleeve of Emily’s day dress. How long had it been since they’d had new clothes? It was a boon that she and Emily were finished growing, with all their former dresses handed down to younger sisters. “What are our options?”

  “Don’t you think we should discuss this with Mother?” Diana remarked, then held back a laugh at Emily’s incredulous look. It was an accurate expression. Ever since the death of their father, their mother hadn’t been able to work through even simple problems, let alone the management of their home. “Very well, our options are few. We could sell the estate—”

  “If someone were to want it,” Emily replied. “There’s not much land. And it’s not a complete solution. It would only take care of us for a little while. ”

  “Or . . .” Diana gave her sister an impatient glare, even though she knew very well a person who wished to purchase it. But it wasn’t a viable option. If they sold the estate, where would they go? “We could find work. I could employ myself as a governess, or—”

  “A governess salary will only be enough for you, not an entire family, Diana. Even if you, I, and Sarah all found employment, we couldn’t keep up financially.”