A Reluctant Betrothal: A Victorian Historical Romance

By Amanda Weaver

From the seaside villas of France to the sumptuous drawing rooms of London's Victorian aristocracy comes a tale of star-crossed lovers desperate to escape their irresistible—and terribly inconvenient—passionWhen Grace Godwyn is introduced to her soon-to-be fiancé's closest friend, she can hardly keep from fainting. The man whose angry gaze confronts her is none other than the handsome stranger who came to her aid in a dark French alleyway. The stranger with whom she'd shared a moment of reckless passion. And now, with a single word, he could destroy her one chance for security.Julian St. John, Lord Knighton, owes his friend too much to allow him to fall into the clutches of a craven fortune hunter. He knows all he needs to know of Grace Godwyn: that she's the orphaned and penniless daughter of a disgraced viscount; that her lips taste incomparably sweet. There is no way he is going to allow this marriage to take place.Yet the more time Julian and Grace are forced to spend in each other's company, the more irresistible their desire grows—and the more devastating the potential consequences.Book three of the Grantham Girls seriesThis book is approximately 85,000 wordsOne-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you're looking for with an HEA/HFN. It's a promise!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carina Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781459290662

Amanda Weaver

Amanda has loved romance since she read that very first Kathleen E. Woodiwiss novel at fifteen. After a long detour into a career as a costume designer in theatre, she’s found her way back to romance, this time as a writer.A native Floridian, Amanda transplanted to New York City many years ago and now considers Brooklyn home, along with her husband, daughter, two cats, and nowhere near enough space.You can find Amanda at www.amandaweavernovels.com. 

Book preview

Prologue

London, 1886

Grace! Wake up, poppet.

It was cold, and Grace didn’t want to open her eyes. What is it, Papa?

I’ve found us a wonderful new place to live, but we must go tonight.

No, not again. In her ten years, life had taught Grace many unpleasant truths. One of those things was the next place was never wonderful. It was always a step down—or two—from their current situation. And another was that moving in the middle of the night meant they owed more to the current landlords than Papa could pay.

She would miss this set of rooms. They were small, and the meager warmth from the iron stove in the corner never seemed to reach her bed. But there was a view of the street from the front window where she could pass a pleasant hour or two watching all the people come and go. And these rooms were close enough to the National Gallery to walk. She could go look at the pictures whenever she wanted.

Do we have to? she moaned, even as she sat up and reached for her dress, still neatly folded at the foot of the bed.

You’ll like this place. He ignored her question, which had been rhetorical anyway. Of course they had to skip out in the middle of the night. They always did. Once they settled in a new place, it was only a matter of time before Papa played too deep at cards and they’d be fleeing in the dead of night again. He never could stop when he should. He played and played until there was no more money left.

Without another pointless word of protest, Grace began to pack her things. After so many hurried moves, she was down to just the essentials—three simple dresses that didn’t show dirt or wear at the hems when she let them down as she grew, her few underthings, a book of verse that had belonged to her mother before she died and her books. Little Women, which was actually from the lending library and would have to be returned soon, and her precious two volumes of Lübke. Papa had bought the books, a history of art, for her eighth birthday, and despite the many moves and their awkward size and weight, she’d managed to hang onto them. She’d leave everything else behind before she let go of her Lübke.

When they had packed everything, mere minutes after her father had shaken her awake, they descended the narrow stairs. Papa didn’t have to tell her to tiptoe past the landlady’s door, or to make no sound as he eased the front door open and they descended the front steps to the street. She knew the routine as well as he did.

It was the middle of the night, and the London streets were eerily quiet. Grace hated being out at this hour. The darkened streets made her feel even more alone in the world than she usually did, with only Papa’s hand to hang onto. Papa hadn’t proved very good at keeping her safe, no matter how much he might love her.

Papa, can we take a hack?

And miss this adventure? Papa squeezed her fingers. How many girls get to see London’s streets in the dark of night?

She’d happily give up the adventure of London’s dark, deserted streets for a warm bed and a permanent roof over her head, but she said nothing, only trudged along at Papa’s side, her little suitcase banging into her leg with each step.

They walked for ages, deeper into East London than she’d ever gone. Her heart sank as the houses around her grew shabbier, the streets narrower and dirtier. The few people they passed were not of a good sort at all. Grace held tightly to Papa’s hand, wishing they were there already, inside and safe, no matter how dismal their new rooms might be.

Here we are! Papa said brightly, knocking on the door of a sagging, old, timbered house.

After a time, a woman answered, a ratty shawl held tightly around her shoulders and her gray hair in a mussed nighttime braid. Grace averted her eyes, embarrassed at catching the woman in her nightgown, but the woman didn’t seem at all bothered by it.

Rent’s due every Friday, she groused, backing away from the door to let them in. Keep the child quiet. The other tenants don’t like noise.

Papa squeezed her shoulders. You don’t need to worry about my little Grace. She’s good as gold.

The woman made some noncommittal harrumph, holding her candle a bit higher. You can see yourselves up to your rooms, second floor, on the left.

Thank you, Mrs. Potter. Her father stepped inside, remarkably jaunty despite the late hour and grim surroundings.

We ain’t never had a viscount in the house before.

His expression shifted subtly, and Grace caught a rare glimpse of his misery at how they’d ended up, regardless of the happy face he’d put on it. Well, we’ve been knocked a bit askew after the death of my wife. We’ll be back on our feet soon enough, right, Grace?

Grace didn’t answer, because if Papa hadn’t gotten them back on their feet by now, he never would. Mama had died four years ago, and they’d already been askew before that, only Mama had usually managed to hide enough money so they weren’t running from house to house quite so frequently.

Papa loved them both—Mama used to tell her so all the time. She used to put Grace to bed telling her stories of their courtship. There were walks in Buckingham Park and boating on the Serpentine, dancing and ball gowns and meetings in moonlit gardens—a perfect spring love and a perfect summer wedding.

Mama kept telling the tales even as her jewels were sold, then the furniture, and finally the townhouse itself. She was still telling them as she hocked her ball gowns. She told the tales until she got sick and died, worn out from worry. Would she still be telling that fairytale love story if she were here to see this shabby East End rooming house?

As Grace grew older, she understood why her mother had always seemed sad telling those tales. It was terrible to love someone who did so many things to hurt you.

Papa started up the stairs and Grace followed slowly in his wake. As she passed the scowling Mrs. Potter, she paused.

How much is the rent?

Mrs. Potter’s scowl softened slightly. It was only momentary, of course. Grace knew better than to rely on the kindness of strangers.

Two shillings. Them’s furnished rooms, so they cost more.

Two shillings a week. They were now renting rooms for two shillings a week in East London, when she’d been born in the family townhouse in Mayfair. And still, they’d struggle to hang onto this place. They truly had come down in the world.

I’ll see to it, Grace said.

Mrs. Potter’s mouth flattened into a firm line and she jerked her head in a nod. Grace had made the situation clear. She was the one to deal with business matters. Her father could not be trusted.

Once the business had been seen to, she trudged up the stairs to her new temporary home. One day, when she was grown, she’d find a way back to that life they’d lost, the one Papa had taken from Mama. Somehow, she’d fix everything Papa had ruined.

Chapter One

Menton, France—February, 1897

She was always a remarkably pretty girl. It’s no wonder she married so high, despite being American. The Dowager Countess of Marlbury tugged her capelet closed around her shoulders.

The sun had kept the cold at bay throughout the afternoon as the Winter Parade passed through the winding streets, but as twilight crept in, so did the chill.

Lady Bosworth gave a haughty sniff. I still say it’s not right, these American girls marrying into the old English families.

I dare say there wouldn’t have been much of a family left to marry into without the aid of Miss... The dowager trailed off, searching for the name. What was her name again, Miss Godwyn?

Grace dragged her attention away from the vibrant orange-streaked sunset over the plaza and looked back to the dowager. She was Miss Victoria Carson, before her marriage to the duke.

Yes, that’s it. Miss Carson. She was a great friend of yours, wasn’t she?

She still is. I’ve had a letter from her just this morning.

Lady Bosworth cast her an appraising look. You correspond with the Duchess of Waring, do you?

Of course. We were in finishing school together.

How could I forget? Lady Bosworth said. Lady Grantham’s girls.

Lady Marlbury, are you warm enough? Grace said, shifting the topic before Lady Bosworth could offer her opinion of Genevieve Grantham.

I’m quite well, thank you.

But Lady Bosworth was never so easily managed. Lady Grantham deals in heiresses. How did you end up there, Miss Godwyn?

Grace kept her eyes lowered and her voice gentle, no easy feat when dealing with Lady Bosworth. Just fortunate, I suppose.

"All her connections didn’t do you much good, I see."

Apparently not.

In the end, it had done her no good at all, because she had no money or family connections to entice a husband, and her charms had proved too modest to overcome that deficit. It was becoming increasingly likely she’d spend her life as she was spending this winter, dancing attendance on ailing dowagers. Or she might finally be forced to go into service.

That Batchelder boy has been behaving in a most unpleasant manner this Season, Lady Bosworth said, finally moving on from interrogating Grace. He and his wild friends from school are leaving a trail of scandal wherever they go. Lady Bosworth had joined them in France two weeks ago, seemingly with no other purpose but to dispense gossip from London. She seemed so obsessed with the goings-on back in England that Grace wondered why she’d bothered to leave it at all.

These younger sons, the dowager sighed, shaking her head in disapproval. Left to their own devices, they embroil themselves in all sorts of inappropriate scrapes. Then she smiled up at her grandson, who stood leaning on the back of her chair. Not like my Frederick. Such a steady, honorable young man. You’d never misbehave like those fast Cambridge boys.

Frederick smiled indulgently at his grandmother. Frederick Musgrave was in his mid-twenties, strapping, athletic, and handsome, in his way. He would no doubt prefer to be at the casino in nearby Monte Carlo tonight, rather than keeping his aged grandmother company, but he was gamely doing his familial duty.

Of course not, Grandmother. He glanced up at Grace and winked. She dropped her eyes to her hands. Frederick likely got up to far more bad behavior than his doting grandmother believed.

She could feel Frederick’s eyes still on her. He’d watched her for the whole week he’d been visiting. While not actively encouraging him, she hadn’t discouraged him either. She couldn’t afford to.

This was the second year the dowager had invited Grace along as her guest, which was a kind way of saying she was there to run errands and fetch things for her. On the face of it, she was a genteel young woman keeping the dowager company on her trip. In truth, she was a penniless orphan attempting to make herself useful to earn her keep.

At least it had given her a socially acceptable place to go for several months. Last year, between helping out at Gen’s with her students, helping Amelia plan her wedding in London, and then a visit to Victoria’s estate in Hampshire, she’d successfully kept a roof over her head. This year had looked grim until the dowager’s invitation came. She’d always have a place with Gen or Victoria—or Amelia, if she ever returned from overseas—but as the years wore on, she could see those stays feeling less like visits with friends and more like charity. That, she couldn’t bear.

Grace, dear, the dowager said. I seem to have left my heavier gloves at the hotel and it’s growing chilly.

I’ll get them for you, Grandmother, Frederick said gallantly.

Oh no, Grace demurred. I wouldn’t dream of depriving your grandmother of a moment of your company. Let me go. It was exactly what she was supposed to say. Frederick’s company was valued. Hers was not. She dropped into a tiny curtsy. I’ll just be a minute.

Over his grandmother’s head, Frederick smirked at her, something between amusement and desire flashing in his eyes. He was not particularly appealing, but if she’d managed to raise the interest of Frederick Musgrave, she needed to do whatever it took to secure him. A younger son of an earl was no small thing and, as Lady Bosworth had so helpfully pointed out, she was a desperate woman.

Perhaps it would have been better had she never had the chance to live with Gen. If she’d gone straight to work at fifteen, orphaned and penniless, she’d have made her own way, probably have married some shopkeeper by now and forgotten all about her noble origins. Instead, she’d gone to Gen, mixed in the highest London Society, made friends she thought of as sisters, and she’d begun to hope that somehow, fate would intervene and allow her to stay—to reclaim everything she’d lost at the hands of her father. But as she’d known from the time she was a girl, fate was not her friend.

If she went into service, she’d be closed out of that world forever. Genevieve, and her friends from those years, Victoria and Amelia, would never abandon her, but their friendship would have to remain separate from the rest of their lives. As a governess or a milliner, she could never mix among her wealthy friends’ other guests. Although her current situation had also subtly set her apart, at least on the face of it, she still belonged.

By the time she’d made her way through the crowds of revelers back to their suite of rooms at the hotel, retrieved the dowager’s gloves, and returned to the plaza, a new festivity was well underway.

The older people had moved off to watch from the comfort of the many cafes and restaurants in the heart of Menton, leaving the plaza and surrounding streets to the younger people. Grace paused at the edge of the plaza to watch for a moment. Everyone held a candle, the young men and women alike. The goal seemed to be to attempt to blow out your partner’s candle while keeping your own safe from a similar attack.

A few feet away, a beautiful dark-haired French girl, perhaps a year or two younger than Grace, laughed and dodged through the crowd as a handsome young man pursued her. He caught up to her at the edge of the fountain and made a lunge toward her candle. She shrieked in delight and raised it high over her head, out of his reach. With his free arm, he grasped her around the waist, pulling her body against his as he strained to reach her candle and blow it out. After a few moments of giggling, halfhearted struggle, she lowered it enough that he succeeded. She feigned outrage before her young man relit her wick with his own. He waited expectantly, her candle glowing between them, until she paid for the light with a kiss.

What must that feel like? To flirt with a young man simply because he pleased you and you pleased him? She’d never done it, never been free to do it. Her social life had revolved around attempting to engage the interest of whichever man Genevieve had considered a viable matrimonial possibility. Her own desires had nothing to do with the activity. Romance, flirtations, love...those were indulgences she couldn’t afford. But what could it hurt to watch someone else’s story unfold for a moment? Her own dreary life would still be waiting when she returned to it.

Across the darkening plaza, she sensed someone watching her. When the crowd cleared for a moment, she could see it was a man, sitting alone at one of the cafes. He was little more than a flickering impression at this distance, but she registered dark hair and a sharply rendered face. A frisson of awareness skated along her nerves.

Ordinarily she’d have immediately averted her eyes. A young lady did not encourage the attentions of strange men. But something about the romance of the night swept her up and she boldly stared back. She couldn’t discern much about him, but she allowed her imagination to fill in the details. Tall, and handsome, of course, with dark eyes. She liked dark eyes. He’d be intelligent and powerful, naturally, but considerate and kind. She quite liked this man in her imagination. Pity then, that the real one across the way would no doubt be a disappointment, should she ever encounter him in the clear light of day. Real men were always a disappointment.

She should return to the dowager and give her the gloves still tucked in the pocket of her skirt. She should spend the evening securing the interest of Frederick Musgrave. And she would, in just a few minutes. For now, she hovered at the edge of the plaza, half-cloaked in the rapidly descending darkness, watching lovers laugh and pursue each other in the flickering light of a hundred candles, and imagined that a handsome stranger was watching her.

"Mademoiselle, ici! Ici!"

An elderly gentleman with an elaborate white curling moustache stepped in front of her, startling her. He was pressing a lit candle into her hands.

"Pardon, non," she protested, attempting to return it to him. This game was not for her.

"C’est le moucouleti! he insisted, waving a hand at the game unfolding in the plaza. The moucouleti"—that was the name for this game.

She shook her head again. "Non, je ne peux pas." No, I can’t. That was the truth. No games for her. Not when she’d been a child and certainly not now.

"Telle une jolie jeune fille! he cried, patting her cheek. Allez chercher votre le grand amour!"

Go and find your true love.

With a wry twist of her lips, Grace relented and took his candle. "Très bien."

He chuckled and moved on. What a romantic notion, that a girl like her could find her true love in a darkened plaza. Or anywhere else. Love was for girls who had the luxury of choice.

When she looked back across the plaza, her handsome stranger was gone. Ah, well. See? No more magic for her. Time to set aside her fantasy and return to the dowager. But the candlelit crowd was so pretty. For now, she wanted to soak up the magic of this night, even if the magic could never be hers. Instead of skirting around the plaza, taking a direct route back to the dowager, she stepped into the crowd, deciding to indulge in one more magic moment in a life otherwise devoid of any magic at all. What could be the harm?

After a day spent sorting out the sordid details of his late father’s estate, the last thing Julian had patience for was some sort of citywide celebration. It had unfolded around the plaza as he sat eating dinner at a café, and now he was trapped by it. He didn’t have the energy to fight his way through a throng of flirtatious young people, so he poured another glass of wine, sat back in his chair and waited for the crowd to grow bored with the game.

It was some sort of lovers’ revelry that involved candles and kisses. How fitting that it was taking place today, as he settled the affairs of the late, reprobate, bohemian Earl of Knighton. His dissolute father would have loved these festivities, had no doubt participated in them frequently when he’d lived here. Perhaps that’s why they held no appeal for Julian. He’d been too busy holding things together back in England to indulge in this kind of frivolity.

He was idly watching the crowd when he spotted her, a slim, still figure alone at the edge of the gaiety, observing it but not a part of it, like him. She was so self-possessed, so separate from everyone around her. What held her back from joining in?

At that moment, she looked across the plaza and locked eyes with him, and his idle curiosity was supplanted by a visceral awareness. It snapped between them, tempting him to push through the crowd to reach her. He left his chair and moved to the edge of the crowd, the better to see her. But an elderly Frenchman stepped between them to speak to her, and he lost sight of her. The spell was broken. He returned to his chair, his mood even blacker than before.

It must be this place, causing him to indulge in such an irrational impulse. His father was the one who indulged in his impulses, and in doing so, he’d damaged the lives of nearly everyone around him. Indulging in impulses was a selfish thing to do when people were depending on you. The sooner Julian concluded his business in Menton and returned home, the better.

He poured himself another glass of wine and when he looked up again, he saw the same woman, now part of the throng, weaving through the crowd and clutching a candle of her own. There even seemed to be a gentleman with her, one of the performers from the parade earlier, dressed in a mask and cape. Just as well. She was no business of his.

Then, as she reached the edge of the plaza, she glanced back over her shoulder at the caped man with fear all over her face. That was no lover’s pursuit. She was in trouble. Julian was back on his feet in an instant, following them through the crowd, snatching one of those bloody candles from a stranger’s hand to light his way.

Almost immediately, he lost them in the tangle of darkened lanes off the plaza, and he cursed himself. Now he’d have to walk these streets all night until he found her and assured himself of her safety. He cut to the left, then to the right, and as he turned right again, intending to circle back to the plaza, he heard footsteps, light and rapid. More distantly, a heavy set of footsteps sounded in pursuit. She was coming straight toward him in the darkness.

Without thinking it through entirely, he stepped to the side, into a dark alcove—the tiny walled courtyard in front of a narrow townhouse—and waited.

Then she was there before him, hurrying past him in a rustle of skirts and rapid breathing. He reached for her and pulled her into the alcove, curling his arm around her and covering her mouth to silence her as her pursuer lumbered past. She struggled against him briefly until he leaned down and whispered in her ear, Shhh. Just let him pass by and I’ll see you back to safety.

At his words, she stilled, and when he chanced to look down into her face, she was looking up at him, panting against his hand. The frisson of awareness when their eyes met back on the plaza was nothing to what he felt now, an electric shock burning under his skin. He dropped his hand and took a step back.

The flickering gold light from his candle danced over her pale skin, gilding the curves of her fine features. Large, gray eyes gazed up at him, fringed with a wealth of dark lashes. His eyes dropped down to her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted and he recalled the softness of them pressed against his palm just a moment ago. His skin still tingled where he’d touched her.

Are you all right?

She nodded slowly, never taking her eyes off his. Thank you, she murmured. Her voice was clear, soft and steady, like everything else about her. She was English, of course. He’d guessed as much from her dress and bearing. Her accent indicated that she was highly bred. Hardly a surprise, as Menton was overrun with wealthy Britons during the winter months.

He licked his lips. His mouth had gone dry. Do you know him? Will he be waiting for your return?

She shook her head, pressing her palm to her chest to calm herself. He was just a performer from the parade, looking for mischief, I think. He saw I was alone and took advantage.

Were you separated from your family? Will they be looking for you?

She hesitated for a moment, then, No one will be looking for me.

An odd statement. Well-bred young women were always under someone’s watchful eye. Without family, what was she doing in Menton?

Ah, you’re hiding something. A husband, perhaps?

Her lips twitched as she fought not to smile. Something quite peculiar happened in his chest at the sight of it. She raised her left hand to show him and waggled her bare fingers.

No husband, then. His tone had become light, nearly flirtatious. Julian wasn’t sure he’d ever flirted with anyone in his life. He hadn’t known he could until he was doing it. A lover? Did you leave one back there on the plaza? No. He shook his head. You’re too sad to have a lover out there.

Those remarkable gray eyes widened. You profess to know me very well.

He shrugged. I can only speak to what I see, and there’s something about you... Wisps of her silky, sable brown hair had escaped during her flight and brushed against her cheeks. Julian saw his hand, almost as if it belonged to someone else, reach up and brush the strands away from her face. The move was entirely too bold, but she didn’t pull away. Something sad. But why?

One elegant eyebrow rose, as regal as a queen’s. You think I could have no cause for unhappiness?

Are you ill? Is that why you’re in Menton? Wealthy Europeans often spent long convalescences in Menton. She looked