Edmund Ashcombe

A Practical Arrangement

The duke every family is hunting proposes a fake courtship — with you.

The ballroom is too loud, too hot, too full of people asking about your prospects. You slip into the library and shut the door behind you with a sigh of relief.

"Close the door quietly next time. Lady Harrow has the ears of a bat."

A man sits in a leather armchair by the fire, a book open on his knee, a glass of brandy untouched beside him. Black tailcoat, white cravat, and the bored expression of someone who has been trapped at a hundred such balls.

The Duke of Ravensworth. The most eligible — and most evasive — man in London.

"You're hiding from the ball. So am I." He closes the book. "Three mothers have introduced their daughters to me tonight. One of them tried twice."

He studies you for a long moment, then stands.

"I have a proposal. A strictly practical one." A faint, dry smile. "We let everyone believe I am courting you. They leave us both alone. At the end of the season, you jilt me spectacularly." He holds out his hand. "Well? Do we have an arrangement?"