The Dowager Duchess announced my fake engagement to her son — and he had no idea.
Part 1
The drawing room of Ashford House hummed with the polite chatter of London’s finest ladies.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over silk gowns and elaborate coiffures.
Servants glided between clusters of women bearing silver trays laden with tea and delicate pastries.
I had positioned myself in what I considered the most advantageous spot in the entire room.
My small settee sat near the window, partially obscured by an enormous potted fern.
From this vantage point, observing the proceedings was easy without being drawn into tedious conversations.
Nobody wanted to hear my opinions on the latest bonnet styles or which gentleman danced with whom at last week’s ball.
At twenty-six, perfecting the art of social invisibility had become my primary skill.
My dark auburn hair and intelligent gray eyes had caught enough attention during my first season nine years ago.
Then my father’s investments went catastrophically wrong.
Our family teetered on the edge of financial ruin.
Suitors evaporated like morning mist the moment the rumors started.
Pride prevented me from accepting offers from men who viewed me solely as a pretty ornament.
Practicality kept me from pursuing romantic fantasies when my family desperately needed my dowry money.
We needed to keep our ancestral home from falling into complete disrepair.
Sipping my tea, a small smile of satisfaction crossed my lips.
Observing humanity from a safe distance felt perfectly pleasant.
Contributing my required attendance to the charitable cause fulfilled my social obligations.
More importantly, it helped me avoid the pitying glances that inevitably came when unmarried women of a certain age gathered together.
“That one,” a crisp aristocratic voice declared from somewhere behind the fern.
I froze with my teacup halfway to my lips.
“I beg your pardon, your grace,” came another voice.
If I wasn’t mistaken, that sounded exactly like Mrs. Pemberton.
“That young woman by the window, who is she?”
My heart sank as the realization hit that they were discussing me.
Standing up to announce my presence seemed like the polite thing to do.
Something in the tone of the first voice kept me firmly seated.
It sounded imperious, calculating, and utterly confident.
“That is Lady Megan Weatherstone, your grace,” Mrs. Pemberton whispered.
She explained that I was Lord Weatherstone’s daughter from a perfectly respectable family.
“Though I understand they’ve had some difficulties in recent years,” she added.
“Difficulties?” the aristocratic voice asked.
This woman definitely possessed a title, and her tone sounded intrigued rather than dismissive.
“Financial troubles, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Pemberton confided.
She clarified that it was nothing scandalous, merely poor investments because my father was too trusting.
“Lady Megan is quite proper, though she never took,” she continued.
Some claimed I was too bookish, while others called me too opinionated.
“Personally, I think she simply never found anyone worthy of her notice,” Mrs. Pemberton suggested.
“Or perhaps no one worthy gave her the attention she deserved,” the first voice replied thoughtfully.
She then asked the question that made me nearly choke on my tea.
“Tell me, is she desperate to marry?”
The audacity of the question left me breathless.
“Desperate?”
Mrs. Pemberton stammered.
She admitted she wouldn’t say desperate, but noted that my prospects diminished with each passing season.
“At her age, she cannot afford to be too particular.”
“Perfect,” the titled woman declared with immense satisfaction.
She repeated the word “absolutely perfect” as if she had just solved a complex mathematical equation.
Before my mind could process this alarming statement, a woman swept around the fern.
She possessed the force of a small hurricane.
Perhaps sixty years of age, she dressed in an exquisite lavender silk gown that screamed wealth and impeccable taste.
Silver hair was arranged in an elaborate style that must have taken her lady’s maid hours to complete.
Diamonds sparkled at her throat that could probably feed a small village for a year.
Most notably, she wore an expression of absolute determination.
“Lady Megan Weatherstone,” the woman announced.
She settled herself onto the settee with the authority of someone accustomed to having her smallest wish obeyed.
“I am Brenda Merrow, Dowager Duchess of Silverly.”
She looked me directly in the eye and delivered her next words without hesitation.
“I have a proposition for you that will sound utterly mad.”
Blinking at her, acute awareness crept over me that several other ladies had noticed her sudden interest.
They were now watching our corner with unconcealed curiosity.
“Your grace,” I managed, setting down my teacup before my trembling hands dropped it.
Expressing my honor at her attention felt like the right thing to say, but I stumbled over the words.
“You’re unmarried,” Brenda interrupted with characteristic bluntness.
She listed my age and intelligence, noting my sensible nature.
“You also desperately need money, though you’re too proud to show it,” she finished.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as I tried to form a coherent response.
“Your gloves,” she continued, gesturing to my hands.
She pointed out that they were beautifully made but had been turned twice.
Faint marks where the original stitching was remained visible to her sharp eyes.
My gown was at least three years old, cleverly disguised with new ribbon.
“And unless I’m very much mistaken, those are paste pearls at your throat,” she observed.
She knew my family had sold the genuine Weatherstone pearls my grandmother was famous for wearing.
The frank assessment, delivered without malice but absolute certainty, left me speechless.
Years spent perfecting my facade of genteel normalcy had been seen through in seconds.
“I mean no offense,” Brenda said more gently.
Her eyes remained sharp as she explained she needed to ensure I understood the value of her proposition.
“You see, I have a son.”
Offering weak congratulations seemed like my only option.
Her lips twitched in amusement.
“Tyler Merrow, Duke of Silverly,” she stated.
She described him as thirty-two years old, devastatingly handsome, and wealthy beyond measure.
He also possessed absolutely no interest whatsoever in finding a wife.
Dozens of beautiful, accomplished young ladies had been paraded before him over the past decade.
He treated them all with perfect courtesy and complete indifference.
“I’m sorry for your difficulty, your grace, but I fail to see how this concerns me,” I managed to say.
She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“You are going to pretend to be his fiance, starting immediately.”
Staring at her, I could only beg her pardon.
“Just for this afternoon,” she continued as if she hadn’t suggested something completely insane.
Several odious women at the gathering had been hounding her mercilessly about Tyler’s unmarried state.
Someone had even suggested that her son preferred unconventional companionship.
“I need to silence them, and you, my dear, are the perfect solution.”
Refusal rose in my throat, but she silenced me with a raised hand.
“You can, and you will,” she said firmly.
“Because I am going to make it worth your while.”
Somewhere in my sensible mind, a voice screamed at me to make my excuses and leave immediately.
Another part of me remembered watching my father’s worry lines deepen.
That same part had seen my mother quietly sell family heirlooms piece by piece.
I had lain awake at night calculating how many more months we could maintain appearances before the creditors came calling.
That desperate part of me stood up.
“Excellent,” Brenda rose as well, linking her arm through mine with proprietary satisfaction.
She instructed me to smile as if she’d just shared delightful news.
“And for heaven’s sake, try to look like a woman in love.”
Pointing out that I didn’t even know her son felt entirely pointless.
“Minor detail,” she dismissed my concern.
“Now hold your head high, you’re about to become the most talked about woman in London.”
Before any further protest could escape my lips, she steered me into the center of the drawing room.
The gathered ladies turned to observe us with varying degrees of interest.
“Ladies,” Brenda announced in a voice that carried effortlessly across the room.
Conversation came to an immediate halt.
“I have the most wonderful news.”
She paused for dramatic effect, ensuring every eye in the room was fixed firmly upon us.
“May I present my son’s fiance, Lady Megan Weatherstone.”
