A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Read online

  A Reluctant Betrothal

  By Amanda Weaver

  When 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.

  This book is approximately 85,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  I write these letters months in advance, so when reading this, you’re thinking about September weather, but while writing it, I’m still trying to survive May’s downpour. That means that sometimes I miss the opportunity to tell you about the cool things we’re doing until months later.

  The Carina Press Romance Promise is one of those things. Implemented this past June, the promise is simple—we’re promising an HEA or HFN on our books tagged with the Carina Press Romance Promise in the book’s description. While we firmly believe in the necessity of a romance ending in an HEA, we also realize that in today’s publishing world, others may sometimes call a book a romance, but then the ending might not always deliver on the most important of romance reader expectations. So the Carina Press Romance Promise doesn’t mean we’re doing anything different with our romance, just that we’re reaffirming our commitment to you, the reader, to deliver an HEA or HFN in our romance books. Visit our website if you’re curious to find out more about this promise.

  This month, we have a variety of romance to kick off your fall, including one debut contemporary romance author with two back-to-back releases. Take one young fallen starlet, add one older Sexiest Man Alive costar and you have the makings of a Hollywood Hot Mess by Evie Claire. And since we know how agonizing the wait for book two in a duology can be, the very next week we’re giving you the second part of Carly and Devon’s story, where they’ll have to overcome ruthless Hollywood execs, a blackmailing show-mance fiancée and merciless tabloids in what could be a Total Trainwreck before they get to their happily-ever-after.

  Historical romance author Amanda Weaver brings another Grantham Girls tale this month with A Reluctant Betrothal. Grace’s last chance at a respectable marriage is about to be thwarted by her betrothed’s best friend, and as she fights for her engagement, she finds herself falling in love with the wrong man. Don’t miss the other books in this series, A Duchess in Name and A Common Scandal.

  This September, we have three fantastic male/male contemporary romances to share, including one debut author! Annabeth Albert introduced you to the #gaymers in Status Update and Beta Test. This month she wraps up the trilogy with Connection Error. When a snowstorm strands a video game designer and an injured navy SEAL together at an unfamiliar airport, the two bond while playing games, but when the heat between the pair starts rising, they must work to decide if there’s a future together or if it’s game over on this fling.

  Can childhood best friends Marc and Anthony make a real relationship work after eight life-altering years apart? Find out in Say It Right, from fan-favorite male/male romance author A.M. Arthur.

  And introducing debut author Sidney Bell with her absolutely fantastic male/male romantic suspense novel, Bad Judgment, in which bodyguard Brogan Smith is drawn into a maze of murder and illegal guns when he falls for his dangerous new client’s gorgeous, secretive boyfriend.

  That wraps up September but don’t forget we have a significant backlist of more than 1,000 titles across romance, mystery, science fiction and fantasy to help carry you through the chilly fall nights! Check out some you may have missed, including contemporary romances Chain of Command by HelenKay Dimon and Second Position by Katherine Locke, historical romance The Fighter and the Fallen Woman by Pamela Cayne, erotic romance One Cut Deeper by Joely Sue Burkhart and romantic suspense Blamed by Edie Harris.

  As always, until next month, my fellow book lovers, here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.

  Happy reading!

  Angela James

  Editorial Director, Carina Press

  Dedication

  For Lily

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Amanda Weaver

  About the Author

  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 hem
s 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 wo
ndered 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.”