A Suitable Groom

‘Just a little something now and then, to wrap around a pair of earrings or a pendant …’ This had been followed by a deep sigh from Poppy.

Romantic? When the hell had he had time to be romantic? Keeping one step ahead of them had taken every vestige of wit he possessed. Not that he was a total stranger to the florist, or to long-stemmed red roses come to that—but buying a woman silk underwear …? Maybe he was getting old, because he would have thought that was the quickest way to a black eye known to man, even if you were married to her.

While he’d pondered on the illogicality of women, his sisters had proceeded to dissect his character with the precision of a pair of brain surgeons as they matched him against every available female over the age of thirty in the county.

They’d clearly decided it was time he had a wife to take care of him now that they were both otherwise involved, and, quite overlooking the fact that he’d spent the last fifteen years looking after them, they’d decided that it was their duty to find him one. Someone sensible; someone who would be grateful for the attention; someone who had reached the magic age of thirty. He was sure it would have been older but for the fact that they were concerned that he might want an heir. Kind of them to be so considerate.

The trouble was that once those two girls had put their minds to something, nothing would move them. He could protest as much as he liked that he had no intention of marrying anyone, least of all any of the women they had picked out as likely candidates.

They would humour him, make a fuss of him, tell him not to worry about a thing, and if he wasn’t extremely wary he would very shortly find himself standing at the altar of the village church, waiting for some female who would be wearing a vast amount of lace and a smile like the Cheshire Cat as she chained him to her with a tiny band of gold. It was quite possible that he would even be quite happy at the prospect. He’d seen it happen to more than one man. It was quite terrifying what women were capable of …

His only advantage was that they had no idea that he had wind of their plans. It wasn’t much, but he intended to put it to good use. His first move was to take himself out of harm’s way, somewhere safe, where he wouldn’t find himself agreeing to some innocent-sounding invitation that would result in tears before bedtime. His tears.

And in the privacy of his club, a place where no one would be allowed to bother him without his express permission, he could spend the entire weekend in serious consideration of some way to divert them from their devious little plan.

Once the wedding was over, he would be safe. Dora would be on honeymoon with John, and when they returned she would have a husband, her little stepdaughter, Sophie, and all the distractions of everyday life, as well as her charity work to keep her busy. And Poppy’s contract with an American cosmetic company would soon take her and Richard back across the Atlantic.

It was the week before the wedding that would be the most dangerous period. There would be any number of dinners and small parties for family and friends, affairs at which the Ginnie Metcalfes and Sarah Darcy-Williamses would be pushed at him with the belief firmly implanted by his sisters that, with a little effort, they might soon be Mrs Fergus Kavanagh. Rather like a game of pass the parcel—whoever caught him when the music stopped would be the winner. He wasn’t a vain man, but he was well aware that he would make a prize catch for an ambitious woman.

Unaware of his sister’s plans, he might just have been flattered enough by all the attention to slip a little … and where two or three determined women were gathered in the cause of matrimony, a slip was all it would take.

Of course, Veronica Grant was ambitious, too. She had to be to have broken through the glass ceiling and risen to the top in what was still largely a man’s world. But she was ambitious on her own behalf. She was no more on the prowl for a wealthy husband than he was seeking a suitable wife, with or without a good seat on a horse.

She had taken him by surprise with her suggestion, it was true, but nobody had ever suggested he was slow in latching on to a good idea. She was, in fact, the answer to a confirmed bachelor’s prayer.

And, like all the best plans, it had simplicity to commend it. It was delightfully simple. Perfectly simple. Fergus could hardly wait to see Poppy and Dora’s reaction when they discovered that their dull, unromantic, boring old brother could find a woman of such elegance, self-assurance and beauty without any assistance from them.

Always assuming, of course, that Veronica Grant would agree to a double distraction. ‘You need me to keep your mother’s posse of prospective bridegrooms at bay and I’m happy to do it,’ he said. ‘All I ask in return is that you stick to my side like glue at Dora’s wedding in two weeks’ time. No strings. No complications. Not even the momentary embarrassment of a cheque in an envelope. Just two people helping each other out of a difficult situation.’ He smiled at her across the remnants of their breakfast. ‘Well, Miss Grant, what do you say? Do we have a deal?’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0e163278-e72a-5d06-92df-918a32d6fc12)

VERONICA had acted on an impulse born out of desperation when she’d seen Fergus Kavanagh sprinting across the platform and climbing aboard the train. But then, all her really good decisions had been made that way. Not that she would ever have admitted it. Women did not reach the boardroom by admitting to anything as unbusinesslike as ‘feminine intuition’, the distaff version of that old favourite ‘gut instinct’ so often used by men to justify decisions which seemed completely off the wall.

But it was one thing taking a chance on a business deal, quite another propositioning a man she had never met before on the eight-fifteen to London.

Looking across at him now, she could still scarcely credit that split-second quantum leap from idea to action. But a deep-down tingle as he had entered the carriage had told her that she had been right, that her intuition was in perfect working order. Fergus Kavanagh was, without doubt, the man to impress her mother: chiselled good looks, classic tailoring and the kind of financial stability that would stand up to any amount of scrutiny. It was a winning combination, and with him on her arm she would certainly be spared her mother’s pointed references to the march of time.

She glanced at Kavanagh surreptitiously from beneath her lashes and discovered that he was watching her, waiting for her answer. By his own admission, he came into that category of thirty-something men who had somehow escaped marriage. Had he really been too busy to find a wife, or could it be that his interests lay in another direction? Could it be that he was in fact gay, but chose to keep the truth from his matchmaking sisters?

There was nothing in those thoughtful brown eyes to raise her pulse or her blood pressure, yet there was something, a stillness, that sent a warning tingle straight to her toes. If this had been a business meeting, she would have known he was the most dangerous man in the room, and up close, in full colour, Mr Fergus Kavanagh looked a great deal more impressive than his fuzzy newspaper photograph had suggested.

When he’d appeared in the doorway of the dining car she’d almost lost her nerve, unexpectedly daunted by the power that seemed to emanate from him; it was an unfamiliar feeling. She was used to being the one in control.

But now all she had to do was say “yes” and they would be conspirators. It would be them against the meddling matchmakers, and who could ever doubt that they would win?

The idea gave her the kind of buzz she got from a real business deal, the kind involving millions of pounds, and suddenly she wanted to laugh out loud. ‘I say we have a deal, Mr Kavanagh,’ she said.

‘Fergus,’ he said, offering her his strong, long-boned hand to seal the bargain. ‘It had better be Fergus, don’t you think?’ Mischief sparked unexpectedly in the depths of those dark, still eyes. ‘If we’re to convince your mother, and anyone else who’s interested, that we are lovers.’

Veronica felt her cheeks heat up. It was one thing making plans in her head. Quite another to look a perfect stranger in the face while he said the word out loud. Lovers. Of course, that was what she had intended her mother to believe and he knew it. They were, after all, a little mature just to be holding hands.

‘Veronica,’ she said quickly, rather than reply to his question, but as she accepted his hand she wished she hadn’t thought of them holding hands in quite that way.

The tingle of awareness as skin touched skin, as his fingers closed about hers, was no figment of her imagination; there was an undeniable flare of excitement, of risk even, rare enough to trigger all kinds of built-in alarm systems. Not that they were necessary, she reminded herself. This was nothing more than a little mutual aid.

‘Veronica,’ he repeated.

‘Or Ronnie, if you prefer.’

‘Ronnie?’

‘It’s a nickname left over from school.’ From the look on his face she should have abandoned it there, along with her gym slip and hockey stick.

‘My sisters call me Gussie—when they think I can’t hear them,’ he admitted.

‘Do they?’ Her eyes widened. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

‘No more than Ronnie suits you.’

‘Oh.’ She had the feeling that something less formal would have been more appropriate if they had been lovers, but could not quite bring herself to say so. ‘Well, most people find my name rather a mouthful and try to shorten it.’

‘That’s no reason to make it easy for them. Veronica suits you. It’s a lovely name.’

She stared at him for a moment, unable to quite decipher his tone of voice. Was that a compliment? His face gave nothing away. She suspected that it never would … unless he wanted it to. She looked up, grateful for the interruption, as the steward approached with the bill for breakfast, quickly putting some money on the plate in order to forestall Kavanagh’s offer to pay for hers.

Having hijacked him, she knew she should offer to pay for both of them, but he would certainly refuse to allow her to do that, and she had no wish to cause any unnecessary awkwardness between them. It was beginning to occur to her that the possibilities for that were already legion. Instead, she looked out of the window at the bleak concrete retaining walls that lined the last mile or so of the track into London. ‘We’re nearly there.’

‘Where are you going? If we’re heading in the same direction, we could share a taxi.’

She turned back to face him. ‘I’m staying with a friend near Sloane Square. Just off the King’s Road.’

‘Is she going to the wedding, too?’

‘Well, yes—’

‘Then it might be a good idea if she sees us together,’ Fergus said. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Suzie Broughton, but I thought you had an urgent appointment with your tailor.’

‘He’ll wait.’ Irritating his tailor was a small price to pay for the enjoyment of this highly original woman’s company for a few more minutes. ‘As a matter of interest, what would you have done if I hadn’t been about to pick up a morning suit?’

‘Nothing.’ She smiled as his eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘I’m sure you’re more than capable of renting one without any help from me. If not, you wouldn’t be the man for the job.’

There was no answer to that. Or, at least, not one that immediately leapt to mind. Instead, he stood up and took his overnight bag from the rack. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked, turning to the Vuitton case. Without waiting for an answer, he lifted it down and stood it alongside his, remaining on his feet as the train slid into the station. ‘You know, it has occurred to me that we should spend a little time getting our stories straight. Where we met—that sort of thing. It wouldn’t do to contradict one another. If your mother is the least bit suspicious—’

‘Why should she be?’ She stood up, easing her lovely legs from beneath the table. She was tall, five-ten at least, and her dark, pencil-slim skirt stopped a long way short of her knees. She slid her arms into a matching jacket that skimmed her hips and stopped a few inches short of the hem of her skirt.

‘She sounds like the type of woman who takes a keen interest in your affairs,’ he said, more to distract himself from her legs than for any genuine concern that they would be found out.