A Real Engagement

A Real Engagement
Marjorie Lewty

Two halves of a whole…Inheriting a house in the south of France was a wonderful surprise for Josie. After the loss of her mother, some time in the sun was just what she needed. But the other half of the villa belonged to architect Leon Kent–who firmly believed he had bought both halves!It seemed he had a temporary solution and, before Josie knew it, she was playing the part of his fiancée. The trouble was, the more she got to know Leon, the longer she wore his ring, the more she wished the engagement was for real….

About the Author (#uba73f42d-e308-512b-9ce0-ccccc86b783b)Title Page (#ucf17361b-ddfe-5995-8723-52d5ccce7152)PROLOGUE (#u9ee9cfe8-e8de-5390-b335-d74499d6ff46)CHAPTER ONE (#u8ab854cd-2fe0-540e-a2bf-2689307ccfc4)CHAPTER TWO (#u1deaecaf-d1da-5f7c-b27e-8e6afdd69b7d)CHAPTER THREE (#u1f1cca4d-552b-5131-a82b-04e343f8dbed)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Josie gritted her teeth

“I suppose I may be allowed to own a house at twenty-three?”

“Certainly. But not the house next door. And in case you’re going to say why not, it’s because I shall own it myself in a few days. I plan to restore the villa to its former glory, to take down the dividing walls and replan the rooms.”

“Really?”. Josie raised delicate eyebrows. Leon was so confident, so disgustingly sure of himself that it would be a pleasure to take him down a peg or two. But she mustn’t rush it.

Marjorie Lewty was born in Cheshire, England, and grew up between there and the Isle of Man. She moved to Liverpool and married there. Now widowed, she has a son who is an artist, and a married daughter. She has always been drawn to writing and started with magazine short stories, then serials and finally book-length romances, which are the most satisfying of all. Her hobbies include knitting, music and lying in the garden thinking of plots!

A Real Engagement

Marjorie Lewty

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

PROLOGUE

IT HAD all begun that June morning, when Charles—her father liked her to call him Charles—had phoned to invite her to lunch. ‘I’m off to New York tomorrow, Jo, and there’s a small matter of business to be settled between us before I leave.’ She had guessed that it would have something to do with her mother’s will, details of which had not been finalised yet. ‘And I’ve got some news for you,’ Charles had continued, and his voice had sounded excited, almost euphoric. ‘Twelve-thirty at Claridge’s, OK? I’ll send Baker with the Rolls to pick you up.’ He hadn’t given her time to reply.

So, at twelve-thirty that morning, Charles Dunn’s shining Rolls Royce had transported her to Claridges, and now she was standing in the lounge looking for Charles, her tall, slim figure, russet curls and greenish-hazel eyes attracting covert glances from a party of men at a nearby table.

Charles was sitting at a small table with a bottle of champagne in a bucket beside him and two glasses on the table. He stood up with his charming smile as she joined him. He was putting on weight, she noticed, but he still looked as handsome as ever, immaculate in a grey pin-stripe suit with a camellia in his buttonhole. He kissed her affectionately on the cheek. ‘Hullo, poppet. You’re looking charming. I like that green dress; it’s new, isn’t it? Sit down and join me in a celebration.’

She smiled back at him. He was her father and she loved him, in spite of the misery he had brought to her poor, sad mother.

‘What are we celebrating, exactly?’ she asked, accepting a glass of champagne.

Charles looked slightly abashed. ‘I’m getting married. ’

Josie’s brows rose. ‘For the fourth time?’

He fiddled with the stem of his glass. ‘Well, you know how it is.’

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘I know how you are. OK, then, tell me all about it.’

Charles needed no encouragement. The story halted only briefly when they moved to the dining-room for lunch. Here, waiters glided noiselessly between tables where glass and cutlery gleamed on snowy damask cloths. Josie was hungry, and prepared to enjoy the smoked salmon with a promise of duckling to follow. Charles, however, only wanted to talk about his new love.

Josie had heard the same story twice before. The only difference was that this woman was American. Her name was Gabrielle and she was half-French. Divorced, of course, and very wealthy, Josie gathered. Not that that would matter much to Charles, whose thriving property business, together with various smaller concerns, had made him a very rich man. He must be already paying out large amounts of alimony. He was an incorrigible faller-in-love, she thought, half-amused and half-angry. But at least he married the girls. She hoped this one would last.

Charles said, ‘I’ve been trying to persuade her to marry me—she’s been staying in London with friends—and when she went back to the US I thought I’d lost her. But last night she phoned me to say yes. I’m over the moon, as you can imagine,’ he ended exultantly. ‘You’ll love Gabrielle; you couldn’t help it.’

Josie thought of her mother, whose life had been ruined by this Don Juan. But you couldn’t change people. She lifted her glass to him. ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy.’

‘Thank you, Jo, I know I will. I’ve found the right woman at last.’ Charles couldn’t keep off the subject of Gabrielle long, and the eulogy lasted all through lunch. Josie enjoyed the superbly cooked food, but she doubted if her father knew what he was eating.

But finally he seemed to remember why he had asked her to come. ‘A little matter between our two solicitors, Jo, concerning a property in the South of France I bought many years ago. I’ve always been intending to renovate it and put it on the market, but I’ve never got around to it. My agents down there have dealt with letting it out to visitors, but now I have a client who is interested in buying it “as is” and I’ve decided to sell.’

Seeing Josie begin to look a little puzzled, he went on quickly, ‘But my solicitor finds that the property is registered in your mother’s name, and so will have been transferred to you under her will. Are you with me?’

‘I think so,’ Josie said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Briefly, just fix things up with your solicitor and see that the deeds are transferred to my name. I can’t think why it was put into your mother’s name, but it was bought many years ago. It was probably done to escape some tax or other. Will you do this for me?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll see Uncle Seb and ask him to clear things up.’

‘Thanks a lot, my dear. I’m tidying up various odds and ends just now. If there’s any balance due to you my solicitors will see you right.’

He finished his coffee at a gulp. ‘Are you ready, Jo? Sorry to rush you. I’ve got an appointment at three, and I’m off to New York tomorrow, and I have a lot to get through before I leave.’

When she had seen Charles off, Josie phoned Uncle Seb’s office and made an appointment to see him when he finished with his last client. That gave her time to stroll down to the big stores in Oxford Street and do some shopping. She’d planned to give herself a couple of weeks’ holiday now that she had sold the family house in St John’s Wood. She’d go to Cornwall, perhaps; Cornwall would be lovely in June—not too crowded.

She bought three sundresses, and then took a taxi to Uncle Seb’s office. ‘Uncle Seb’ was Sebastian Cross of Cross, French and Abercrombie in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He had been her mother’s friend and solicitor for as long as Josie could remember, and was now hers. He had seen her mother through her divorce seven years ago and helped her through the bad time afterwards. Her mother had always relied on him and he had never failed to do all he could for them both.

When Josie was shown into his impressive office he greeted her affectionately and settled her into a comfortable chair opposite him at his big desk.

His shrewd grey eyes smiled at her. ‘I was going to phone to ask you to call in and have a chat about your property in France, Josie,’ he said, drawing a folder towards him.

‘My property? It isn’t mine; it’s my father’s. I’ve just had lunch with him and he asked me to have the deeds transferred into his name and let his solicitors have them.’

Sebastian frowned and drew some papers from the folder. ‘I don’t get this, Josie. Tell me exactly what he said.’

Josie had a good memory, and she recounted her father’s words accurately, adding, ‘He said if there was anything due to me his solicitors would see me right.’

Sebastian’s lip curled. ‘Very generous of him!’

Josie looked worriedly at him. She had always known that Charles and Uncle Seb didn’t get on. ‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong, do you? Charles seemed a little mixed up, but I’m sure he wouldn’t try to cheat me.’

Sebastian examined the papers before him. After a long pause he lifted his head and said, ‘Listen, Josie. I knew both your mother and your father, even before they were married, and I’m not at all mixed up about what happened. I’ve always handled your mother’s affairs, and I dealt with the transaction regarding the house in France on her behalf. Your house is one of two. The original owners had a large villa divided to make two quite separate houses. Soon after your parents were married the houses both came on the market at the same time. Your father wanted to buy them both and put them together again to make one large villa which he could sell at a good price. He bought the larger house, but there wasn’t enough in the kitty to buy both. It was early in his career and he didn’t want to approach his bank manager to ask for a larger overdraft. About that time your mother had a legacy from a godmother, and she used the money to buy the second, smaller house. I dealt with the purchase for her and the house was, of course, put into her name. It has always belonged to her. So, as you are the sole beneficiary under your mother’s will, the house belongs to you. We held the deeds at this office and they are at present away, being transferred into your name. You could, of course, sell the house to your father, but it wouldn’t be a little matter of “seeing you right”. It must be worth a good deal of money.’

Josie’s smooth brow was creased. ‘But I don’t understand. Why didn’t I know about it? Why didn’t Mother tell me?’

Sebastian sighed. ‘Your mother was no business woman. She left everything of that sort to Charles. She probably never gave the matter another thought—never even knew where the house was.’

Josie had been sitting forward, listening to all this, and now she lay back in her chair. ‘So I own a house in France! Marvellous! Where is it, Uncle Seb, and have you seen it?’

He nodded. ‘I saw the outside of it a couple of years ago when we were touring the South of France. It’s in the hills above Menton, which is a delightful town on the Côte d’Azur, about a mile from the Italian border.’

Josie clapped her hands. ‘It sounds heavenly. When can I see it?’

‘Any time,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been in touch with the agents down there, and they have had instructions to cancel any further lettings. So your house is now vacant. I gather that someone has bought the adjoining property. I hope you’ll have decent neighbours.’

‘Splendid,’ Josie said. ‘I’ll go down as soon as I can. I can’t wait to see my house.’