A Scandalous Winter Wedding

From one snowy Christmas…

…to a sizzling-hot reunion!

A Matches Made in Scandal story.

Kirstin Blair has spent seven years trying to forget brooding Cameron Dunbar. Now self-made man Cameron needs her help to recover his missing niece, and Kirstin must face the truth—seeing him again sparks the same irresistible attraction that first brought them together!

She must decide: resist, or give in to temptation and risk Cameron discovering everything she’s fought so hard to protect…

Matches Made in Scandal miniseries

Book 1—From Governess to Countess Book 2—From Courtesan to Convenient Wife Book 3—His Rags-to-Riches Contessa Book 4—A Scandalous Winter Wedding

“From Governess to Countess is an engaging story, it dazzles you with the chemistry between Allison and Aleskei and teases you into wanting more.”

—Goodreads on From Governess to Countess

“Kaye’s eye for detail is as sharp as her ability to translate history into engaging fiction… From Courtesan to Convenient Wife is an emotionally urgent and tender romance.”

—All About Romance on From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published over forty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more at her website: margueritekaye.com.

Also by Marguerite Kaye

Hot Arabian Nights miniseries

The Widow and the Sheikh

Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride

The Harlot and the Sheikh

Claiming His Desert Princess

Matches Made in Scandal miniseries

From Governess to Countess

From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

A Scandalous Winter Wedding

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Scandalous Winter Wedding

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07428-5

A SCANDALOUS WINTER WEDDING

© 2018 Marguerite Kaye

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

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

Epilogue

Historical Note

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

London, February 1819

Kirstin Blair curled up in her favourite armchair in front of the fire and poured herself a cup of fragrant tea. It was a new blend, a gift from one of her oldest friends, the Marquis of Glenkin, but while the smoky brew was undoubtedly as refreshing as any Ewan had previously supplied, tonight she might as well have been drinking dishwater. As she settled in her seat, the rustle of the letter secreted in her dressing gown pocket proved too difficult to resist.

She opened the missive once again, staring down at the bold, decisive masculine handwriting. The maelstrom of emotions she had been keeping at bay all day overtook her, making the delicate Sèvres teacup shake in its saucer. She set it down, closing her eyes, lying her head back on the wings of her chair.

She’d never seen his script before. She’d had no inkling, when she broke the seal this morning in her office, of the explosive contents of that single sheet of expensive pressed paper. Scanning the signature first, as she always did, she’d thought her eyes deceived her, but a second appraisal of it left no room for doubt.

Cameron Dunbar. There could not be another with that particular name.

The shock hit her afresh as she stared at the letter. It was not that she’d thought him dead, more that she had so effectively written him out of her life it was as if he had never existed. She rarely permitted herself to recall any detail of that fateful night.

As she struggled to repress the confusing and almost unprecedented smart of tears, years of practice allowed her to draw a thick black curtain over the memory. She would not cry. She had barely shed a tear in the darkest of times. She had taught herself to concentrate wholly on the positive, to look forward not back.

‘Onwards and upwards,’ she whispered to herself now, but the words which had so often inspired her, and many of the women she had aided, failed to work their magic on this occasion.

Cameron Dunbar. He was unquestionably an outrageously handsome man, but it was not his classical good looks which had drawn her, it was his smile. He had one of those intimate smiles, a smile seemingly intended only for her. Despite the fact that they had been surrounded by strangers, that the carriage had been pungent from the succession of boiled eggs one passenger had consumed at regular intervals, and ripe with the sweat from another, and regardless of the fact that they had been sitting diametrically opposite each other, that smile had enveloped them in a bubble of their own. She’d found herself smiling back, something quite alien to her reserved nature. It should have been a warning that most certainly should have been heeded.

Kirstin’s eyes snapped open. Cameron Dunbar’s easy charm was of no interest to her. On the other hand, the letter which lay in her lap, whatever its mysterious request turned out to entail, might prove to be a very lucrative business opportunity. If she chose to accept it. Not that she would. She would be a fool to have anything to do with the man who had, albeit unwittingly, come so close to destroying her. She had saved herself, living by her considerable wits, reinventing herself, working hard to create the myth behind which she now flourished, to establish the flawless reputation she now enjoyed. There was no need to conjure up this ghost from her past.

On the other hand, business was business. Despite the fact that her alter ego was besieged every day with enquiries, such was the complex nature of her extremely discreet and niche service that only a very small percentage of these commissions could be accepted. Making the impossible possible required her to ensure that she never failed, but the need to make a handsome living that would safeguard her future meant she was not in a position to reject any approach out of hand.

But this particular prospect she most decidedly could not investigate, far less take on, for she could not possibly meet Cameron Dunbar face-to-face.

Yet it was impossible to deny that she wanted to, given the incontrovertible evidence that he was alive. She found herself intensely curious as to how his life had turned out, more than six years on, and what his circumstances were. And she wanted to know what desperate bind he had found himself in that he was compelled to seek her expensive and exclusive assistance. Not that he could have any idea at all who it was he’d actually written to.

Which thought gave her pause. A small smile played on her lips as she poured herself a fresh cup of tea. Taking a sip, she nodded with satisfaction, relishing the smoky blend of this second cup. Cameron Dunbar had written to her alter ego. Even if he remembered Kirstin from that one night over six years ago, he had no reason to connect the two of them. And, actually, there was a reasonable chance that he wouldn’t even remember that night, for a man as handsome and as charming and as charismatic as Cameron Dunbar must surely have had many such nights since. That illusion of intimacy between them, that feeling she’d had, the reason she’d allowed herself to be carried away, that she was special, that his behaviour was every bit as out of character as hers was exactly that, an illusion.

Seeing him again would change nothing, Kirstin told herself, but the logical approach which ruled her life, a legacy of her mathematician father, failed to hold sway. Her world was quite perfect, as far as she was concerned, and most importantly of all it was hers. She had no desire whatsoever to change it, and plenty of reasons to protect it from the eyes of the world. So it made no sense to her that from the minute she’d opened that letter a persistent niggling voice had been urging her to meet the owner of its signature.

Relentlessly analytical, Kirstin probed deeper into her own motives. It was not only blind curiosity which drove her, though that did play a small part. She wanted to prove to herself that the path she had chosen was the correct one. That her defiance of convention had been vindicated. That the smooth, impenetrable face she presented to society was the best form of protection from the judgement of the world for those she held most dear, allowing the life of splendid isolation which existed behind the façade to blossom.

There was no place there for Cameron Dunbar, but nor was there any room for doubts. Thanks to this letter, he’d temporarily escaped from the mental prison she’d locked him in. She needed to see him one more time, to assure herself that he was completed business, then put him back in his cell and this time throw away the key.

Besides, from a business perspective she had an obligation to meet him, at the very least to discover what it was he sought and whether she could provide it. If she could, well and good. She would match a deserving subject to his requirements and there would be no need for them ever to meet again. If not, there would be no harm done.

Kirstin set down her empty teacup. She folded up the letter. All she had to do was to find a way for them to meet once, a meeting that would allow her to see him, to question him, but which would grant him no such reciprocal privileges.

* * *

The Procurer always dressed in black. Understated but expensive, her working clothes could be those of a rich widow or a discreet and exclusive Covent Garden madam—there had been a deliberate irony in Kirstin’s choice of her assumed title. She was also aware that black outfits, severely tailored, suited her particular form of beauty. Though the notion of using seduction to achieve her goals repelled her, she would not be such a fool as to deny the power of a pretty face. It was unfair, but there were times, especially before her reputation was fully established, when her good looks had worked to her advantage, opening doors which might have otherwise remained firmly closed.

Today, despite the fact that her appearance was irrelevant, for Cameron Dunbar would not see her, she dressed with great care, scrutinising herself in the mirror. The black velvet military-style full-length pelisse with its double row of braid, tight sleeves and high collar showed off her tall, slim figure to perfection. Black buttoned half-boots, black gloves, a poke bonnet trimmed with black silk and a large black velvet muff completed her outfit. What little showed of her face was pale, save for the pink blush of her full lips, and the grey-blue of her heavy-lidded eyes which even today betrayed nothing of the turmoil raging in her head.

Kirstin smiled the enigmatic smile of The Procurer, relieved to see her alter ego smiling back at her. Cameron would not see her, but if he did, he’d see what everyone did: The Procurer, a beautiful, aloof and powerful woman, with an air of mystery about her, a woman with a reputation for making the impossible possible.

Satisfied, she made her customary farewells and left her house by the discreet side door. It was a short walk to Soho Square, to a very different world from genteel Bloomsbury, though The Procurer, whose business relied upon her being extremely well connected, had several dubious contacts who lived nearby. St Patrick’s Church was located on the corner.

Kirstin checked her enamelled pocket watch. Five minutes to eleven, the appointed hour and the first test she had set Cameron Dunbar, insisting he be prompt. This first hurdle she had, with an unaccustomed nod towards letting fate decide, set herself. If he was too early, or was already inside the church, their meeting was not meant to be.

She waited, ignoring her racing heart, standing in the shade of one of the churchyard’s leafless trees, a location she had earlier selected for its excellent view of the entrance porch. She would give him just five minutes’ leeway. Her pocket watch gave off the tiny vibration which alerted her to the hour, but before she could begin to manage her disappointment at his failure to materialise he appeared.

From this distance, Cameron Dunbar looked unchanged. Tall and ramrod-straight, he still walked with that quick, purposeful stride which made the capes of his dark brown greatcoat fly out behind him. He wore fawn pantaloons, polished Hessians, and a tall beaver hat which covered his close-cropped hair so that she couldn’t see if it was still as black as night.

He stopped at the steps of the church to check his watch, thus unknowingly passing her first test, and the breath caught in her throat at seeing his face in profile, the strong nose, the decided chin, the sharp planes of his cheekbones. He was still the most ridiculously handsome man she had ever seen. She was relieved, for the sake of her ability to breathe, that he was frowning rather than smiling as he snapped shut the cover of his watch, returned it to his pocket and entered the church.

Kirstin stood rooted to the spot, staring at the large wooden door of St Patrick’s. Her heart was beating so fast she felt light-headed, her stomach churning, making her thankful she had decided against attempting breakfast. He was here. He was, even as she stood watching, making his way down the aisle, following her precise instructions, oblivious of the fact that she and The Procurer were one and the same.

Part of her wanted to flee. She had not expected this meeting to feel so momentous. She was afraid that she might betray herself with all the questions she dared not ask.

Did he remember that night at the posting house? Did he ever think of her? Did he ever wonder what had become of her? What direction had his own life taken?

This last question she, with her many contacts, could have easily found answers to, but until that letter had arrived she had preferred to know nothing, to persist with the illusion she had created that he did not exist.

But now! Oh, now she was afraid that this myriad of feelings she couldn’t even begin to unravel, which she’d had no idea had been so long pent-up, would rise to the surface, would be betrayed in her voice. She was afraid that she would not be able to maintain her façade. She was afraid that he would recognise her. She was even more afraid that she would, in her emotional turmoil, spill out enough of the truth for him to guess the rest.

No! A thousand times no! The consequences could not be contemplated, never mind borne. She would never, ever be so foolish. The knowledge calmed her, allowing her rational self to take charge once more. She would satisfy her curiosity. She would learn enough of the man and his situation to ensure that there could never in the future be any seeds of doubt. She would decide whether his case could be taken on and, if so, she would find him a suitable helpmeet. Then she would never see him again.

The Procurer now firmly in charge, Kirstin squared her shoulders and made her way inside the church.

* * *

Cameron Dunbar stood in front of the baptismal font set in an alcove off a side aisle. The church appeared to be deserted, though the sweet scent of incense and candle wax from the morning mass hung in the air, along with the faint tang of the less than genteel congregation. Feeling slightly absurd, he made his way to the confessional boxes ranged on the left-hand side of the aisle, entering the last one as instructed.

The curtain on the other side of the grille was closed. He sat down in the gloomy confined space and prepared himself for disappointment. The Procurer’s reputation for discretion was legendary, her reputation for being elusive equally so, but he had, nonetheless, expected to meet the woman face-to-face. Part of him questioned her very existence, wondering if she wasn’t some elaborate hoax. Even if she was more than a myth, he wasn’t at all convinced that he could bring himself to explain his business, especially such sensitive business, in such circumstances.

Sighing impatiently, Cameron tried to stretch his legs out in front of him, only to knock his knees against the door of the wooden box. If he had been able to think of another way to proceed, any other way at all, he would not be here. He hadn’t even heard of the woman until two days ago. Max had assured him that everything said of her was true, that her reputation was well-deserved, but Max had also refused to divulge a single detail of his own involvement with her, save to say, primly, that the matter had been resolved satisfactorily.

Cameron trusted Max, and his problem was urgent, becoming more urgent with every day that passed.

How long had he been sitting here? The blasted woman had been so precise about his own arrival she could at least have had the decency to be punctual herself. On the brink of breaking another of her list of instructions by peering out of the confessional into the church, he heard the tapping of heels on the aisle. Was it her? He listened, ears straining, as the footsteps approached. Stopped. And the door on the other side of the confessional was opened. There was a faint settling, the rustle of fabric as The Procurer sat down—assuming it was she and not a priest come to hear his confession.

The curtain on the other side was drawn back. It made little difference. Cameron could see nothing through the tiny holes in the pierced metal grille save a vague outline. But he could hear her breathing. And he could smell the damp on her clothes and the faint trace of perfume, not sickly attar of roses or lavender water, but a more exotic scent. Jasmine? Vanilla? What kind of woman was The Procurer? Max hadn’t even told him whether she was young or old.

‘Mr Dunbar?’

Her voice was low, barely more than a whisper. Cameron leaned into the grille and the shadow on the other side immediately pulled back. ‘I am Cameron Dunbar,’ he said. ‘May I assume I’m addressing The Procurer?’

‘You may.’

Again, she spoke softly. He could hear the swishing of her gown, as if she too was having difficulty in getting comfortable in the box. The situation was preposterous. Confessional or no, he wasn’t about to spill his guts to a complete stranger whose face he wasn’t even permitted to see.

‘Listen to me, Madam Procurer,’ Cameron said. ‘I don’t know what your usual format for these meetings is, but it does not suit me at all. Can we not talk face-to-face, like adults? This absurd situation hardly encourages trust, especially if I am to be your client.’

‘No!’ The single word came through the grille as a hiss, making him jerk his head away. ‘I made the terms of this meeting very clear in my note, Mr Dunbar. If you break them—’

‘Then you will not consider my case,’ he snapped. Cameron was not used to being in a negotiation where he did not have the upper hand. But this situation was in every way unique. ‘Very well,’ he conceded stiffly, ‘we will continue on your terms, madam.’

Silence. Then her face moved closer to the grille. ‘You must first tell me a little about yourself, Mr Dunbar.’

Though he must know nothing of her, it seemed. It stuck in his craw, but he could not risk alienating her. She would not, he sensed, give him a second chance, and if there was any possibility that she really was as good as Max averred, then he had no option but to play the game her way.

‘If you’re concerned that I can’t afford your fee,’ Cameron said dryly, ‘then let me put your mind at rest. Whatever it is—and I’ve heard that it is anything from a small fortune to a king’s ransom—then I have ample means.’

‘A king’s ransom?’ the woman on the other side of the grille whispered. ‘Now, that is an interesting proposition. What would you pay, Mr Cameron, to release the current King from his incarceration?’

‘A deal more than I’d pay for his son were it he who were locked away. I’d much prefer a madman on the throne to a profligate popinjay. Though the truth is I doubt I’d put up a penny for either.’

‘You are a republican, then, Mr Dunbar, like our friends in America?’

‘I’m a pragmatist and a businessman, and I’m wondering what relevance my politics can possibly have to the matter under discussion?’