Her perfect date?

Veronica Grant needs a man to take to her cousin’s wedding in order to keep her matchmaking mother at bay. A man like Fergus Kavanagh. He’s perfect—rich, charming and sexy. If he accompanies Veronica, her mother won’t mention marriage for weeks!

Luckily, Fergus has matchmaking relatives of his own he wants to avoid, so he proposes a pact: he will be Veronica’s pretend lover if she becomes his! Now he just needs to remember it’s all an act… even though their sizzling chemistry feels oh-so-real!

A Suitable Groom
Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘THANKS for the lift, Nick.’

‘It’s the least I can do, considering you turned up at six this morning to go over those figures with me.’ Nick Jefferson lifted Veronica’s small suitcase from the boot. ‘Call me when you know which train you’re catching back tomorrow and I’ll pick you up. In fact, why don’t you come to supper? Cassie’s working on a new recipe; I know she’d welcome a totally unbiased opinion, and you haven’t been near her in weeks.’

‘Your wife should be putting her feet up with the baby so near,’ Veronica replied quickly. ‘Not slaving over a hot stove for any Tom, Dick or Jane you invite home.’

‘Come to supper and you can tell her yourself to take it easy, along with your opinion on her recipe,’ he informed her. ‘Maybe she’ll listen to you.’

‘I doubt it.’ Veronica relieved him of her case. ‘Besides, there’s more than one way to keep a lady in bed, Nick. Offer to rub her back … or something.’

He grinned. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that? Hey, don’t forget your hatbox.’ She pulled a face. ‘Anyone would think you don’t want to go to this wedding.’

‘I don’t much,’ she said. ‘I love my cousin dearly, but family weddings are fairly close to the bottom of my list of favourite events. One above going to the dentist. Maybe. My dentist makes me laugh.’

‘Then why go? It’s not compulsory, is it?’

Veronica offered Nick a wry smile. ‘My family take weddings seriously; you’re expected to turn up unless you’ve got a doctor’s note confirming the plague.’ She regarded the hatbox with dislike. ‘You don’t happen to know a bribable doctor, do you?’

‘I’m afraid not. Would a note from the boss do? “Veronica can’t come out to play until she’s finished a report on the marketing of our latest line in camp fridges to Eskimos—”’

She laughed. ‘Heaven forbid. I get enough grief from my mother about putting my career first as it is.’ She took the cumbersome hatbox from him. ‘I’d better go. Missing the train would not be an acceptable excuse either.’

Fortunately, the eight-fifteen had a dining car—the six o’clock start had left her feeling hollow, and it was going to be a long day. The steward smiled as he spotted her. ‘Morning, Miss Grant. Here, let me take your bag.’

‘Thank you, Peter,’ she said, surrendering her small suitcase and dropping her hatbox onto the vacant chair at the two-seater table before settling herself in the opposite seat, glancing out at the platform in that still moment of expectancy while the guard glanced along the length of the train to make sure all was clear. Then, as the man raised his whistle to his lips, his attention, and hers, was caught by the brisk, sharp sound of leather-shod feet pounding up the stone steps.

‘Hold that door!’

The latecomer had called out with the confident ring of someone used to instant obedience. He got it, and Veronica found herself holding her breath as a tall, lithe figure sprinted across the platform and boarded the train. The door banged shut, the whistle blew, the train slid seamlessly from the station.

‘Ready to order, miss?’

She turned to the steward. ‘Do my eyes deceive me, or was that Fergus Kavanagh, Peter?’ she asked, surprised. She would have bet any amount of money that the Chairman of Kavanagh Industries was a chauffeur-driven Rolls man.

‘Yes, miss. Travels with us most mornings. As he says, if he doesn’t travel with us, who will?’ He grinned at her raised eyebrows. ‘He does own a sizeable chunk of this line. Do you know him?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’

Fergus Kavanagh was normally the most even-tempered of men, although he would have been the first to admit that he couldn’t take any great credit for that. It was simply that very few people went out of their way to irritate him.

Today, however, was not normal.

Today he would have positively welcomed the opportunity to strangle two of the most interfering, the most infuriating women it was his misfortune to be related to.

The guard, his whistle to his lips, held the door for him as he raced up the stairs to catch the eight-fifteen train into London. ‘You’ve cut it a bit fine this morning, Mr Kavanagh.’

‘I seem to be cutting my entire life a bit fine at the moment, Michael,’ Fergus replied, without any noticeable lack of breath, as he stepped aboard.

The other man grinned. ‘It’s always the same with weddings. I’ve seen two daughters through it; I know what it’s like. Just you concentrate on how peaceful it’ll be when it’s all over, and you’ll sail through it.’ And with those words of comfort the man blew his whistle and slammed the door.

Peace. As Fergus made his way through the crowded carriages in the direction of the restaurant car the word flickered tantalisingly, like a beacon just out of reach. Peace was a concept that had always seemed just to elude him, but he had believed, he had really believed, that after Dora’s wedding it might at long last be attainable.

With both his sisters married, and now the responsibility of their respective husbands, he could concentrate on business, his estate and the simple pleasures available to a bachelor of means. He was a collector. He collected fine art, fast racehorses and profitable companies.

He should have known better. Even up to their eyes in such desperately important last-minute decisions as colour schemes for flowers and balloons, the problem of how they were going to seat three women who had all, at one time or another, been married to the same man, and where in the world they were going to find a small boy who would not object to wearing satin knee breeches, Poppy and Dora, his two darling sisters, had still found time to plot yet more mayhem with which to plague him.

Well, they could plot without him. He refused to take any further part in the proceedings. His club might be dull, but women were excluded from any part of it, and with Dora in temporary possession of his house he was quite prepared to stay there until the wedding. He would have stayed there until after the wedding, until every vestige of confetti had been plucked from the borders, every trace of heel-marks removed from his immaculate lawns by a bad-tempered gardener. Unfortunately, it was his duty to give away the bride and, since duty was something he had never shirked, that small personal revolution was denied him.

He paused at the entrance to the dining car and caught the steward’s eye.

‘Good morning, Mr Kavanagh. We’re a bit full this morning. The ladies seem to be taking advantage of the special discounted fare to visit the spring sales. We don’t usually see you on Friday,’ he said, glancing around, ‘or I’d have kept you a table. I’m afraid you’ll have to share …’

Yet more irritation. He was not in the mood for company. He had been looking forward to a quiet journey, during which he could read the City pages and forget all about his sister and her wedding.

Instead, he found himself being shepherded towards a two-seater table where a woman was perusing the menu.

No, that really was the last straw. The barrier of a newspaper was enough to deter most men from fatuous conversation; women, he knew from experience, were trickier. Bringing up two younger sisters had taught him just how tricky they could be. Peter should really know better than that. But one glance was sufficient to reassure him; the seat opposite her was occupied by a large hatbox. Excuse enough to move on.

He spotted an empty space at the far end of the compartment, but as he turned to point it out to the steward the woman forestalled him.

‘Do move that tiresome hatbox and sit down,’ she invited, in a low, husky voice. She had lowered the menu a little, and was regarding him over the top of it so that he could see a sweep of smooth platinum-blonde hair and a pair of the most extraordinary silver-blue eyes. As he hesitated, torn between a desire to avoid company and common courtesy, the expression in those eyes suggested that she knew precisely what was going through his mind, and was sufficiently entertained by his dilemma to stir the pot a little and see how he coped. ‘I don’t bite,’ she promised, without a trace of a smile.

Under normal circumstances he would simply have murmured something polite but distant and kept on moving. It was her eyes that kept him riveted to the spot, her eyes and her air of authority, of a belief in herself and confidence that he would do exactly as she said. Rare qualities in a woman. Rare enough to divert him from his purpose, although her beauty alone should have been enough for that.

Assured, elegant, she was old enough to be interesting, young enough to turn heads. No. That was wrong. She had the kind of bone structure that would still be turning heads when she was ninety. And she was definitely not going to the spring sales. The heavy grey silk of her skirt was too perfect a complement for her eyes to be a chance bargain, and the pearl studs in her beautifully shaped ears had the lustre that only a natural oyster could produce. A lustre that the lady herself matched to perfection.

He realised with something of a shock that she was one of the loveliest women he had ever seen. Yet there was more than beauty; there was a touch of mischief in those eyes that made him absolutely certain that she would prove a far more entertaining companion for the journey than his newspaper. His suddenly heightened pulse-rate was evidence enough of that. The distant table and its promise of a peaceful journey quite suddenly lost its appeal. But eagerness would be a mistake.

‘If you’re quite sure I wouldn’t disturb you? I could easily sit further along—’ The train lurched obligingly just at that moment, so that he was forced to grab the back of her seat. He smiled apologetically. ‘Perhaps I’d better just sit down.’

‘Perhaps you had,’ she agreed, her answering smile polite, nothing more. And yet there was something.

Intrigued, he lifted his overnight bag onto the luggage rack next to a small Vuitton suitcase that presumably was the property of the lady. Then he picked up the hatbox.

It was light, but awkward. Clearly too large for the overhead luggage rack, and there was no room for it beneath the table, although checking this out had given him the opportunity to admire a pair of long, slender legs and narrow, well-shod feet that matched the rest of the lady.

The hatbox, however, remained a challenge to his ingenuity. But not for long.

Thrust into control of a major industrial conglomerate whilst still in his twenties, Fergus Kavanagh did not lack ingenuity, and he had fine-tuned delegation to an art form. He turned and handed the box to the steward.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to find somewhere safe to stow this, Peter,’ he said, then sat down, nodded briefly to his breakfast companion and flicked open his copy of the Financial Times. It was what that reserved creature of habit, the English businessman, would be expected to do, and every instinct was telling him that the lady would not allow him to ignore her for long.

For a moment Veronica regarded the crisply cut dark head of hair, the glimpse of broad forehead and long, rather thin fingers holding the paper—all that was visible of Mr Fergus Kavanagh behind his Financial Times. And she was glad of a moment’s respite.

Her heart was pounding like a drum. She hadn’t felt so nervous since she had negotiated her first big contract. Kavanagh’s business career suggested a man prepared to take a risk, prepared to be unconventional, but on first acquaintance he seemed nerve-rackingly distant, a touch austere.

Yet there was something about the way he was holding his newspaper, a stillness that suggested he was not reading but waiting for her to make a move.

Then there was that promising smile, brief though it had been, fanning laughter lines about his eyes, almost as if he knew … Maybe, beneath the disguise of that pinstriped suit and old-school tie, there beat the heart of an adventurer after all. She certainly hoped so. In fact, she was counting on it.

‘Would you care to look at my menu?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Whilst Peter is disposing of my hat?’

Fergus smiled under cover of his newspaper. He was human enough to enjoy being proved right. The lady’s looks were Grace Kelly cool, but her voice was as sexy as sin—sin leavened with laughter. He suspected that if he peered over his newspaper those silvery eyes would be laughing at him, too, perfectly aware that his initial intention had been to pass her by, delighted that she had waylaid him. But why? She didn’t look like the kind of woman who picked up strangers over the breakfast table, so why did he have the feeling that he had just been caught on a hook and was about to be reeled in?

‘Thank you,’ he replied, gravely polite, glancing at her briefly. Definitely laughing. The deepening creases at the corners of her mouth gave him an odd little lift to his spirits, banishing the black mood in which he had boarded the train. ‘But that won’t be necessary,’ he said, countering her move and then making one of his own. ‘Peter knows what I want.’

He was offering her an opening, and he wondered what she would do with it. Start with a polite question, perhaps? You travel on this train regularly, then? Or maybe it would be disbelief. You mean, you have the same breakfast every day? Or maybe she would take his response as a rebuff and let it go. He didn’t think so. The lady wanted something. Bachelors, wealthy bachelors, developed a sixth sense for such things.

She kept him waiting for a longish pause, during which Fergus found it quite impossible to concentrate on the headline in front of him. Then she said, ‘The piece about your takeover bid is on page fourteen. If that is what you’re looking for.’

Takeover? So, she not only knew who he was, but followed the financial pages. He was right. She was a lot more interesting than the newspaper. He lowered it for the pleasure of looking at her more directly. And she was lovely. More than lovely. There was nothing of the chocolate box beauty about her; it went deeper than that, deeper than bone structure, perfect skin, gleaming hair. There was much more to her than that—character, a mouth quick to laugh, eyes to die for. Being reeled in by this lady, he decided, would be a pleasure.

‘Takeover?’ he queried, taking the bait.

‘Your takeover of GFM Transport. There’s a photograph of you along with the article. Not a very flattering one, I have to admit.’ She paused again. ‘But then, newspaper photographs are always rather lifeless, don’t you think?’ She made the smallest, most expressive of gestures with long, slender fingers. ‘I thought perhaps you were interested in what the FT had to say about it.’ Her shoulders moved imperceptibly in a minimalist shrug. ‘The takeover, that is. But maybe you’re not that bothered.’ Then, when he didn’t immediately reply, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted you.’ She wasn’t sorry. ‘The journalist suggested that it was an “astute” move,’ she added encouragingly. Not a bit sorry.

‘Astute?’ Fergus folded the newspaper and put it on the table. A woman who read the FT was interesting enough to break through even the legendary reserve of the British male, and he was sure she knew it, had banked on it. ‘He wasn’t concerned that I was tying up capital in something of a sideshow?’ he asked, testing her a little to see whether she had actually read the article, or merely scanned the headline.

‘Is that what your board thought?’ she asked. Some of them. Not that it was any of her business. But it had been the right question.

‘Is that what you think?’

‘It would be presumptuous of me to have any kind of opinion on the matter. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. But I’ve interrupted you for long enough. Please do continue reading your newspaper, Mr Kavanagh.’ She let the line out a little, a skilled angler playing him like a big game fish, taking care not to strike too quickly.

‘Thank you,’ he said, a touch drily, but he continued to regard her thoughtfully as she handed the menu card to Peter and ordered her breakfast. ‘Should I know who you are?’ he asked, once the steward had departed.

‘Should you?’ Veronica’s heart was still beating too fast. Lord, but he was perfect. Exactly the man for the job. He didn’t immediately answer her, taking his turn to keep her waiting. She smiled as she acknowledged his silence … This was a game and she sensed that he knew it. But would he be prepared to play? ‘There’s no reason why you should, Mr Kavanagh. My name is Veronica Grant. I’m Marketing Director for Jefferson Sports.’ And she offered him her hand.

Slim, fine-boned, ringless, her nails polished to a deep plum-coloured perfection—a perfect complement to her lovely mouth, Fergus thought, dragging his mind back from the orchard at Marlowe Court in high summer, and his boyhood raids on the sweet dark fruit that grew there.

But then, everything about her was perfection, from the curve of her platinum-blonde hair to the toes of her handmade shoes.

Jefferson Sports. They had their headquarters in the centre of Melchester, an elegant tower block with an exclusive shopping mall in the atrium. The company had grown out of all recognition since it had been formed by a family of well-known sportsmen to take commercial advantage of their name, but since Nick Jefferson had stepped into the top slot it had begun to spread its wings and take off in a big way. And this woman was part of the team. More than interesting.

‘How d’you do, Miss Grant?’ he said, taking her hand and shaking it solemnly.

‘How d’you do, Mr Kavanagh?’ she replied, with equal gravity. The steward arrived with a large tray. Two boiled eggs, brown toast and China tea for her. A pair of kippers, white toast and coffee for him. ‘Please, do read your newspaper,’ Veronica invited while the steward laid out the food. ‘I shan’t mind a bit. You probably hate conversation over breakfast. Most men seem to.’

He found himself wondering whom she shared her breakfast with. Then rather wishing he hadn’t.

Besides, she shouldn’t make unfounded judgements about him. He was not antisocial over breakfast. When Dora and Poppy stayed over at Marlowe Court, with or without their partners, he was more than happy to talk. Well, usually he was happy to talk. Not today. Today he was furious with the pair of them.

Miss Grant, however, mistook his silence for assent. ‘I’ve disturbed the smooth start to your working day,’ she continued apologetically. ‘I do hope you won’t be short-tempered with your secretary because of me.’

‘I can assure you, Miss Grant, that the smooth running of my day was severely disturbed long before I boarded this train. And, since I’m not going to my office, my secretary is quite safe. But then, she’s far too important to my well-being to be used as a verbal punchbag.’ Her eyes lingered momentarily on his business suit, but she didn’t enquire where he was going, or why. Instead, she began to lightly tap the shell of her egg. Fergus found her lack of curiosity profoundly irritating. Women were supposed to be terminally inquisitive, weren’t they? He buttered his toast and forked up a mouthful of fish. ‘Today,’ he said before he could stop himself, ‘I have to see my tailor.’

That wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t have to visit his tailor today. Any time next week would have done, but it had made as good an excuse as any for fleeing his own house in the middle of his sister’s wedding preparations. Not that Dora had looked as if she had believed him. But then, Dora was irritated at having her plans frustrated.

‘Your tailor?’ Veronica Grant didn’t look as if she believed it, either. ‘Oh. I thought there might be some crisis with the takeover.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Are you an interested stockholder by any chance?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ she said, not in the least intimidated by the sudden fierceness of his answer. ‘Just interested.’

Her smile almost knocked him back in the seat. He would have suspected that she was flirting with him, except that people didn’t flirt with total strangers on the eight-fifteen train into London. At least, not in his experience.

Maybe it was time he widened his experience. He got a charge when one of his horses won a race, but it didn’t match this.

He tried a smile of his own. It wasn’t at all difficult. His irritation had quickly evaporated in the company of this intriguing woman. ‘To be honest, the visit to my tailor is an excuse,’ he confided—since she didn’t believe him, he might as well make a virtue out of owning up. ‘My real reason for going up to town is to escape the mayhem of wedding preparations. I can assure you that a takeover is a piece of cake compared to the effort that seems to be involved in organising something as simple as a marriage ceremony.’

‘You’re getting married?’ That shook her. She covered it with another of those smiles, but she hadn’t planned on that. Well, that was all right. Wedding bells didn’t form any part of his plans, despite his sisters’ plots.

‘Me? Heaven forbid.’ Just so that she knew he wasn’t in the marriage market. ‘And in the unlikely event that I should ever be rash enough to take a plunge into that shark-infested pool, Miss Grant, I shall do it with the minimum of fuss. There will be no balloons, flowers or bridesmaids. I will not have a marquee erected on my lawn, or invite four hundred people to break my gardener’s heart, trampling through his borders.’

Veronica Grant took a spoonful of egg. Why on earth was her hand shaking? She simply wanted to borrow the man for the day, not marry him. Marriage played no part in her future plans. ‘The lady you decide to marry might have other ideas,’ she pointed out, before eating it.

‘Then the lady will have to make up her mind whether she wants a fancy wedding or a husband. I have two sisters, Miss Grant. One has already gone through the above performance. The second is about to do so. No man should be expected to go through it a third time.’

‘They do say three’s a charm.’

‘Do they?’ Fergus was not about to let that pass unchallenged. ‘Then they—whoever they are—are talking through the back of their collective heads.’

‘I see.’ The lady was trying to hide a smile.

‘It’s not funny, Miss Grant.’

‘Of course it isn’t. In fact, I endorse your sentiments wholeheartedly.’ But the smile didn’t leave her eyes. It was irresistible. He just couldn’t help smiling back. ‘So you’re taking refuge in your gentleman’s club?’

He was that transparent? ‘The temptation to stay there until the whole thing is over is almost overwhelming; unfortunately, I have to give away the bride. But at least it’s given me an excuse to come up to town.’

Veronica Grant’s smooth high forehead puckered in the smallest of frowns. Then she said, ‘Oh, the tailor.’

‘Apparently I need a new morning suit for the occasion.’ And when Dora made up her mind about something, there was no point in fighting it. It was a thought to send a shiver of apprehension down his spine. ‘I had a call yesterday to say that it’s ready.’

‘Oh.’

I need a new morning suit … That sounded so unbelievably pompous, he thought. No one needed a new morning suit. ‘Actually, the one I inherited from my father fits like an old friend, and would have done perfectly well, but it’s black,’ he explained. ‘Dora said it made me look like a funeral director.’

Somewhat unexpectedly, Veronica Grant laughed. It was a real laugh, and caused several people to turn in their direction. Then she shook her head. ‘Weddings are hell, aren’t they?’

‘This one will be,’ he said with feeling. And not just because it was turning his house and his life upside down. Then he remembered the hatbox. ‘Is that the reason for the hat? Are you on your way to a wedding?’

‘For my sins.’ She concentrated on pouring her tea as the train raced through a cutting. ‘My cousin is getting married. She’s twenty-two and she hooked a viscount at the first attempt.’

‘Oh.’ He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She flashed him a look from beneath her lashes. ‘That sounds terribly bitchy, doesn’t it?’ He didn’t reply. He didn’t see Miss Grant as the bitchy type, but it was quite possible that she’d been trying to hook a viscount too, and she was nearer thirty than twenty. ‘I’m not jealous of Fliss, Mr Kavanagh. She’s a lovely girl, and deserves a wonderful life with the man of her dreams … ’

‘But?’

She gave an expressive little shrug. ‘But my mother will be. Jealous. She’ll give me long, hurtful looks. She’ll sigh a lot. She’ll murmur about “biological clocks” ticking away and her desperate longing to hold her first grandchild before she moves on to that everlasting cocktail party in the sky.’ Veronica illustrated this with small, theatrical gestures and expressions that summoned up her mother’s reaction to perfection, and Fergus found himself grinning. He couldn’t help himself.

‘I take it that her demise is not imminent?’

‘No. She’s fifty-five, but refuses to admit to more than forty-nine and gets away with it every time. But that won’t stop her having a …’ She waved her spoon as she searched for an appropriate word. ‘Do you suppose that there is a collective noun for prospective sons-in-law?’

‘I’ve no idea. A proposal?’ he suggested, after a moment’s thought.

‘A proposal?’ She considered it, and then smiled appreciatively. ‘A proposal of sons-in-law. I like that.’ It was rather like someone switching on the lights when she smiled, Fergus decided. And not just any lights. More like one of those enormous Venetian crystal chandeliers. Or the Christmas lights in Regent Street. Or Blackpool Illuminations. Quite possibly all three. ‘Well, there you have it,’ she continued. ‘I used to love family weddings, but these days they are something of a trial. My mother knows I won’t be able to escape her “proposal” of prospective sons-in-law; she’ll have them lined up for me like stallions at stud, each one vetted for financial acuity, with a family tree of oak-like proportions and the ability to put the magic word, “Lady” before my name.’ She regarded him across the breakfast table. ‘It’s a nightmare,’ she said.

CHAPTER TWO

FERGUS, if he’d ever given the matter any thought, might have concluded that most women would be glad to have all the hard work done for them. But, then again, perhaps not. Who wanted a partner that some well-meaning relative had decided was ‘suitable’? He, more than anyone, had reason to be sympathetic.

‘Is that important?’ he asked. ‘The “Lady” bit?’

‘It is to her. I was once engaged to an earl; she’s never forgiven me for not making it to the altar.’

‘An earl?’

‘An earl with an estate in Gloucestershire, a house in Eaton Square and a castle in Scotland.’ She paused. ‘Of course, it was only a little castle.’

‘Is that why you changed your mind?’ he asked. ‘Because the castle was little?’

‘No. I fortunately discovered in time that I wasn’t countess material. I didn’t want to give up my career, you see. That’s the test, wouldn’t you say? How much you’re prepared to give up for someone.’

‘I believe so. But would you have had to give it up? Your career?’

‘I told you. I wasn’t cut out to be a countess.’

Which didn’t actually answer his question, he noted. ‘You gave up the castle for your career?’

‘Without hesitation,’ she agreed.

Despite her cool manner, she was finding the conversation difficult. But he persevered. ‘Then it’s the idea of marriage that’s repellent, rather than your mother’s choice of suitable grooms?’

‘I’ve no particular objection to marriage as an institution, Mr Kavanagh. I can see that the right wife to organise his domestic life must be a wonderful asset for any man.’ His sisters would undoubtedly agree with her. ‘Unfortunately, I’m far too busy organising my own life to undertake the task for anyone else. I know my own limitations and I’m just not wife material.’ She paused. ‘I just don’t have the necessary qualifications.’

‘I didn’t know you could take a course in it. City and Guilds?’ he asked. ‘Or Royal Society of Arts examinations? Do they run a course for prospective husbands?’

‘Maybe they should.’ Her smile was a touch strained. ‘I do always find myself asking, if all these thirty-something bachelors are so perfect, why hasn’t someone snapped them up long ago?’

‘It’s an interesting question, Miss Grant,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Maybe, like the best wines, they need a little extra time to mature.’

The touch of irony was not lost on her, and for just a moment he thought he detected the faintest blush colour her cheeks. ‘Oh, dear. That was tactless of me, wasn’t it?’

‘Probably,’ he agreed easily. ‘But illuminating. Tell me, is your opinion based on personal experience or simple prejudice?’

She allowed herself the smallest of smiles. ‘I refuse to say another word on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.’

‘That’s a pity. I was rather enjoying the conversation.’ And to reassure her, he went on, ‘I have to admit my own pitiful excuse for not coming up to scratch is simply that I’ve been far too busy.’

Her brows shot up. ‘Doing what?’ Then there was that hint of a blush again. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t ask.’

‘Working, raising my sisters. I was dumped in at the deep end when my parents died a year after I graduated.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ And the quick compassion in her eyes told him that she wasn’t simply being polite. ‘My own father died when I was at university. I still miss him. So does my mother. They were, I think, the most perfectly happy couple—always together.’

‘Mine too. And they died together, too. I don’t think either one of them would have been capable of living without the other.’ It was the kind of love that seemed to strike every member of his family sooner or later. He wasn’t sure whether he welcomed the idea of it happening to him or dreaded it, and in a sudden flash of insight he wondered if maybe, after all, that was why he had so assiduously avoided all the marriage lures thrown in his path during the years. Then he realised that Veronica Grant was waiting for him to continue. ‘Unfortunately my father had no interest in business, or anything very much except my mother. Kavanagh Industries was in comfortable decline, everyone too cosy to institute the painful process of bringing it up to date; the family estate was in much the same situation, and I had two considerably younger sisters to distract me should I ever find myself with five minutes to spare.’ Not that he hadn’t had his moments. But he’d never allowed things to progress to anything deeper, more involving. Never even been tempted.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Veronica said, ‘Work can take over.’

‘And teenage angst is not conducive to romance,’ he continued with relief. ‘Either Poppy or Dora always seemed to have some crisis …’ And they had always come first. While he had been talking, he had been toying with his breakfast. Now he straightened and looked at her. ‘Why are you still on the marriage market, Miss Grant?’

Having bared his own soul for her curiosity, he decided it was perfectly reasonable to expect her to do the same for his, and she did not appear to object. Yet she regarded him levelly for a moment, as if wondering whether he was really interested, or simply passing the time. ‘I’m not on the marriage market, Mr Kavanagh. I told you, I’m not wife material.’

‘You’ve never even come close since the earl?’

‘Have you?’ she demanded.

Fergus sat back. ‘I apologise. It was impertinent of me to ask.’

She seemed to take a moment, gather herself. ‘No, Mr Kavanagh, I’m sorry for snapping. You see, most people don’t dare bring up the subject.’ She took a bite of her toast. ‘I’m considered rather formidable,’ she confided. ‘Except, of course, by my mother, who is formidable with a capital F. She believes that marriage is the only suitable occupation for a lady.’

‘She’s a bit old-fashioned?’

‘Positively prehistoric.’

‘Perhaps you should have just sent your regrets to your cousin, along with your best wishes,’ he suggested. An option not open to him. ‘Attendance isn’t compulsory if you’re not one of the major players.’

‘On the contrary, in my family we expect a full turn-out for dress occasions. Weddings, christenings, special anniversaries—’

‘Funerals?’

‘Those too.

‘And I’m very fond of Fliss. I couldn’t miss her big day. Besides, if I didn’t go, people would think I was sulking.’

‘Because of the biological clock ticking away in your ear?’

There was a pause, brief, barely noticeable, but it was there. ‘I don’t think my biological clock ever got wound up,’ she said.

Fergus regarded her thoughtfully. ‘So why does it matter what people think?’ She didn’t strike him as a woman who lived in awe of either her mother or other’s opinions, but she gave the smallest of sighs.

‘It doesn’t, to me. But to my mother …’ She lifted her shoulders a fraction. ‘And I do love her, even when she’s being absolutely impossible.’

He could understand that. He loved Poppy and Dora, and they were impossible most of the time.

‘You said it: weddings are hell.’ He forked up a little of one of the kippers. ‘Couldn’t you take along an escort as protective colouring?’ he suggested, after a moment. Dora had put ‘and partner’ on invitations to people whose relationships were informal or uncertain. ‘There must be someone you know, work with, perhaps, you could have asked along?’

‘I thought about it, but I couldn’t find anyone who would do.’ She glanced up. ‘Women have to be so careful when they’re in business. It’s so easy for motives to be … misunderstood. Besides, all the nicest men I know are married.’ She concentrated on her egg for a while and he, too, gave his breakfast his undivided attention. Well, almost undivided attention. Veronica Grant was not a presence it would ever be possible to totally ignore. ‘I actually did consider hiring someone,’ she said, after a while.

‘Hiring someone? Are wedding guest agencies listed in the Yellow Pages?’ If so, he might be tempted to use their services himself.

‘No, but escort agencies are.’ She saw his expression and shook her head. ‘Not that kind of escort agency. There’s one which provides well-groomed men who are guaranteed to know which fork to use and not to flirt with your best friend.’

‘Is that important?’

‘The fork or the flirting?’ she enquired.

‘Both.’

‘Absolutely vital if you want to provoke envy. A friend of mine hired an escort when she had been invited to a rather grand party at which she knew her ex-husband would be appearing with his new trophy wife. She said it was worth the fee just to see his jaw drop when she waltzed in with this dishy man who was at least five years her junior. He could dance, too. The escort. A skill her ex had never been able to master. The trophy wife actually flirted with him.’

‘A perfect result, then.’

‘A-plus,’ she agreed. ‘And at the end of the evening it was a quick shake of the hand, a cheque in an envelope and goodnight. No strings. No complications.’

‘It’s an interesting idea.’

‘I have to admit that I was sorely tempted. They have an Italian count on their books whom I thought might be rather fun.’

‘That’s a terrible idea,’ he said, truly hating the thought of her hiring some dreadful gigolo type. Then, because she was looking at him rather oddly, ‘Your mother doesn’t sound like the kind of woman to be impressed by a fake Italian count.’

‘Who said he was fake? Impoverished European aristocrats have to eat too, you know. But you’re right. I’m afraid a good-looking toy boy simply wouldn’t cut the mustard on this occasion. I need someone who would give the appearance of being a serious contender. Someone like you, Mr Kavanagh.’ She picked up her cup, sipped her tea and then replaced her cup carefully on the saucer before looking him straight in the eye. ‘Which is why I bribed Peter to put you at my table.’

Fergus Kavanagh could not remember the last time that anyone had reduced him to silence. ‘You bribed Peter?’ he managed finally.

It was time to come clean, own up, face the music. ‘I’m afraid so,’ Veronica admitted. ‘I saw your dash for the train and I asked him if you ever came into the restaurant car for breakfast. He assured me that you never missed.’

‘Did he, by God? Well, I have to say that Peter is a great disappointment to me. I had always assumed that he was thoroughly discreet. Tell me, what did it take?’

Oh, Lord, he was angry. She’d got Peter into trouble and made an utter fool of herself into the bargain. For nothing. ‘I’m sorry?’

Fergus was not fooled by her apparent innocence. ‘What did it take to bribe him?’ he said carefully.

‘Oh, I see.’ She hesitated, then gave a little shrug. ‘I’m not sure that I should tell you.’

After the initial shock, Fergus decided that he was rather enjoying himself. ‘Force yourself,’ he urged.

‘A ticket for the Cup Final?’ she offered.

‘The Cup Final?’ This woman could get tickets for a sporting event at the top of every red-blooded male’s wish list? ‘The FA Cup Final?’ he asked, to be quite certain. She nodded. ‘But that’s only a week away. There can’t be any tickets left,’ he said, rather stupidly.

‘I have two.’ It suddenly occurred to her that he wasn’t so much angry as taken by surprise. ‘Had two,’ she amended.

‘And you thought one of them worth my presence at your breakfast table?’

She put her head to one side and regarded him for a moment. In for a penny, she thought … after all she had nothing to lose … ‘Now that I’ve met you, Mr Kavanagh, I am of the opinion that you would have been worth both tickets.’

She didn’t mince her words. Formidable indeed. And Fergus couldn’t bring himself to blame Peter for accepting her offer. ‘I have the feeling that I should be flattered,’ he said finally.

She spread her fingers in a gesture that left it entirely up to him whether he was flattered, or merely intrigued. Just as long as he was one of them. ‘It was the best I could do at short notice. I had to think quickly, you see.’

He did. And she’d certainly done that. ‘Your best is very good, Miss Grant.’

But was it good enough? ‘Not really. Jefferson Sports are a major sponsor. I’m expected to attend and bring a guest.’

‘Peter?’ His disbelief was understandable.

‘Peter,’ she confirmed. ‘He’ll have a lovely day. Lunch, a chance to meet some former players—’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said, cutting her short. ‘But aren’t you supposed to take along one of your major customers?’

‘I’d far rather take someone who really enjoys the game, someone who can tell me what exactly is happening. Peter is a keen follower of Melchester Rovers, you know. And besides, major customers can pull enough strings to get their own tickets.’

‘I hope Nick Jefferson sees it that way.’

‘Nick has his mind on other things at the moment. Anyway, Peter is a customer. He bought a set of our golf clubs a few months back. I got him a discount.’ Veronica Grant smiled at him, inviting him to join in her little joke. Instead, Fergus gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘You know Nick?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘The man has a highly developed sense of the ridiculous,’ she assured him.

‘With you as his Marketing Director, he must need it.’ Then, ‘Suppose I hadn’t co-operated?’ He indicated the seat at the far end of the carriage that had originally caught his eye. ‘I might have chosen to sit over there.’

She turned and glanced at the empty seat. ‘You did,’ she pointed out, turning back to face him. ‘But Peter stopped you by my table and I waylaid you with my hatbox. Are you interested in football, Mr Kavanagh? I might be able to lay my hands on another ticket, in a good cause.’

‘I have a standing invitation to the Cup Final, Miss Grant.’

‘Of course. Lunch with the directors, a seat in their box. Nothing less will do for Mr Fergus Kavanagh.’ He didn’t deny it. ‘I’m not sure what else I could offer …’ she paused so briefly that he might have imagined it ‘… a gentleman.’

He had thought for a while that she might be having a little joke at his expense. But she wasn’t. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘In deadly earnest. You see, you fit the profile perfectly.’

He considered asking just what the ‘profile’ might be. Then thought better of it. ‘But you don’t know anything about me.’

‘That’s not entirely true. I know, for instance, that you are the most eligible of men—that is, you’re wealthy and unmarried, which for the purpose of this little exercise is all that is required—although to be honest I cannot think how you have escaped the clutches of some matchmaking mama for so long.’

‘Just lucky, I guess. Of course, I don’t have a title,’ he said, his tongue firmly in his cheek, beginning to enjoy himself as the germ of an idea began to take hold, grow … ‘Maybe that’s the reason.’

‘Two out of three isn’t bad,’ she pointed out. ‘And you’re bound to turn up in the New Year Honours sooner or later. So, what do you say, Mr Kavanagh, are you free this afternoon at two o’clock?’

Dear God, but the woman was cool. He wondered what it would take to heat her up. And would it be a slow overnight defrost, or was she the kind of woman who would simply explode in a rush of steam like a volcanic geyser?

‘Where is this wedding?’ he asked, to take his mind off such disturbing thoughts.

‘St Margaret’s.’

‘St Margaret’s, Westminster?’

‘Fliss’s mother is a Member of Parliament.’

‘Formidable women run in the family, then?’ His eyes creased in amusement.

‘At least one in every generation,’ she confirmed. Then, ‘The reception is in Knightsbridge. We wouldn’t have to stay late. In fact, if we appeared desperately keen to leave early it would be a positive bonus.’ She lifted her shoulders in the most elegant of shrugs. ‘My mother wouldn’t bother me about biological clocks for months.’

Fergus sat back and regarded the lady with interest. Such quick thinking was rare, and he could well understand how she had made it to the boardroom at such an early age. But he wasn’t slow on his feet when it came to taking advantage of unexpected opportunities. He might not want a ticket for the FA Cup Final, but Miss Veronica Grant had just offered him the perfect answer to his own difficulties.

‘You have gone to great lengths to ask me for a favour, Miss Grant,’ he said, ‘and such quick thinking should not go unrewarded.’

‘Is that a yes?’ she enquired hopefully.

‘A qualified yes. My top hat and brand-new morning suit are at your disposal this afternoon …’

Her smile was tinged with uncertainty. ‘But—?’ she added, after a small pause.

He returned her smile. He’d known she would understand. ‘But,’ he confirmed, ‘I shall require a small favour in return.’

‘Well, that’s only fair,’ she agreed, happy to indulge him in whatever sporting fantasy turned him on. ‘What event did you have in mind?’

‘Event?’

‘A day at Lord’s? The Centre Court on Finals Day at Wimbledon?’

‘Could you manage even that?’ he asked.

‘It wouldn’t be easy,’ she admitted. ‘But then, nothing worth the effort is ever easy.’

Fergus decided that Miss Grant was a woman with more than good looks to commend her. ‘On this occasion it will be. That is, if you are free on the seventeenth of this month. It’s a Saturday.’

‘I’ll make sure that I am,’ she said, without hesitation, without even asking what he wanted in return. Gutsy as well as cool. Or maybe just desperate. Her mother must be right out of the boys’ book of dragons.

‘Then all I ask in return for my company this afternoon is that you don your wedding hat again and come to my sister’s wedding as my guest.’ He could see that she was puzzled. ‘We’ll form our own escort agency, you and I. A very exclusive one. I will keep at bay the suitors your mother has lined up for you; your task will be to fend off a gaggle of hopeful spinsters, widows and divorcees that Dora and Poppy have targeted as prospective wives for me.’

‘You’re joking!’ she gasped.

‘I sincerely wish I was,’ he replied.

He’d overheard them quite by chance. He had been about to risk the dining room, which had become the centre of operations for wedding planning, and take the girls a drink to fortify them as they sorted out the final details, when Dora’s voice had brought him up short.

‘Ginnie Metcalfe would be the perfect wife for Gussie, you know. She’s not too old for babies, but not so young that he’d look stupid. I can’t bear old men with young wives, can you?’ Old? Thirty-eight wasn’t old! ‘She’s been brought up to run a big house and she’s got the most wonderful seat on a horse.’

‘Darling, Ginnie Metcalfe looks like a horse,’ Poppy had replied, and the pair of them had dissolved into giggles. Giggles! It was not in the least bit amusing, and he’d been about to march in there and tell them so when Poppy had said, ‘I think Sarah Darcy-Williams is our best bet. If you made her your matron of honour, you could sit her next to him at the reception.’

Sarah Darcy-Williams! Never. Not in a million years. Not if she was the last woman on earth.

‘She’s been married before,’ Dora had said doubtfully. And the poor guy had had to run for his life after two years. The mystery of it was how he had managed to stick it out for so long. ‘Of course, that does mean she’ll have had the romance knocked out of her, and let’s be honest, Poppy, Gussie isn’t one of life’s great romantics. I mean, can you imagine him sending a woman red roses?’

‘Or silk underwear.’

‘Silk underwear?’ Dora had given a little whoop of astonishment. ‘Are you telling me that Richard buys you silk underwear?’

‘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?’

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