At least, Mr Tom Smith would not need to worry about that. He already had a delightful fiancée. The courtship was over. He had chosen her not from obligation, but because he’d fallen in love.
He was envious of the fellow. He’d experienced infatuation, of course. And lust. But what would it be like to fall in love with Louisa Skeffington? It felt vaguely improper to fantasise about a woman he’d been treating as a sister, but the cast of characterswas already set. No other woman than Louisa would do. He closed his eyes and settled down to create their past.
They’d met at church. But there must have been more to it than that. He decided their second meeting was at a subscription library. A shared interest in books would suit Louisa perfectly. She was always reading something. Though she rarely spoke, when she did, she’d always impressed him with her intelligence. There had never been a doubt in his mind that she would end up a bluestocking.
According to Percy, she’d been clever, even in leading strings. She’d refused to leave the schoolroom when he’d been old enough to have a tutor, sitting quietly on the floor and listening to his lessons. Since she’d learned to read, her nose had always been in a book.
Her parents had indulged her, making no effort to curtail her education. But now that her grandfather was in charge of her, Percy said she’d grown craftier in gathering knowledge, sneaking books from the manor library and devouring them one after the other.
During her first Season, he’d once met her coming back from Hatchard’s, with a pile of packages so large she could hardly carry them. He’d helped her, of course. And though she was usually reticent around him, that day they’d chatted amiably about favourite books and the happenings of the day. It had been delightfully ordinary and he treasured the memory.
With all that reading, her intellect must be quite intimidating. But it was probably why she’d had such a hard time finding a match. Men did not usually like it when their wives were smarter than themselves.
She’d have spoken to Tom Smith as casually as she had to him on that trip from the book shop. He’d been impressed by her wit, laughing at shared jokes and seeking out the books he’d seen her reading, hoping it would impress her.
She’d noticed, of course, and asked him about his own choices. Did he like novels? Poetry? Histories?
As he had in real life, his alter ego would admit that he enjoyed the same popular novels she read and hoped they could discuss them, some day.
Thomas had never dared to tell anyone but Louisa about his reading habits. As a child, he’d been told that a serious man needed serious books. So he’d dutifully read Latin and Homeric Greek. He could speak on the classics at length. But the woman he married was also bound to notice the well-thumbed Ann Radcliffe novels in his library.
Louisa had thought no less of him for it. Nor would she think less of Mr Smith. They would discuss the latest book in the letters they’d exchanged before turning to more personal topics.
By the time Smith returned to London, his mind would be decided on marriage. He would speak to her brother first, begging for permission to take Miss Skeffington out without a chaperone so he could make his offer. He would use the opportunity to drive her into the country for a picnic. They would stop in a secluded grove of trees and spread their lunch on a cloth on the ground.
But the sandwiches and tarts would hold little interest for him. He would sip his wine to calm his nerves for the question he was about to ask. She would tease him for being quiet and he would blurt out the words in a rush and wait, breath held, for her answer.
She would smile and nod, and hold out her hands to him, welcoming his suit.
He would need no further urging. He would pull her into his arms and kiss her. He could almost taste them, tart as the raspberries they’d been sharing. She would be eager but inexperienced, gasping as his hand found her breast. Then, he would…
He shook his head abruptly to end the fantasy, his cheeks warming. He should not be thinking of his best friend’s sister in such a way. Such thoughts belonged in the dark, not in a common room in broad daylight. Nor should they feature a gently bred young lady. Louisa would be horrified if she knew the turn his mind had taken.
It was probably a sign that he’d had enough of Tom Smith for the day. While it might be fun to play at being another man, he needed to remember that the game was only going to last for a week and he was doing it to help Louisa, not to make her the subject of his prurient daydreams.
It was probably for the best that, after a trip to Wiltshire and a brief conversation with Lord Skeffington, Mr Smith would cease to exist. Louisa would have her inheritance and a chance to make a fresh start, away from the pressures of the Season. Once some other man had seen her for the desirable woman she was, Thomas’s mind and conscience would be clear of her.
Louisa woke the next morning with a sense of dread even deeper than that of the day before. Then she’d been able to escape into fiction to avoid her problems. But when she imagined the heroes of her favourite stories, they still bore an uncanny resemblance to the Duke of Bonham.
Being rescued by him in real life was not nearly as satisfying as she’d hoped it would be. A decent supper and a good night’s sleep had done nothing to convince her that his plan to trick her grandfather out of her inheritance was not doomed to failure. Nothing good would ever come of all this lying and manipulation.
She felt even more anxious when she went downstairs to breakfast and found the duke sitting at the table with an empty plate and a newspaper in front of him.
‘Where is Percy?’ she said. It seemed more polite than demanding to know what the devil Thomas Carew was doing in his chair.
The duke smiled up at her and checked his watch. ‘Been and gone half an hour ago for an appointment to spar at Gentleman Jackson’s.’
As she poured herself a cup of chocolate, he pushed the society page towards her. ‘Congratulations on your engagement.’
She gave the column a hurried glance, closing her eyes at the sight of her own name. She opened them again slowly, in the vain hope that what she’d seen was a trick of the light, or perhaps some ghastly typographical error. On second look, nothing had changed. The paper said she was marrying Mr Thomas Smith in three weeks’ time at St Michael’s in Alton. ‘I suppose it is too late to stop it now,’ she said.
‘Why would you want to?’ he asked.
‘Only that I would have liked some say in my own future, even if it is only pretend,’ she replied.
‘Well, you are right. It is too late now. There is a chance that your grandfather will see the notice before Percy’s letter about it arrives. It will be far more difficult to explain a retraction than to soldier through to the end of the plan.’
‘Where is Alton?’ she said, looking down at the announcement. ‘And why would I be going there to get married?’
