Their Marriage Of Inconvenience

Opposites in everything…

Except needing to marry!

For Adelia Worthington, only marrying railway magnate Simeon Morgan will secure her family’s home. In return, she’ll give Simeon a place in society. A marriage is the last thing either wants, especially when it’s clear this self-made man thinks she’s a pampered heiress! But what’s even more inconvenient than their marriage is that the sparks of fury that fly between them are igniting a simmering desire that won’t be ignored.

SOPHIA JAMES lives in Chelsea Bay, on the North Shore of Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband who is an artist. She has a degree in English and History from Auckland University and believes her love of writing was formed by reading Georgette Heyer in the holidays at her grandmother’s house. Sophia enjoys getting feedback at facebook.com/sophiajamesauthor.

Also by Sophia James

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A Secret Consequence for the Viscount

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A Proposition for the Comte

The Cinderella Countess

Secrets of a Victorian Household collection

Miss Lottie’s Christmas Protector

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Their Marriage of Inconvenience

Sophia James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90140-0

THEIR MARRIAGE OF INCONVENIENCE

© 2020 Sophia James

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 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.

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This book is dedicated to my father, Ron Kivell.

He, too, was an honourable man,

with a true moral compass, and I miss him every day.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

London—July 1842

Miss Adelia Worthington knew how dangerous her plan was, but she couldn’t turn back now, for when one was desperate, desperate measures had a need of being taken.

The door knocker was in her hand and she banged it thrice against a polished silvered strike plate. The servant who answered the summons looked about the street as if to understand the truth of a woman being so very alone here at this time of the night.

‘I have come to see Mr Simeon Morgan.’

‘Is he expecting you, miss?’

‘He is not, but I know he is in residence and would appreciate a word.’

The clock in the hallway chimed out the hour of ten thirty, underlining the question in the servant’s face, and for a moment Adelia thought he might simply shut the door.

‘I am Lady Worthington.’ Perhaps if she used the status of her mother’s title he might allow her access.

The name meant something, she could see that it did, for he faltered and stepped back, a blast of wind from the street helping to make up his mind.

‘Very well, my lady. If you would follow me in, I will find you a seat and tell the master you require an audience.’

At that she almost smiled because he could not know that she required so very much more.

One moment later and perched on a chair of dark velvet studded in shiny brass buttons, Adelia looked around the room she was now in. The elaborate town house was exactly as she had expected it to be, full of pomp and richness, the furniture and curtains assaulting her senses. New money always screamed with a desperate need to be noticed and it was no different here, the colours of every expensive fabric, paper and wood surface clashing with the ones next to them.

If this was a tune, it would have been discordant and shrill. If this were a painting, there would have been no quiet subject peering out from within the frame. No, this excess was drawn in bold harsh strokes, the jarring and inharmonious risk of placing everything one owned on display for all to admire and marvel at. An unmeasured pretension that spoke of boasting and swagger and a certain self-importance.

She had expected it to be so, for Mr Simeon Morgan was one of the newcomers, his fortune made in clever investments in the freshly established railway lines destined to run the length and breadth of Britain. While many of his competitors were collapsing all around him with their over-optimistic speculations, he seemed to have forged ahead unscathed. By luck or acumen, she had no way of telling.

She longed for Athelridge Hall and its old-fashioned quiet colours even as her next thought overlaid that one. The Worthington estate could be gone from them completely and swiftly if this meeting did not go well.

A noise to one side had her looking up and a small girl stood there, her long dark hair plaited and one eye blackened.

Shock held Adelia immobile.

‘You are very pretty.’ The child’s voice carried an accent from the north and the cut of her nightwear was not in the style of any servant’s offspring. Mr Morgan’s daughter, perhaps? My goodness, had he been married? Was he still? She had not heard a word about any union and horror consumed her at the very thought.

A flurry behind had another woman appearing, one who clearly had no compunction about grabbing the girl roughly and pulling her away. Should she say something? Should she demand from the older woman some assurance as to the child’s welfare? Adelia stood to follow them just as the first servant returned with a calling card in his hands.

‘Mr Morgan said that I was to give you this, Lady Worthington, after which I had to make sure you were safely escorted out to your carriage and seen off the property.’

All thoughts of the recent contretemps fled.

‘He won’t see me?’

‘No.’

‘If I sat here and waited…’

‘He was most insistent, Lady Worthington.’

‘Were I to return in the morning, would he be available then?’

‘The master said that he would prefer any contact with your family to be conducted through his lawyers. Their direction is stated upon the card you hold.’

She heard frustration in his answer at her continued presence here, and with more force than she meant, she tore up the card and let it flutter in small ragged pieces to the expensive Aubusson carpet below.

‘Could you go back and tell your master that I have tried that avenue already and it has not been conducive to any meaningful dialogue. That is the very reason I am here. I should like to speak with him face to face so there can be no doubt as to what it is I wish to relate. It is a sensitive matter and not one for lawyers or third parties.’

‘I am sorry, but I cannot allow you to go up, Lady Worthington.’

As the words echoed around the room, Adelia simply took a chance.

‘Could you help me, please, for I am in great and desperate need? If you turned away for just one moment, our problem will be solved. That is all I ask. You do not need to do anything else but look away. I shall manage the rest.’

As he faltered, hope rose.

‘I urgently need an audience. I promise I shall tell Mr Morgan that I simply ran past you and up the stairs and that you had no way of stopping me, none whatsoever, even though you tried your very hardest. I will be off the premises in five minutes and after that I shall never bother anyone here again.’

‘I could lose my job…’

‘I would find you another.’ She smiled in that particular way that seemed to send every man in society to pieces and saw him glance at her dimples.

‘It is desperate, you say?’

‘Completely and utterly.’

‘Five minutes is all you require?’

‘Not a second more. Please?’

The silence lengthened until he spoke again, this time in the slightest of whispers.

‘Mr Morgan’s chamber is the second door on the left at the top of the stairs, Lady Worthington. But he will not be pleased to see you, I can promise you that.’

Adelia simply took her chance and ran.

Simeon sat in the wing chair to one side of the low-burning fire and stared into the flames.

He was sick to death of the cold that had consumed him for over a week now, sending him every few moments into hacking bouts of coughing. He was sure a rib on his right-hand side was broken with the force of the paroxysms, and the fever which had been intermittent was back again, evident in the shaking of his chattering teeth. Even the thick woollen blanket pulled from his bed seemed to make no difference. He was utterly freezing.

‘Damn,’ he swore softly and laid a hand across his aching eyes.

He’d been asleep most of the day, which meant that he would be up all night. If he listened, he knew he’d shortly be able to hear the bells of St James’s, Piccadilly, pealing out the third quarter. He wished it were dawn already even as he wondered why on earth Lionel Worthington’s wife would come to visit him at this time of night. Lady Worthington? Was she mad? Did she expect clemency, or worse, forgiveness, for her husband’s many sins? Harris, his butler, had said this visitor looked desperate and well she should. A man with the base morals her spouse had would distress any woman.

Leaning forward, he breathed out hard, trying to loosen the tightness in his chest. Well, his lawyers would soon see to her and send her on her way, that was what he paid them well to do. He tried to remember what Worthington’s wife looked like, but could not recall her face at all. A blonde, he thought, and thin, but failed to find a true image.

Harris had conveyed his misgivings about this late and unexpected visitor succinctly.

‘Lady Worthington looks a bit lost, sir. Like a stray cat.’

Well, the last thing he needed was yet another stray in his house, his thoughts going to Flora Rountree. The child had landed upon him out of the blue a week ago and he often heard her wails in his house at all hours of the night despite employing a well-turned-out and competent governess who came with glowing references.

‘Damn it all.’

First the death of her mother, Catherine Rountree, and now this. The whole year so far had been a disaster and it was only early July.

The click of the door opening had him glancing up and, instead of his expected servant, the most beautiful young woman he had ever laid his eyes upon appeared. With teeth worrying her bottom lip, she let herself in and locked the door behind her, standing straight and determined after turning the key.

‘Who the hell are you?’

His words made her frown, though the lines on her forehead took nothing away from her loveliness. Rather eyes the shade of emerald green only brightened and a mouth with full and sensual lips puckered with worry. He felt a tight clench of thrill in his stomach and shifted his position to dampen down the unwanted sentiment.

‘Mr Morgan, I know I should not have come, but I have something to say to you that I cannot in all honesty enunciate to your lawyers or indeed to anyone else.’

Simeon drew up his blanket, wishing like hell he was better clothed.

‘I am ill.’

He could not quite understand why he had said this, explaining away his lack of decent attire. After all, it was she who had crashed into his room uninvited and any account of his own actions was hardly an obligation.

She looked away, the candlelight catching her hair, strands of gold and wheat and pure-spun whiteness escaping from a hat of feathers angled across her head.

Had the fever made him delusional? Was she an angel descended from above and one who had landed fair and square in his bedchamber? Teasing him? Her next words dissipated that notion completely.

‘My name is Miss Adelia Worthington. Lord Worthington is my father.’

‘An unfavourable parentage then, though you look nothing at all like him.’ He could not keep surprise from his words.

She ignored his comment and carried on. ‘I have come to offer you a trade.’ There was a quiver in the last word.

‘A trade?’ The room swam as he shook his head and listened.

‘But first I need to know if you have a wife?’

‘I have not.’ The words slipped from him in disbelief. Where could this conversation be going?

‘Good. The thing is that Athelridge Hall, the estate you gained from my father near Barnet, is my family home and all the property we have left in the world. I do not wish to lose it and so, as a way of mitigating the effects of my father’s foolish investments, I have come to you with an offer of marriage.’ She slowed down a bit now and swallowed. ‘To myself, I mean. I am an innocent and I have had many proposals this Season for my hand. My success in the marketplace of high society has been well documented should you doubt what I am saying—an unequalled triumph, a victory of some worth according to all the sources that I hear it from.’

The words were running together now in a faster and faster way, no breath between the outpouring. He frowned.

‘You are telling me that you are a prize, then? The incomparable Miss Worthington?’

‘Indeed, many would say that I am.’

No false modesty deterred her from carrying on, although there was a new shake in her voice.

‘In exchange for what I offer you, I want you to gift me Athelridge Hall. As my husband it would still be yours to all effects and purposes and I understand that. But my home would be safe and I would still have the rights to it. So it is something barely noticeable for you, not even an inconvenience. I know how rich you are and that the estate represents an insignificant investment for you, but I should not expect a share in anything more than Athelridge Hall. Ever.’

‘My God, you cannot be serious, Miss Worthington?’

He saw her fingers close around a small gold cross that she wore on a chain around her neck as if to counteract his blasphemy as she continued.

‘But I am, Mr Morgan. I should allow you your full rights as a husband as well as your prerogative to choose a mistress. Any number of them. I should not stop you from…making your own personal choices. I would be compliant, dutiful and discreet. I would run the estate with diplomacy, refinement, grace and tact. Even if you stayed only one night a year at Athelridge Hall I should not complain and I would not expect you to bring me to London. Whatever you wanted I would attempt to give to you. Without complaint. In short, I would endeavour to be the perfect wife. Tolerant and accommodating. Barely there.’

‘A comprehensive promise?’ He could not believe the absolute inappropriateness of her making such a pledge to him.

‘And one you might favour?’

He laughed. ‘You know nothing about me, Miss Worthington. How old are you?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘A baby. Go home and thank the Lord for your lucky escape.’

When her eyes darkened and flashed fire it heartened him. Not quite a docile martyr, then? She certainly wasn’t doing as he had bid her either. The deep dimples in both cheeks as she bit at her lip unsettled him, for they were apparent even when she did not smile.

‘Every other unmarried man in society and many of the married ones hold a great desire for me. Why would you not?’

‘Because I have no wish whatsoever for a wife, even one as compliant and long-suffering as the model of the one you are promising me. I fare far better with more disposable lovers, mistresses and courtesans. I can change them whenever I am bored, which I often am. Without drama. Without question. Here today, gone tomorrow, so to speak. An impermanent liaison which requires no true commitment and has the added benefit of hurting nobody.’

He stood and crossed the room to pour himself a brandy, the warmth of it suppressing the shivers he could feel returning. ‘Given the indisputable fact of your glowing first Season, every other man of your acquaintance is probably better suited to your needs than I am. Go away, Miss Worthington, and pick one.’

‘No.’

That word was whispered, but he had already heard enough. She was like a small exotic bird who had strayed into a lion’s den. How did she not realise the danger she was in?

‘That is more than enough. Scurry back to your besotted society suitors, the ones who would fit into the lifestyle you are more than used to, the ones who would welcome such a broad and extraordinary promise and honour it as I would not.’

He could see the worry on her face, but he could also easily understand her effect on any man who came across her. She was the most exquisite female he had ever known. Unforgettable. Fragile. And beautiful beyond words. He could barely keep his gaze off her face and he hated himself for such shallowness.

‘That is impossible, Mr Morgan, for the home I had, Athelridge Hall, is now your own and I need it back.’

‘Did your father direct you to come here?’ God, Simeon could almost imagine it of the man. To sacrifice a daughter for the mistakes he had made and would keep on making. To muddy the pond with compromise and immorality and think nothing at all of it. To send another in his stead to accomplish his dirty work.

The blood fled from her face at his query and he thought for a second that she might simply fall to the floor, but her hand found the brass bedstead and then she didn’t.

‘I came of my own accord, sir.’

‘A risky business that, given the enormity of your proposition, the smallness of your person and the lateness of the hour.’

‘Sometimes safe and easy pathways are unable to be…found, and one has to forge a new way.’

‘With all your many stated and ardent proposals my advice to you would be to use such lofty options and make a choice. Find a lord of means who might appeal to you and marry him summarily as protection.’

Another flare of anger brightened her eyes. She had secrets, Simeon thought. He recognised them easily in others.

‘You are the only person who holds the titles of my family home in your pocket, sir.’

‘Then tell your papa to come up with the money and I will consider selling them back to him. Even a plan for repayment will do me fine.’

The beginning of tears surprised him.

‘That is impossible.’

She was so young, Simeon realised suddenly, and simply had had enough. Better to frighten her, then, and send her packing in shock. His past was hardly salubrious and the mystery surrounding him would help see her on her way.

‘I am not paying the high price you ask for the virginity you mention, Miss Worthington. However, if indeed you do feel the need to show me the goods I wouldn’t object in the slightest…’

He let the sentence slide, knowing the insult within them, but he needed her gone.

‘The goods?’ Her cheeks flamed red.

‘Tempt me with your breasts, your hips, your crinkum-crankum. All the parts of a woman that attract a man and make him sell his soul. Unbutton your bodice and surprise me.’

The grubby slang had her eyes widening just as he knew it would. ‘I do not think…’

‘Don’t think, Miss Worthington, just go.’

The fury in him was building because he understood what was at stake here and how carefully her father had orchestrated such a travesty. Lionel Frankton Worthington was a bastard and if his daughter had failed to realise it then she must be of the exact same mould. It behoved him to punish them both by exposing such a crude proposal, though he knew of course that she would run now, from his presence, from his house, from his life, and she would never come back. He waited for her footsteps, exhaustion vying with rage.

When shaking fingers came up to the buttons at her bodice, his heartbeat skipped. He saw then an undergarment of silk and lace across milk-white skin, rising flesh and pink-tinged nipples. When she moved again the curve of womanhood and a round abundance of softness was clearly visible above her fallen clothing.

Behind her the clock struck the hour of eleven. The hush grew and grew as his eyes feasted on her bounty, there for such an easy taking, there to reach out and seize. He could have Miss Adelia Worthington in a moment. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and payment was much more than overdue.

He scowled as his body hardened, cursing the betrayal even as he welcomed it. This was not going anything like he thought it would, yet he could not turn away. When he stood he let the blanket around him drop as he took the first step towards her. Damn the consequences, he thought savagely, he had never been a saint, after all, and if the beautiful daughter of his worst enemy had done her homework she would have at least known that.

He was a huge man and dark, the tight trousers he wore moulded around his body like silk, the white shirt above unbuttoned all the way down the front. In the shadows of the fire and the night he looked like Hades escaped from his Underworld, a dark soul-taker bent on her destruction. She should have run when he had allowed her the chance, but if this failed…