Fortuity’s Arrangement (Seven Unsuitable Sisters #2)

Chapter One

Lady Atterley’s Masquerade Ball

Mayfair London

February 7, 1821

G entlemen travel in packs, behaving like wolves on the hunt for the weakest of the debutante herd, wrote Lady Fortuity Abarough, third sister to the Duke of Broadmere—at least, third as far as birth order was concerned, since the duke had seven sisters in total. She wriggled her nose to relieve the terrible itch caused by the feathers on her crimson mask, huffing at the annoying plumage tickling her face. While doing so, she spied her brother Chance, fifth Duke of Broadmere, politely removing himself from the clutches of an older miss she recalled seeing last Season. She made an addition to her notes: At times the gentleman becomes the hunted, chased with great enthusiasm and desperation by those ladies experiencing their second or even third Season.

“Such cutting words,” said a familiar voice from behind her. “You surprise me, Fortuity. Might I ask what this study is for?”

She folded the paper and stuffed it into her feathery reticule that matched the deep ruby shade of her gown adorned with the same infernal swath of plumage besieging her nose. What on earth had the modiste thought by suggesting this birdlike creation, and why had she agreed to it? Without a glance back at the owner of the voice, she lifted her chin and kept her focus locked on the participants of the Marriage Mart circling one another on the dance floor.

“It is most rude to poke one’s nose where it does not belong, Lord Ravenglass.” She kept her voice low even though they stood off to themselves beside an overwhelming froth of bright red tulle cascading down from the gilded bow and arrow of an elaborate white cupid bearing a somewhat demonic expression. “And yes, you may ask about my study, but do not expect an answer.”

He chuckled softly. “ Lord Ravenglass? I can always tell when I’ve piqued your ire because you resort to formal address. Are we not friends, Fortuity? Allies, even? Especially after last year? Why, even your sister Blessing said she thinks of me as a second brother.”

“Knowing my sister, she did not mean that as a compliment.” Fortuity turned and looked up at him, even though she knew it to be a mistake. Viscount Matthew Ravenglass was by far the most exquisite man she had ever met, and the handsome fool probably knew she thought that.

Mischief danced in his flinty gray eyes set off by a dashing black mask that convinced her that perhaps the next romantic story she wrote needed a dark-haired hero who stole the heroine’s heart at a masked ball. “And yes, we are friends and allies, but that does not mean we are confidants.”

His boyish smile made her heart beat faster as he dramatically pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, my lady.”

She struggled for a witty response, distracted by the observation that his black evening coat required no stuffing or special tailoring to make him appear as powerful and broad-shouldered as a Greek god, as the mighty Zeus, even. He just looked that way because he was and would undoubtedly look even better stripped naked. Her cheeks burned hot at that scandalous thought, and Mama was surely frowning down at her from heaven.

She tossed her head and huffed at the annoying feathers again before returning her attention to the dance floor. “Methinks your wounds are contrived, my lord.”

He leaned in so close that his clean, warm scent of citrus and sandalwood wafted across her, making her inhale deeper to savor it. The familiar fragrance reminded her of his wonderful parlor, filled with the books she had itched to peruse when she and her siblings had first visited him last year while attempting to save her sister Blessing’s husband.

“Fortuity?” he said, his voice deep and coaxing.

She swallowed hard and tensed every muscle to keep from betraying herself with a reaction to his nearness. “Yes, Matthew?”

“You know you can trust me. Do you not?”

“I suppose.”

“What are your scribblings for?” he asked ever so softly, his breath tickling her ear. “I remember your doing the very same thing last year the first time I saw you.” He rumbled with amusement, the sound as warm and rich as a sip of the finest chocolate. “You were a most studious little thing, hiding in the shadows of the drapery that night, scratching away at your scraps of paper.”

“ A most studious little thing. Why thank you, Lord Ravenglass. What a lovely compliment. With such charm and wit, I cannot believe there is not a pile of ladies fainted dead away at your feet.” She tightened her hold on her reticule and fanned herself with an obscenely feathered accessory that made her eyes water with the need to sneeze. “Why are you so inquisitive?”

“Because you intrigue me.”

She gave an indignant huff. “I do not intrigue anyone, my lord. Least of all you.” She tipped a nod at the other side of the dance floor. “Did I not just witness you intrigued by not one but three of those ladies currently smiling at you and glaring at me?”

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

She snorted again. “You detect my ability to take notice of the obvious, nothing else.” She turned, snapped the plumage of her fan shut, and tapped his chest with the feathery thing. “You are hiding from them. Aren’t you?”

The muscles in his chiseled jaw rippled. A sure sign she had hit the mark.

“Were they truly so forward you felt compelled to seek cover in the land of the wallflowers?”

“You are safe, Fortuity.” He glanced up and down the room and eased deeper into the shadows behind her.

“Safe? Why, thank you again, my lord.” No woman wished to be called safe or a studious little thing , but she supposed that was better than some of the criticisms she had overheard from those who found her lacking when comparing her to her beautiful sisters. “You do realize that I am neither tall enough nor broad enough to hide you from view?” She stretched up on tiptoe to see the refreshment table. “Where are your cousins? The two of them might conceal you better than the one of me.”

“Eleanor is working through her dance card, and I believe her mother is hiding in the ladies’ retiring room once again.”

Genuine sympathy for his older cousin, Mrs. Agnus Sykesbury, filled Fortuity. “I am sorry. By the cheerfulness of her gown, I thought your cousin much improved.” Poor woman. The pair had come to live with the viscount after Mr. Sykesbury’s death and a complicated unpleasantness with his family in India. Even though they were well over two years past the usual period of mourning, Mrs. Sykesbury still wrestled with paralyzing bouts of grief. Her daughter Eleanor suffered no such incapacities. “Do you think you should take her home?”

“I offered, but Eleanor fussed enough to compel her mother to stay.” He grumbled—or growled. Fortuity couldn’t decide how she would describe his disgruntled sound if she were to write it. “You know Agnus never denies her daughter anything.”

“Yes. I am aware.” Fortuity was very much aware. None of the Broadmere sisters liked Miss Eleanor Sykesbury after she attempted to cause problems between Blessing and Thorne before they married. The conniving little chit thrived on stirring trouble. Her mother, Mrs. Sykesbury, was kindness itself. Eleanor was an insufferable cow.

“Lord Ravenglass,” said Fortuity’s eldest sister Serendipity with well-aimed shrewishness as she joined them. “How are you this evening?”

“Weapons down, Seri,” Fortuity said. “He is here because he is hiding from his admirers, not attempting to ruin me.” She fluttered her fan at the trio of ladies slowly making their way around the edge of the dance floor. “Perhaps you should run, my lord. Your huntresses are on the move. They approach their prey.”

With a mischievous wink, Matthew positioned himself between her and Serendipity. “Surely I am quite safe while flanked by the esteemed Broadmere sisters.”

“Yes,” Serendipity said, sounding distracted as she gazed around the room. “Speaking of which, where are Grace, Joy, Felicity, and Merry? Have either of you seen them?”

Serendipity had promised Mama she would look after her six sisters and not marry until each had found love and happily settled down with a husband. Even though it was rather against the usual for the eldest to marry last, nothing about the Broadmere family and their beliefs had ever been orthodox or usual. That knowledge made Fortuity smile. She took great pride in their eccentricities and the rare way Mama and Papa had raised them.

“I have not seen them since we arrived,” she told her sister. And she hadn’t. If she had, she would point Serendipity in their direction to save herself from being forced to dance and interact with those she would much rather observe from the safety of the shadows. After all, as her siblings had so indelicately put it, she was next on the chopping block, since Blessing had married. Their brother couldn’t come into the full of his inheritance until all seven sisters had found the bliss of love matches. As far as Chance was concerned, the tally was one down, six to go, and he couldn’t get them settled fast enough, since his monthly stipend was less than what he considered adequate. He wanted access to the entirety of the family’s vast coffers, and he wanted it now.

“What about you, Matthew? Have you seen them?” Serendipity craned her neck and continued scanning the crowded room.

“This is a masked ball, my lady,” he said, gentling the reminder with a lowered voice.

“You found me easily enough,” Fortuity retorted.

“You were unmistakable to me.”

The smug slant of his smile and the exciting wickedness smoldering in his eyes made her catch her breath, but she refused to let him know how he affected her. After all, they were friends. Nothing more. He had often said so himself. “Ah yes, my fervent scribbling in the shadows of the draperies. I gave my studious little self away, didn’t I?”

“Well, I must find them,” Serendipity said, then gave Matthew a stony glare before turning to Fortuity. “You should come with me, Tutie.”

“I will not.” With a broad wave of her feathery fan, Fortuity encompassed the large ballroom. “I am far from unchaperoned in this crush, have yet to finish my observations, and Blessing is just over there. She will watch me to maintain all proprieties.” Fortuity couldn’t resist a gleeful smirk at the viscount. “After all, I must protect our dear friend here from the beasties headed his way. I am sure they have their claws out.”

“Indeed, they do,” Matthew told Serendipity with mock seriousness.

Serendipity looked past him and perked like a hound catching the scent of a fox. “I believe that’s Gracie over there. Do excuse me.” Before she charged through a cluster of lords and ladies, she pointed her fan at Fortuity. “Please join Blessing and make sure she does not overdo. You know how impossible she has become.”

Fortuity nodded and shooed her onward, even though she had no intention of plowing through the guests to reach her sister Blessing’s side. Thorne would watch over his wife and ensure nothing endangered her or their unborn child. Their presence at the ball had surprised Fortuity because none of the Broadmere sisters had ever cared overly much for such functions, and Blessing could have used her condition as an excuse even though she was barely rounding in the middle. All became clear when her sister explained that Lady Atterley’s husband had proposed a lucrative business venture to Thorne that required the expediency of discussing it tonight rather than waiting for a more suitable moment.

“May I have this dance?” Matthew asked with surprising urgency.

“Why?” Fortuity turned back to him. “Are more lovelies headed your way?”

With a pointed look over her head, he stared at something behind her. “This waltz will save us both, my lady. Is that not your favorite marquess coming toward us?”

She turned and allowed herself a groan. “Oh dear, the malodorous Lord Smellington.” She flinched. “Beg pardon. I should not have said that.”

Matthew threw back his head and laughed as he swept her out onto the dance floor before the man reached them. “Your sister always called Lord Pellington the Marquess of Debt, but I believe your moniker for him is more accurate.”

“Last season his stench caused poor Merry to gag on her lemonade and spew it all over him.” Fortuity shuddered.

“He believes bathing causes illness.”

“His lack of bathing causes illness. I nearly retch whenever he is near.” She struggled to concentrate on the steps after treading on Matthew’s foot yet again. “I am so sorry. Now you know another reason why I keep to the shadows with my scribbling.”

“You have yet to tell me the first reason, my lady.” He smiled down at her, making her heart flutter in a manner that made her breathless. “Since I rescued you from Lord Smellington, should I not be rewarded with an elevation in status from friend to confidant?”

“You are more tenacious than one of Gracie’s dogs with a favorite bone.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.” He lowered his head and looked into her eyes as if she entranced him while they spun to the music. “Tenacity is an honorable trait. Denotes patience. Perseverance. I always get what I want, my lady.”

Of that, she had no doubt. “One might also call it stubbornness, my lord,” she told him with her most blinding smile. “A trait rampant among toddlers and spoiled children who think they should always get their way.”

“I am hurt you do not trust me, Fortuity.”

“A shift in tactics, my lord? You almost sounded sincere.” She curtsied as the music ended, then stared at him in surprise when he didn’t bow. He just stood there, glaring at her. Was the man pouting like a sullen child?

Behind the mask, his gray eyes had shifted to a flintier shade, and he did not smile as he offered his hand. “Shall I escort you to Blessing?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She had hurt his feelings. It echoed in his tone. She slid her gloved hand back into his, the same hand that had tingled from his touch as they danced. “I trust you, Matthew. I simply do not wish to be laughed at to my face or behind my back.”

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and marched them off the dance floor at a quicker pace, not to her sister, but toward the double doors thrown open to an expansive conservatory of leafy plants and flowers that provided the illusion of a summery retreat for the chilly February evening.

“I would never laugh at you,” he said. “I might tease or jest to coax a smile from you, but I would never make amusement at your expense.” Just inside the conservatory doors and still within view of the guests, he halted and frowned down at her. “I would have thought you knew that about me by now, considering how observant you are, my fair, quiet watcher of every social gathering in Mayfair.”

She had not only hurt his feelings but angered him as well. Perhaps it was time to show him she was not the helpless wallflower, the plain Broadmere sister no one ever noticed or gave a second thought to. She was—dauntless. Somewhat. “How dare you.”

“How dare I?”

“Yes, how dare you attempt to make me feel guilty about protecting myself from Society’s cruel barbs. Do you think I am deaf to what they say about me? How I am the plain one? How my hair is not the angelic blonde of my sisters but more like tarnished gold? How I barely possess enough curves to prove I am female even though I have reached the ripe old age of one and twenty? That my intelligence must be lacking because my tongue becomes tied more often than not when I find myself among those who disconcert me?”

He shifted with a deep intake of air, his mouth tightening with displeasure before he bowed his head. His arm flexed beneath her fingers, then he covered her hand with his. “This conversation has taken an unseemly turn, my lady, and I must beg your pardon.” He leaned toward her, aligning his eyes with hers to prevent her from looking away. “Contrary to what you have heard or experienced in the past, you are not the plain one .” His gaze swept across her, making her catch her breath as he raked it down her body. “Your hair is the warm, rich color of ripened wheat, and your eyes the blue of a stormy sky after the rain has ceased.” He boldly swept his focus across her again. “There is no doubt in my mind that you are a woman, and I daresay your tongue has been loose at both ends this evening.”

He took her hand from his arm and cradled it between both of his. “I consider you a friend, Fortuity. One of the very few people I place in that exclusive category.” He stared down at their joined hands. “I will not trouble you again with my questions. As I said earlier, you and your scribblings merely intrigued me.” He nodded and tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm. “And now that I have made myself clear, I shall escort you to your sister.”

“No, you shall not.” She planted both feet and refused to budge. “Not until I have made myself clear.”

He stared down at her. A faint, unreadable smile tugged at that mouth of his that she had committed to memory and envisioned on every hero she had written since meeting him. He released her hand and gave her a proper bow. “By all means, my lady, make yourself clear.”

She stared up into his dark gray eyes and braced herself for his cruel laughter and disbelief that would surely come when she told him about her passion, her life’s work, her stories. She had never known him to be cruel before, but in this, she had no doubt he would be like everyone else.

Well, not exactly like everyone else. Mama and Papa had supported her dreams because they loved her and had to support her. They were her parents. Her siblings didn’t understand her need to write, but since she accepted their eccentricities, they accepted hers. Her sisters did, that was. Chance had been a complete toad about her stories. But Matthew fell into none of the categories that required him to be nice and understand her penchant for writing fiction.

“My lady?” he gently prompted her.

“My observations at all of Mayfair’s social gatherings help give my characters more realism.”

“Your characters?”

“Yes, if you must know, the characters in my stories that I mean to publish someday. Under my own name. Not some male pseudonym or anonymous labeling. Written by Fortuity Abarough will be on the title page of my books when the world receives them.” She backed up a step, clenching her fan and reticule to her middle as if they were her shields. She waited, staring at him for what felt like forever. When he remained silent, she stamped her foot. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

She wished he would take off that bloody mask so she could better read his expression. “Well, go ahead and laugh like my brother did when he found out.” She jutted her chin higher. “Blessing filled his bed with frogs when he was so mean to me that day.”

“Why would I laugh?” he asked quietly, seeming genuinely befuddled.

“Because women are to marry, manage households for their husbands, and give them children. They do not write books and publish them—as women with their real names. Or, at least, most don’t if they wish to be successful authors and not have Society label them as pitiful oddities. And my wish to do so, to write something other than gossip sheets, and have my books receive acclaim, is like hoping for lightning to strike me in the middle of a cloudless day.”

“You are aware of my love of the written word? My fondness for books, plays, and papers?”

“Yes.” A leeriness filled her, like waiting for a trap to snap shut and cleave her dreams in two. “What about it?”

“I have nothing but the utmost admiration for anyone able to create such works. To fabricate worlds and invite others into them for a brief respite from the tedium of Polite Society’s latest on dit , Parliament’s pettiest arguments, or whatever other ridiculousness the world has spawned is an astounding talent.”

The candor in his eyes threatened to bring her to tears. She swallowed hard and batted her lashes, thankful for her feathery mask. “You are most kind, Matthew. Thank you for not mocking me. Or laughing.”

He smiled and took her hands in his. “We are friends, my lady, and I would do nothing to risk that.”

Friends. A double-edged sword, that word. It stung even though she had always known they would never be anything more. She shook away the dismal feeling and squeezed his hands. “I consider myself fortunate on that count, my lord. Very fortunate, indeed.”

“Then all is once again well between us?” His hopefulness shamed her for not being thankful for the gift of his friendship and trust.

She squeezed his hands again and smiled. “Yes, my lord. All is well between us.”

“Good, because we must dance again. The pungent marquess is as persistent as the huntresses.” He swept her back out onto the floor, turning and spinning them away from their pursuers.

“Oh dear. Mind your feet, my lord.” Fortuity struggled to keep up with the oddly faster-paced waltz. “Should the tempo not be slower?”

“Ah, my observant little wren, did you not overhear Lady Atterley proclaiming to all and sundry that she would be the first to introduce this latest style of waltz to Mayfair?”

“I did not, and I take umbrage at being called a plump little brown bird with a loud song.”

He laughed as he guided her through another twirl, not even wincing when she stumbled across his feet yet again. “Wrens are known for their cleverness. Have you never heard the tale of the little wren who hid in the eagle’s feathers to win the title of the king of birds? Whoever soared the highest won, and when the eagle reached its limits, the little wren emerged and flew even higher.”

“In Irish folklore, they symbolize betrayal,” she countered. “One flapped its wings and showed St. Stephen’s attackers where he was hiding.”

Matthew laughingly shook his head. “I prefer my story over yours.”

She couldn’t resist a sheepish grin. “So do I.” She glanced down at his poor feet as the music stopped, and she took a step back and curtsied. “Oh my. Your valet will be most displeased with me. Please offer him my apologies when he’s fetching water to soak your poor bruised feet and then polishing your shoes.”

He bowed, then held out his hand for her to take. “My feet are fine, my lady, and he polishes my shoes after each wearing, anyway. Come, let us join your sister so as not to rouse Serendipity’s ire.”

“Look,” Fortuity whispered as she took his hand.

“What?” He turned to follow her line of sight.

“Lord Smellington has cornered your huntresses. Neither Lady Serafina nor Miss Genevia are pleased.”

“And Lady Theodora may cast up her accounts,” he whispered back. “She is as green as her gown.”

Despite herself, Fortuity felt bad for the ladies. “Should you not be gallant and rescue them?”

Matthew huffed and walked her faster toward the other side of the room. “I am not the only gentleman present and am otherwise detained attending to your sister’s wishes that we not allow Blessing to tire herself excessively.”

As they reached Blessing, she eyed them with a sly expression that could only mean trouble. “Two waltzes? What will everyone surely think?”

“Stop, Essie,” Fortuity said. “Chance and Serendipity are bad enough without your crossing over to their side in the war to marry off all the Broadmere sisters.”

Blessing ignored her. Instead, she aimed a calculating smile at the viscount. “Then you would be my brother, Matthew.”

“Where is your esteemed husband?” he asked, blatantly ignoring her remark.

Blessing puckered with a moue of bored displeasure. “Still speaking with Lord Atterley.”

“No puckering,” Fortuity told her sister in a teasing tone, feeling somewhat sorry for her being temporarily abandoned. “Remember what Mama said.”

Blessing smoothed her expression, then hissed a dramatic sigh.

“I must ask,” Matthew said. “What did your mother say about puckering ?”

“Causes lines and gives one the appearance of a shriveled piece of fruit,” Fortuity said.

“I am hungry again,” Blessing said. “Will they never announce supper?”

Matthew bowed. “Allow me to fetch you a lemonade and some treats to tide you over, my lady. My future godchild must not go hungry.”

Blessing brightened. “That would be lovely and shall be remembered when Thorne and I choose godparents for little Aloysius Starpeeper.”

Matthew backed up a step, and Fortuity snorted with laughter. “Surely, you do not mean to name the child Aloysius Starpeeper Knightwood?” she asked.

Blessing shrugged and gave her an evil grin. “One never knows.”

“I shall fetch the refreshments.” Matthew hurried away, chuckling and shaking his head.

“He would make you a fine husband,” Blessing said while watching the viscount weave his way through the crowd.

“We are friends,” Fortuity said, wishing her sister would stop. “Nothing more. The only reason we danced together twice was to avoid Lord Smellington and those three he currently has cornered.”

“Friendship is a fine foundation for marriage.”

“Has your condition of pending motherhood rendered you deaf?” Fortuity scowled at her sister. “Viscount Matthew Ravenglass is a friend to all of us, I might add. That is all. Besides, did Thorne not tell us the man swore off marriage years ago? Something about the woman he loved tossing him aside to marry a duke?”

“You could heal him. You would never betray the man you loved.”

“Who says I love him?”

Blessing took a step closer, and her demeanor shifted. She was no longer acting sly or teasing. “I know you, Tutie. I have seen the way you look at him.”

“Then you also know how much it would hurt me to lose his friendship because you pressured him into something he would never wish.” Fortuity bowed her head, fighting for composure. “Please, Essie. Leave it alone. For me?”

“But—”

“Please, Essie,” Fortuity forced through gritted teeth. “Stop. I write romantic stories with happy endings. I do not experience them firsthand because I am…me.”