Sneak Peek of A MATTER OF CONVENIENCE

Book 1 of The Mayfair Literary League

 

 

Prologue

 

London, England, 1870

Lady Phoebe Fitzroy set her teacup on the table and braced herself, well aware that what she was about to propose would shake the foundation of The Mayfair Literary League.

The five other ladies who graced her drawing room had become dear friends in the three years since she’d started the book club.

However, it had come to her attention that they shared more than a love of books. They were similar in age and had endured five or more Seasons without finding husbands.

She’d spoken with each of them individually over the past two weeks and confirmed that they all had another common issue: men.

Or lack thereof, to be precise.

She cleared her throat, and her friends immediately stopped their conversations to look at her, expecting her to call their monthly meeting to order to discuss their latest read.

However, today would be different. At least, that was her hope.

“I would like to propose a slight change to our literary league for the coming months.” Phoebe ran a nervous finger along the braided trim of her cuff, hoping her idea would be welcomed. “A new agenda, if you will.”

Several of the women frowned and fidgeted, suggesting they didn’t like the sound of that. Accepting change was a challenge for most of them.

“But we enjoy reading and discussing books,” Lady Tabitha Malton countered, and the others nodded in agreement.

“Have no fear. Books will remain the cornerstone of our group as will our charitable endeavors. However, after conversations with our members, it has come to my attention that each of us has an issue that requires our attention. One that can’t be resolved until it sees the light of day. That issue is…” She paused for dramatic emphasis. “A secret crush. A man who has caught our interest but has not yet done us the favor of returning our regard.”

Frances Melbourne, one of her best friends, suddenly took great interest in her tea, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink.

Phoebe hid a smile. Frances had been the first member she’d spoken with about the problem. The focus of her friend’s interest had surprised Phoebe, and she couldn’t wait to see if Frances accepted her challenge.

The next few months would prove interesting if nothing else. If the idea resulted in even one happily ever after, Phoebe would be pleased.

“None of us are getting any younger,” she continued. “We’re far from debutantes and much closer to spinsters than we’d like.”

Phoebe was six and twenty and starting to worry she’d never have a family of her own. Her ample figure with its generous curves certainly didn’t help.

Now that she knew some of the other ladies felt the same way, she took comfort in knowing she wasn’t alone.

Yet she was disturbed to realize that none of them, including herself, had acted before now. While it was true they were all more bookish than beauties, that wasn’t a reason for them not to find love.

“I challenge each member of the league to complete one bold act to catch the interest of their tendre, including myself.”

Murmurs of shock and concern filled the room.

Phoebe held up her hand to quiet them, wanting to make certain they understood her call to action. “We will not lower ourselves to compromise our reputations, nor will we force the man we admire to propose. He must choose us of his own free will. The purpose of the bold act is to help the gentleman to see us in a new light. If our attempt fails, at least we’ll have the comfort of knowing we tried, and we can face our future and whatever it brings without regret.”

Her friends shared glances as if wanting to see the others’ reactions before revealing their own.

“If you’d like assistance or an opinion on how best to go about your bold act, simply ask. Above all else, we are here to support each other.”

The women began speaking at once, some with excitement and others with dismay.

Phoebe listened to her friends, aware of how big a step this would be for several of the shy women. Discussing controversial topics was something they did well, their skills honed since the beginning of their league meetings. No opinion was ignored if presented in a calm, fair, and logical manner.

But the topic of marriage did not encourage logic. It was emotional and fraught with complications, especially when the men they each admired had yet to realize they existed as potential lifelong partners.

While Phoebe would hesitate to describe her friends as wallflowers, they certainly hadn’t gained passionate interest from the members of the opposite sex who had claimed their tendre.

After over a half hour of lively discussion listing the advantages and drawbacks of her proposal, devouring three plates of biscuits and sandwiches, along with empty teacups, Phoebe called the meeting back to order.

“I understand if any of you choose not to participate. However, I, for one, refuse to live with regret. In fact, I am so committed to this plan, that I volunteer to be the first to attempt it.” Phoebe’s stomach dropped despite her bold words. “I will report back as to my results at the next meeting. Our new agenda, For Better or Worse will begin next week. Now, who will join me?”

 

Chapter One

One week later

Phoebe tried to tell herself she was excited about the step she was about to take. In truth, she felt positively ill. What had seemed a brilliant idea when it had first occurred to her a month ago now felt like a terrible mistake.

She pressed a hand to her middle, wishing she’d refrained from eating luncheon as her stomach roiled alarmingly.

“Are you well, my lady?” her maid asked from her seat across the carriage.

“Quite. Thank you.” She’d deliberately requested Fanny, one of the housemaids, to accompany her rather than her lady’s maid. Rose knew her too well. She would’ve asked questions Phoebe couldn’t answer and might have convinced Phoebe not to go through with her plan.

That was something Phoebe couldn’t allow. Not when she was already at risk of talking herself out of it.

As was her custom when pondering an issue, Phoebe had made a careful list of the various outcomes of her bold act. However, viewing the possibilities on paper hadn’t prepared her for the courage required to actually proceed.

What if he refused to see her?

What if he wasn’t home?

What if he said no?

What if he said yes?

She gave herself a mental shake at the endless concerns swirling through her mind that kept her seated on the tufted carriage bench even after the conveyance rolled to a stop. The answer she had noted for each possible outcome didn’t stop worry from hounding her thoughts.

The footman who’d opened the door and patiently waited peeked inside the carriage. “Did you care to alight, my lady?”

“Yes, of course.” With a deep breath, Phoebe scooted to the edge of the seat.

The only thing propelling her forward was the realization that otherwise, she would have to tell her friends in the Mayfair Literary League that she’d failed.

That wasn’t tolerable. This had been her idea. For Better or Worse, she reminded herself.

She wanted to be an inspiration to them, regardless of the outcome of her action. If she didn’t step forward to implement her own plan, no one would follow. She’d be letting down the entire group.

Most of all, she’d be letting down herself.

Phoebe offered her gloved hand to the footman, concerned the contents of her stomach might come forth. She swallowed hard and stepped onto the cobblestones, taking care not to look at the front door of Bolton House where Anthony Stanhope resided.

She was no stranger to the Earl of Bolton’s home. She and her younger sister, Amanda, had called upon Viola, his younger sister, who was closer in age to Amanda, many times over the past few years and counted her as a dear friend, though Viola wasn’t a member of the league. Neither Viola nor Amanda shared a love for reading.

Phoebe was also acquainted with his mother and believed the countess thought well of her. His younger brother, Robert, had always been friendly, too.

But today was different.

Clutching her reticule as if her life depended on it, Phoebe nodded at the footman to continue toward the door. She truly hoped Bolton was home as the idea of returning another day to discuss her business proposition felt impossible.

She would never be able to work up the courage to do this a second time.

Foster, his butler, took her card, a brief crease of his brow the only suggestion that he considered her request to see the earl highly unusual.

He asked her to wait in the small reception room near the entrance hall. Surely that meant Bolton was home.

Oh, dear heaven.

Anthony had been her secret crush since the year she’d come out, seven years ago. He’d only been a viscount then, his father alive and well. He’d been her first dance partner and ruined her for any other. Even now, the memory of that dance set butterflies loose in her middle. He’d been so handsome and dashing, so kind and charming. His behavior that evening had wrecked her, preventing her from considering any other man as a potential husband when they paled in comparison.

She’d tried to overcome her feelings at the beginning of each new Season only to utterly fail as soon as she saw him. He wasn’t perfect by any means. He tended to be stubborn and controlling, thought he knew best for his three siblings regardless of their wishes, and sorely needed to improve his listening skills.

But he was perfect for her.

As the daughter of a marquess, her social status made her a good catch. She had a modest dowry and had attracted three offers over the years.

But none had been from Bolton.

Refusing the offers had given her a reputation, and with each year that passed, less interest from suitors. She danced infrequently and conversed with fewer men.

The clock was ticking for her to marry before she sat firmly on the spinster shelf, a place she’d prefer to avoid. She wanted a family, a husband to grow old with, and children to dote upon.

If only he hadn’t danced with her.

If only he hadn’t been so handsome and charming.

If only he truly saw her.

But he didn’t. Certainly, he greeted her each time their paths crossed but with a distant politeness that made her long to do something—anything—to make him notice her.

He’d become so busy with duties and responsibilities upon inheriting the title four years ago and now only made brief appearances at gatherings to check on his three younger siblings. Phoebe guessed he did so at the behest of his mother.

From what Viola had recently said, their mother was growing anxious for him to find a wife. That meant Phoebe needed to act now before he chose someone else.

The thought had her lifting her chin. Living with the embarrassment of his refusal would be preferable to living with regret.

 

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