The Arrangement
(The Survivors' Club #2)
by
Mary Balogh
Desperate to escape his
mother’s matchmaking, Vincent Hunt, Viscount Darleigh, flees to a
remote country village. But even there, another marital trap is sprung.
So when Miss Sophia Fry’s intervention on his behalf finds her
unceremoniously booted from her guardian’s home, Vincent is compelled to
act. He may have been blinded in battle, but he can see a solution to
both their problems: marriage.
At first, quiet, unassuming Sophia rejects Vincent’s proposal. But when such a gloriously handsome man persuades her that he needs a wife of his own choosing as much as she needs protection from destitution, she agrees. Her alternative is too dreadful to contemplate. But how can an all-consuming fire burn from such a cold arrangement? As friendship and camaraderie lead to sweet seduction and erotic pleasure, dare they believe a bargain born of desperation might lead them both to a love destined to be?
At first, quiet, unassuming Sophia rejects Vincent’s proposal. But when such a gloriously handsome man persuades her that he needs a wife of his own choosing as much as she needs protection from destitution, she agrees. Her alternative is too dreadful to contemplate. But how can an all-consuming fire burn from such a cold arrangement? As friendship and camaraderie lead to sweet seduction and erotic pleasure, dare they believe a bargain born of desperation might lead them both to a love destined to be?
Preview Excerpt
Vincent has just arrived at Covington House, his
old home in the village of Barton Coombs in Somerset. It is very early
in the morning, and he hopes to stay there without anyone in the village
knowing of his return. He does not want to be fussed over by people who
knew him before he was blinded in battle. He wants peace and quiet and
the chance to prepare himself for going back to his new home at
Middlebury Park and explaining to his mother and sisters that he is
quite capable of living his own life his own way. His hopes are doomed
from the beginning, however.
Vincent's arrival had not gone unobserved.
Covington House was the last building at one end of
the main street through the village. To the far side of it was a low
hill covered with trees. There was a young woman on that hill and among
those trees. She wandered at all times of day about the countryside
surrounding Barton Hall, where she lived with her aunt and uncle, Sir
Clarence and Lady March, though it was not often she was out quite this
early. But this morning she had woken when it was still dark and had
been unable to get back to sleep. Her window was open, and a bird with a
particularly strident call had obviously not noticed that dawn had not
yet arrived. So, rather than shut her window and climb back into bed,
she had dressed and come outside, chilly as the early morning air was,
because there was something rare and lovely about watching the darkness
lift away from another dawning day. And she had come here in particular
because the trees housed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of birds, many of
them with sweeter voices than the one that had awoken her, and they
always sang most earnestly when they were heralding in a new day.
She stood very still so as not to disturb them, her
back against the sturdy trunk of a beech tree, her arms stretched out
about it behind her to enjoy its rough texture through her thin
gloves—so thin, in fact, that the left thumb and right forefinger had
already sprung a leak. She drank in the beauty and peace of her
surroundings and ignored the cold, which penetrated her almost
threadbare cloak as if it was not even there, and set her fingers to
tingling.
She looked down upon Covington House, her favorite
building in Barton Coombs. It was neither a mansion nor a cottage. It
was not even a manor. But it was large and square and solid. It was also
deserted and had been since before she came here to live two years ago.
It was still owned by the Hunt family, about whom she had heard many
stories, perhaps because Vincent Hunt, the only son, had unexpectedly
inherited a title and fortune a few years ago. It was the stuff of
fairytales, except that it had a sad component too.
She liked to look at the house and imagine it as it
might have been when the Hunts lived there—the absent-minded but
much-loved schoolmaster, his busy wife and three pretty daughters, and
his exuberant, athletic, mischievous son, who was always the best at
whatever sport was being played and was always at the forefront of any
mischief that was brewing and was always adored by old and young
alike—except by the Marches, against whom his pranks were most often
directed. She liked to think that if she had lived here then, she would
have been friends with the girls and perhaps even with their brother.
She liked to picture herself running in an out of Covington House
without even knocking at the door, almost as if she belonged there. She
liked to imagine that she would have attended the village school with
all the other children, except Henrietta March, her cousin, who had been
educated at home by a French governess.
She was Sophia Fry, though her name was rarely used.
She was known by her relatives, when she was known as anything at all,
and perhaps by their servants too, as the mouse. She lived at Barton
Hall on sufferance because there was nowhere else for her to go. Her
father was dead, her mother had left them long ago and since died, her
uncle, Sir Terrence Fry, had never had anything to do with either her
father or her, and the elder of her paternal aunts, to whom she had been
sent first after her father's passing, had died two years ago.
She felt sometimes that she inhabited a no man's land
between the family at Barton Hall and the servants, that she belonged
with neither group and was noticed and cared about by neither. She
consoled herself with the fact that her invisibility gave her some
freedom at least. Henrietta was always hedged about with maids and
chaperons and a vigilant mother and father, whose sole ambition for her
was that she marry a titled gentleman, preferably a wealthy one, though
that was not an essential qualification as Sir Clarence was himself a
rich man. Henrietta shared her parents' ambitions, with one notable
exception.
Sophia's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of
horses approaching from beyond the village, and it was soon obvious that
they were drawing some sort of carriage. It was very early in the day
for travel. It was a stagecoach, perhaps? She stepped around the trunk
of the tree and half hid behind it, though it was unlikely she would be
seen from below. Her cloak was gray, her cotton bonnet nondescript in
both style and color, and it was still not full daylight.
It was a private carriage, she saw—a very smart one.
But before she could weave some story about it as it passed along the
village street and out of sight, it slowed and turned onto the short
driveway to Covington House. It stopped before the front doors.
Ah. Her eyes widened. Could it be...?
The coachman jumped down from his perch and opened
the carriage door and set down the steps. A man descended almost
immediately, a young man, tall and rather burly. He looked around and
said something to the coachman—Sophia could hear the rumble of his voice
but not what he said. And then they both turned to watch another man.
He descended without assistance. He moved sure-footed
and without hesitation. But it was instantly obvious to Sophia that his
cane was not a mere fashion accessory but something he used to help him
find his way.
She sucked in a breath and hoped, foolishly, that it
was inaudible to the three men standing some distance below her. He had
come, then, as everyone had said he would.
The blind Viscount Darleigh, once Vincent Hunt, had come home.
Her aunt and uncle would be over the moon with
gratification. For they had made up their minds that if and when he
came, Henrietta would marry him.
Henrietta, on the other hand, would not be gratified.
For once in her life she was opposed to her parents' dearest wish. She
had declared more than once in Sophia's hearing that she would rather
die a spinster at the age of eighty than marry a blind man with a ruined
face even if he was a viscount and even if he was even more wealthy
than her papa.
Viscount Darleigh—Sophia was convinced that the new
arrival must be he—was clearly a young man. He was not particularly tall
and he had a slight, graceful build. He carried himself well. He did
not hunch over his cane or paw the air with his free hand. He was
neatly, elegantly clad. Her lips parted as she gazed down at him. She
wondered how much of the old Vincent Hunt was still present in the blind
Viscount Darleigh. But he had descended from his carriage without
assistance. That fact pleased her.
She could not see his face. His tall hat hid it from her view. Poor gentleman. She wondered just how disfigured it was.
He and the burly man stood on the driveway for a few
minutes while the coachman went striding off to the back of the house
and returned with what must be the key, for he bent to the lock of the
front door, and within moments it swung open. Viscount Darleigh ascended
the steps before the door, again unassisted, and disappeared inside
with the larger man behind him.
Sophia stood watching for another few minutes, but
there was nothing more to see except the coachman taking the horse and
carriage to the stables and coach house. She turned away and made her
way back in the direction of Barton Hall. Standing still had thoroughly
chilled her.
She would not tell anyone he had arrived, she
decided. No one ever spoke to her anyway or expected her to volunteer
any information or opinion. Doubtless everyone would know soon enough,
anyway.
* * * * *
Unfortunately for Vincent and his hope for a quiet
stay at Covington House, Sophia Fry was not the only person who observed
his arrival.
A farm laborer, on his way to milk the cows, had the
distinct good fortune—of which he boasted to his colleagues for days to
come—of witnessing the arrival of Viscount Darleigh's carriage in Barton
Coombs and its subsequent turn onto the short driveway to Covington
House. He had stayed, at the expense of the waiting cows, to watch
Vincent-Hunt-that-was descend after the steps had been set down by
Martin Fisk, the blacksmith's son. By seven o'clock in the morning he
had told his wife, having dashed back home for that sole purpose, his
baby son, who was profoundly uninterested in the momentous news, his
fellow laborers, the blacksmith, the blacksmith's wife, and Mr. Kerry,
who had come in early to the smithy because one of his horses had cast a
shoe late the evening before.
By eight o'clock, the farm laborers—and the original
farm laborer's wife—had told everyone they knew, or at least those of
that category who came within hailing distance; Mr. Kerry had told the
butcher and the vicar and his aged mother; the blacksmith's wife,
ecstatic that her son was back home in the capacity of valet to Viscount
Darleigh, Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had dashed off to the baker's to
replenish her supply of flour and had told the baker and his two
assistants and three other early customers; and the blacksmith, also
bursting with pride even though he spoke with head-shaking disparagement
of his son, the valett, told his apprentice when that lad arrived late
for work and for once did not have to recite a litany of excuses, and
Sir Clarence March's groom, and the vicar, who heard the news for the
second time in a quarter of an hour but appeared equally ecstatic both
times.
By nine o'clock it would have been difficult to
discover a single person within Barton Coombs or a three-mile radius
surrounding it, who did not know that Viscount Darleigh,
Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had arrived at Covington House when dawn had
barely cracked its knuckles and had not left it since.
Though if he had arrived that early, Miss Waddell
observed to Mrs. Parsons, wife of the aptly-named vicar, when the two
ladies encountered each other across the hedge separating their back
gardens, he must have been traveling all night and was enjoying a
well-deserved rest, poor gentleman. It would not be kind to call upon
him too early. Perhaps Mrs. Parsons would inform the reception
committee? Or should she? Actually, she would since she was in need of
some exercise. Poor dear gentleman.
The vicar rehearsed his speech of welcome and
wondered if it was too formal. For, after all, Viscount Darleigh had
once been just the sunny-natured, mischievous son of the village
schoolmaster. He was, in addition to everything else, though, a war
hero, who had made a great sacrifice for his country, even if not the
ultimate one. And he did now have that very impressive title. Best to
err on the side of formality, he decided, than risk appearing
over-familiar.
Mrs. Fisk baked the bread rolls and cakes she had
been planning in her head for weeks. Her son, her beloved only child,
was back home, not to mention Viscount Darleigh, that bright and happy
boy who had used to run wild with Martin and drag him into all sorts of
scrapes—not that Martin had taken much dragging. Poor boy. Poor
gentleman. She sniffed and wiped away a tear with the back of her floury
hand.
At ten o'clock Miss Pamela Granger, aged eighteen,
and her younger sister, Julia, sixteen, walked the length of the village
street to call upon their bosom friend, Miss Pauline Hamilton, aged
seventeen since last Thursday week, to discover what she planned to wear
to the assembly, which would surely happen now that Lord Darleigh had
come. Was Pauline as excited as they were? Squeals and hugs were as
eloquent as any verbal answer might have been. And the three of them
proceeded to put their heads together and draw out memories of
Vincent-Hunt-that-was winning all the races at the annual village fĂȘte
by a mile and bowling out every cricketer on the opposing team who had
the courage and audacity to come up to bat against him and looking so
very handsome with his always over-long fair curls and his blue, blue
eyes and his lithe physique. And always smiling his lovely smile, even
at them, though they had been just little girls at the time. He had
always smiled at everyone.
Ah, it was such a shame, they agreed, that… The trio
of young ladies shed a few tears apiece. For Viscount Darleigh would
never now win any race or bowl at any cricket game or look handsome—or
perhaps even smile at anyone. He would not even be able to dance at the
assembly. They could conceive of no worse fate than that.
Vincent would have been horrified to know that, in
fact, his arrival in Barton Coombs had been expected. Or, if that was
too strong a word, then at least it had been looked for with eager hope
and cautious anticipation.
For Vincent had forgotten two overwhelmingly
significant facts about his mother and his sisters. One was that they
were all inveterate letter writers. The other was that they had all had
numerous friends at Barton Coombs and had not simply relinquished those
friends when they moved away. They might not be able to visit them
daily, as they had been used to do, but they could and did write to
them.
His mother had not been reassured by the two notes
that had arrived, scrawled in the inelegant hand of Martin Fisk. She had
not sat back and waited for her son to come home. Rather she had done
all in her power to discover where he was. Most of her guesses were
quite wide of the mark. But one was that Vincent might retreat to Barton
Coombs, where he had spent his boyhood and been happy, where he had so
many friends and so many friendly acquaintances, where he would be
comfortable and would be made much of. Indeed, the more she thought of
it, the more convinced she became that if he was not already there, he
would end up there sooner or later.
So she wrote letters. She always wrote letters anyway. It came naturally to her.
And Amy, Ellen, and Ursula wrote letters too, though
they did not share their mother's conviction that Vincent would go to
Barton Coombs. It was more likely that he had gone back to Cornwall,
where he always seemed to be so happy. Or perhaps to Scotland or the
Lake District, where he could escape their matchmaking clutches. All
three of Vincent's sisters rather regretted the aggressive manner in
which they had pressed Miss Dean upon him. She was a sweet and biddable
girl, it was true, but it had been crystal clear that she was not as
eager as she might have been to marry their dear, precious brother.
Well-bred though she was, she had been unable quite to hide her relief
when it was discovered that he had left Middlebury Park in the middle of
the night and taken his valet and his carriage with him.
Long before Vincent actually did arrive in Barton
Coombs, then, there was scarcely a person there who did not know for a
near certainty that he would come. The only question that had caused any
real anxiety was when.
Everyone, almost without exception, was enraptured as
the news spread through the village and beyond that the wait was at an
end. He was here.
My first five books were written longhand and typed into an ancient
typewriter.
The First Snowdrop was the first book to be written into a computer.
The First Snowdrop was the first book to be written into a computer.
You can buy The Arrangement from these bookstores
Release Date
(August 27, 2013)
My Rating:
5 stars
