Marjorie Lewty - A Real Engagement

About the Author Marjorie Lewty was born in Cheshire, England, and grew up between there and the Isle of Man. She moved to Liverpool and married there. Now widowed, she has a son who is an artist, and a married daughter. She has always been drawn to writing and started with magazine short stories, then serials and finally book-length romances, which are the most satisfying of all. Her hobbies include knitting, music and lying in the garden thinking of plots! Title Page A Real Engagement Marjorie Lewty www.millsandboon.co.uk PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

Josie gritted her teeth

“I suppose I may be allowed to own a house at twenty-three?”

“Certainly. But not the house next door. And in case you’re going to say why not, it’s because I shall own it myself in a few days. I plan to restore the villa to its former glory, to take down the dividing walls and replan the rooms.”

“Really?”. Josie raised delicate eyebrows. Leon was so confident, so disgustingly sure of himself that it would be a pleasure to take him down a peg or two. But she mustn’t rush it.

Marjorie Lewty was born in Cheshire, England, and grew up between there and the Isle of Man. She moved to Liverpool and married there. Now widowed, she has a son who is an artist, and a married daughter. She has always been drawn to writing and started with magazine short stories, then serials and finally book-length romances, which are the most satisfying of all. Her hobbies include knitting, music and lying in the garden thinking of plots!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

IT HAD all begun that June morning, when Charles—her father liked her to call him Charles—had phoned to invite her to lunch. ‘I’m off to New York tomorrow, Jo, and there’s a small matter of business to be settled between us before I leave.’ She had guessed that it would have something to do with her mother’s will, details of which had not been finalised yet. ‘And I’ve got some news for you,’ Charles had continued, and his voice had sounded excited, almost euphoric. ‘Twelve-thirty at Claridge’s, OK? I’ll send Baker with the Rolls to pick you up.’ He hadn’t given her time to reply.

So, at twelve-thirty that morning, Charles Dunn’s shining Rolls Royce had transported her to Claridges, and now she was standing in the lounge looking for Charles, her tall, slim figure, russet curls and greenish-hazel eyes attracting covert glances from a party of men at a nearby table.

Charles was sitting at a small table with a bottle of champagne in a bucket beside him and two glasses on the table. He stood up with his charming smile as she joined him. He was putting on weight, she noticed, but he still looked as handsome as ever, immaculate in a grey pin-stripe suit with a camellia in his buttonhole. He kissed her affectionately on the cheek. ‘Hullo, poppet. You’re looking charming. I like that green dress; it’s new, isn’t it? Sit down and join me in a celebration.’

She smiled back at him. He was her father and she loved him, in spite of the misery he had brought to her poor, sad mother.

‘What are we celebrating, exactly?’ she asked, accepting a glass of champagne.

Charles looked slightly abashed. ‘I’m getting married. ’

Josie’s brows rose. ‘For the fourth time?’

He fiddled with the stem of his glass. ‘Well, you know how it is.’

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘I know how you are. OK, then, tell me all about it.’

Charles needed no encouragement. The story halted only briefly when they moved to the dining-room for lunch. Here, waiters glided noiselessly between tables where glass and cutlery gleamed on snowy damask cloths. Josie was hungry, and prepared to enjoy the smoked salmon with a promise of duckling to follow. Charles, however, only wanted to talk about his new love.

Josie had heard the same story twice before. The only difference was that this woman was American. Her name was Gabrielle and she was half-French. Divorced, of course, and very wealthy, Josie gathered. Not that that would matter much to Charles, whose thriving property business, together with various smaller concerns, had made him a very rich man. He must be already paying out large amounts of alimony. He was an incorrigible faller-in-love, she thought, half-amused and half-angry. But at least he married the girls. She hoped this one would last.

Charles said, ‘I’ve been trying to persuade her to marry me—she’s been staying in London with friends—and when she went back to the US I thought I’d lost her. But last night she phoned me to say yes. I’m over the moon, as you can imagine,’ he ended exultantly. ‘You’ll love Gabrielle; you couldn’t help it.’

Josie thought of her mother, whose life had been ruined by this Don Juan. But you couldn’t change people. She lifted her glass to him. ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy.’

‘Thank you, Jo, I know I will. I’ve found the right woman at last.’ Charles couldn’t keep off the subject of Gabrielle long, and the eulogy lasted all through lunch. Josie enjoyed the superbly cooked food, but she doubted if her father knew what he was eating.

But finally he seemed to remember why he had asked her to come. ‘A little matter between our two solicitors, Jo, concerning a property in the South of France I bought many years ago. I’ve always been intending to renovate it and put it on the market, but I’ve never got around to it. My agents down there have dealt with letting it out to visitors, but now I have a client who is interested in buying it “as is” and I’ve decided to sell.’

Seeing Josie begin to look a little puzzled, he went on quickly, ‘But my solicitor finds that the property is registered in your mother’s name, and so will have been transferred to you under her will. Are you with me?’

‘I think so,’ Josie said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Briefly, just fix things up with your solicitor and see that the deeds are transferred to my name. I can’t think why it was put into your mother’s name, but it was bought many years ago. It was probably done to escape some tax or other. Will you do this for me?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll see Uncle Seb and ask him to clear things up.’

‘Thanks a lot, my dear. I’m tidying up various odds and ends just now. If there’s any balance due to you my solicitors will see you right.’

He finished his coffee at a gulp. ‘Are you ready, Jo? Sorry to rush you. I’ve got an appointment at three, and I’m off to New York tomorrow, and I have a lot to get through before I leave.’

When she had seen Charles off, Josie phoned Uncle Seb’s office and made an appointment to see him when he finished with his last client. That gave her time to stroll down to the big stores in Oxford Street and do some shopping. She’d planned to give herself a couple of weeks’ holiday now that she had sold the family house in St John’s Wood. She’d go to Cornwall, perhaps; Cornwall would be lovely in June—not too crowded.

She bought three sundresses, and then took a taxi to Uncle Seb’s office. ‘Uncle Seb’ was Sebastian Cross of Cross, French and Abercrombie in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He had been her mother’s friend and solicitor for as long as Josie could remember, and was now hers. He had seen her mother through her divorce seven years ago and helped her through the bad time afterwards. Her mother had always relied on him and he had never failed to do all he could for them both.