A Wife Worth Investing In Read online

  A convenient proposal...

  Makes a scandalous match!

  Part of Penniless Brides of Convenience: Knocking on Owen Harrington’s door, impoverished and desperate Miss Phoebe Brannagh wonders if London’s most eligible catch will recognize her. But injured and reclusive, Owen is no longer a carefree man. And he’s in urgent need of a convenient wife! Owen’s shock proposal allows Phoebe to fulfill her life’s ambition to open a restaurant...but his heated kisses tempt her to hope for a new dream—marriage, for real!

  Penniless Brides of Convenience

  Four Regency Cinderellas say, “I do”

  Orphaned sisters Eloise, Phoebe and Estelle Brannagh grew up in the shadow of their parents’ tumultuous passion. They are now making their own way in the world, penniless but proud. They are looking for freedom and security—definitely not love!

  Inspired by the experience of their close friend Kate, Lady Elmswood, they have decided marriages of convenience are the answer. But all four of them are about to discover that sometimes love is found where you least expect it...

  Read Eloise’s story in

  The Earl’s Countess of Convenience

  Read Phoebe’s story in

  A Wife Worth Investing In

  And look out for Estelle’s and Kate’s stories,

  coming soon!

  Author Note

  This book is my tribute to two of my favorite things: food and the film An Affair to Remember. If you’ve seen the film, my tribute will leap off the page at you in chapter one. If you haven’t, why on earth not?!

  I love to cook and I love to eat. One of the great things about writing is that you can create characters to live your dreams for you—and in a way, that’s what Phoebe, this book’s heroine, is doing. I make no apologies for the anachronisms in her culinary journey, which has little to do with the nascent nineteenth-century restaurant scene and everything to do with the twenty-first. Phoebe is initially wowed by Michelin-starred “fancy” cooking, but she’s less eager to embrace the more outré side of it, whether it’s ingredients that should never in a million years share a plate, or a plate of food that is more work of art than a meal. I can’t imagine Phoebe putting micro salad on as a garnish with a pair of tweezers any more than she would serve up lovage ice cream with parsnip doughnuts. Phoebe, like me, prefers her food to look and smell and taste like...well, a delicious plate of food!

  Does she get her happy-ever-after as well as her restaurant? Read on to find out! I hope you enjoy this serving of the Penniless Brides of Convenience series as much as I enjoyed cooking it up.

  MARGUERITE KAYE

  A Wife Worth

  Investing In

  Marguerite Kaye writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published over forty books and novellas. When she’s not writing, she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website, margueritekaye.com.

  Books by Marguerite Kaye

  Harlequin Historical

  Scandal at the Midsummer Ball

  “The Officer’s Temptation”

  Scandal at the Christmas Ball

  “A Governess for Christmas”

  Penniless Brides of Convenience

  The Earl’s Countess of Convenience

  A Wife Worth Investing In

  Matches Made in Scandal

  From Governess to Countess

  From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

  His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

  A Scandalous Winter Wedding

  Hot Arabian Nights

  The Widow and the Sheikh

  Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride

  The Harlot and the Sheikh

  Claiming His Desert Princess

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  For J. My food hero, and my everything hero. Always.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Historical Note

  Excerpt from A Runaway Bride for the Highlander by Elisabeth Hobbes

  Chapter One

  Paris—August 1828

  Though it was long past midnight, the oppressive heat of the day had not dissipated, having been trapped by the tall, elegant buildings which lined the street down which Owen Harrington wandered aimlessly. He was not exactly lost, but nor was he quite sure where he was. Having crossed to the Rive Gauche at Notre Dame some time ago, the Seine should be somewhere on his right. He thought he’d been walking in a straight line, assumed that he was headed west, but the streets of Paris, as he had discovered to his cost several times in the last week, were not laid out in a neat grid. Instead they veered off straight at an imperceptible angle, often arriving at an unexpected destination. Rather like the locals’ conversation.

  He had been away from London for less than two weeks, but already felt disconnected from his life there. It had been the right decision. He was not trying to avoid the commitment his late father had made on his behalf, he planned to honour it, but he could not embrace it as his sole role in life. He still had two years’ grace, time to be alone to be himself, free to do as he pleased, to discover a sense of purpose that would also accommodate his father’s wishes. He had no idea what form this might take, but he was already excited by the endless possibilities waiting to be explored.

  Above him the sky was inky, the stars mere pinpoints. The air, redolent of heat and dust, felt heavy, forcing him to slow his pace, encouraging him to dally. A faint beacon of light caught his attention. The lamps from a café tucked down a narrow alleyway flickered. Intrigued, for most establishments had closed their shutters hours ago, thinking a very late digestif might be just the thing, Owen decided to investigate.

  The main room of the Procope Café was dark-panelled, smoke-filled. Two men were frowning intently over a chessboard cleared of all but five pieces. Around a large table, another group of men were disputing their bill, while a bored waiter looked on, answering Owen’s mimed request for a glass of something strong with a shrug, pointing at the ceiling. He returned to the foyer and began to climb the rather elegant staircase. The first floor was silent, the doors of the rooms, presumably private dining salons, all closed, their customers either long departed or wishing to be very private indeed. A burst of laughter lured him to the top floor. The room was built into the eaves and stretched the full length of the café. Black and white tiles covered the floor, the narrow windows were flung open to the Paris night, the red-painted walls lined with banquettes which were crammed with late-night drinkers. Lamps were hung from the rafters, their muted light giving a rosy glow to the café’s clientele—though perhaps that was the wine, Owen thought, which was in plentiful supply, with large earthenware jugs jostling for space on the tables.

  No one paid him any attention as he stood in the open doorway. It was one of th
e things he liked about this city, being entirely anonymous and quite alone, lurking on the fringes, listening and watching. The French were so much more garrulous than the English. They conducted conversations at top speed, using their hands expressively, talking over each other, spinning off at tangents, around in circles, but never quite losing the thread.

  There were no free seats. Disappointed, he was about to leave when two young men got up from their table. He stepped out of the doorway to let them pass, but they had stopped at another table where a woman sat alone. She had her back to the room, facing one of the open windows, and had been writing in a notebook, head bent, making it clear that she had no wish to be disturbed. Though not clear enough, it seemed. The two late-night revellers were hovering over her. He could see her shaking her head forcibly. Her posture gave the impression of youth, though he couldn’t say how. Was she a courtesan? In London, there would be no doubt about it, but in Paris it seemed to be acceptable for women to dine in the cafés, to enjoy a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. Though alone, and late at night? Surely even Paris was not that decadent.

  Owen looked around, but the waiter now was engaged in an altercation with one of the bill-hagglers and no one else was taking any notice of the woman’s plight. One of the men took a seat beside her. She gesticulated for him to leave her alone. The other caught her arm. She leapt to her feet to try to free herself and was roughly pushed back down on to her chair. Owen was across the room before he was aware he’d made any decision to intervene. It occurred to him that he might well be embroiling himself in a dispute between a demi-mondaine and her clients, but it was too late to stop now, and whatever the relationship, it was clear the men’s attentions were unwelcome.

  Though he didn’t doubt his ability to see the pair of them off, he was not particularly inclined to get into a fist fight. Hoping that the fair damsel—exceedingly fair, he noted as he arrived at the table—would instinctively follow his lead, he greeted her with a broad smile.

  ‘I have kept you waiting,’ he said in French, ‘a thousand apologies, ma chérie. Messieurs, I am grateful to you for keeping my little cabbage company, but now I am here, you understand that you are de trop?’

  He allowed his smile to harden as he stood over them, making sure that they could see his clenched fists but making no other move. There was a moment when the decision could have gone either way but Owen knew to wait it out, and sure enough, the man at the table shrugged and got to his feet, clapping his friend on the back and nudging him toward the door.

  ‘Bon nuit, messieurs,’ Owen said, standing his ground, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the men until they had left, before turning back to the woman at the table. ‘Will you allow me, madame, to keep you company just for a few moments, in case they return?’

  ‘Please, sit down. Thank you very much, monsieur. May I offer you a glass of wine? Unless you prefer to drink alone?’

  She smiled up at him tentatively, and Owen found himself gazing down into a face of quite dazzling beauty. Her hair was a rich burnished gold threaded with fire. Her eyes, almond-shaped, thickly lashed, seemed also golden, though he supposed hazel was the more prosaic term. She had a pert nose, a luscious mouth, and the hint of equally luscious curves under the demure neckline of her dress. If he’d had a poetic bone in his body, now would be the moment to spout some verse.

  He did not spout poetry and he didn’t gawk! ‘No,’ Owen said, rallying, ‘it is merely that I did not wish to intrude, madame, since you clearly do prefer to be alone.’

  ‘I’m waiting for someone, actually.’

  ‘Then with your permission, I would be delighted to act as your chaperon until they arrive,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Owen Harrington.’

  ‘Ah, you are English?’

  ‘As English as you are, judging by your French, which is excellent but not without accent,’ Owen said, reverting with relief to his native language.

  ‘My name is Phoebe Brannagh, and I’m actually Irish.’ She poured him a glass of wine. ‘À votre santé, Mr Harrington.’

  ‘À la vôtre, Mrs Brannagh.’

  ‘It’s Miss Brannagh.’

  ‘Miss Brannagh.’ He touched her glass, taking a sip of the very quaffable wine. Her voice was cultured. Her clothes were expensive, as was the little blue-enamelled watch she was consulting. Miss Phoebe Brannagh was most certainly not a member of the demi-monde, which made her presence here rather shocking. ‘You are waiting for a friend, a relative?’ he hazarded.

  She snapped shut the watch, rolling her eyes as she returned it to her reticule. ‘He is very late. As always,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’m waiting for Monsieur Pascal Solignac.’

  She enunciated the name with such reverence, Owen was clearly expected to know who the gentleman in question was. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid...’

  ‘The celebrated chef. Perhaps you’ve not been in Paris long?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘And you have not dined at La Grande Taverne de Londres? My goodness, where on earth have you been eating?’

  ‘At places like this, by and large.’

  ‘Oh, the Procope is all very well if you like honest hearty fare, but really, Mr Harrington, one comes to Paris to dine, not to eat. Have you heard of Monsieur Beauvilliers, the author of L’art du Cuisinier, the bible of French gastronomy? My sister bought me one of the first English editions. Monsieur Beauvilliers’s restaurant closed some years ago, following his death, but La Grande Taverne de Londres has reopened with Pascal at the helm—Pascal Solignac, I mean. He has elevated cooking to another plane and is the talk of Paris, Mr Harrington, I can’t believe that you have not heard of him. Perhaps you prefer to drink rather than eat?’

  ‘I eat to live, I’m afraid I don’t live to eat, which probably makes me a culinary philistine in your eyes.’

  She gave a burble of laughter. ‘I love food with a passion. If it were not for the heat of the kitchen and all the running around, and being on my feet for fourteen or fifteen hours at a stretch, I should be as fat as a pig at Michaelmas.’

  ‘Good lord, are you a chef?’

  ‘Not yet, but I hope to be some day. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to find work in Pascal’s kitchen for the last nine months. I’m on the patisserie station at the moment.’

  Owen hardly knew what to make of this. ‘I’m no expert, but I’m not aware of any female chef working in a restaurant kitchen in London.’

  ‘It’s very unusual, even in Paris. In fact, I am the only female in the brigade.’

  ‘And how do the other staff react to having a beautiful woman in their midst, and English to boot—I beg your pardon, Irish—my point is that you are not French. Do they see you as a interloper?’

  Once again, she laughed. ‘I have earned my stripes the hard way, peeling sacks of potatoes and chopping mountains of onions—that is a rite of passage in a professional kitchen, Mr Harrington. Fortunately, my eyes don’t water, for I’ve been chopping onions and peeling potatoes since I was this height,’ she said, touching the table top.

  ‘You astonish me. It is obvious from your accent that you are well born.’

  She gave a pronounced Gallic shrug. ‘Oh, I’m born well enough, I suppose, though what matters to me is not the colour of the blood in my veins but my determination to live life to the full. In that sense, I take after my mother.’

  ‘So she approves of your being here?’

  Her face fell. ‘I believe she would, if she were alive, but I lost both my parents and my little brother six years ago. I hope she would have been proud of me, for I’ve already achieved far more than I expected in such a short time. In a restaurant kitchen, you know, a strict hierarchy exists. You have to earn your place, and any promotion. To reach patisserie in just nine months is almost unheard of. To be honest, there are days when I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.’

>   There was pride in her voice and a gleam in her eye. ‘You are obviously passionate about your chosen vocation,’ Owen said, a little enviously.

  Miss Brannagh beamed. ‘It is all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever dreamed of—and that’s all it was, until last year, a pipedream. Were it not for my sister’s generosity, I wouldn’t be here, learning from Pascal.’

  Pascal. It was not only admiration that he could hear in her voice, Miss Brannagh was in thrall to her mentor. Lucky man, Owen thought. He hoped Monsieur Solignac, who he had already irrationally and instantly taken a dislike to, appreciated his protégée and did not take advantage of her obvious reverence for him. ‘The same sister who gave you the famous recipe book?’

  ‘Yes, Eloise my eldest sister. The Countess of Fearnoch.’ Miss Brannagh chuckled. ‘Goodness, I still find it quite strange, calling her that. She made a most excellent marriage just over a year ago, which allowed her to settle a small fortune on myself and Estelle.’

  ‘Another sister?’

  ‘My twin.’ Miss Brannagh’s smile softened. ‘We were a such a close-knit little group until recently—the Elmswood Coven, Estelle called us—myself, Eloise, Estelle and Aunt Kate—she is Lady Elmswood and our aunt by marriage. She very kindly took us in when we lost our parents and there we lived, cosily and very contentedly for five years, until Eloise’s wedding.’

  ‘I presume that the appeal of cosy and contented began to wane?’

  Miss Brannagh chuckled. ‘Though I love Aunt Kate with all my heart, why on earth would I choose to stay in the wilds of Shropshire when I could come to Paris and chase rainbows?’

  Chasing rainbows, wasn’t that exactly what he was doing, Owen thought, utterly charmed. ‘What pot of gold lies at the end of your rainbow, may I ask? Becoming the top chef in Paris?’

  ‘I aim to become the second-best chef and part-owner of the pre-eminent restaurant in Paris, along with Pascal.’ Miss Brannagh’s smile faded slightly. ‘The proprietor of La Grande Taverne de Londres is just a little too traditional in his thinking for Pascal, you see. Our intention is to buy him out, so that Pascal’s genius can flourish unhindered, and if he will not sell, then we will buy new premises and start from scratch together.’