Is This Real or Just Pretend

by Emily Sullivan

Genres: Siblings; Women's Fiction; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

A sizzling Victorian historical romance where an overlooked business woman forms an unlikely alliance with the son of her family's coachman by faking a courtship to both get what they desire. 

Alexandra Atkinson's talent for spotting successful business ideas has helped enrich her father's company while leaving her with little time for a social life—and certainly nothing as silly as love. But when her father hints that Alex will need to marry as well if she ever wants to win the approval of the company's far more fusty board members, she hatches her most ambitious plan yet: a fake courtship that lasts just long enough to see an important deal through and secure her place at the head of the company.

As the son of the Atkinson's coachman, Lucien Taylor grew up admiring the family from a distance—and pining for Winifred, the youngest sister. But when he finally accepts that she will never see him as anything other than a playmate, Lucien leaves home to make his fortune. Now he’s back and in search of funding after his duplicitous partner ruins his business. Help comes from the most unexpected place when Alexandra, the eldest Atkinson sister known for her icy beauty and infamously brusque manner, makes a proposition: she will help him secure what he needs to start his business if he pretends to court her for a few weeks. Her offer is too good to pass up, but the more time they spend together, the more Lucien realizes that a fake courtship with Alex isn’t enough. He wants something real.
 

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

September 1896

Bunbury, a village in Surrey

As the train from London came to a screeching halt, Lucien Taylor jerked awake. For one glorious moment he had forgotten where he was, but as he cast a bleary-eyed gaze around the third-class cabin, reality sunk in with sharpened teeth. He shook away the last cobwebs of sleep, peered out the grime-streaked window, and immediately began to have second thoughts. Then third. But it was of little use. Much like this locomotive, he too had reached the end of the line.

Lucien heaved a sigh and reluctantly came to his feet before shuffling off the train onto the deserted platform. He squinted against the golden sunshine and brought up a hand to shield his eyes. Of course the weather would be perfect today, he thought bitterly as he scanned the familiar bucolic countryside for the first time in five years. Bunbury was just as he remembered: impossibly lush and adorably quaint. It was the stuff of cozy novels and country house paintings. A prized confection of a village tucked away in the south of England that was impossible not to love—unless you were Lucien.

And he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here.

A pang of guilt immediately followed the unvarnished thought. For though Lucien might have complicated feelings for the village of his birth, he had returned to see his ill father, whom he loved dearly, and who should not have to tolerate his sour mood. The long walk to Atkinson House would be the perfect opportunity to sort out his head.

It was the country retreat of Philip Atkinson, owner of a very lucrative London accounting and investment firm, his wife Edith, who was the granddaughter of an earl, and their three daughters, Alexandra, Phoebe, and Winifred. They were one of the richest and most well-respected families in the area and Lucien’s father had been the head coachman for over twenty years. Lucien’s late mother had also once been the cook, so Atkinson House was, for better or worse, his childhood home.

He adjusted the strap of his battered satchel, a good-bye present from the staff that had helped raise him, and headed for the stairs. He managed to find some comfort in the knowledge that, while Bunbury might be remarkably unchanged, he had changed quite a bit since he left for culinary school in Paris. Lucien was no longer that shy, gawky youth more comfortable with his father’s collection of books than actual people. He had experienced life in one of the most exciting cities in the world, with far too many tales to tell—a number of which weren’t fit for polite company—along with the veneer of worldly sophistication that came with it.

And yet you are still a complete and utter failure.

Lucien pursed his lips as he raced down the train platform’s stairs, as if he could outrun the voice in his head or the regrets that had become his constant companion these last few months. And Lord knew he had tried. But nothing had silenced that ever-present reminder: not liquor, nor sport, nor the attentions of women. Lucien had taken the biggest gamble of his life and lost. Now he would simply have to live with the consequences.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned onto the sleepy village’s high street, which amounted to little more than a few shops, and, naturally, a pub. It was the polar opposite of the bustling cosmopolitan life he had been steeped in for years. Paris overwhelmed his senses every single day, effectively silencing those nagging doubts or pestering thoughts. Lucien hadn’t realized how very much he had come to depend upon that stimulation. Bunbury felt impossibly flat in comparison.

His shoulders hunched against the sweet country air, as if it were trying to strip him of this hard-won refinement, and he prowled faster toward the main road. Lucien was so fixated on escaping the high street that he failed to notice the elegant young woman exiting the confectioner’s shop until he walked directly into her. She let out a shriek as she stumbled back and nearly fell over until Lucien caught her in his arms. As the young lady blinked up at him from under the brim of her wide straw hat, Lucien froze.

“Oh my,” she breathed and brushed a stray chocolate-colored curl off her face.

It was none other than Winifred Atkinson, once the object of all his foolish boyhood desires.

Only once? a conniving voice teased as a blush fanned across his cheeks and his heart began to gallop. In truth, she was the paragon against whom he measured all other women. And no one had ever come close. Not once. Not even in Paris.

Lucien cleared his throat and delicately set Freddie, as she was more commonly known, on her feet. Somehow she was even more beautiful than he remembered, with her heart-shaped face, rosy cheeks, and creamy skin—to say nothing of the voluptuous curves encased in her perfectly tailored peach gown.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Atkinson,” he sputtered as he stepped back. “Please, forgive my carelessness.”

“Entirely my fault, sir,” she insisted breezily. “I wasn’t watching where I was going at all.”

Sir?

Lucien blinked. She stared at him expectantly and the realization suddenly dawned. Freddie didn’t recognize him. Though perhaps that shouldn’t be such a surprise. After all, it had been five years since they had last seen each other. And while she still looked much the same, Lucien had grown a good six inches and gained nearly three stone.

So then tell her who you are.

Lucien opened his mouth but couldn’t quite manage the words.

Freddie gave him a warm smile with just a hint of the mischievousness she was known for. Notoriously so. “Have we met?”

In truth, Lucien didn’t remember meeting Freddie because she had simply always been there. And he forever chasing after her. Little Lucien Taylor, the only son of the coachman and the cook. The skinny boy either with his nose stuck in a book or hiding up a tree. Sometimes both.

“Yes, but it was many years ago,” he answered honestly.

She raised a dark brow, intrigued. “And here I thought I knew every handsome man in Surrey.”

Her reply pleased him far too much, especially since he very well knew that Freddie was a seasoned flirt. But she had never once directed such attentions toward him. No, she had only ever seen him as a brotherly sort and a convenient playmate. Now, though… now he saw the chance to experience exactly what he had been missing. What he had ached for with a painful persistence all those years.

Lucien returned her smile, the one he had finally mastered in Paris, where the ladies praised his boyish charm. “Apparently not, but I suppose I can forgive the oversight.”

Freddie’s smile turned into a grin. “Well, then we must renew our acquaintance immediately,” she insisted, sliding her arm through his. “Though I’m afraid I have to hurry home. Do you live nearby?”

“Yes, just off of Ravenscroft Lane,” he replied as they strolled down the high street.

Freddie whipped her head to him. “But that’s where I live! Are we neighbors?”

“You could say that.”

Oh, but this was far too fun.

“Well, then you must be coming to the party tonight.”

Lucien nearly stumbled over his feet. He had entirely forgotten. Every September Mr. Atkinson threw his wife an enormous birthday party and invited the entire neighborhood. The whole household was in a tizzy for weeks beforehand, and Lucien always got caught up in the excitement. Then he would watch the festivities from his usual perch on the massive, gnarled oak tree by his bedroom window that conveniently overlooked the back garden, waiting for just a glimpse of Freddie in a beautiful ballgown.

“Are you all right?” she asked as Lucien righted himself.

“Absolutely,” he said and flashed her another smile. “You’re quite the distraction, Miss Atkinson.”

Freddie preened a little and pointed up ahead, where a handsome bay tethered to a shiny black gig waited. “Would you like a ride home?”

He tilted his head. “Please.”

Just days before he left for Paris, he had watched Freddie dance with the handsome heir to an earldom during her mother’s birthday party, while each guest that passed below him chattered about an impending engagement. Lucien didn’t want to believe it—Freddie was barely seventeen at the time and hadn’t even had her first season yet—until she strolled right beneath him in the direction of the summer house with the heir in question. After taking a moment to argue with himself, Lucien slid down from his perch and followed a few paces behind, sticking to the shadows. Then he ducked behind a tree and watched as they disappeared into the darkened structure.

No one else saw them, but Lucien knew what would come next. And that he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He could still recall the bite of the rough tree bark under his fingertips. How he dug his nails in harder and harder until he drew blood. Until he resolved to get as far away from here as possible.

But as the days turned into weeks, no engagement was announced. It was as if the trip to the summer house had been nothing more than a figment of Lucien’s fevered imagination. By then he was across the channel, enrolled in a Parisian culinary school and living with his late mother’s family. Too far to do anything other than make a success of himself.

He cast a discreet look at her left hand, but it was bare. No ring. If the beautiful and vivacious Freddie Atkinson was still unattached all these years later, then it was only by her own choice. The idea was undoubtedly intriguing.

He handed her up onto the seat and climbed in beside her. Then Freddie took hold of the reins and off they went.

“Now then,” she began as the gig sailed down the tree-lined lane. “Am I ever to learn your name?”

“Certainly,” he replied with a smirk. But he intended to put that off for as long as possible.

Freddie tossed her head back and laughed. “Very well. If you won’t tell me, then will you at least answer some questions?”

“If you’d like.” Now, this would be fun.

“Where were you coming from?”

“London.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Beforehand, I mean.”

He raised his brows in surprise. “What makes you think that?”

She cast a quick but appraising glance over him. “Your shoes. They were made in Paris. I’d say… three seasons ago.”

Lucien didn’t know anything about seasons as it applied to shoes. Only that he had purchased them at one of the city’s famous outdoor markets. “Impressive.”

Freddie shrugged. “The intricacies of fashion occupy a rather large part of my life.”

Lucien sensed that there was more behind that little quip, but before he could ask, Freddie continued.

“So, you came here from Paris.”

“I never said I did.”

“No.” Freddie grinned. “But you haven’t denied it either. You came here from Paris,” she began again. “But it was merely the last leg of a journey that originated in the Far East.”

Lucien could only laugh at the yarn she was spinning. “And how exactly did I end up there?”

“You ran away from home as a boy to Portsmouth and stowed away on a ship,” she went on, her dark eyes glittering with purpose. “Only you did not realize its destination was Hong Kong. By the time you were discovered, it was too late. Luckily, you were a natural ship hand, so they decided not throw you overboard…”

As Freddie continued to wax on about all the exotic ports he supposedly had visited, Lucien’s smile began to fade. Moments before he had felt so worldly and sophisticated, as close to her equal as he had ever been. But now, with just a few sentences, the gap between who he was and who he wished to be had been pushed out of reach once more.

After Freddie decided that he had settled in Bombay for a spell, Lucien cleared his throat. “That is quite the adventure I’ve had.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she answered cheerily.

The carriage slowed as she turned onto the long drive that led to the limestone Georgian manor house. It was just visible through the trees and for one aching moment Lucien could imagine they were a couple returning home after a trip away.

“And why have I come back now?”

Freddie quietly considered the question while Lucien held his breath and wondered what dazzling reason she would come up with.

“For the only reason men cross oceans and continents,” she softly replied.

“Which is?” he prompted as she fell silent once again. They were nearly at the carriage house now. His little charade couldn’t last much longer.

She tugged on the reins and the gig slowly rocked to a stop. Then she turned and met his gaze with a directness that tore through him like an arrow. “Love.”

Lucien didn’t know how long they sat there, staring at each other. Then he leaned in, just a little bit, until her delicate floral scent filled his nose and her petal pink lips parted.

“That is—”

“Where have you been?” A sharp voice laced with disapproval shattered their little reverie. “Mother has been searching high and low for you.”

They both slowly blinked, as if waking from a dream. Freddie looked at someone over his shoulder and rolled her eyes.

“The village. I wasn’t gone more than an hour.”

“Try two,” the speaker countered.

“Here,” Freddie said as she leaned past him and held out a small pink package. “I got Mother those sweets she likes. Keep it safe for me while I go find her.”

Lucien turned around to face the speaker and suddenly he was ten years old again, with the imperious Alexandra Atkinson staring at him with her usual look of disapproval. He had spent most of his childhood absolutely terrified of her and, like most of the staff, tried to avoid her whenever possible.

Her dark brown eyes narrowed slightly. “Hello, Lucien,” she said in the same brusque tone she used with everyone. “How was your journey?”

Freddie made some sort of choking sound beside him, but Lucien continued to hold Alex’s cool gaze as he smoothly took the package and jumped down from the gig. Though the sisters shared the same dark brown curls and matching eyes, Alex was tall and slim compared to Freddie’s curves. She also wore a sober navy suit and matching skirt, like something a severe headmistress would wear, and which was a stark contrast to her sister’s frothy peach confection.

Alex had always felt larger than life and so very grown-up, even though she was only about five years his senior. Now Lucien was surprised to find that she was, in fact, a bit shorter than him, though still tall for a woman. It was her bearing, he decided. The way she stalked around the house like the captain of a ship, all while never cracking a smile.

“It was fine,” he replied, matching her disinterested tone.

She was just so very different from the easygoing Freddie and their other sister, Phoebe, with her approachable eccentricity. It bothered him now for a reason he couldn’t quite identify.

As Lucien handed the confectionary box to her, their fingers brushed ever so briefly and the sensation flickered through him. He had to fight against the sudden urge to pull his hand back, as if merely touching Alex was verboten. She was only a woman, he needlessly reminded himself. Not a queen.

Nor a dictator.

While they each continued to silently size the other up, Freddie found her voice.

“You… you can’t mean little Lucien Taylor?”

Lucien couldn’t help but wince at the description and then was annoyed because Alex noticed. Before her eyes could soften with pity, he quickly turned back to Freddie with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid so,” he said, offering his hand.

She stared at him in disbelief. “My goodness.”

As he helped Freddie down, he enjoyed the feel of her warm, small hand in his, while also vaguely noting the absence of the spark he had felt moments before. Perhaps Alex was a witch.

It would certainly explain a few things.

“Thank you,” Freddie breathed, still staring at him in wonder.

Lucien basked in her appreciative gaze for another moment as he slowly released her hand. “My pleasure.”

Then she hesitated. “And I shall see you tonight, then?”

Lucien’s breath hitched. She still wanted him there. Even though he was only little Lucien Taylor. The son of the help. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“I believe your father is waiting for you in his quarters,” Alex cut in with barely veiled impatience. “Shall I show you the way?”

Lucien’s jaw tightened as he released Freddie’s hand and shot Alex a glance. She made no attempt to hide her disapproval, which bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

“No need, Miss Atkinson,” he replied crisply. “I could never forget my place here.”

Lucien didn’t wait for her reply as he adjusted his satchel and headed toward the carriage house. Back to where he belonged.

Alex’s gaze lingered on Lucien Taylor’s figure until he disappeared round the bend toward the carriage house. He had grown considerably since she last saw him, with the kind of broad shoulders and lean form that naturally drew the eye, while his golden-brown hair was just a little too long to be respectable—though given that he had been living among the Bohemians in Paris, that was likely the point. One which was further emphasized by the small gold hoop in his right earlobe. But while his face still retained a hint of chubby-cheeked boyishness, it was tempered by the edge of world-weariness in his hazel eyes. The kind that spoke of experiences one could not find in Bunbury.

“I still don’t believe it’s him,” Freddie marveled as she stared after him. “Lucien.”

Alex frowned at the blatant interest in her sister’s eyes. This would not do. “I don’t see what’s so hard to believe.”

Freddie turned to her, incredulous. “Are you joking?”

“He’s certainly taller now. And bigger,” Alex acknowledged. “But I wouldn’t go as far to say he is unrecognizable. You just never really noticed him before.”

Freddie looked offended. “I most certainly did! We were playmates.”

“But you never saw him as anything more than that.”

And certainly not anyone worth ogling, though Alex kept that thought to herself.

At that moment the memory of young Lucien angrily wiping away stubborn tears surfaced. It had been the night of her mother’s birthday party and Alex had come across him en route to the summer house where she was searching for Freddie to stop her from doing something incredibly stupid and inconveniently irreversible. Meanwhile, the shy, sweet boy had been crushed by the actions of her careless and completely oblivious sister.

Lucien’s hopeless infatuation had long been obvious even to Alex, who usually didn’t concern herself with matters of the heart. For years she had never understood how he could feel so much for a girl who offered him so little in return. Until Alex had been foolish enough to offer her own affections to an unworthy suitor. Until she, too, had been hoodwinked by her own heart.

You need to go somewhere far, far away from here, she had told him that night. Somewhere you can be whomever you want.

And, by God, he had done just that.

Only last fall she had learned through servant gossip and her own discreet inquiries that his traveling supper club had been the toast of Paris with a waiting list filled with everyone from artists to aristocrats—until it had fallen quickly, and completely, apart. Still, Alex knew very well just how difficult it was to accomplish what he had. Lucien had managed to create and execute a novel business in the avant-garde capital of the world. Privately, she was convinced it was only a matter of time before he came up with something even better.

Now Lucien had returned to lick his wounds and visit with his ill father. It should be nothing more than a short detour on a promising career path. But if the scene she had interrupted earlier was any indication, he was in great danger of veering off the path entirely and sinking into a Freddie-shaped quagmire.

Meanwhile, actual Freddie looked primed to argue before she promptly shut her mouth and turned back toward the direction of the carriage house. The corner of her mouth curved. “Well, then, I suppose I’m seeing him now.”

“Freddie,” Alex warned. “You know very well that the Ericsons will be in attendance tonight.”

They were a wealthy American family interested in investment opportunities in England, and Alex had made it her personal mission to ensure they partnered with Atkinson Enterprises. That would help the company make greater inroads in New York society and be a huge coup for her professionally. That Hank Ericson Jr., the eldest son and heir apparent, had been pursuing Freddie since the spring also weighed heavily in their favor, but the man was beginning to grow impatient with her laissez-faire approach to courtship. It seemed as though everyone except Freddie was waiting on their engagement. But in the years since her debut, she had left a trail of broken hearts that stretched from Bunbury to the Continent. And since she had no interest in joining the family business, that left the business of getting married. Freddie would not charm her way out of this one. At least, not without a more compelling reason than boredom.

“Not to worry, dear sister,” she said sweetly, albeit with a thick layer of sarcasm. “I know very well that nothing is more important to you than maintaining your business relationships, and I won’t do anything that could possibly jeopardize them.”

“That’s not what I—”

But the rest of Alex’s protest was lost as Freddie marched toward the house. She sighed and stared at the little box of sweets still clutched in her hand. Leave it to Freddie to wait until the day of the party to buy Mother a gift. She ran a finger along the edge of the familiar pink box. When they were children and particularly restless Mother would take them on long walks into the village, always with a stop at the sweet shop, where she would buy a bag of lemon drops for herself. Alex lifted the box and inhaled the fragrant notes of citrus. A smile touched her lips as her heart warmed with old memories.

Perhaps… perhaps it wasn’t such a bad present after all. The Sèvres porcelain vase Alex had spent months tracking down suddenly seemed gauche in comparison. She never got gifts right. It seemed like the more effort she put in, the more she failed.

Because you lack all sentimentality.

It was a barb her sisters frequently lobbed at her. And they weren’t wrong. But there were other areas where she excelled because she wasn’t swayed by menial emotions. Like business, for example. Freddie could act the martyr as much as she wanted, but it was Alex’s commitment to her business relationships that had allowed her youngest sister to spend the last five years swanning around London without a care. Freddie would do well to remember that. Alex shoved the box into her skirt pocket and headed inside. As always, there was work to be done.

Lucien did his best to outrun Alexandra Atkinson’s disapproval, but he could feel her sharp-eyed glare at his back until he turned the corner. He let out a breath as the carriage house came into view. It was the only place on the property where he could never be dismissed. The one place where he was always welcome.

His parents had met while working in service for the family, his father the coachman and his mother an apprentice to the Parisian chef the Atkinsons had poached from a London hotel. Lucien’s mother, Celeste Laurent, had worked hard to earn her position and until she became a head chef, she had no interest in the distraction of a romance with anyone—not even the very persistent Englishman who became a coachman in large part because it allowed him time to read. It was only once the Parisian chef returned to France and Celeste took his place that she allowed true love to prevail. They settled in the cozy flat above the carriage house and filled it with secondhand books and handwritten recipes. Lucien came along a few years later, an unexpected but happy surprise for the older couple, who assumed they had missed the chance to be parents, and he was doted on accordingly.

Lucien climbed the stairs that led to the flat two at a time, suddenly eager for the safe confines of home, and let himself in. There he was greeted by the comforting scent of dusty paper and tea leaves.

He inhaled greedily and scanned the front room. “Father?”

“I’m in here, Lucien!”

His father’s quavering voice carried from the back of the flat. Lucien frowned in concern as he made his way toward the bedroom. It was nearly the afternoon. His father would never be abed at this time of day unless something was very wrong.

You may find him much changed.

He recalled the dire warning in a letter from Mrs. Holloway, the housekeeper. The one that had compelled him to spend his last francs on a ticket home instead of a final, desperate attempt to save his business. Lucien had only seen his father once since he’d left for Paris during a brief visit to London after he finished culinary school. Lucien was interviewing at several hotels in Mayfair and managed to fit in lunch with his father in a pub not far from the Atkinsons’ London residence. Over a simple shepherd’s pie and two pints of bitter, Lucien confessed his dread about working in a professional kitchen before tentatively mentioning the idea for the supper club. His father’s response had been short and salient:

Now is the time for big leaps, my boy. Before life gives you reasons to look first.

It was just the push he needed.

As Lucien ent. . .