Starling

  Cover Copy

  An aspiring dressmaker, orphaned Starling Smith is accustomed to fighting for her own survival. But when she’s offered a year’s wages to temporarily pose as a wealthy man’s bride, she suspects ulterior motives. She can’t lose the chance to open her own shop, but she won’t be any man’s lover, not even handsome, infuriating Alisdair Seymour’s…

  To prevent his visiting sister from parading potential brides in front of him, Alisdair has decided to present a fake wife. He lost his heart once, and had it broken—he doesn’t intend to do it again. But stubborn, spirited Starling is more alluring than he bargained for, and Alisdair will risk everything he has to prove his love is true…

  Set against the sweeping backdrop of 1866 South Australia, Starling is a novel of cherished dreams and powerful desires, and the young woman bold enough to claim them both…

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Books by Virginia Taylor

  Starling

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Starling

  Virginia Taylor

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2014 by Virginia Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  New York, NY 10018

  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: April 2015

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-717-6

  eISBN-10: 1-61650-717-9

  First Print Edition: April 2015

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-718-3

  ISBN-10: 1-1-61650-718-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  RJT, all my love forever.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my author friend, C. S. Harris, for leading the way.

  Chapter 1

  Adelaide, South Australia, 1866

  “Straighten your collar, girl,” said the sharp-faced clerk guarding the office door. His olive jacket faded into the green-papered walls of the anteroom. “Mr. Seymour don’t like to see his employees looking scruffy.”

  Starling Smith fingered the starched white cotton around her throat. She didn’t look scruffy in the Seymour’s Emporium uniform she had worn with pride for the past two weeks. She looked neat and anonymous in the plain gray. Any female lucky enough to be employed selling fabrics should be nothing less than tidy—and diligent, too.

  Yesterday, when the owner, Mr. Alasdair Seymour, had toured the emporium he stopped to inspect the materials she had ranked using the rainbow color scale, a new idea of her own. He had taken her name from the department manager, and now he possibly meant to commend her.

  His office door opened. “Miss Smith?”

  Remembering her place, she leapt to her feet.

  He glanced at his clerk. “I’m not to be disturbed. Come into my office, Miss Smith.” Broad shouldered and tall, he looked younger than he had the day before, under thirty and handsome enough to deserve those sighs from the shopgirls.

  Starling’s knees wobbled as she hastened past him through the doorway.

  “Take a seat,” he said, taking his own. He wore his dark hair fashionably collar-length.

  She perched on a carved chair upholstered in dark green brocade. The hovering red of sunset shone through the tall windows dressed with swags of yellow-striped silk. Sparkling motes floated to his desk where he sat, picked up a pen, and tapped the end on his blotter. His forehead was smooth, his nose precisely chiseled, and his jaw firm.

  “Do you enjoy your job?” He looked straight at her. His eyes, an assessing luminous gray, sent a shimmer of panic through her.

  She quickly lowered her gaze, trying to regain her breath. “I do.” Her voice sounded embarrassingly husky. “I like working with fabrics.”

  “You worked in a hotel before you came here.” He scrutinized a page lying on his desk. “They gave you no reference.”

  She had thrown away the crumpled piece of paper that described her as “a good worker,” hoping she could gloss over the six weeks she had been employed at the Star Inn, mentioned in the South Australian police records as a site of gambling and prostitution. “I didn’t think a temporary job would matter when I was waiting on the Seymour’s list for more than a year.”

  He glanced up, his gaze again causing a strange jumble inside her. “You’ve had a small amount of education? That is, you can read and write?”

  “Yes, sir. Or I wouldn’t have applied here.”

  “Unfortunately, you’ve been annoying my customers.” He set down his pen.

  She drew a surprised breath. “I sell them what they want, sir.”

  “You sell them what you think they should have.”

  Shaking her head, she stared at her fingers knotted in her lap. “I sell them what they need. It wouldn’t be right to sell fabrics not strong enough for their purpose or too heavy or the wrong color.”

  “And it seems you have decided on the colors they should have.”

  “I advise them on what might...suit.”

  “I don’t pay you to advise my customers to buy cheaper fabrics than those they choose or less material. I pay you to make money for me.”

  “I do, sir.” She leaned forward. “Just the other day, a young lady came back to buy more fabric. She said I’d given her just the right material for her ball gown, and she wanted me to help her again.”

  “Mr. Porter thinks the fabric department can cope without female staff.”

  “Female staff?” she queried, shaken. “But he told me I’m a quick learner.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry but I am not going to keep you at the emporium.”

  “You’re going to get rid of me? Oh, no, you don’t mean that. I get twice as many sales as Mr. Porter.”

  He shook his head, placing his pen in the holder. “I can, however, offer you a different position.” He aligned his blotter with the edge of the desk. “In my home.”

  A quick shake of her head dealt with his offer of a maid’s job. “I won’t advise your customers about colors. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” Her voice rose with hope. “I would accept a position in any other of your departments.”

  “I don’t have a position in any other department. I do have a list a mile long of women wanting to work in the emporium, as you know.” He evaded her gaze.

  Focusing on her weary black shoes, she exhaled her last hope. She’d loved measuring the soft fabrics, feeling the quality, and sliding the sharp scissors across the width. She’d loved working out the profits. She stood, not caring that her shoulders drooped.

  He pushed out his chair and stood, facing her. “You could earn quite a bit of money if you accept my alternative. I’m much in need of a woman like you.”

  She straightened. A woman like her? �
�If you don’t want me, I will get a job at Harris’s.”

  “Unlikely, given that they don’t employ females with or without references. I won’t beat around the bush.” Pausing, he eased his black cravat with a forefinger. “You look respectable. I need a woman to pose as my wife for a couple of weeks.”

  Aghast, she took a step back. He didn’t want a maid. He wanted to tup her. “I don’t know what gave you the impression that I might do that, but—”

  “Money.” His lips tilted cynically. “Now, what would you say to five pounds for the two weeks?”

  “No.” Her jaw tense, she backed to the door. “I worked as a laundress at the inn. Not a prostitute.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You only have to pretend to be my wife.”

  “I’m not good at pretending. I never have been.” She opened the door and walked out.

  Cheeks hot with humiliation, she strode past the clerk and down to the fabric department where, with shaking hands, she grabbed the cloth bag holding an apple, a clean pair of cuffs, a handkerchief, and a few pennies. Tying her shawl across her shoulders, she took the staff exit leading to a narrow alley off Rundle Street. She didn’t have time to weep.

  First, she would need to retrieve her belongings from the emporium’s boardinghouse and next find accommodation for the night. The Star Inn might let her use the laundry room. If not, her friend Meg would find her a safe place.

  Starling’s chest hurt and her eyes prickled. As she pulled the heavy door, she noticed the purple haze hovering over the sunset. She stood staring, her dreams shattered and her life in pieces. Gathering her bag under her arm, she hurried down the cobbled alley, chased by the aroma of fresh horse manure and settling smoke. A hot wind whipped her hair across her face, forcing her to pause. Blinking hard, she tucked the strands behind her ears.

  Dashing the back of her wrist over her eyes, she cornered into Rundle Street. Mr. Seymour stepped in front of her. His high-crowned hat cast a shadow across his features.

  “This way.” He seized her elbow.

  She wrenched her arm out of his grip. “Let me be. I don’t want your money or you.”

  “I have to have you tonight.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ll give you six pounds.”

  She backed away, disgusted. “I know at least three women who would accept your proposition. Go to the Star Inn and see which you would prefer.”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be standing here with you if I hadn’t already tried that. None could pass as a lady.”

  “So, now you want a lady? I thought you said a wife.”

  “My wife would, of course, be a lady. I spent the last two weeks interviewing whores and actresses. Then I looked at my staff yesterday, and there you were with your careful speech, your background at the Star Inn, and your neat and plain appearance.”

  “Neat and plain.” She firmed her lips.

  “Good Lord, girl.” His voice softened. “I’m offering you real money, far more than the fourteen shillings a week you earned here, to live a life of luxury for two weeks. You don’t need to look at me as if I’m Satan. I’m giving you the greatest opportunity of your life.”

  “I had the greatest opportunity of my life—a job as a shopgirl.” She blinked hard. “And for reasons of your own, you’ve taken my best chance from me.”

  His brow creased. “I’m offering you a better one.”

  “I have plans that don’t include being anyone’s wife, real or not.”

  “Two weeks, that’s all I ask,” he said in a long-suffering tone. With a sweep of his hand, he indicated she could move in the direction he wanted her to go.

  She folded her arms.

  He gave her a sideways glint. “I’ll pay you twenty pounds.”

  “No.” She wet her mouth.

  “Perhaps you won’t suit,” he said, shrugging. “Mr. Porter said you were intelligent, but you are acting like a simpleton. I have offered you more than half a year’s wages, and all you can do is persist in your belief that I want to bed you.”

  “Mr. Porter said I was intelligent?” Her voice rose with hope.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “So, why can’t you put me back in the fabric department?” She brushed down her sleeves, stalling while she thought. “I’m good at selling materials because I like selling materials.”

  He didn’t want her as a maid, and he didn’t want to tup her? She didn’t understand what he wanted.

  He heaved a monumental sigh. “And I’m sure you’ll like pretending to be my wife because if you make a convincing job of it, I’ll give you forty pounds.”

  Her mouth dried. Forty pounds! That was double twenty. For twenty pounds she could hire a little shop of her own. For forty pounds, she could not only buy stock, but also employ at least two other Birds from the orphanage. Robin and Nightingale would be her first choice.

  Her breath fluttered. “You don’t want to bed me?”

  He looked her up and down. “Do you think you’re my type?”

  She put her hand to her hair and, blushing, quickly brought her arm down again. A gentleman who owned a number of emporiums, proving a head for business, wouldn’t invest more than a few shillings in an untried, drab bed partner. He could take his pick of women.

  “Well, what would the job entail exactly?”

  “Just doing whatever wives do. Having breakfast with me in the morning, arranging flowers, eating cakes, drinking tea, sitting in the drawing room doing whatever you please until I tell you otherwise.”

  “What might ‘otherwise’ be?” She eyed him narrowly.

  “Standing by my side and agreeing with every word I say while smiling pleasantly at my guests. You can smile, I suppose?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He gave her a suspicious glance.

  “The job can’t be as easy as you say.” For forty pounds, there had to be a catch.

  “It’s as easy as you want to make it. I have a household that runs perfectly already.”

  “Then why do you want a wife? Other than to idle away the day.”

  Pushing aside his unbuttoned jacket, he slid his hands into the pockets of his biscuit-colored trousers. How he maintained a fit, broad-shouldered physique while sitting behind a desk all day was a mystery to Starling. Although she’d met no other rich men, she had assumed they were those with barrel bellies. “Last week my sister notified me she is bringing a lady with her, a lady she is sure I would like to see. She arrives from Victoria tomorrow.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t like my sister’s plan. She has tried this matchmaking before.” His mouth tightened. “I told her I wouldn’t marry any of her hopefuls.”

  “You don’t need to marry the lady simply because your sister knows her.”

  “Nor do I need to have prospective brides presented to me so often that I give in out of sheer self-defense.”

  “Life is hard for rich men,” she said sweetly.

  “Exactly.” He nodded for emphasis. “If I present you as a fait accompli, I will stop my sister in her tracks. So, are we agreed?”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “My deadline is today. I need to present a wife to my household by tonight. And, since I doubt you own suitable clothing,” he said, averting his gaze, “we’ll pick out a couple of gowns and, er, the trimmings before the emporium closes.”

  She deliberated. “I only have to smile, idle the day away, and agree with you?”

  He nodded. “I want you to be as meek, quiet, and respectful as a good wife should be.”

  “And I will be a wife in name only?”

  “That is our agreement.”

  Growing hope straightened her shoulders. Perhaps her dream was not lost.

  He began to herd her along North Terrace. “I expect it will be worth forty pounds to prove my point,” he muttered.

  “That you won’t ever marry? Are you a lady-man?”


  His eyes widened momentarily. “A lady-man? Do you mean...? You do. Don’t use gutter terms around my guests, or you’ll be out of the house without a penny before you can sneeze. Of course I’m not bent. I simply want only one woman.”

  She could but wish. If she’d thought he only liked men, she could relax. “But isn’t that a reason to marry?”

  “I’m not sure intelligent and smart are the same thing. Enough. You have agreed to our bargain. The lady I want is already married, and it’s time you became the sort of wife I require.”

  Starling nodded. He had specified a wife with a neat, plain appearance. She was neat and plain. Ordinary. Her body was slender, her skin was sallow, and she had brown hair and eyes. No male had ever glanced at her twice. At the inn, her plainness had been her best protection. Meg had told her she could be pretty if she tried, but she had no need to be pretty. She didn’t want or need a man. In fact, her plan depended on her remaining single. No husband would let her follow through with her business idea. Married, she would blight more lives than her own.

  She had nothing to lose by doing as he asked and had gained instead an opportunity to earn a great deal of money. She would obey Mr. Seymour’s every edict. Opportunity had knocked, and Starling Smith only had to widen the door to reach her goal.

  Half a pace behind Mr. Seymour, she passed the lawyer’s offices, the pastry shop, the tailor, and a saddlery. The main commercial thoroughfare of Adelaide was familiar to her: the old wooden sheds, the new Georgian buildings, the constant grind of carriage wheels, the thump-thump of hooves, the bustle of people, and the push of their presence. Not only had she worked in the city, she’d lived nearby her whole nineteen years, watching the adornment of the newest constructions with ornate pillars and pretty plastered curlicues. She couldn’t imagine living elsewhere.