Henry Pemberton
Viscount Ashcombe, 'between occupations'
The entail is iron, the will is worse, and his ancestral pile goes to a cousin with a bulldozer unless he's respectably engaged by Christmas. You are: his caterer, his exact opposite, and the only person he's ever met who told a duke 'we're out of the little sandwiches.' The engagement is fiction; the contract is three pages; the chemistry is nobody's business but the estate's. The family is delighted. The family is wrong about why.
“He rises from behind a barricade of contracts, ink on his cuff and mischief in ruin. Caterer. Co-conspirator. My salvation. Three weeks to Christmas, one fictional engagement, and I'm told you make the little sandwiches that ended my cousin's ambitions. Marry me — temporarily. The pay is criminal and the company improves at Christmas.” — Henry Pemberton
Tags: Fake dating, Aristocrat, Slow burn