1811. Returned to London after the death of his father, infamous rake Anthony ‘Crowley’, Duke of Morningstar, has three months to restore his tattered reputation and secure himself a proper match, on pain of having his title stripped from him.
Enter the irreproachable Lord Aziraphale, newly minted Viscount Eastgate, who would very much like to discourage his many suitors from lining outside his door in Mayfair so he can go back to enjoying his peaceful existence on the shelf.
After a chance meeting at a gentlemen’s club, it appears the two may lend each other a helping hand after all. While a fake engagement will not solve their problems once and for all, it should buy them enough time to put their respective affairs in order.
If only the ultimate goal of their Arrangement would remain as clear and unchanging as it should…
Stormy grey eyes widened in surprise and then slowly roamed all over Crowley’s face, moving even further south, along his waistcoat, his pantaloons, down to the blood red tassels of his Hessian boots.
Now, in polite company, such attention could only be described as rude. However, Crowley prided himself on being as far from polite company as one possibly could be and it was clear, at least judging by the unfocused intensity of the man’s expression, that he hadn’t quite realised what he was doing.
Besides, Crowley liked to be ogled. Thrived on it. There was no other reason for wearing pantaloons that tight. In his experience, the more he could get people to concentrate on his appearance, the more successful his deceptions.
So he grinned and folded himself on the chair with the snake-like gracefulness he’d cultivated over the years.
“Am I more or less interesting than your book?”
The angel frowned and drew back, cheeks pinkening and eyes blinking in sudden awareness. “Why, I never–”
Crowley smirked and popped a roasted potato in his mouth. “Don’t answer,” he said, mouth full. “That was terribly forward of me. Rude, even.”
A wrinkle appeared between the angel’s eyebrows, something akin to recognition not so slowly dawning on him as he straightened his back. “According to what I have heard about you, I should not expect anything less.”
“Oh, my fame precedes me, then.” He speared another potato as obnoxiously as he could.
“I am afraid it does, Your Grace,” the angel said, lips almost comically pursed in disapproval. “What are you doing at Angel’s?”
“Same thing you are, I wager.”
“Somehow I doubt it.”
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