Her Lady's Fortune Read online

  Her Lady’s Fortune

  Also by Renee Dahlia

  Farrellton Foster Family

  Betrayed

  Forbidden

  Liability

  Great War

  Her Lady's Melody (Coming Soon)

  Her Lady's Fortune (Coming Soon)

  Kapow

  Out of Her League

  Rekindled

  His Buxom Beauty

  Craving His Spotlight

  Her Pregnant Rival

  Standalone

  The Bluestocking's Legacy

  Ode to the Banh Mi

  The Shipwrecked Earl's Bride

  Watch for more at Renee Dahlia’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also By Renee Dahlia

  Her Lady's Fortune (Great War, #3)

  About the author

  Content Warnings

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author Notes

  All Books by Renée Dahlia

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  Also By Renee Dahlia

  Her Lady’s Fortune

  Renée Dahlia

  Together they could help thousands of people, if only they can trust each other.

  Philanthropist PRIYA HOWICK isn’t the same person she was before WWI. Only one thing remains true—she has always been defined by her relationship with her brother. Ashwin is the heir to both Lord Dalhinge, and the Carlingford shipbuilding fortune, and that makes her a natural target for those who wish to have the family wealth for themselves. She’s been taught to be wary of outsiders and their motives, which means all her friends are from her family’s close circle. Once, before the war, she stepped outside those boundaries, and met Rosalie, a beautiful older woman. But what happened next only proved her family correct. Now the war is over and Priya has created a charity to build houses for war widows, but her brother sets it up as a joint venture with the bank, Sanderson and Sons. She has to work with Rosalie, and the same sparks fly. Priya must decide if she is brave enough to risk everything. Not just her money and therefore her independence, but also her heart.

  Assertive bank manager ROSALIE SANDERSON is the only damned serious person in her family. She’s forty-two, the manager of Sanderson and Sons bank, and tired of having to continually prove that she is capable of making a profit and running the family business successfully. Very few people accept her as she is, and it stings that young Priya Howick is one of them. They had one incredible evening together before the war, and then it went sour for no apparent reason, and Priya has been distant in their few business meetings. The rejection shouldn’t nag at her like this, like rubbing salt in a papercut. All the old wounds and passions need to be confronted when Priya arrives at the bank with an incredible work proposal. Rosalie must decide if the opportunity to help thousands of people is worth the heart ache of being close to Priya again.

  About the author

  Renée Dahlia is an unabashed romance reader who loves feisty women and strong, clever men. Her books reflect this, with a side note of awkward humour. Renée has a science degree in physics. When not distracted by the characters fighting for attention in her brain, she works in the horse-racing industry doing data analysis and writing magazine articles. When she isn’t reading or writing, Renée spends her time with her partner and four children, volunteers on the local cricket club committee, and is the Secretary of Romance Writers Australia.

  Acknowledgements

  I pay my respects to the Wangal people of the Eora Nation, who are the traditional owners of the land on which this book was written.

  Thank you to all the wonderful readers who have read this series so far. I appreciate every review and the time readers have given to creating reviews. Book bloggers do a lot of volunteer marketing work in the publishing industry and their time is largely unrecognised. I see you and appreciate you.

  This book was written during the COVID-19 pandemic and I’m really grateful to my partner who listened to me grumble when writing Her Lady’s Fortune became too tough. Our early morning walks around the local park are the best way to start a day. I appreciate how you listened to me complain about how this book wasn’t working and helped me figure out that ‘if you profit from war, do you deserve happiness?’ was too bleak a theme, and then listened as I figured out my own solution.

  Thank you to my fellow authors, especially the indie authors who’ve helped me figure out all the business side of indie publishing. Ebony, MV Ellis, Catherine, Lina, the Word Count Warriors, the Lesbian Campfire group; there are lots of you who have all contributed little snippets that add up into a big collective picture of assistance. I believe that people in creative jobs can’t operate in a vacuum and you’ve all showed me how true that is.

  For those who volunteer their time to help others in need.

  Content Warnings

  WWI injuries, Spanish flu.

  Epilogue

  1913

  The normality of an evening spent with the Bloomsbury set always helped Rosalie relax and smile. She hung up her coat and began to walk towards the drawing room with a nod to the host, Miss Stephens. She did an excellent job at making everyone feel welcome here. There was nothing about their gathering that society would call normal. Society had many ideas she disagreed with. For Rosalie, this was one of the few places where she did feel ordinary, normal, like everyone else. And that’s why she kept coming here because having friends she could relax with and be completely herself was more valuable to her than almost anything. Stepping into the Stephens” house on Fitzroy Square was like moving away from the world’s unfair expectations into a warm welcome of acceptance.

  “Welcome to our little soiree in Bloomsbury.” Miss Stephens spoke to a newcomer and the front door closed with a snick. Rosalie glanced over her shoulder to see who had just arrived, but the person was obscured by Miss Stephens.

  “Miss Sanderson has just arrived, and she can show you to the drawing room.” Miss Stephens stepped aside. Rosalie had only to turn a fraction to see the visitor, a young lady in a fantastic green and blue gown.

  “Good evening.” Rosalie stepped towards the young woman Miss Stephens introduced. Rosalie’s tastes didn’t usually go for someone so young and fresh faced, but she swallowed. Rosalie was naturally cautious, not a risk taker, and yet, everything in her was drawn to the shimmering brown intelligent eyes... She’s the one. Gamble on her. Rosalie’s blood hummed in her veins. This evening just became a lot more interesting.

  “Miss Sanderson, this is Miss Howick. Her brother is the heir to Lord Dalhinge.” At Miss Stephens declaration, a shadow crossed Miss Howick’s face and Rosalie smiled with shared solidarity.

  “Oh, I do so hate being defined by my male relatives.”

  Miss Howick nodded once but didn’t respond. Her black hair was longer than fashionable, pinned up high, and she wore an incredible green silk gown cinched tight around her waist with folded fabrics in the latest Belle Epoque style. A loose sheer silk of lightly shaded blue hung from the v-shaped neck line giving the whole neckline and décolletage an oceanic effect that was mirrored lower on the flowing slimline skirt. A dramatic necklace glittered at her throat, with a large sapphire that sat nestled between her collar
bones surrounded by an incredible number of diamonds. The gold setting was matched by several thin gold bracelets on both wrists and matching sapphire earrings. Miss Howick... Lord Dalhinge. Ahh, Rosalie made the connection. If Miss Howick’s brother was the heir to Lord Dalhinge, then her father must be Lord Dalhinge’s younger brother who had married into the vast Carlingford manufacturing empire. No wonder she could casually wear so many jewels to a quiet evening in the suburbs.

  “Miss Sanderson works for the bank, Sanderson and Sons.” Miss Stephens continued her introductions.

  “I know of it.” Miss Howick’s voice purred over Rosalie’s skin, a rich alto with a hint of smoke that would only get more attractive with time. Rosalie wanted to drag Miss Howick away from Miss Stephens and explain that she didn’t just work for the bank, she ran the whole blasted thing. It had been started by her grandfather, and she’d fought for years to be given the top job. Finally, last year, he’d recognised her talents and she spent most of her days in the large office overseeing the entire bank. It was long hours, but damned if she’d let anyone think she wasn’t capable.

  “How lovely for you both to know of each other. Now, are you going to join us for some cakes?” Miss Stephens waved towards the drawing room, but stayed in the hallway, ready to greet more guests.

  “Yes.” It wasn’t cake Rosalie wanted, unless it was a new euphemism.

  “Soon.” Miss Howick spoke over Rosalie’s yes. Presumably Miss Howick had entered the neat townhouse on Fitzroy Square in Bloomsbury for the same reason Rosalie was there. A relaxing evening chatting about art and literature among people who didn’t care whom one loved. Once a month, Rosalie dropped by here to listen to the conversations and hopefully meet someone new. There weren’t many places where it was safe to meet a woman with the same desires as her, and to be frank, most of the other places were too physical for her tastes now she was thirty-six. In her youth, she’d enjoyed pleasure with many other young women, but now she had a few years under her belt, she wanted to be wooed intellectually and meet someone who respected her work.

  Rosalie leaned towards Miss Howick, “Is there a problem?”

  Miss Howick paused. “Have you been here before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it?” It didn’t seem possible, but Miss Howick’s eyes widened even further.

  Rosalie chuckled. “I don’t what you’ve heard or from whom, but mostly people sit around talking, or rather, they argue passionately about art. It’s not a constant orgy.”

  “Oh.” The slight slump in Miss Howick’s shoulders must be in Rosalie’s imagination.

  “If you are wanting that, I know of other places better suited. But if you want conversation first, the Stephens abode is a good beginning.”

  “For women? I have heard of such places for men, but...” Miss Howick paused. Rosalie raised one eyebrow at the revelation that Miss Howick must have spoken to her uncle to know of the existence of molly clubs.

  “Lord Dalhinge is a client of mine at the bank.” It was the right thing to say as Miss Howick relaxed a smidgeon more. Lord Dalhinge was of Indian descent through his mother, and his title came from his English father who’d done something with rail in India a long time ago. She’d seen some investments of that nature in the Dalhinge records. All her knowledge of people came from her work. Lord Dalhinge was a confirmed bachelor, but not many knew he had a male lover and even fewer people knew who he was, for the same good reasons that the Bloomsbury Group told people they met to talk about art. Homosexual relations between men were illegal, although thankfully the death penalty had been removed some time ago, much to the relief of those who attended London’s oldest meeting places. Care still had to be taken for everyone’s safety.

  “And that is relevant, how?” For Miss Howick to have discussed this with her uncle demonstrated a tight relationship between them and Rosalie had great respect for Lord Dalhinge. He was one of the few in Lords who cared for people outside the aristocracy; and hopefully his niece would be similar. The Carlingford fortune was new money, built through industry, and Rosalie was cynical enough to wonder if the marriage of Miss Howick’s parents wasn’t designed to bolster the Dalhinge estate.

  “I have a great deal of respect for your uncle, Lord Dalhinge, and I assume you heard of such places from him.”

  Miss Howick almost smiled, a cautious flicker of her lips. “I rather let myself open to that one, didn’t I?”

  “Your comment is safe here.”

  Miss Howick flicked her gaze over Rosalie, sending shards of heat across her skin. From the blaze heating her cheeks, Rosalie knew she was blushing like this was her first flirtation, not her... well, she was too old to bother with counting anymore.

  “Shall we join the others?”

  Rosalie had a sudden urge to keep Miss Howick to herself. “Unless you’d rather not. I know a room we could...” She breathed in. “Um, retire to.”

  Miss Howick paused and Rosalie held her breath, hopeful that Miss Howick would understand.

  “Are you always so forward?”

  “Not typically, but you—” Rosalie deliberately ran her gaze over Miss Howick.

  Miss Howick tilted her head to the side. “Oh, I see, you will make an exception for me.”

  “I’m not some sort of predator waiting for a younger woman to corrupt.”

  Miss Howick chuckled—finally giving her amusement some freedom. “I rather think that I’m corrupt enough by simply knowing to seek what I want in a place like this.”

  “Touché. So, should we?”

  “Yes. I rather like the efficiency of your proposal.” From the way Miss Howick’s gaze lingered on Rosalie’s breasts, there was more to it than simply efficiency. Rosalie resisted the temptation to press her hand across her breast and sigh at the combination of careful innocent words and Miss Howick’s not so subtle stare.

  “Will you follow me?”

  “I shall. And if you treat me poorly, I shall warn my uncle about your character.” When Miss Howick broke her pause with a giggle, Rosalie realised it had been a joke and she had been momentarily outwitted. She shook her head at the rarity and grinned back at Miss Howick.

  “Come along then.” Rosalie glanced at Miss Stephens but she was some distance away at the front door. Rosalie walked down the hallway before anyone else arrived to disturb them. She moved with deliberate steps away from the drawing room, away from her safe group of friends where she was free to be herself without the demands of being the boss of Sanderson and Sons, or the expectations of society. As she opened the door to a small sitting room and library at the rear of the house, a wave of jaded regret filled her head. She used to love this, rushing off with some random woman with only lust to guide her, but it’d been years since she’d done this.

  “Please call me Rosalie. Miss Sanderson is far too formal...” Rosalie let her sentence fade off.

  “My name is Priya, but you already know that.” Priya. Her name would roll off Rosalie’s tongue.

  Rosalie leaned against the window, an attempt at nonchalance while inside her heart sped up. “Why would I know your given name?”

  Priya shrugged. “You know my uncle. I assumed.” Did she realise how self-centred and young it made her sound to assume her uncle might chat about his relatives during a business meeting?

  “He has mentioned his niece and nephew in passing, but we typically keep our business meetings on topic.” Rosalie gulped. Maybe she should leave before this went any further. “You are very young.”

  Priya leaned closer and whispered, sending a new shiver across Rosalie’s throat. A subtle perfume filled the air; jasmine and orange blossom. “I’m twenty two. Plenty old enough to know what I want.” She paused for a long moment, and the simmering heat under Rosalie’s skin surged. “And more than old enough for your intentions.”

  Her confidence was Rosalie’s catnip, and the jaunty way Priya approached her outstripped any concern Rosalie had over Priya’s relative youth. She’d become jaded with their
scene, all the drama, and as Dorothy said, the way people loved in continuously shifting triangles. It was time Rosalie settled down with one person because she was bored by the intrigue of these evenings. She also needed them, the easy companionship, the rare ability to relax without having to be cautious with herself. The contradiction in needs made her fidget. She wanted to arrive home from the bank, put up her feet, drink whisky beside a roaring fire, and have a companion to share her life with. The last thing she needed was an attraction to someone more than a decade younger than herself—someone who wasn’t ready to settle down—but as much as she rationalised all of that, she couldn’t resist Priya’s confidence either.

  Priya traced her finger from her lips down her slender throat, brushing over the magnificent necklace, and across the décolletage of her slimline dress. Naturally, Priya wore the very latest of fashions in the most expensive fabric, lush silks that shone against her light brown skin. The weighty sapphire tied tight around her neck flickered in the light and were a little overdone for an evening like this. The jewels were enough to purchase a decent sized house in a good part of London.

  “You assume my intentions with such certainty.”

  Priya’s mouth quirked up at the edges. “Come now. You said yourself that you are much older. I presume you’ve been part of this set for all the eight years it has been in existence. It’s an open secret in certain circles, and besides, you remain unmarried.” Priya demonstrated the same intelligence that Rosalie knew her uncle possessed, and Rosalie’s adoration increased.

  Rosalie sneered. “Men who want to own one of England’s biggest banks are hardly attractive prospects.”

  “Oh, I understand. For the past four years, since my debut at Buckingham Palace, I have been inundated with offers from men who don’t want me, but the proximity to my family. I don’t mind a handsome figure, but why would I marry and gift someone all that money and power when I don’t require marriage for pleasure?”