The Notorious Proposal

by Terry Long

  At last, Havenbrook turned to look at him. “Your wife?”

  “I believe I’ve mentioned that, yes.”

  Havenbrook hadn’t blinked. “Do you care to tell me when the bloody hell you’ve gotten yourself a wife?”

  “Of course.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?” Michael asked, his lips twitching.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Langdon! How long have you’ve been wedded to the lady?”

  Michael slightly reclined in his massive chair and entwined his fingers, pretending to ponder. He wrinkled his nose. “Three weeks, or something like that.”

  “Three weeks? I was here four days ago!” the man complained with a wounded look. He opened his mouth to say something and then shut it.

  Michael shrugged. He found it irresistible to pass up an opportunity to make the Viscount of Glousterdame come to a loss for words.

  Many seconds ticked by.

  “Does Penn know?”

  Michael shrugged again.

  “Bloody hell!” Havenbrook paced back and forth. He suddenly stopped. “Why did you marry…well, that’s a bloody stupid question. Look at her. Of course you married her,” he said, wearing the silly grin that came so easily. “Oh, famous. I can’t wait to enlighten Penn.”

  Michael gave no indication of having heard any of Havenbrook’s rambling.

  “I’m going to tell Penn, you know.”

  “You’re welcome to do so.”

  “You gave both Penn and I the longest set-down when we set our caps for our wives, telling us how pathetic we looked. And now, look who loves”

  Love? Michael slammed his fist on his desk. “To hell with love!” He’d never give any women such unyielding attachments, for fear of becoming vulnerable to them. Havenbrook and Penn painted a good illustration of that. They practically turned to idiotic mush-brains with a mere smile from their wives.

  Havenbrook, completely undeterred from the outburst, raised a mocking brow, a hint of amusement crossing his eyes. “Not a love match?”

  “No. My hasty marriage to her was solely for the benefit of my brother.” He leaned back into his chair.

  Havenbrook frowned, and after a short period, he speculated, “You married your untitled wife so Victor could set his heart on another privileged young miss, which, with any luck, will be one of blue blood so that all doors will open for him in society.”

  “Not exactly. I’ve built an empire of wealth for him, and the only thing he needed to do was find a wife…just a suitable wife would do. And what did he do? He ran off to God knows where. I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive!” Michael threaded his hand through his hair again and let out a long, ragged breath.

  “I’m sure he’ll show himself when he’s ready. And your wife? How did she come to be?”

  “All in stride.”

  Havenbrook crossed his arms over his chest and stared without relating another word, his customary technique of prodding others to his behest.

  “I paid her.”

  “Good God!” He looked appropriately horrified as one would appear if he’d seen an apparition floating by.

  Michael wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut. Only the Devil knows why, but he didn’t want anyone, not even a dear friend, to think ill of Ally.

  “Don’t all women in England marry for security?” Havenbrook asked with a dismissive wave of a hand, as he strolled back and forth. Michael relaxed his shoulders, thankful of the man’s flippant attitude toward his wife. “They merely go about it differently, that’s all.”

  “Would you quit pacing?” When Havenbrook carried on, as if he’d said nothing, Michael scowled. “I don’t plan on keeping her.”

  The pacing came to a halt. “Oh?”

  Damn, now he’d have to tell Havenbrook everything. He knew his friend to be quite an investigator. Within days, he’d find out on his own if Michael didn’t finish explaining. Havenbrook loathed being left hanging.

  “I struck her a bargain.” Michael rubbed a hand over his face, letting his head fall back against the chair while he stared at the expansive wall beams on the ceiling. “She must avoid Victor at all costs. When Victor gets over the silly idea of marriage to her, and marries a suitable young lady, I’d give her an annulment.” Ha! Too late for that now. He lifted his head to see what Havenbrook thought of this. His friend looked at him dubiously. Michael said more loudly, hoping for redemption he knew wasn’t forthcoming, “I’m paying her. Daily installments.”

  Havenbrook shook his head. “You’re forgetting one minor detail in the plan you’ve formulated, my friend. And here, I thought you were slightly more intelligent than I.”

  Michael detested it when Havenbrook danced around words. “What?” he bit out.

  “Did you think about how a man, young or old, could ever get over a lovely like your wife?”

  Michael tensed briefly. Yes, could one truly get over a lovely like her? “He’ll get over her,” he answered brusquely, shifting in his chair that suddenly felt too small.

  Havenbrook gave him a shrewd look that he didn’t much care for. “So, when it’s time to let her go,” the Viscount said, pausing momentarily to stress his emphasis, as was his dramatic character. “You’ll simply…let her go?” He raised his bushy brows in a condescending manner, leaving Michael to fight the urge to yank them back down with his fingers.

  “Precisely. Her life will be better when she leaves Somerset Hall than when she entered it.” He would let her go- as she’s always wanted. He didn’t understand why the hell his patience wore thin at the moment.

  “You mean with the endowment you will have given her for the duration of her marriage to you.”

  Michael forced a bitter laugh. “Five pounds worth of endowment per day. And at the rate Victor is going, who knows how long—”

  “Five pounds per day?” Havenbrook puckered his lips and whistled a high note. He chuckled. “Now, that is a good bargain on her part. I like her already.”

  Michael wanted to put his fist through a wall.

  “I daresay your wife’s approach in going about snaring a husband is a mighty fine way. Better than most society miss who plots and schemes men into a stifling corner until they must decide what’s more important: being leg-shackled or being shunned. Indeed. Your wife’s plan is much more clever. And might I add, amusing?” He chortled.

  Michael changed his mind. He wanted to plant his fist on Havenbrook’s nose.

  “Do you know how many fine business transactions she could secure for me in the future?” his friend taunted with his theatrical smirk.

  “She’s off limits, Havenbrook. In business endeavors as well as personal ones.”

  Havenbrook laughed again, annoying him to no end. “Oh, I never said a word about the personal part, dear friend.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Michael said hotly, grinding his teeth. “I saw the way you panted at her.” He pushed off from the desk and strode to the door, his blood raging.

  “Langdon.” With all seriousness, Havenbrook made his way to the door, standing nose to nose with Michael. They exchanged heated gazes. “Quips such as that sends men to choose their seconds. Regardless of what you believe of me, I love my wife.” At that, he took his leave.

  What hell is wrong with me? Michael knew the man to be awfully devoted to his wife; he saw it as clear as spring water. Why he had spoken to Havenbrook the way he had was unfathomable. He had to set things right.

  ***

  Havenbrook’s plump housekeeper fawned over him like a mother hen upon spotting him entering the Viscount’s Mayfair estate. “Mr. Langdon, how I’ve missed you!” She placed both hands on his forearm and gave him a brilliant smile.

  “Mrs. Beaufort.” Michael grinned. “I was just here last week.”

  He adored her from the time when he was a mere lad and had received a larger piece of her famous milk sponge cake than Havenbrook had. It was always their little secret.

>   “I will see that Lord Havenbrook appears shortly, sir,” the butler said bowing before sprinting down the glinting hall.

  Mrs. Beaufort patted his arm. “I shall send over a cart with your favorite sandwiches.”

  He gave her chubby hand a little squeeze. “I’ll only be here for a short while. Please do not bother yourself.”

  She gave him a severe frown. “Nonsense. I’ll see to it right now.” She scurried away like a little mouse before he could stop her. Michael smiled as she disappeared out the door, her impressively strident voice demanding a housemaid to get out of her way.

  Sauntering through Havenbrook’s foyer on his own, he let himself into the yellow drawing room and sat on a plush white settee to wait for his friend. It was not long before he was greeted.

  “Mr. Langdon, what a nice surprise! It is no wonder Mrs. Beaufort is tripping over herself in the kitchens.” His friend’s new Viscountess, Natalia, smiled as she joined him.

  Michael stood and gave her a bow. “My lady. It’s good to see you. You’re looking as beautiful as ever.”

  “I look like a cow,” she muttered in her thick Russian accent, but one couldn’t miss the joy lacing her voice. “Do sit down, Mr. Langdon, for I shall have a crick in my neck if you didn’t.” She flashed a large smile, her eyes like the blackest of rare black pearls. She put a hand over her swollen belly and plopped into a cushioned chair.

  Michael sat down. “I hope Mrs. Beaufort doesn’t trouble herself. I’m leaving shortly after a discussion with your husband. I have another meeting.”

  Natalia gave him a disapproving look. “William says you work more in one day than you sleep in a fortnight. That can’t be good for you,” she said shaking her head of thick, dark curls.

  “Havenbrook doesn’t know any better to tell you such things.”

  “Now you’re coming to my home and questioning my judgment?” Havenbrook said at the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets.

  “William!” his wife chided. “Don’t be such a prune.”

  “It’s prude,” Michael corrected with an easy grin. The Russian woman was adorably absurd.

  “Very well,” she said waving a hand in the air. “Don’t be that one either. Come, why the long face?” she asked the ominous-looking man at the door. At her husband’s constant glare at him, Natalia sighed. “Did you two fight like kittens again?”

  Both men gave her a warning glance.

  She merely smiled. As she struggled to push herself from her seat, Michael hastened to assist her. “Thank you, Mr. Langdon. Now, don’t be a stranger. I insist you join us for supper soon.” She waddled much like a duck to the door and stood on her tip-toes to offer her husband a kiss on the cheek. Havenbrook instinctively bent his head to accept it, placing a possessive hand over her belly.

  “Be nice,” she said to her husband, and Michael saw Havenbrook give her a wink.

  He assumed the same position, and by the looks of it, didn’t seem inclined to move, even after his wife left. “Is there something I can do for you, Langdon?” He pulled his hands from his pockets to cross his arms over the expanse of his chest.

  “No. I came because an apology is in order.”

  They exchanged a long, silent gaze, before Havenbrook at last walked into the drawing room to plop, much like his wife had done, into one of the two large, white chairs. He motioned for Michael to resume taking the settee.

  “Look, I don’t know—”

  “So you still haven’t found Victor?” Havenbrook asked, completely shifting the subject matter.

  “No.” Michael passed him a wry look before he rubbed the back of his neck. This was typical of his friend, but he needed to express his regret whether the man wanted his apology or not. “I’m sorry about all that,” he said nodding towards the direction of Somerset Hall.

  Havenbrook shrugged. “So what do you have thus far? Is there any information on him at all?”

  Sitting back, and reclining his head to the curve of the settee, Michael complied in letting the matter go. He shut his eyes. “I’ve sent Bow Street Runners everywhere. It’s been almost four bloody weeks, but there’s nothing. Not a trace.” He let out a ragged sigh. “I don’t know if—”

  “I’m sure Victor is fine. He just needs more time before he returns home,” Havenbrook insisted. “Your wife isn’t the type of woman a man could forget about that easily.”

  Lifting his head, and letting his gaze fall to the tapestry behind his friend, Michael murmured, “No, she isn’t.” As he was greeted with a calm silence, his eyes riveted back to Havenbrook, only to see the Viscount’s narrowed gaze trained on him.

  Michael pushed himself off the settee with eagerness. “I have a meeting with Mr. Linney. I’ll look over your notes this evening.” He left the room without a backward glance. He didn’t care for the way his friend studied him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Your wife isn’t the type of woman a man could forget about that easily.

  The thought kept echoing in his head on the way home. And he agreed wholeheartedly with it. Ally was too pretty, too innocent, too saucy, too infuriating for anyone to forget. If she had been softer in her responses and hadn’t retorted to his every comment, he would have realized she wasn’t the kind to be free with her favors.

  Since that mistake had been made, however, he’d have to apologize- to appease his conscience as well as wipe out his guilt. Michael usually took what he wanted, but he had never taken a woman if she didn’t oblige. Until Ally. He’d never been so ruthless. Haunted by his actions, he felt out of place, flustered.

  Upon entering his home, Michael learned that Mr. Linney had already arrived. He pulled out his pocket watch. Ten minutes early. That disturbed Michael, because that meant he would have to see his estate manager first, instead of getting to see Ally- to speak to her, that is.

  The entire time Mr. Linney spoke, he rearranged his legs this way and that and tugged on his checkered cravat. Michael had a feeling this meeting would be a dreadful one.

  He wasn’t wrong. He scowled the entire time the grim accounting was given. However light and insignificant Mr. Linney tried to make it sound, it proved difficult to sit there and not frown.

  After what seemed like half his lifetime had gone by, Mr. Linney finished his accounting, and jotted down Michael’s orders in a thick, tomb-like book.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir. That is all.” Mr. Linney wiped perspiration from his balding head one last time with a handkerchief. “That is all.”

  “Good.”

  As soon as his estate manager left, Michael made his way to the collection of paintings that hung on the second floor. Whenever problems troubled him and solutions eluded his grasp, he would visit this corridor. Facing these colorful hues, he would let his mind wander, hoping for some amnesty before going back to face his demons.

  His tenants. Their ruined crops. Their devastation. Their misfortune. Loss, loss, loss.

  Michael stared into one splotch of bright yellow on a canvas. His father came to his mind- honorable and intelligent. He always knew the exact things to say and do. His mother had been a happy woman. Victor, albeit a touch too self-indulgent, was a good, happy boy. Michael had been happy, too.

  But now...

  He rubbed the back of his neck. If his father still lived, would he allow such reckless behavior from his sons? Michael never believed he was ever so bold to suggest such disreputable proposals like the one he had with Ally. But, he thought with a grimace, he did it because of Victor.

  Moving to another painted sunrise, he jammed his hands into his pockets.

  If he were in Victor’s position, he’d take everything offered to him on a silver salver. He’d cherish all the wondrous things, and take nothing for granted. He’d happily take each day and relish in it, savor it, and enjoy it. And he’d love his older brother for watching over him as a boy, caring for him, supporting him. He wouldn’t run off and leave his brother to suffer over his whereabouts. But
that was just him.

  Soft footsteps sounded behind him. His muscles froze.

  Gradually turning in her direction, Michael locked his gaze on Ally’s face, and was shortened one or two breaths. Damn, she was pretty. Although her eyes shone bright, uncertainty lurked in their depths.

  Clad in a simple pink gown, even with no laces or frills to adorn it, his wife was by far the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. A color rose to her cheeks as he quietly ogled her. It never failed to.

  At her averted gaze, Michael remembered how to think again.

  “About this morning,” he began, and damn if she didn’t blush more heavily.

  His eyes dropped to where the hands at her sides began to clutch fistfuls of her gown and compressed them into tight balls, a habit he noticed she frequented when there was some sort of tribulation at hand. He supposed that when one had her virginity snatched from her, it would put one through an ordeal.

  Clearing his throat, he rushed to finish, “I’m sorry it happened. It wasn’t supposed to…and I…I’m sorry.”

  Seeing how fiercely she colored, Michael berated himself, and lowered his head, contrite for having brought up the topic in broad daylight. He should have at least waited until night fell, when she would be able to hide in the shadows of her chamber. He was proving to be more and more of an arse in her presence.

  Did all husbands deteriorate to such unforgiveable characters? The image of both Havenbrook and Penn’s silly faces were conjured, grinning and chuckling like lap dogs when their wives strutted about them. Havenbrook, especially.

  The thought of the Viscount reminded Michael that he’d briefly met Ally in his study that morning. “Earlier this morning, you wanted…” Question and ambiguity laced her eyes. He had an odd urge to kiss her creased brows. “You wanted to speak to me?” he asked instead, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a most vexing manner. He cleared his throat. Damn! Where is all this fretfulness coming from?

  She shook her head of golden hair, avoiding his gaze. “No.”