The Notorious Proposal

by Terry Long

  Victor bounded to his feet to drag it back a few handbreadths.

  A long span of stillness filled the stuffy chamber when both refused to speak another word. He’d be damned if he let Victor finish telling him where he’d been for the past weeks. He did not think he could bear it. Shutting his eyes, he trampled down the thought.

  “Why don’t you ask for forgiveness? It has been months.”

  Michael surprised himself when his voice sounded clear, unwavering. “Ask for forgiveness?” Then with all haste, fury and passion that seemed to come from nowhere shot through him, making his hands tremble. He turned around so fast that he had to grab the windowsill for balance.

  Victor nodded evenly; he’d even appeared calm, blast him. “Yes. Ally is not unfeeling, you know. You must speak to her sincerely and honestly. And none of that scowl.” He gestured a hand toward Michael.

  “I’ve asked.”

  Victor lost his composure when his mouth formed an O from surprise, and his eyes narrowed. “You have?”

  “I have. And do you know what she said?” The corners of his mouth twitched with a smile that held no authenticity in it. “She told me that every time she looked at me, she becomes miserable.” Michael let out a harsh laugh, drawing his attention to the raging flames. Bitterness, regret and loss filled his chest.

  “And it’s my fault,” he continued. “Her heart had always been genuinely beautiful, sincere, kind…lovely. She’s so lovely.” He admitted the last part on a slight whisper. “I’ve made the greatest mistake of my life. Even if I wished to express my regret, offer to do just about anything to make it up, I couldn’t summon enough resolve to go to her.” He shook his head and turned to stare out into the obscurity of the night, his heart devastatingly empty. “I make her miserable.” So miserable she never wanted to see me.

  “Michael?”

  Victor’s voice startled him. He’d forgotten his brother’s presence. “What?”

  “Do you love her?”

  Michael tensed at the question. “It isn’t relevant how I feel regarding her.”

  “It does matter to me. Do you?” his brother prompted.

  A long, quiet moment passed before Michael said, “More than anything.” He shut his eyes to the admission and slowly breathed. It mattered not, whether he loved Ally, because the blinding truth was that he would never see her again. Though he did not think he could ache any more, the confession had sliced him open and laid him bare, leaving him vulnerable. Eventually, he would wither into nothingness. Coward as he was, he couldn’t turn to face his brother, refused to let Victor see him slowly dying inside.

  “Let me ask you this,” Victor said in a faint whisper so unlike his usual bray. “Would you still love her…even if Ally and I have—?”

  “Even so.” Michael blurted his reply. Even if Ally had lain with his brother, even if she had taken lovers in Dartford. “The way I feel about her is so intense. There’s so…much feeling,” he finished, scarcely believing it himself. Who knew?

  “Even so, eh?”

  Whether Victor could see or not, Michael nodded. “I want you to know that I never meant you any pain, and I’m sorry if I- that I did.”

  Though unable to see his brother’s face, Michael could practically sense the agony coursing through him. If he had consented to let Victor marry Ally, then maybe Michael would not be living such a hellish existence now. Ally would never have known what the words brutish and cad meant. And blast it all, the people he loved would be happy. Except him. But that was no matter. He could adore Ally from afar- as his sister-in-law. It would be plenty better than never seeing her at all.

  His chest grew tight and he fought to control his breathing, keep it even, lest his brother know his weaknesses. He had always been the strong one.

  Ally.

  What a muck he had made of things.

  “I thought what I did then was sound, but I know now…I understand that…” He took a steadying breath. “I understand,” he added.

  Behind him, he heard the door squeak open, and then shut.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Do you know, Ally,” Victor asked in a jovial tone, “that Michael never grieved when our father died?”

  The mention of his brother made her ears perk. The few hours Victor called on her each week since she’d confessed her feelings had never involved the words, “brother” or “Michael Langdon.”

  “Truly?” she asked over her shoulder, trying to sound nonchalant. She didn’t care. Tossing another log into the hearth, Ally damned her pounding heart for deceiving her. She pasted on a half-hearted smile when she turned back to Victor and brushed her hands together. Falling into the empty chair across from him, she asked, “Why?” She hated how her voice came out too high.

  “He was quite close to our father. They were…friends of a sort. Does that sound strange to you?”

  Ally gave him a tight smile. “I don’t suppose so,” she said as her maid deposited a tray of tea, sandwiches and scones onto the small table between them. When left only in his company again, Ally said, “Many men are close to their father, above all, the first born.” Really, she tried her best to sound as if she didn’t care a lick for his brother, but her voice came out too shaky for her liking.

  “It’s more than that,” Victor said as she poured the tea. “Michael had always made our father proud. He was an avid listener and an excellent student. Although our father couldn’t afford to put him through Eton or Oxford, or any of the other prestigious facilities, he swore it seemed as if Michael attended, nonetheless.”

  He looked proud, bristling on the edge of the settee, and despite the strangeness of her feelings, she felt proud, too.

  “Our father always boasted about Michael being quick to grasp new information and instill them into everyday practices. His mind was made for exertion, made to solve problems, and made to clarify answers.” A nod of total approval accompanied his extensive list of grand opinions concerning his brother. “Our father believed Michael to be brilliant!” he added with a final nod.

  Ally never learned anything about Michael he didn’t want discovered, except what slipped out. With the exception of tidbits from his housekeeper, Mrs. Hails, Ally learned naught from his fiercely loyal staff. After all this time, much of Michael’s past remained a mystery to her.

  She handed him his tea and tended to hers, adding a dollop of milk and dropped two lumps of sugar into her cup, stirring quite viciously and not meeting Victor’s eyes. Hopefully, he’d continue sharing his brother’s childhood stories.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  “When we were growing up, Michael had always sheltered me from our father.” Victor chuckled, then slid a sly glance her way, and added, “When I behaved badly.”

  “I can’t imagine,” she lied.

  “Oh, ho! I was a little hellion, a devil-spawned child. I remember putting a frog in Michael’s bed because I envied the way my father favored him.” He roared with laughter, shaking his head as he looked heavenward.

  Ally thought of the time she wanted to put a fish in Michael’s bed. “How upset did he get?” she asked, unable to prevent herself from grinning.

  “This much,” Victor said, putting little space between his thumb and forefinger.

  “He didn’t get upset?”

  Victor shook his head. “He simply released the creature by the creek where I’d found it.”

  Well, at least she hadn’t bothered with it, as that wouldn’t have disturbed Michael even remotely.

  “I believe, if I recall correctly, it bothered my father more. You see, I always schemed.”

  His quick bursts of laughter came easily, his smiles even more so- without a hint of restraint. She watched in silence as Victor grinned mischievously at the memory, his gaze off in the distance.

  The Langdon brothers differed greatly in temperament. Michael carried himself in a quieter, more solemn manner. Easy laughter never flowed out of him and everything had to have merit. She was more like Vict
or, but she loved…

  Why did Victor suddenly tell her all about his brother?

  She plastered on a rigid smile as he stared back at her, suddenly so very somber.

  “My brother never acknowledged our father’s death. The things he began doing: the meetings, the investing, the studying, it was too much, too soon. Michael never wanted a single moment to accept that Father was gone.”

  The image of a youthful Michael struggling to conceal his emotions brought on a new wave of sadness to Ally’s already troubled heart.

  “It looked much worse during the first few years of my parents’ death than now. But it isn’t much different,” he said, his face dark and cheerless. “It is only because now, I have become accustomed to seeing Michael this way.”

  Ally’s chest hurt all over again. She didn’t know whether she wanted Victor to keep sharing all the details that molded Michael to the man he was today, or if she wanted Victor to stop, to put an end to the suffocating commotion wreaking mayhem inside her. “Why are you telling me this?” she wheezed out on a bare whisper.

  “My brother is…not himself.”

  Ally’s breath caught, and her heart began pounding to a rapid tempo.

  “He no longer cares about his businesses or his estates. He’s drinking…very much now, and he’s getting into unsavory brawls as a result. In Brooks!” Victor added the last bit as if getting into brawls anywhere else wouldn’t matter as much.

  Anger slowly rose in place of sorrow, and Ally crossed her arms over her chest. She frowned when she imagined inebriated Michael coming to blows with another. If the man behaved badly, he ought to be clouted.

  She supposed Victor could guess what went on in her head because he quickly came to his brother’s defense.

  “My brother never gets sotted, let alone drunk into unconsciousness.”

  His justification didn’t help cast Michael in a better light in the least. “What has caused this ill-conduct?” she snapped.

  At length, Victor replied, “It is not my place to state the matters of my brother’s…health.” He returned her gaze with clear brown eyes, adding slowly, “But I will say this. At present, he is very ill.”

  Ally’s heart jolted in her chest, and her stomach seemed to have fallen on her wooden floors. She resumed a straighter posture in her stuffed chair. “Did you call for a doctor?” she asked, feigning complete composure when all she wanted to do was shake the answer from Victor. When he took his sweet time answering, Ally reached for her tea, so she wouldn’t appear too anxious, and quickly set it down with a slight clatter when her fingers quivered. She clutched her hands in her lap, all too aware Victor stared at her.

  When she raised her eyes to his, she noticed he appeared to be trying to prevent a smirk. Ally reflected he must be dreadfully concerned, hurt, and perhaps didn’t know how to express his emotions, as most men didn’t.

  “Matthews sent for two,” he said after clearing his throat. “But neither could help.” Shaking his head as though to straighten out his thoughts, he let out a sigh.

  “Well, what did both doctors say?” she prodded.

  “I can truthfully say,” he said as he picked up his teacup. “That I’m not certain.” His eyes seemed lost in bottomless deliberation as he exchanged his teacup for a raisin scone. After taking a bite, Victor gave her a purposeful stare, causing her more than a little discomfort. As heat rose to her cheeks, he nodded. “You ought to go see him.”

  She was torn between readily agreeing and continuing to strive for indifference. The latter won over. “I think not.”

  “I believe you should.” He popped the last bite of the fluffy pastry into his mouth.

  Not like she didn’t care to see Michael, she just wasn’t confident he would receive her, considering she’d sent him away the last time he’d called. The likelihood he’d welcome her with open arms were slim, given his pride.

  “Even if this could be the last chance you would have? Ever?”

  Ally choked on a gasp, and her hands flew to cover her mouth. “How ill is he?” He had always struck her as being hale. Ally couldn’t imagine Michael succumbing to poor health. She didn’t want to think it. Heart heavy and lungs burning for air, she swallowed several times, forcing back tears. It was no use. They welled up in her eyes as quick as a whip. She bent her head, focusing on her trembling hands as opposed to having Victor see her weeping.

  It seemed he saw all the same.

  He knelt in front of her and muttered something she couldn’t make out, but it sounded a lot like an oath. “Don’t cry,” he murmured, patting her lightly on the knee. “I’m sorry, Ally. I didn’t mean to…God, please, stop.”

  She wiped her tears with the back of her hands, embarrassed to be weeping after his brother, yet again. But he knew she loved Michael, and she realized she didn’t have to hide that fact any longer, so she let her tears pour without restraint.

  “I cannot bear to hear of him in such a state.” She shook her head, concentrating on breathing. “How long has he been ill? What can I do? What should I do?”

  “First of all,” Victor said as he took her hands and squeezed. “You may calm down.” She nodded obediently, intent on his every word. “And secondly, do you wish to see him?” She sensed his urgency and nodded again. “Then, let us hurry.”

  Within minutes, she sat ensconced in the Langdon carriage, traveling to London. It seemed the longest journey. And Victor’s behavior did little to help. Each time she inquired for further details regarding Michael’s condition, he replied simply that she should see for herself. Finally, he made a poor ruse of sleeping, his eyelids twitching at every lurch of the coach.

  Ally fought the urge to tell him she knew of his farce of feigning sleep, but decided against it. Instead, she contemplated things she’d say to Michael.

  A breeze gushed through the curtains, raising gooseflesh along her arms, and a shiver to run down her spine. Pulling her cloak tighter around her, she laid her head back against the soft cushions and closed her eyes.

  It had been three long months since she’d last seen Michael. She wondered what he would say upon spotting her in his home. That is, if he was conscious on his sickbed.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  As soon as a footman assisted her from the coach, Ally made haste inside, ignoring Victor altogether. Now he wanted to speak to her? He called after her to wait for him as the coachman brought something to his attention regarding one of the carriage wheels.

  She hurried down the great hall and rushed up the staircase. A few housemaids squealed with delight, and others looked horrified. She thought she might be sprinting by them too quickly, but she didn’t care. She had to see Michael.

  Reaching the front of his door, her stomach churned with anticipation. She heard her heart pounding in her ears. She’d never entered his bedchamber on her own before, but she threw all modesty to the wind. She turned the knob with determination and pushed the door in as quietly as she could, mindful he might be resting.

  The air was thick with the unpleasant fumes of liquor, and her stomach roiled. She wrinkled her nose.

  “By God, Matthews, I’m going to bloody well throttle you to death.” His voice sounded ragged as if he hadn’t spoken for some time.

  Well! He certainly didn’t sound ill.

  She let her eyes adjust to the dim chamber. The curtains were drawn, the bedcovers crumpled and bedraggled. A weak fire danced in the hearth, supplying just enough light to see shadows of objects instead of its details. An uneaten tray lay haphazardly in a corner as if someone set it down without wanting to enter further, while a pair of empty wine decanters lay knocked over next to it.

  Smoke from the burning logs as well as from cigars wafted to her nostrils, and Ally fought the urge to march to the windows to let in the chilly evening air. Her eyes at last amended to the darkness of the room, and she found Michael sprawled on the floor in front of the grate.

  “Well, my man,” he said thickly, and raised an empty carafe in
the air, “while you’re here, bring me a fresh bottle.” He set it down with a force that would have shattered the glass, had there not been heavy carpet.

  She studied the outline of his slumped profile. Truly, it appeared as if he’d collapsed and hadn’t bothered himself to rise. She realized the moment he became aware Matthews wasn’t inside his chamber. His breathing hitched and grew louder, his shoulders tensed. He raised his hands, pushing himself off the floor deliberately.

  Little by little, Michael rose and turned. Ally couldn’t see his face, but she knew he could see hers as she faced the fire grate full on. The light danced on and off her face, warming her every second.

  His silhouetted profile, which looked big and strong as she’d always remembered, stood fixed at least twenty feet away, as if any slight movement would cause her to disappear. She longed for him to come closer, but he didn’t oblige. The mysterious manifestation that emanated from him made him more alluring.

  Aside from the crackling of wood, silence stretched longer and longer, but Ally had never heard anything so loud in all her life. He hadn’t told her to leave: he hadn’t budged. These things made her bolder, giving her strength to take a few steps toward his frozen body. She still couldn’t see his features, but believed she shouldn’t continue her advance, in the lone case that he might tell her to leave- just as she had asked of him.

  She caught herself taking a handful of her gown at her sides, scrunching them into her fists, but she couldn’t stop. Having a hard time finding her voice, she swallowed a couple of times, noticing her palms growing moist.

  “Victor said you were ill. I just…” missed you “…wanted to see if you were all right.” She closed her eyes briefly when the last part of her voice came out unsteady. She let go of the gown, and began to smooth them out. He still didn’t respond. Maybe she shouldn’t have come.

  When she dropped her gaze from his profile, he said, “Someone once told me love was something one couldn’t control.” His voice sounded like a soft rasp against her ears. “I told him he was weak.” He paused, and the words hung in the dark chamber between them.