Adele Ashworth
A Notorious Proposition
This book is dedicated to several wonderful people.
First, to my magnificent agent, Denise Marcil,
who’s been the greatest champion of my work
for the last ten years, and to the marvelous
editorial staff at Avon Books, who are
forever there to help and encourage me
when I struggle: Carrie Feron, Lyssa Keusch,
May Chen, and Cristine Grace.
To Laura Lee Guhrke, Rachel Gibson,
Elizabeth Boyle, and Julia Quinn—
because you guys just make me laugh.
I also offer my deepest thanks
to a wonderful author and
even greater friend, Kathryn Smith,
for always picking up the phone
and giving advice when I run out of plot ideas.
Needless to say, she’s a plotting genius
and we talk a lot.
As always, my love goes out to
Andrew, Caroline, Ed, Bri, and Ryan
for urging me along with this book
and not getting too upset about eating
yet another night of Chinese takeout.
And finally, I thank all those readers
who have urged me to return to the
mythical town of Winter Garden.
Although this story stands alone,
I hope it satisfies. I could never finish a book
without all of you at my back.
Contents
Prologue
Garrett stirred and lifted his head from his pillow, trying…
Chapter 1
Lady Ivy Wentworth stood motionless in the shadow of an…
Chapter 2
Ivy stopped at the tall, rusted, iron gate, unlocked and…
Chapter 3
Sarah Rodney quite possibly had the loveliest home in Winter…
Chapter 4
As much as he wanted to view her intimately, asleep…
Chapter 5
He’d shaken her badly with his disclosure, though she couldn’t…
Chapter 6
To stifle any rumors they might stir within Lord Rye’s…
Chapter 7
Diamonds, cold spaces, damp earth, pendants, hazy face…Ian’s face,…
Chapter 8
At ten minutes past ten, Garrett left the inn. He…
Chapter 9
Ivy didn’t sleep at all. She tried, and occasionally dozed,…
Chapter 10
Ivy spent the better part of the day walking through…
Chapter 11
Garrett knew he had to think quickly. If this had…
Chapter 12
Ivy was restless, and growing more worried by the day.
Chapter 13
Penelope Bennington-Jones and Mrs. Catherine Mossley had been friends for…
Chapter 14
The scratching roused him from deep sleep. At first Garrett…
Chapter 15
Lady Margaret Dartmouth had been in love with Benedict Sharon…
Chapter 16
Ivy was growing desperate—desperate for news of her brother, desperate…
Chapter 17
It started snowing at four o’clock. By six, the Winter…
Chapter 18
A blazing heat struck her as she entered the foyer,…
Chapter 19
With crumbling poise, Ivy decided to retreat to her bedchamber,…
Chapter 20
It took only minutes for Garrett to realize something was…
Chapter 21
It was the smell that stirred her into final wakefulness,…
Chapter 22
The trip through the passageway seemed to take an extraordinary…
Chapter 23
Garrett had never been so worried in his life—worried for…
Chapter 24
Ivy relaxed against the copper bathtub that had been filled…
About the Author
Other Books by Adele Ashworth
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
London
January 1850
Garrett stirred and lifted his head from his pillow, trying to focus on the clock atop the mantelpiece without waking Ivy, who slept beside him in his bed.
The hands were barely discernible in dim firelight, but he thought it read almost half past ten, which meant he still had more than an hour before he had to leave for his midnight rendezvous with a thief. A good thing, since he really was too comfortable to get up and dress just yet.
Gently, he lowered his head again, trying very hard not to move his body and interrupt her peaceful slumber. After making love to her at last, after several days of a fast and powerful seduction, she’d curled her nude form up beside him, legs intertwined with his, her arm draped over his stomach, her head resting on his shoulder as her soft breath from each steady exhale brushed his skin with moist warmth. She looked beautiful, contented, and felt to him as if she had always belonged here, something he’d never experienced with any other woman in his life.
Just the sight of her made him smile, and since the moment they’d met only one week ago, he found it difficult to tear his gaze from her. She had a face and figure stunning to behold, thick auburn hair and mesmerizing honey brown eyes that captured his with a fiery longing when they were introduced. They had been drawn to each other as a magnet to iron from that very first meeting, but they had been careful. Not even her brother knew of their love affair, and it would have to remain that way for a few more hours. If all went according to plan, after the arrest of Benedict Sharon, he would confess his identity to her and marry her immediately in the event she carried his child even now. Ivy was a lady, in the truest sense of the word, and they were obviously a perfect match. She would, of course, have to forgive him for his deceit, but after what they had shared this evening, he had no doubt that she would. He refused to let himself contemplate anything else.
After another few minutes of watching her silently and contemplating the errand he was soon to undertake, he decided it was time to slowly push himself up and brave the cold floor with his bare feet. She stirred, but didn’t awaken, turning over onto her stomach and stuffing her arms up under her pillow, her glorious hair spilling across her back and shoulder and covering the indentation in the mattress he’d only just left. It took everything in him not to climb back under the blankets and take her again, but alas, he had a job to do, and she knew it. With any luck he’d be back and taking her into his arms before she ever noticed him missing.
That marvelous thought in mind, he dressed quickly in plain dark clothes, pulled his hat far down on his head, and took one last glance at her still and sleeping form as he softly opened the door.
God, she stirred his blood as no woman ever had, in every imaginable way. Her appearance, a unique combination of sensuality and grace, her temperament, both charming and passionate, her smile, with seductive secrets meant only for him.
Yes, indeed, with Ivy in his bed and the Martello diamonds within his grasp, the angels were surely smiling down on him tonight.
At ten minutes past midnight, the docks along the riverfront were quiet, the air still and thick with the odor of brine and chimney smoke. The only sound came from a faraway tolling of bells and his boots on the pavement as he walked toward Aldgate High Street near St. Anne’s Church. Without a moon, and through the thin layer of fog, he saw almost nothing in his path, encountered nobody, which had been his hope as he chose the small sanctuary for their meeting.
Of course he’d thanked Ivy’s brother for providing the information that led hi
m here this night, though he still felt a pang of guilt in not telling her of her twin’s involvement in his quest for the Martello diamonds. But he would. He’d have to if he wanted a future with her.
The faintest sound of female laughter in the distance jarred him from his musings. He paused for a moment, taking note of his surroundings, then crossed to the other side of the street. Swiftly, he climbed the old stone steps and pulled on the unlocked door, opening it just enough to allow his body to slip inside. Only candles burned for light, their remarkably sweet odor triggering memories of his own church in Rye, though he quickly forced himself to dismiss all thoughts to concentrate on the moment at hand. It was vital he remain alert. After crossing the narthex, he entered the sanctuary and stood for a moment behind the last pew as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside.
His heart began beating fast and hard. This was it. Soon he would be holding the priceless treasure known as the Martello diamonds in his hands. Soon Benedict Sharon would be arrested for the theft. Soon Ivy would be his—
A creak of floorboards from behind startled him. He turned, expecting to see Benedict Sharon, ready to exchange the diamonds for money. But instead, to his utter surprise, he saw the cloaked shape of a woman in the corner, her back against the far wall watching him from the shadows. Confusion flooded him for only a slice of a second—then he heard the crack against his skull before he felt it.
Garrett reeled, a sharp, intense pain shooting through him. He dropped to his knees as blackness enveloped him. In one last gasp of breath, one last thought of Ivy, he succumbed to the warmth and peace of darkness.
Chapter 1
Southern England
January 1852
Lady Ivy Wentworth stood motionless in the shadow of an ominous twilight, feeling the icy January wind scrape her cheeks like bits of blowing sand, thinking little of the frost in the air as she stared at the silent, lifeless house looming in the distance. The coach that brought her from the city pulled away slowly behind her, though she scarcely heard it. Nothing filled her mind now but the same trepidation that had forced her to return to the elite and scandal-ridden town of Winter Garden—and a sharp, sudden fear that she might be too late.
Drawing a deep, cold breath, she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the darkening sky, holding on to what remained of the vision that drew her to fear this moment.
Dark hair, black eyes, cold, bright crystals. Snowflakes. Snowflakes falling around her…And then standing on a dirt path, staring up at the figure in the window. A window from her past. A shadow of a man, or a ghost, watching her, waiting, silently begging for help, desperately needing her…
She strained to remember the details, the earlier and later moments, but everything else escaped her for now. She couldn’t see the face, its features or expression, but she knew who it was, which made the scene so frightening she could hardly contain her emotions, and she knew that hiding them now and in the days to come would be one of the greatest difficulties of her life. Since her visions always came and went like a rolling fog, missing certain elements of importance never bothered her too much—until now. This vision was personal, and a sudden wave of apprehension seized her as she once again thought of the life at stake. She had a great deal to do, and very little time.
Grasping her valise with a gloved hand and tightening her woolen pelisse at the neck with the other, she glanced around the village square for the first time, seeing nobody, probably because it was almost dark and the streetlamps were yet to be lit. Swallowing her weariness, she began a direct stride down Farrset Lane, hearing the unmistakable sounds of music and bawdy laughter from the tavern and inn to her left, thankful she wouldn’t need to stay in such a noisy place with her nerves so jumpy.
Tonight she would stay at the small cottage owned by her contacts in Winter Garden; tomorrow she would be moving into the manor house on the lake, formerly owned as a summer retreat by Richard Sharon, Baron Rothebury, left vacant but for a handful of servants after his arrest on charges of opium smuggling two years ago. She had the key and had been invited. With her comfortable establishment in the home, she would earnestly begin piecing together the remnants of her vision and correlating it as best she could with the more vital reason that compelled her to take such a risk in coming here. But for this evening, she would meet with Thomas and Madeleine St. James, the Earl of Eastleigh and his half-French wife, to discuss the particulars and uncertainties that awaited her once she let it be known that she’d arrived in Winter Garden and was staying at the Rothebury estate. They were the only two people in the community she knew through her work for the government, and she trusted them with the unusual and rather confidential reason she’d returned.
The earl and his countess were secretly employed as spies for the British, though they were now mostly retired. Ivy had met them both in her own service for the Home Office, through their immediate superior, Sir Riley Liddle, though she’d never worked directly with them. She wasn’t a spy, and her work had never involved deception. It had, in fact, been just the opposite, as her unconventional exploits in the field of smuggling and the missing and murdered usually found their way to print, for all of London to relish and discuss at parties, sometimes in excruciating detail. Nevertheless, she very much enjoyed what she did, helping investigators with details nobody could see or know save she, only mildly irritated when she’d be asked to some social gathering or another simply as an “amusement,” as if she could entertain the gossips with her mere presence. Such stunts rarely came to pass, however, for although she possessed certain gifts for knowing the unknown, she was, in the end, the respectable twin sister of the Earl of Stamford, and as such, most members of the peerage simply referred to her as “colorful…but delightful.” Still, helping the government had been her choice, and she’d not regretted it for a moment.
The winter wind swept her skirts out in front of her as she reached the gated fence that enclosed the cottage. Shivering, she lifted the latch and moved quickly along the stone path toward the front door, which remained partially hidden by a trellis dripping with winter greenery. They were expecting her. She’d sent a note a few days prior to her departure from London, only briefly explaining her reason for the trip, and she’d been invited to stay the night in the guest room. Now lights from within shone through the beveled windows, speaking silently of a warmth inside, both in feel and hospitality. She needed that now.
Removing a glove, she rapped lightly with the brass knocker. She expected a servant to greet her, but within moments the door was opened by none other than Madeleine St. James, Countess of Eastleigh herself, one of the most beautiful women Ivy had ever known and one of the few people in the world she could honestly count as a friend.
“Ivy, it’s so wonderful to see you!” Madeleine said brightly, reaching for the handle on her valise and fairly pulling her inside the foyer. “Come in, come in before you catch your death. My goodness, but it’s freezing,” she added, closing the door tightly and bolting it.
The Frenchwoman’s relaxed and congenial exuberance was contagious, and Ivy grinned. “Thank you so much for seeing me, Madeleine, especially on such short notice,” she replied. The heat from the cottage hit her in a sudden rush, the scents of cinnamon and rose sweetening the air. She glanced around her, adding, “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything of importance.”
“Not in the least,” Madeleine shot back, foregoing formalities as she grabbed Ivy’s shoulders and offered her a gentle kiss on each cheek. “With Chantal in Eastleigh, the earl and I are thrilled to have the company. The cottage seems too quiet without our very busy and talkative daughter.”
“I’ve no doubt.” Lowering her valise to the floor, Ivy began to unbutton her pelisse. “Is your husband at home?”
Madeleine helped her remove her covering then hung it on a lone brass coatrack in the corner. “Not yet, but he will be soon. He’s with a friend at the moment, at the inn, but he’ll be home in time for a late supper. Would you like to fres
hen yourself before we sit?”
Ivy folded her leather gloves and stuffed them in the pockets of her hanging pelisse, sensing a trace of ambiguity in Madeleine’s answer though she tried to brush her reaction off as tiredness on her part.
“I’m fine for now,” she answered brightly, “but a cup of tea would be lovely.”
Madeleine nodded once and gestured toward the parlor with an elegant hand. “Then please, be seated by the fire. I’ve been expecting you, so the tea is already steeping in the kitchen. I won’t be but a moment.”
Ivy did as requested, stepping into the front room as her host made her way through a swinging door, noting that the cottage looked somewhat larger inside than it appeared from the road. Long windows to her right took up most of the north wall, and all were covered with burgundy velvet drapes that fell to the polished wooden floor. Directly ahead, in the center of the room, sat a lone, brown leather sofa and an oak tea table next to a leather high-backed armchair and matching footstool, both facing a large fireplace, now lit and burning brightly. She walked toward it, rubbing her hands together, thankful for the heat it produced, though her eyes strayed to a magnificent portrait above the mantel of Madeleine and Thomas posing together in a rose garden.
They were a striking pair, she acknowledged, with a trace of envy at the closeness they had found in each other. Thomas had to be in his midforties now, and Madeleine perhaps ten years younger, but as a couple they were stunning in appearance—the earl a darkly handsome man, enormous of stature, and scarred from the Opium War; his wife a chestnut-haired, blue-eyed beauty, renowned for her exceptional elegance and appearance both here and on the Continent. How they came to find each other, she didn’t know exactly, though she’d heard their love had blossomed in Winter Garden some two or three years ago when they’d been forced to work side by side. But it was all too apparent to anyone that they belonged together, a fortune very few couples could treasure.
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