A Notorious Proposition

by Adele Ashworth

“Let’s go, Lady Ivy,” he urged through a sigh. “I, too, am anxious for the comfort of a warm fire.”

  Without another word, he steered her onto the path and she led the way, leaving his company only as she neared the entrance of the Rye estate, not another word spoken between them.

  Chapter 4

  As much as he wanted to view her intimately, asleep and undressed, even bathing, Garrett had decided not to yield to the temptation long before he specified which bedroom would be hers at the manor house. When he had finally given Trudy Thurman instructions regarding the luscious Lady Ivy, it had been nearly impossible to resist the urge to assign her the master bedchamber with the secret passage attached. In the end, he’d surrendered to his better judgment. But after scrutinizing her in the window as he watched the house from the edge of the lake, then catching a faint whiff of her sweet-smelling perfume in Mrs. Rodney’s home, he regretted his decision at the very basest level. His honor might have saved him from going to hell, but he knew now that for the next days or even weeks he’d be living in it.

  To say he wanted to bed her again was an understatement of the most blatant kind. In all honesty, he could only vaguely recall the time he had, though by the static charge still obvious between them and the pure ire she exuded as they stood together in his parlor two days ago, he now realized just how much he’d wronged her that first time. He knew a sexually defensive woman when he saw one, which meant he’d taken her, without the legality or promise of marriage. He didn’t know what powerful persuasion would have forced him to react so indecently and forget himself in the presence of a lady of Ivy’s social status, but he suspected it had much to do with the very feminine assets that lay beneath her conservative day gown and proper carriage. Men had written poetry about women like Ivy. Still, beyond the fact that a poet might describe her loveliness like morning sun on dew-dipped roses, to him she remained the most sensual woman he’d ever met—a woman created for lovemaking. When he closed his eyes and tried to envision it, he saw flashes of long, silky legs and satiny skin, and most importantly a face lit up at the moment of supreme satisfaction. Yes, they had made love, with a marvelous passion, and his greatest regret was his inability to remember each delicious detail.

  Garrett despised that fact that there were pieces of his past he couldn’t recall. Somehow losing segments of one’s memory made a man weak, which was one of the reasons behind his decision to keep his own lapse secret from nearly everyone. If he hadn’t been stupid and tried to catch a thief on his own, if he hadn’t been with Ivy or believed her brother without question, he would have met Benedict Sharon in a more public place, would have been prepared, kept his thoughts on the moment at hand, and thus prevented the attack that ultimately shaped his future.

  But he and Ivy were back together for unfinished business, at his bidding. He would no longer let others take advantage of him, use him. With the passing of his father nine months ago, he had inherited the title and lands at Rye, told his mother firmly that he would not be marrying the conniving Lady Margaret Dartmouth of Brighton, and once again set about trying to recover his property—the Martello diamonds—the family heirloom that had been part of his grandmother’s dowry when she came from Italy, as a princess, to marry his grandfather some seventy years ago. Technically they were now his diamonds, not just the family’s, and as sure as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow, he knew Ivy had some major role to play in retrieving them. But he wasn’t a seer, and didn’t believe in the nonsense. He knew this in his gut.

  Of course, there was more to his decision to bring Ivy to Winter Garden to help him in his quest than the simple need to see her once more and learn what part she had played in his failure to catch the thief two years ago. They had clearly both kept secrets from each other. Yet for all his intricate planning, he hadn’t been prepared for the rush of desire he felt when he laid eyes on her again. She still had the power to dazzle him to speechlessness, even after he had tried to prepare himself by saying good morning and gathering his thoughts before he turned to look at her in the parlor on the former Rothebury estate. Thank God he’d been able to hide his reaction to her beauty even though it had bewildered him that his heart started beating hard in his chest, his mouth went dry, and his body reacted as if he’d never been with a woman. Frankly, he wasn’t certain how long he could contain his desire to touch her again, and that worried him. But the past was finished. They were here together, he to right wrongs regardless of the outcome, and there could be no going back.

  Mrs. Thurman had sent a note to him this morning letting him know that Ivy had gone to bed early again last night, rose early this morning, and that she planned to call on Lady Eastleigh before noon. She hadn’t said why, but Garrett had no intention of allowing her to retrieve clues before him, about whatever information she thought the countess might have. She’d only been in Winter Garden for three days and already Lady Ivy had a plan. Of course it differed only slightly from his own, but she couldn’t know that yet.

  Now, after bathing at the inn and taking a breakfast of coffee and toast in his room, he set out toward the lake, rounding the cottage where she planned to meet Madeleine and proceeding through the forest trees, hoping to catch the enchantress of his dreams on the path before she arrived. But to his utter surprise he discovered her sitting on the bench in front of the lake—the same bench on which he had sat only days before to watch her at her new bedroom window.

  Stopping short, Garrett stared at her for a moment before approaching. The sun shone off the lake with a brilliance that made her squint, but she still looked lovely and tranquil as she gazed out over the still water, her dark auburn hair plaited and coiled loosely on top of her head, the black fur collar of her woolen pelisse brushing the softness of her cheek, now rosy from cold. For a moment he was taken aback by the beauty of the entire scene. Then, very gradually, the line of her lip twitched upward and he realized she knew he was here.

  Slowly, he began to walk toward her, and she turned, the look on her face leaving him fairly unsettled when she set her eyes on him at last. Satisfaction, a trace of impertinence, and even a certain desire of the heart all crossed her features when she not only glanced his way but admired him up and down. He wished like hell he could remember more details of the days they had spent together, for he was certain they had been filled with lust—albeit completely quixotic and improper.

  “I thought I’d make myself an easy target for you this morning,” she said pleasantly, as he approached.

  He shoved his gloved hands in the pockets of his twine coat. “An easy target?”

  She shrugged a shoulder and turned back to the view of the lake. “I knew you’d be coming to meet me before I reached the Hope cottage, so I thought I’d wait for you.”

  “I see.” He glanced down to the top of her head as he finally reached her side. She remained seated on the old wooden bench, relaxing her posture a little in the natural manner that encouraged discussion. “And how did you know that, Lady Ivy?”

  He could almost hear her smile.

  “In the usual way,” she replied.

  “Ah.” By “usual way” he assumed she meant through her pronounced gift of foresight. Then again it could have meant simple, reasonable deduction.

  “No, Garrett,” she lightly scolded as if reading his mind, “I meant that after giving it more thought, I’ve decided to assume you’re paying someone to keep you informed of my whereabouts, and I’ve chosen not to fight it, or you.”

  Fight it? He remained silent, uncertain how to take such a comment and what he could possibly say in his defense that might sound apologetic or even just reasonable. He tried to recall if he and Ivy had fought about anything when they’d been together in London, but the effort hurt his head. Probably not, since they’d only shared a few days, hopefully filled with nothing but laughter and mutual desire, feelings he suddenly longed to know if she remembered. Or regretted.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, jarring him back to the moment.


  He shifted a shoe back and forth along the forest floor. “Nothing really, other than it’s cold, even without a cloud in the sky.”

  “After I accuse you of spying on me, you’re thinking about the weather?” she countered, her tone laced with amusement. “I don’t believe you. The one thing I remember is how thoroughly you think about things, especially the things you find important.”

  What her hair would look like spread across his pillow didn’t seem very important, he considered, though in reply, he casually asked, “What things?”

  She shot him a fast glance over her shoulder. “That’s something else I remember,” she said after a few seconds. “When the topic is uncomfortable, you’re very good at steering conversation away from you by answering a question with a question.”

  He almost laughed, remembering how his sister once told him the very same thing. “You remember this, do you?”

  She offered him a full, beautiful grin, then turned her attention back to the lake. “You’re despicable.”

  “So I’ve been told,” he said softly.

  A long silence ensued. Then through a sigh, she stood and turned to face him, her demeanor cordial but restrained.

  “I suppose if you’re going to be following me, you should come with me to Lady Eastleigh’s cottage.”

  He hesitated for a moment, eyeing her carefully, noting the wariness in her voice, the stiffness in her posture. They stood only a foot away from each other, and yet formality between them had returned.

  “Why are you seeing her today?” he asked, subdued.

  Her eyes narrowed in calculation. “She and her husband have drawings they made of the house, inside and out. I want to see them.”

  A sketch of the property. Both Madeleine and her husband were inside when they had investigated Richard Sharon two years ago, and of course they knew about the tunnel and its entrance to the house.

  Yes, thinking of discussing the secret entrances with them was a brilliant move on Ivy’s part, and acknowledging that fact made him annoyed at himself for concentrating so much on something as ridiculous as the texture of her hair.

  “Well, then, since I’m posing as an architect, I have a very good reason to see them as well,” he replied with a hint of joviality.

  Her brows rose, and her lips curved up in response. “They’re already very much aware of your profession, sir. If you continue to follow me, they’ll begin to suspect we’re working together.”

  He just watched her for a moment, then, “Technically, I suppose we are.”

  She laughed a little at that absurdity. “You may be searching for diamonds, Garrett, but I assure you, my work here is far more important than shiny stones. And I do not need your help or desire your company.”

  “Not desiring my company I understand. But finding ghosts more important than priceless stolen jewels?” He rubbed his temple with his gloved fingers. “Explain that logic to me, Ivy?”

  She shook her head in distaste, and for a few seconds, didn’t reply. Finally, she murmured, “I suppose we both have our obsessions, don’t we?”

  A gust of wind swirled the leaves around their feet, brushing stray strands of hair across her face. He fought the urge to reach out and touch each silky strand. “Obsessions?” he repeated very softly. “Yes, I have two.”

  She blinked and furrowed her brows as if confused. Then her features hardened. “One you must find at all costs, and one to rid yourself of once and for all, I suppose.”

  “That’s not what I said, or meant,” he replied, his voice dark.

  “Don’t play me for a fool, Garrett,” she whispered up to him. “I know you better than you think I do.”

  That statement stirred him inside, on many different levels. They stared at each other, her face pale, countenance rigid. Uncertain how much to reveal when she seemed to despise him so thoroughly, he paused in thought, rubbing his temple again.

  And then suddenly her eyes began to narrow and she took a step closer to him, scanning his face slowly and carefully, with a scrutiny that unnerved him.

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head once as if attempting to focus on a minute detail that escaped her grasp. Then to his utter shock, she pulled a hand from her fur muff and lifted it to press the pads of three fingers on his brow.

  The contact of warmth against cold, of her gentle touch to his skin, made his body come alive with its own inner heat. He didn’t move.

  Lingeringly, she drew her fingers down his cheek, stopping when she reached his jaw, placing her thumb on his chin, focusing on the spot. Seconds later, she quietly asked, “Are you in pain, Garrett?”

  He almost stopped breathing. His head hurt, yes, though not severely today. But what he felt most at the moment was an ache of longing deep in the pit of his stomach—and a sense of anger because, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t trust it, physically or mentally.

  “There will come a time, Lady Ivy,” he disclosed in deep whisper, “when we will have to discuss what happened in London.”

  Another gust of wind, stronger this time, stirred the trees around them and rippled the water on the lake. But she never appeared to notice as she gazed intently into his eyes for a timeless moment. Then, drawing a shaky breath, she straightened and dropped her hand from his cheek, took a step back and regained her prim composure.

  “The past is over,” she stated huskily, pulling the collar of her pelisse up around her neck and stuffing her hand back in her muff.

  He shook his head. “Perhaps over, Ivy, but not forgotten.”

  With a minute tilt of her chin, she replied with the question, “Not forgotten by whom?”

  For a fraction of a second that startled him—until he realized she meant to be derisive.

  Garrett crossed his arms over his chest. With a shrug of his shoulder, he took a step closer. “I can’t believe you have no memories of us.”

  “I remember being used, sir,” she said in a nearly inaudible voice.

  He inhaled deeply. “We were all used, Ivy. I want to know why, and by whom, that’s my primary concern now.”

  “That, and finding the Martello diamonds. Both of your obsessions to be tied up into neat little packages,” she said sarcastically.

  He hesitated, then admitted, “Yes, though such a characterization of my motives is a bit extreme.”

  She scoffed. “And you think I have the answers?”

  “No,” he admitted at once, “but someone does, and we’re both involved whether we like it or not. That’s the reason we’re here together now.”

  The fact that she didn’t immediately deny his claim gave him encouragement. She glanced out over the water, her sculpted brows pinched.

  “We’re not here together, Garrett,” she returned at last. “And I can’t offer you anything.”

  After several long seconds, he asked huskily, “What are you afraid of, Ivy?”

  She looked back into his eyes. “I’m not afraid.”

  The urge to take her hand from inside her warm muff and kiss her palm in comfort was remarkably overwhelming, but his greatest fear at the moment was that touching her would only cause her to run—and he would learn nothing.

  “I believe,” he revealed with complete sincerity, “that you don’t fear the things you should, like empty homes, voices from the dead—”

  “I don’t hear voices from the dead,” she cut in with irritation.

  He gave her a vague smile. “Perhaps not. But the little inner voice of yours that you do hear tells you to fear me, doesn’t it?”

  She said nothing for a moment and he waited, watching the sunlight play upon her shiny hair, the dewy frozen breath escape her full, pink lips.

  At last, she acquiesced. “I despise what you did to me, but I don’t fear you, Garrett, I never did.” She paused, then whispered, “I fear us.”

  The oddest combination of deep anger and sublime tenderness pulsed through him. He’d never expected her to be so honest in her reply, but it dismayed him,
and in a breath, he admitted, “I fear us, too.”

  She swallowed, gazing into his eyes for a long, silent moment. Then abruptly she straightened, lifted her skirts, and began to walk toward the opening in the trees that led to the cottage, brushing by him so closely he couldn’t help but notice the scent of lilac she wore—a scent he remembered as lingering on his sheets, haunting him for days after she had gone.

  It was clear now, regardless of her acceptance, that they needed to help each other, for every troubling reason.

  But first he needed to find his diamonds.

  Chapter 5

  He’d shaken her badly with his disclosure, though she couldn’t decide if it had been honest and from the heart, or if he simply wanted to seduce her for his own personal satisfaction as he’d done before. Now, as she sat beside him at the small kitchen table, the room comfortably warm and smelling of baked bread, staring at sketches of the Rye estate with Madeleine and Thomas, she had trouble concentrating on anything but his overwhelming form nearly touching her.

  They were getting too close—in proximity, in conversation. She needed to think, to rid her mind of a past that continued to plague her, so she could focus on the task at hand. Garrett Burke had been a mistake from which she had learned too much, but there was more. She was nearly beside herself with worry about Ian, and she had no idea what caused her distress. The last she knew of his whereabouts, he’d been traveling on the Continent, exploring the possibility of purchasing property in southern Italy. But now that she considered it more closely, his being gone for nearly a year, with only minimal contact between them, seemed rather odd. She had always been close to her brother, but since that dreadful day when they learned they were bastard children of the late Baron of Rothebury, he’d changed. He’d distanced himself from her, from friends and acquaintances. She’d tried to heal his wound by stressing that, with the passing of their mother, nobody would ever know the truth about their parentage, and she would never reveal it to a soul. He trusted her, but there was something else that continued to agitate him. He’d inherited the estate in Stamford, could marry at his leisure and raise a son as the earl with nobody the wiser. He understood this on a rational level, and yet he feared it for some reason.