A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  “No, I haven’t.”

  The fine lines on his forehead smoothed to solemnity. “It’s quite boorish of me to refer to it as good fortune, actually. Do forgive me. My fortune is another family’s tragedy, you see.”

  What on earth? She frowned, resting her fan against her bosom. “Oh dear.”

  “The Earl of Clivesden has met with an unfortunate accident. Horrific, really.”

  Foreboding settled over her. “Accident?”

  “Poor man. He should never have ventured out on those winding Devonshire roads. Entire carriage tumbled off a cliff into the Channel. His young son was with him.”

  She pressed suddenly icy fingers to her lips. “How dreadful.” At the same time, she noted Sophia’s lack of reaction. This must be the news Lady Epperley had imparted to her sister, doubtless with the proper ceremony.

  Benedict’s lip curled. “I fail to see how such a tragedy might turn to anybody’s advantage.”

  Ludlowe had the grace to avert his eyes. “There’s an appalling lack of male issue in that line. They had to trace the family back four generations to find an heir.”

  “You’ll forgive me,” Benedict said, his words clipped to the point of rudeness, “but what’s that got to do with you?”

  Ludlowe sketched them a bow. “My great-grandfather was the third Earl of Clivesden’s younger brother.”

  Benedict surged forward with such force and suddenness that Julia laid a restraining hand on his forearm. “You?” he snarled. “You’re now Clivesden?”

  Ludlowe’s smile did not falter for an instant. “Not yet, but my claim is solid. I daresay the Lord Chancellor ought to accept it without delay.”

  “As long as the former earl’s widow isn’t in a delicate condition, you mean.” Benedict seemed to be forcing the words through gritted teeth.

  Julia slanted her eyes in his direction. What she could see of his neck above his cravat flushed red. Beneath her hand, the muscles in his arm had turned to steel. Why was he so upset over the circumstances? While tragic, to be certain, none of them had actually known Clivesden well.

  Ludlowe’s smile remained fixed. “Of course.”

  He stepped closer to Julia, and the muscles beneath her fingertips jerked.

  “I had hoped to keep the news quiet a bit longer. I might have known gossip would foil my plans.” He acknowledged Sophia with a nod, and she beamed at him from behind the protection of her fan.

  “Ah well, c’est la vie.” Ludlowe shrugged. “I hadn’t come over with the intention of discussing this matter. I was wondering if Miss Julia would care for the next dance.”

  If he hadn’t been looking her in the eye, Julia would never have credited the notion. When Ludlowe turned up at a ball, he remained decidedly ensconced in the card room or on the sidelines. He chatted with the ladies, he flirted outrageously, he might disappear into the gardens for long stretches, but he rarely danced.

  The lilting strains of violins in three-quarter time met her ears. Goodness. Ludlowe certainly never waltzed.

  An expectant silence fell over the group, while the music swelled around them. She couldn’t possibly, not with her sister standing right there, deflating a bit further with each joyous note. “I’m terribly sorry—”

  “She promised the next set to me,” Benedict said over her reply.

  “I’m sure Sophia would be delighted,” Julia added quickly. “That way, no one is disappointed.”

  Ludlowe hesitated a second too long before nodding. “Your servant. I must insist you save another dance for me later.”

  He didn’t wait for her reply. Offering his arm to a glowing Sophia, he led her to join the whirling couples already on the dance floor.

  Julia rounded on Benedict, who bent his left arm in invitation. “I believe this is our waltz.”

  She ignored him. “Are you planning to tell me what that was all about?”

  He held her gaze, the breadth of his shoulders blocking the flickering light from the crystal chandeliers. That disturbing intensity still lit their depths. And where had it come from along with his, well, protectiveness? She pressed her lips into a line and shuffled her weight from one foot to the other.

  “After this set. Meet me outside. For now, we’d better make a proper show of dancing. Just so no one is disappointed.”

  She took his arm, and he set off at such a clip that she stumbled after him through the crowd until they found a spot among the dancers.

  “Why can’t you tell me now?” she persisted. His brows lowered in disapproval, but she ignored the reaction. The waltz permitted conversation, after all.

  He set a solid arm about her waist, seized her hand, and spun her into the first turn. “Not here. Not where others might overhear.” He tipped his chin toward an orange turban swaying not far from them. “Lady Witless, for example.”

  At the nickname, Julia suppressed a laugh and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan. Benedict had so christened the old gossip two years ago when Lady Whitby’s spiteful tongue had run her afoul of a few other matrons who had overheard her and arranged to knock her into the punchbowl. “Stop. You’re terrible. By the by, what are you doing here tonight? I didn’t even realize you were in Town.”

  “I only arrived two days ago. I came to have a look at some horses.”

  “Ah, of course. No wonder you haven’t seen fit to call. What’s more important than cattle?”

  “Quite a few things, it turns out.”

  “Oh?”

  But his gaze settled at some point beyond her. Well. Whatever was more important must have to do with this mysterious discussion he refused to have in the middle of the dance floor. He guided her through the steps of the dance with practiced ease until she felt as if she were hovering several inches above the floor. This was not dancing; it was floating. On every turn, her stomach tripped over itself.

  It was nothing more than a waltz. Meaningless. The buoyancy that lifted her heels on every step had nothing to do with the hand planted at her waist, the fingers flexing into every pivot. Those strong fingers, calloused from the constant rubbing of reins, capable of controlling the most hot-blooded of horses, burned through the layers of her ball gown and stays. And his thighs, powerful from years in the saddle, brushed against hers through her skirts. She should not allow herself to think of such things. This was Benedict, steady and dependable, not one of her suitors.

  Suppressing a sigh, she tried again. “I had no idea you danced so well. How is it we’ve never waltzed before?”

  He winked. “You’ve never twisted my arm into it before.”

  “I twisted? As I recall, this was your idea.”

  “Perhaps I ought to have ideas a bit more often.” His words slipped out easily.

  For a moment, Julia was dumbfounded. That sounded rather roguish. “Who are you practicing for?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re practicing your flirting on me.” Once again, she tapped him with her fan. “I shall not allow it unless you confess immediately who you intend to pursue.”

  He grinned maddeningly at her. “Then I suppose I shall have to remain woefully out of practice. A gentleman never tells. But if I remain forever a bachelor, I shall lay the blame at your feet.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Sophia dancing with Ludlowe. With their matched coloring, they turned heads all about the room. Sophia absolutely bloomed in his arms, the very portrait of an utterly smitten young woman.

  Smitten indeed. Julia had vowed never to allow such tender feelings to overtake her. They made her anxious and edgy. Vulnerable. Her fingers curled about her fan until its delicate ribs threatened to snap. She’d witnessed too many others ensnared by what they termed love to aspire to anything more than a civilized, sensible union.

  She concentrated on keeping up with Benedict. But for the occasions when he came home on leave, the past few years he’d spent with the cavalry had prevented her from enjoying his company at the ton’s events. To think sh
e’d missed dancing such as this, when she hadn’t even known it possible.

  At long last, the music swelled toward the coda. He leaned down to mutter next to her ear, “I’ll be out on the terrace in five minutes.”

  Heart still thudding, she slipped out of his arms, only to collide with something soft.

  “Careful now.” Lord Chuddleigh caught her in an enthusiastic grip.

  Blast it all. She cast a glance about for Benedict, but the crowd had already swallowed him. Why couldn’t he have said his piece now, rather than playing games? Surely, they could have found a quiet corner away from overzealous ears.

  She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Your pardon, my lord. I’m afraid I’m not feeling at all well. If you’ll excuse me.”

  With that, she wove her way through the crowd in the general direction of the ladies’ retiring room. Just before stepping into the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Fan a-flutter and rosy with excitement, Sophia still chatted with Ludlowe. Thank the heavens. Perhaps something good would come out of this evening, after all.

  Five minutes later, Julia found herself second-guessing that prediction. Benedict led her into a quiet corner of the garden far from prying eyes.

  “I want you to stay away from Ludlowe,” he said in a harsh voice and without preamble.

  A shiver prickled along the back of her neck. Never once had he seen fit to give her orders, as if she were one of his men. In the darkness, half his face lay in shadow so that he appeared as some creature of the night.

  Puzzled, she frowned. “But why does it matter? It’s not as if he makes a habit of attending these things. He’s made a career of avoiding marriage.” Unfortunately for Sophia and her hopes.

  “He’s about to inherit an earldom. His priorities have changed.”

  “It hardly signifies. Besides, we’ve managed to arrange things so he’s spending time with Sophia.”

  Benedict stepped closer to her and placed his hands on her upper arms. The heat of his palms permeated his gloves and seared into her bare skin.

  “He hasn’t got his sights set on Sophia. He’s set them on you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVER SINCE her first season, Sophia had dreamed of this night. William Ludlowe had actually asked her to dance. She didn’t count the first time, although that had been a waltz, because Julia had practically pushed him into her arms.

  A reel, of course, was less romantic and hardly conducive to conversation, but no matter. The second time, his invitation had come without a prompt.

  The jaunty tune wound to a close, and Sophia’s heart thudded in her chest. Under the cover of her fluttering silk skirts, she crossed her fingers in a silent plea for him to remain by her side.

  As she straightened from her low curtsey, she smiled and snapped out her fan. “Gracious, that was vigorous.” With any luck, he’d take the hint and offer refreshment.

  “It was.” His elbow angled toward her, and she laid her hand on it, her fingers tingling beneath white gloves, as he led her off to the side. “I say, I haven’t seen your sister for a good while now.”

  Sophia’s smile wavered. Why should he care about her sister? “I’ve no idea how anyone can keep track of a single person in such a crowd.”

  Besides Mama, who, even now, watched Sophia through narrowed eyes. Assessing as always, calculating the chances along with the potential income. Perhaps the news about Ludlowe had already reached Mama’s ears. For once, Sophia was on Mama’s side.

  “You’d think we’d have seen her on the dance floor before now,” Ludlowe went on. “You do not think she’s fallen in with the wrong sort, do you?”

  Sophia wafted her fan before her heated face. “What sort is that?”

  “Why, the sort to lure her out into a secluded corner of the gardens.”

  “She has more sense than to do such a thing. She values her reputation too much.” She didn’t have a choice there. Neither, for that matter, did Sophia. Not when, as their mother constantly reminded them, the St. Claire family had fought for years to attain its current social status, and even then they remained firmly on the fringes of the ton. A title in the family would go a long way to solidifying their position.

  An odd, almost possessive gleam came into his eye. “Yes, she does, doesn’t she?”

  Sophia’s fan continued to flutter with barely a hitch. Thank goodness. She feared her smile, however, had become rigid. Her cheeks certainly ached with the effort of masking her disappointment with a cheerful appearance. When would she learn?

  “Of course, if you’re really that concerned, we might take a turn on the terrace ourselves. See if we can’t spot her.” She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the corner where her mother stood on the edge of a circle of other society matrons, in the hopes that the view would prevent the color from rising in her cheeks. Such a bold proposal, but after five seasons of nurturing a fruitless tendre for Ludlowe, her desperation had reached its limit.

  Ludlowe stiffened. “My dear Miss St. Claire.”

  “Yes?” Please agree. Please. She turned toward him, peeping reluctantly over the fraying lace that edged her fan.

  “My dear,” he repeated, and her pulse raced ahead of her rational thought. “I’d never dream of putting a lady of your standing in such a position.”

  She ducked her head, as shame heated her cheeks. “Forgive me. My suggestion was rather forward. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Once more, she glanced in her mother’s direction. Slender, her skin still a flawless porcelain, Mama had bequeathed her beauty to her elder daughter. A smile lingered about her lips. Wonderful. Now her mother believed something might be afoot, something that would, at long last, press the reluctant Sophia in the direction of matrimony.

  If only. She would sell her soul for the chance to marry William Ludlowe. He’d come to her rescue in her first season, when several other girls had disparaged her mother’s more humble origins. He’d overlooked them all and escorted her to dinner. Her. The looks of jealousy and disbelief on the other girls’ faces had made their ridicule worth the pain. On several other occasions he’d smiled, winked, shared a joke with her. He had a gift, it seemed, for sensing when her spirits needed a lift.

  In five years, her feelings toward him hadn’t changed, to the point where she’d refused several advantageous offers.

  His gaze softened. “Your suggestion was quite sound, as long as you do not accompany me.”

  With that simple pronouncement, her racing heart turned to lead and plummeted. “Oh. Oh, of course.”

  Full lips stretched into a dazzling smile that showed off a perfect row of even, white teeth. That smile set many a lady’s heart to pounding. Sophia’s flopped back into its usual position and began a hopeful patter. He reached for her hand, and the patter accelerated.

  Bending at the waist, he brushed his lips across the back of her glove. Lucky, lucky glove. “Never fear. I shall see to your sister’s safe return.”

  Before he could turn away fully, someone pressed against Sophia and elbowed her way next to Ludlowe. “My goodness, what a crush.”

  The newcomer, a dark-haired beauty, turned a bright smile on Ludlowe. Her white gown hugged generous curves. A heavy cloud of cloying floral scent assaulted Sophia’s nostrils.

  Ludlowe returned the lady’s smile with a lazy bow of his lips.

  Sophia frowned. On other occasions, she’d been the object of that smile.

  “Indeed,” Ludlowe said. “And how are you enjoying the evening’s festivities?”

  The newcomer flapped her fan, wafting another cloud of scent in Sophia’s direction. “I might find them more diverting if my dance card were fuller.”

  Gracious. Such a brazen hint. Worse, Ludlowe didn’t seem to notice anything amiss about her behavior. Sophia took in her dark head of curls and her wide, brown eyes. Something familiar about her. Ah, yes. Lady Whitby’s niece—Eleanor, that was her name. Gossip pinned her as betrothed to Lord Keaton’s heir, minor eno
ugh in his own right, but well connected through his mother’s side of the family. Eleanor had no business flirting with William.

  And flirting she was. She leaned her head toward him, and he inclined his head right back. She took a step toward the wide double doors that led to the hall, and he followed. Sophia wasn’t about to stand for it. As they inched away, she moved right along with them, wincing when her foot crushed something soft and yielding.

  A heavyset baronet let out a yelp.

  “I do beg your pardon, sir.”

  The man pulled out a quizzing glass, the better to inspect her. “I should say so. You young chits these days, always in a hurry. If you’d learn to watch where you were going, these things might not happen.”

  Blushing, she inclined her head. “I shall endeavor to follow your advice in the future.”

  “Hmph. See that you do.”

  By the time she’d finished apologizing, her quarry had disappeared. Drat.

  As much as Sophia was loath to admit it, Eleanor had been right about one thing. The Posselthwaite ball was an absolute crush. Various scents vied with each other amid the smell of perspiring bodies. A point behind her right eye began an ominous pulse.

  What she wouldn’t give for a breath of clear air. A cool draft drifted in from the hallway, and she followed it. A few steps farther on, she wished she hadn’t. Eleanor and William stood just ahead, partially concealed in an alcove.

  What was he doing? Didn’t he know she was betrothed?

  “I say,” she called out. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard the latest.” Not the most original interruption, perhaps, but at a pinch, it would have to do.

  Eleanor turned and eyed her from head to toe, as if Sophia were some urchin on Bond Street. In another moment, the brunette might look down to make sure she still carried her reticule. “Have we been introduced?”

  Face aflame, Sophia pulled up short. Naturally they had. And William simply stood there, smiling benignly, as if that hussy hadn’t stopped just shy of giving her the cut direct. He might say something, might cover the moment.