A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Not this time. This time, he was all too happy to let her twist in the wind. She searched for something, anything, she might say to save face. Not a thing came to her. Nothing beyond a lungful of that strumpet’s awful, awful perfume.

  He leaned in close and said something straight into Eleanor’s ear, his lips forming words that caused her to giggle and simper behind her fan.

  Sophia’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip that set its contents to churning. The air in the hallway turned stuffy, sending a cold trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades. Her fan was of no use. She needed the ladies’ retiring room.

  She backed along the corridor—away from William and his latest distraction. A glance revealed them still conversing. The girl threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter. Ee-ee-eeee. Like the drawn-out call of a particularly annoying kestrel.

  In a whirl of ice-blue silk, Sophia forged ahead, and ran smack into another obstacle—a soft, spongy obstacle. “I do beg your pardon.”

  A mass of curls and purple bombazine quivered in her path. Lady Wexford, one of Mama’s acquaintances, or more accurately, a lady whose friendship Mama had sought to cultivate. The woman’s frown set her numerous chins to trembling.

  “Oh dear,” Sophia whispered. Nothing more would come out. Her stomach seemed to be blocking her throat.

  Lady Wexford’s opinion might well decide whether or not the St. Claire family received any future invitations. She held enough social power to have their Almack’s vouchers revoked.

  The heat in the corridor pressed down on Sophia until she struggled to draw in air, but the only breath she caught carried that scent. She tried to blink the spots from before her eyes, but they grew until they consumed her entire field of vision. Not now, of all times! In the next moment, everything went black.

  “MISS, miss … Is everything all right?”

  Sophia wrinkled her nose and coughed at the assault of ammonia fumes beneath her nostrils. A low snarl of masculine voices, terse, coiled with tension and punctuated with curses, invaded her mind. That couldn’t be right. No gentleman would dream of using such language in the presence of a lady.

  She shook the lingering cobwebs from her mind. At least the air here was clear. Not the slightest hint of floral scent, thank goodness.

  “Sir, I believe she’s coming round.”

  At that pronouncement, the men broke off abruptly, but the heaviness in the atmosphere remained, a low storm cloud on the horizon. Neither voice sounded completely familiar.

  “Where—,” she began.

  A hand took hold of hers and patted enthusiastically against her glove. “Don’t ye leave us again now.”

  The uncultured accent betrayed the female voice as that of a servant. Sophia opened her eyes, and her suspicions were confirmed. A mobcapped girl of about eighteen hovered over her. Somehow she’d been spirited into a drawing room. The silk-covered cushions of a stiff-backed settee supported her shoulders and feet.

  She pushed herself up on one elbow. “How—” Her head swam, and she sank back onto the pillow.

  “I would not get up too quickly if I were you.”

  She blinked at the man who had spoken. His deep, resonant voice washed over her in soothing tones. The lines at the corners of his dark eyes were deeply etched. Neatly trimmed brown hair showed hints of gray at the temples.

  “I beg your pardon if I’ve inconvenienced you in any way.” She paused. “Forgive me. Have we been introduced?”

  He sketched a stiff bow. “You will forgive my forwardness if I introduce myself. Rufus Frederick Shelburne at your service.”

  Sophia drew in a breath, and a hint of sandalwood cut through the lingering odor of ammonia. “My lord.”

  Her glance settled on a thin scar that bisected his left cheek from ear to chin. Everyone in society knew how the Earl of Highgate had come by his wound, just as everyone knew he preferred to keep to his country estates. She stopped just short of embarrassing herself by blurting out an inconsiderate question.

  “You, of course, are Miss Sophia St. Claire.”

  She snapped her gaze back to meet his. Unwavering brown eyes regarded her solemnly. The measure of sadness filling their depths awakened a sudden urge to smooth the lines on his forehead with her fingertips.

  She curled her hand into a fist. “How did you know?”

  “My sister is an acquaintance of your mother’s, and she pointed you out to me.” His voice rumbled over her, the kindness in his tone at odds with his ravaged face and the snippet of masculine conversation she’d just overheard. If, indeed, she had overheard it. Perhaps the presence of another had been a figment of her imagination.

  “I see.” She didn’t. Not at all, but she couldn’t ask what he was doing at Lady Posselthwaite’s ball without appearing rude—or overly interested. Unmarried gentlemen didn’t often attend these events unless they were in the market for a wife.

  A sharp image leapt into her mind, and she straightened. William was in attendance. He’d danced. Of course, he usually put in an appearance, but soon he’d hold the responsibility of a title. Her heart skipped ahead of itself until she fought to draw breath. William was in the market for a wife.

  As if her thought had summoned him, William’s perfectly sculpted face floated into view. She placed her hand over her suddenly racing heart, while heat crept up her cheeks.

  “Goodness.” She swallowed. “My goodness, you came to my rescue when I fainted, didn’t you? I don’t know how I could possibly thank you.”

  “Ever a pleasure.” He placed a hand on his chest and bowed.

  Highgate fixed him with a weighty stare. “You mean to—”

  But William went on as if no one had interrupted. “You look as if you’ll manage from here. We sent the ladies to fetch your mother, but they don’t seem to have found her yet.” He snapped his fingers at the maid.

  “Begging your pardon, sir.” The girl bobbed a curtsey.

  “Go and summon Mrs. St. Claire immediately.”

  “She cannot leave us alone!” Sophia burst in. “It’s unseemly.”

  One side of William’s mouth raised in a half smile, but he gave no reply. Instead, he leaned toward the girl and murmured something too low for Sophia to catch. The servant’s head ducked once again, and, color rising in her cheeks, she darted out the door.

  “Here, now. What do you think you’re about?” Highgate spit each word, his voice shaking slightly as if he’d rather use far franker language. “Do you mean to take all the credit?”

  William grinned, but the line of his jaw betrayed a tension, as if his teeth were grinding together. “If you’ll excuse me, perhaps I ought to try to find your sister. If I’m quick about it, there’s no harm done.”

  With a bow, he swept out after the maid.

  Stunned, Sophia stared at Highgate. Could she trust him? She’d never heard the least insinuation that Highgate was a rake. Quite the opposite, in fact. And William! Why on earth would he have contrived to leave the pair of them alone?

  “What have you done?” she gasped.

  “What have I done? It’s all on that bounder.” Brows lowered, he lurched in the direction of the doorway. But then he glanced at her and paused. “Are you sure you’re feeling quite the thing? You look pale.”

  “I’m not about to faint again, if that’s what you’re hoping,” she replied, unable to keep the tartness out of her tone. The man must think her the greenest girl in London. “Goodness only knows what might happen next.”

  One heavy eyebrow arched above his left eye. “At my age? A young miss like you?”

  At his age, indeed. She could not recall any gossip pinning a precise age on him, but he had to be closer to forty than thirty. Yet his gaze traveled over her figure in slow appraisal. A blush raced back to her cheeks. Had she thought him kind? She would not make that mistake twice.

  She fixed him with a glare. “I hardly think it proper you remain here with me, my lord. I assure you I’m quite well enough to be left alone.
”

  “And risk the vagaries of whoever might venture into this room next? Perish the thought. You might find yourself in the presence of a true debaucher.” A line formed between his brows. “Like Ludlowe.”

  She struggled to her feet. “Sir, you are impertinent!”

  Highgate crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly. She didn’t like his assessing look, not one bit. It saw too much; it laid her bare. “Nursing a tendre for the man, are you?”

  “That is none of your affair. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  She made to step around him, but his hand shot out and pinned her wrist. “Do not waste your life pining after the likes of Ludlowe. He’d break you within a year.”

  She tugged at her arm, but his grip held firm as an iron band. She wanted out of this room, away from his disturbing perception. As a stranger, he had no business looking into her heart and divining all her private desires and fears.

  More than that, he had no business holding her gaze with such unfathomable eyes. She couldn’t miss them—they lay on a level with hers.

  Only William had a right to capture her attention like this. Except by now William was probably out on the terrace with Eleanor, darling Eleanor, that strumpet, all thought of finding Julia conveniently laid aside.

  Sudden tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked, breaking the spell. Long fingers uncurled from about her wrist, but somehow an impression remained on her skin. She suppressed the urge to rub the spot, as if she could brush away his touch.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured. The point behind her right eye had begun to pound. Fruitlessly, she pressed the heel of her hand to it. She wanted nothing more than to go home and forget this night had ever happened.

  He inclined his head, and she scurried toward the corridor. On the threshold, she came face-to-face with her mother.

  Mama reached out and rubbed a hand along her arm. “Sophia, dear—”

  With a glance beyond Sophia’s shoulder, Mama stopped short. She gaped for a moment or two, before the fine line between her eyebrows sketched itself more deeply. “What is the meaning of this?” she hissed. “How long have you been alone with this man?”

  “I was not alone,” Sophia protested. “Not completely. Mr. Ludlowe sent a maid to fetch you, but beyond that, both he and the maid were with us the entire time.”

  Behind her, Highgate heaved a sigh, then came to stand at her shoulder. “Madam, the fault is entirely my own.”

  Mama’s nostrils flared as she looked him up and down.

  “Ludlowe thought it best to inform Miss St. Claire’s family of her malaise. But he left us rather abruptly, or I would have withdrawn at the same time.”

  Mama’s jaw firmed. “You ought to have at any rate. You’ve given no regard to the consequences.”

  “On the contrary. As long as nobody else learns of this, there is little chance of damage to Miss St. Claire’s reputation.”

  Splendid. Sophia leapt on the idea. “Mama, no one knows of this but us. I’m sure we can count on Lord Highgate’s discretion as a gentleman. What harm has been done here?”

  Pale blond curls softening to a silvery gray quivered as Mama drew herself up. At her fullest height, she was nearly as tall as Sophia—and Highgate. “Plenty, if word should get out. Do not forget the maid, who saw fit to inform me of your whereabouts in front of Lady Whitby. You’re fortunate I was able to convince the shrew her presence was not required here. But as things stand …”

  Mama let her voice trail off into menacing silence. Sophia well understood its import. What Lady Whitby couldn’t gather as fodder for gossip, she’d willingly invent.

  Sophia’s head spun, and her knees turned to rubber, as she fought off insensibility for the second time that evening. All she needed was to swoon into Highgate’s arms in front of the wrong witnesses, and they’d find themselves exchanging vows under special license within a week.

  The entire corridor, awash in the portraits of generations of Posselthwaites, swam before her eyes. Her hands turned to ice. “Mama, I do not think—”

  “Miss St. Claire, are you certain you’re feeling quite the thing?” Highgate’s voice seemed to reverberate along the empty hall. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “I should like to go home now.” She forced the words past the constriction in her throat.

  “I shall send for my carriage at once.”

  Her hand fluttered in an ineffectual attempt to wave Highgate off. “No, not—”

  Ee-ee-eeee.

  The distinctive laugh cut off her refusal. At the far end of the hall, the faces of two new arrivals blurred. William and the strumpet. Why had he brought her back to witness Sophia’s downfall?

  The floor beneath her feet heaved. Not again! In spite of her efforts, the corridor constricted to a tiny point, and for the second time in an hour, she fainted.

  “REALLY.” Rufus’s sister, better known to society as Lady Wexford, approached from behind Mrs. St. Claire. “Two spells in one night? That’s rather much.”

  He shifted his weight, the better to support Miss St. Claire’s limp body. After all, it would hardly do to let a young lady of quality slump to the floor, most especially while wearing such a fine ball gown. At least, that was what his sister would tell him.

  Mariah was a stickler for the finest points of protocol. She’d happily spent all thirty-seven years of his life terrorizing him on such matters until they were drilled into his being. He’d always thought their father would have made a sound investment in buying her a commission—preferably in India.

  Said sister now advanced along the corridor, rather like an Indian elephant, less the trunk, of course. Cloaked in disapproval, she came to stand beside Mrs. St. Claire.

  “Rather than tutting over this turn of events, you might lend a hand.” He shifted Miss St. Claire in his arms, and soft curves pressed into his chest. If his sister divined the direction of his thoughts, she’d berate him for that, too. “Ring for a footman, carry her off yourself.”

  Mariah’s lips disappeared entirely as she pressed her mouth into a rigid line. “I would not make light if I were you.”

  “I say, what seems to have happened?”

  He jerked his head up to find Ludlowe strolling toward them, a woman on his arm. Capital. Just like the man to return to gloat. Hadn’t the bastard done enough damage? The evening just kept getting better and better.

  Ludlowe craned his neck to peer at them. “Why, that’s Miss St. Claire.”

  Rufus barely spared him a glance. “Perceptive of you.”

  Ludlowe’s companion let out an awful trill of laughter. Rufus narrowed his eyes. He’d spent ten years avoiding Town and most especially the season, but if he knew Ludlowe, this dark-haired beauty, whose low-cut white gown set her assets on display, was no doubt the wayward wife of some peer or other. Mariah could certainly tell him which peer, should he care to ask.

  “You might make yourself useful and call for the St. Claires’ carriage,” Rufus added.

  “Highgate!” His sister’s tone took on a low note of warning. “This is a highly serious matter.”

  He suppressed a sigh. Only among ninnies.

  “Indeed it is.” Mrs. St. Claire nodded slowly. “He has compromised my daughter. As soon as Mr. St. Claire hears of this, he shall demand satisfaction.”

  Rufus stiffened at the implication. “I hardly think there’s any call to take matters quite so far.”

  Mariah turned her imperious gaze on Mrs. St. Claire. “Compromised? I refuse to believe it.”

  Mrs. St. Claire jabbed a finger at Rufus’s forehead. “Then explain to me how I came upon the two of them alone.”

  Rufus glared at Ludlowe, who was whispering behind his hand. His companion giggled. What was his game? If anybody in this corridor was apt to compromise marriageable misses, it was that beef-witted bastard.

  “We weren’t alone,” Rufus protested. “Not entirely.” He nodded to his sister. “You witnessed Miss St. Claire’s fainting spell. Y
ou know Ludlowe, here, assisted me.”

  “Mr. Ludlowe was no longer here when I arrived,” Mrs. St. Claire insisted.

  “He’d only just stepped out.” If he’d had a hand free, Rufus would have pressed it to his forehead. He was going to have to break down and appeal to a cad’s sense of honor. “Ludlowe, why don’t you tell her?”

  The man had developed a great interest in his fingernails. Filthy hypocrite. “I honestly cannot recall how long it took me to return here after a fruitless search for Miss Julia. Horrid crush as usual. Impossible to get through.”

  “I still cannot believe it,” Mariah interjected. “No, I will not have it. Of all people, my brother knows better than to embroil himself in such doings.”

  Mrs. St. Claire shot her an ugly look. “We did have to make our way back through the crowd. That took rather a long time.”

  The burden of the others’ collective scrutiny weighed him down more than the girl in his arms. Ludlowe smirked knowingly, while his companion sniggered behind her fan.

  An odd gleam shone in Mrs. St. Claire’s eye. Triumph, perhaps? No doubt the woman was typical of the ton’s mothers, ever scheming to land her daughter the best possible match. Somehow Ludlowe must have guessed it. And now this particular mother was angling to entrap him. Him. He loosened his grip on the poor girl in his arms. No point in bruising her on top of everything else.

  He avoided Town for this very reason—any vicious gossip could turn the least likely event into a scandal. Judging by Mariah’s imperious expression, she was ready to turn the situation into an even greater spectacle, and there was Ludlowe’s companion to consider. She practically glowed with excitement, as if she could not wait to pass on this juicy bit to all eager ears.

  Mariah had badgered him into attending tonight’s festivities so he could investigate the possibility of selecting a bride. If he didn’t tread carefully now, he’d be forced to remarry—a complete stranger, no less.

  Remarry! As if his first marriage hadn’t been disastrous enough. Best to put an end to the spectacle now, before they drew a crowd.

  “Well?” Mrs. St. Claire took a step forward, raising her chin. The gesture managed to make her appear taller. “What are you planning to do about this mess?”