A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  She fitted her palm to Highgate’s cheek, covering the scar, and pressed her lips to his.

  A growl rumbled deep in his throat, and he took the mastery. His mouth opened beneath hers, demanded a response, dictated she follow suit. Gone was the tenderness, replaced by searing heat and driving need as the brand of his tongue darted between her teeth.

  Compared to the darkness of this assault, their earlier kisses were nothing but the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. This was a battle, and he demanded no less than her complete surrender.

  Dear God, how she wanted to give it.

  He tore his lips from hers to crush them to her cheeks, her throat, the ridges of her collarbones. She could do no more than cling to him and tilt her head back in offering—an offering he freely accepted.

  He pressed lower to the swell of her breasts above her bodice, and a moan welled up her throat. Parting her lips, she allowed it to escape.

  Abruptly, he thrust her away. Her pulse still pounded in her ears. Thump-thump, thump-thump. Mind whirling with confusion, she opened her eyes to find him regarding her from beneath half-closed lids.

  His normally tidy hair stood in disheveled tufts. Had she done that? Thump-thump. She stared down at her hands, half expecting to find dark strands caught between her fingers.

  “ ’Tis a dangerous game we play, Sophia.”

  Thump-thump. She should not permit the use of her given name. She should not permit any of this. She opened her mouth to protest, but he set his fingers to her lips before a sound escaped.

  “Under the circumstances, I think I can be forgiven the use of your name. Such innocence and yet such passion in you. How I should love to take you home and let you discover your true depths at my leisure.”

  The promise of those urgent words burned into her soul and raced through her blood. Such forbidden promise. In this moment, she craved the forbidden.

  “But you must understand, if we allow this to continue any further, you shall indeed be ruined and our betrothal must then play itself out into marriage.”

  She let recklessness fuel her response. “I do not give a fig for my reputation. Not after tonight. I shall never marry now, so there is none to know besides me whether or not I’ve retained my virtue.”

  He tipped her chin upward. “I should know. I will not risk leaving you with child. I’ve enough on my conscience.”

  At the reference to his marriage, she closed her eyes. “I will not believe you killed your wife.”

  “Your confidence heartens me, but if we are to be completely honest, in a very real sense, I did.”

  She gasped. “I do not believe it. You couldn’t have.”

  A grim smile twisted his features. “My thanks for your faith.”

  “But your sister—”

  “True, had I actually placed my hands about the woman’s neck and strangled her, my sister would have personally seen me in Newgate. Not for murder, mind you, but for bringing scandal on the family.” He knocked on the roof, signaling the driver to head for Boulton Row.

  “Would …” She paused and swallowed. “I know it’s none of my affair, but would you tell me how it is you believe yourself responsible for her death?”

  “I should never have married her. I should have given her the chance to cry off.”

  “But you said her family pressured her.”

  “They did, but they might have relented at a word from me. Alas, I was convinced that with time we might learn to be happy with each other. She resented me from the outset. She was running off once more to meet Ludlowe when her carriage turned over.”

  She stared at his scar. Gossip proclaimed it a result of that accident.

  “Yes, I was there. Like a fool, I went chasing after her. I only wished her to listen to reason. I should have just let her go.”

  She laid a hand on his sleeve. “She would still have had that accident.”

  “Perhaps not. If I hadn’t been in pursuit, the coachman might not have urged the horses into such a breakneck pace.”

  He fell silent. Beneath Sophia’s gloved fingers, the muscles of his arm stiffened. What had she just forced him to relive? His pain must be infinitely worse than hers. A chilling surge of shyness made her withdraw. She’d no right to touch him.

  Wordlessly, he clapped a hand over hers. “Do not pull away. That is what she did.”

  Good Lord, the heartache behind those words. She could not deny him, but neither could she find an appropriate response. She sat beside him, unmoving, not speaking, while the rumble of the wheels and the steady clop of hooves filled the barouche.

  A few moments later, they shuddered to a halt, and he glanced out the window. “We are arrived at your address. I don’t believe anyone else has returned from the Pendletons’ yet.”

  Just as well. She couldn’t face Julia tonight. Even confronted with the reality of getting over her feelings for William, the future loomed bleak. Married or no, any social event she attended would now mean running into Julia and William, as would any family gathering. There was no escaping him.

  And yet Highgate had promised to help her. She could accept that help, but if she did, could she still, in all good conscience cry off?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I MIGHT’VE KNOWN I’d find you here. Should’ve thought to look here first.”

  Benedict raised a bleary eye to find Upperton standing over his table. He no longer had a clear concept of the time. He knew only that the hour was late, perhaps so late he’d return to his family’s town house in the predawn twilight.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Upperton pulled back a chair and settled into it. Despite the hour, his eveningwear was still in impeccable order. Even his hair remained in artful dishevelment that must have taken his valet an eternity to achieve.

  Next to him, Benedict knew he looked like a White-chapel gin-guzzler. He’d unknotted his cravat hours ago, and his waistcoat hung, half-buttoned, from his shoulders. In short, he was a sodden mess.

  Upperton leaned back in his chair, his pose one of practiced nonchalance. “I think you’re making rather too much a habit of occupying that particular chair these past few evenings. Have you thought about going out more in society?”

  Benedict lifted the brandy decanter to refill his glass, only to find the damned thing was empty. “Sod off.”

  Upperton ignored him. “I’ve come straight from the Pendletons’. Well, barring the time I spent combing the gaming hells. Funny things you learn attending balls.”

  Benedict blinked. An air of expectation settled over the table as Upperton smiled and crossed his arms. Benedict wrinkled his brow into a scowl, but his friend merely continued to wait.

  “Oh, all right. Tell me what you heard and have done. I haven’t got all night.”

  “I daresay you haven’t. It’s nearly five in the morning.”

  Another pause. Upperton’s smile broadened. Such an annoying man. “Why I didn’t kick your arse out through your mouth the first day at Eton, I’ll never know. Remind me why that is again.”

  “You were too busy with that Battencliffe idiot.” Right. Thank God Upperton had decided to be diplomatic and not remind him that Battencliffe had held the upper hand in that fight. “Fortunately for you, I came along and distracted him with my superior wit.”

  “Funny, I never knew wit could stand as a synonym for a wicked left hook.”

  Upperton placed a hand on his chest and inclined his head. “Your servant. And I’m happy to see you’re keeping your sense of humor about you. Think you just might need it.”

  Benedict straightened, a difficult proposition when he’d consumed so much brandy over the course of the evening. He wished for no more than to lay his head in the crook of his elbow and sleep off the effects. Upperton’s tone, however, demanded his full, undivided attention, or as close as he could manage, given his condition.

  “Am I going to need another bottle?”

  “You may want one. Needing one is another question.”

&nbs
p; “What have you heard?”

  “Our friend Clivesden thinks he’s won his wager.”

  Benedict waved a hand. “Well, of course he does. You have to be a right idiot to wager that much without confidence of winning. Julia knows better. She’d never agree—”

  “She has.”

  Benedict slammed his fist to the table. “The devil you say!”

  “She has. She’s agreed. I saw her with my own eyes at the Pendleton ball, standing there with him. Didn’t hear all that was said, but word got round quickly enough. Her father announced the betrothal.”

  “No. You must’ve heard wrong. Her sister’s betrothed to Highgate. I attended the dinner where the family discussed how they were planning to announce it to society.”

  “Revelstoke … Benedict …” Upperton reached across the table and placed his hand on Benedict’s forearm. “They announced two engagements tonight.”

  “No, you’re wrong. I will not believe Julia ever agreed to such a thing.” But even as he said the words, a sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. All the brandy he’d consumed gave an ominous lurch toward his throat. She’d admitted to him she wanted an affectionless marriage. Perhaps she’d thought on it and agreed to Ludlowe’s proposal. But that didn’t tally with the Julia he knew. The woman he knew was close to her sister. She’d never betray Sophia.

  Would she?

  “She did not look to be protesting the proceedings. Not from where I was standing.”

  Apparently so. “You could not have been standing very close if you did not hear what they said.”

  “I know what I saw. She went along with the entire thing.”

  Benedict yanked at a fistful of hair. “She refused him. She told me she did.”

  “She must’ve had a change of heart then. How long have we known each other? I swear to you, I would never lie about this.”

  Shards of ice drove into Benedict’s heart. “I know you would not. Only I want very badly for you to be mistaken.”

  “You’d best accept it. That’s not even the reason I’m telling you. What I want to know is what you’re going to do about it.”

  Benedict shot to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the table as the entire room swayed. “What am I going to do about it?” The answer was obvious enough. He already knew what Julia thought of him. “Not a bloody damned thing.”

  Upperton stood more slowly. “You’re just going to give up? I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “What do you care about it?” He forced the words through his constricted throat. “It’s not as if you’ve got a personal stake in all this.”

  “I do if I end up having to pay Clivesden five thousand bloody pounds I haven’t got.”

  “You took that bet?” He seized Upperton by the lapels and gave him a shake. “Then you’re an even bigger idiot than Ludlowe … Clivesden …” He thrust Upperton away. “Whatever the bloody hell we’re calling him this week.”

  OUTSIDE her father’s study, Julia drew in a lungful of air and let it out in a measured whoosh. She was about to enter the only wholly masculine domain in this female-dominated house.

  Forbidden territory, this inner sanctum of Charles St. Claire. Not even her mother dared enter this part of the town house unless some dire emergency pressed. And if this room had been the site of that kiss with Benedict, well … She thrust aside the memory of his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands mobile on her body. Papa didn’t need to know about that.

  Dire emergency pressed Julia now—it had since last night’s announcement of her engagement to the Earl of Clivesden, a betrothal that, with any luck, would not endure beyond today.

  After another calming breath, she scratched at the door. A faint grunt, muffled by the thick panel, acknowledged her presence, and she stepped over the threshold. Heavy walnut paneled the walls, while forest green draperies covered the windows. The room smelled of cheroot and brandy, the only space in the entire town house where such scents were permissible.

  From behind his desk, her father frowned at a ledger. A few sparse wisps of graying hair stood on end. On Julia’s approach, he unhooked his spectacles. “What brings you in here so early? Thought you might be expecting callers.”

  “I’ve given Billings instructions to inform any callers that I am not at home.”

  He raised a snowy brow. “Not even that Revelstoke rogue?”

  “Especially not him.”

  “Just as well. Your mother’s still got her feathers ruffled over him turning up at Sophia’s engagement dinner without an invitation.” He paused to mop his forehead with a handkerchief. “Don’t know when I’ll hear the end of it.”

  Julia raised her chin. “He had an invitation. From me.”

  “And yet, you do not want him to wish you well.”

  “I hardly think if he comes to call, he’ll offer best wishes.” No, that was the last thing he’d offer. She preferred not to imagine his reaction when the news of her betrothal reached him.

  “Why would he not? It’s no surprise word has spread, and those who weren’t present last night surely want a chance to wish you happiness.” Her father gestured toward a chair opposite, as if she were his man of affairs, but he always had placed his business concerns, such as they were, before his daughters. “Sit.”

  “I think I’d rather stand.” If she had to conduct this conversation in his territory, it gave her a slight sense of control to look down on him.

  A line formed between his brows. “Is something amiss?”

  She flung up her hands and just as immediately let them drop. “Amiss? You agree to a betrothal without consulting me and ask if anything’s amiss when I learn of it. What on earth were you thinking?”

  His chest expanded and, with it, his belly below. “Now see here. Between you and your sister, I’ve put up with enough nonsense. You are two and twenty. It is high time you married.”

  “At the very least, you could have done me the courtesy of allowing me to choose my suitor.”

  “I’ve allowed you and your sister all manner of latitude in that regard, and where has it got me?” He heaved his bulk from his chair and stared down his nose at her. “You’ve both had ample time to make matches of your own. But you’ve turned them down, every one. Sophia had a chance with the Marquess of Petherton.”

  He paused once more to mop his brow. “A marquess, for heaven’s sake, and worth ten thousand a year. She refused him. Left me to deal with your mother’s fits for weeks, and let me tell you, that was more trouble than I bargained for.”

  Julia planted her hands on the polished wood of the desk and held his stare. “Do you know why she refused the marquess? She’s been in love with Clivesden since she first laid eyes on him.”

  Papa let out a snort. “That is not love. It is a tendre. It is an infatuation.”

  “It’s an infatuation that’s lasted five years. Five years, Papa.” Of course, he’d missed it. He’d spent the last five years dining at his club and losing at whist. Bankrupting the family. “And I’ve had to comfort her after every single social occasion where he’s ignored her. Or, heaven forbid, he paid her some minor attention. That’s when she’d get her hopes up, only to have them dashed when he trotted off to flirt with some other girl. And now you expect me to happily agree to this match, and hang Sophia’s feelings?”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. Sophia hadn’t addressed a single word to her this morning. “I cannot do it, Papa! I cannot betray her like that!”

  He took a step back, the line between his brows becoming more pronounced. “If the girl were in love, as you say, with Clivesden, why’d she accept Highgate’s suit?”

  She gritted her teeth to hold back the first words that sprung to mind—words she’d overhead Benedict mutter when he pulled her out of scrapes, words her father would certainly not appreciate. “She had no choice. They were caught alone. It’s a convenience to avoid scandal.”

  She clamped her mouth shut before she blurted out the rest�
�that Sophia planned to cry off. With Papa so bound and determined to marry the pair of them off, no doubt he’d find a way to force Sophia in front of a vicar before she knew what was happening. Most especially if he discovered Highgate might be worth some blunt.

  Papa rubbed his chin. “She could not be that much in love with Clivesden, then, if she let herself get into such a situation. No matter. She will be settled, with an earl no less, and so shall you. Your mother is over the moon, and I refuse to let either of you disappoint her after all the heartache she’s gone through due to your dithering. I will see the pair of you settled before the season is over, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Papa, you cannot—”

  “I most certainly can. Two titled men, earls no less, have agreed to take you and your sister on and with little dowry to speak of. You will never see another such chance again.” He picked up his spectacles, hooked them over his ears, and eased himself back into his chair. Stretching out an arm, he pulled the ledger closer. “Off with you now.”

  Julia gaped at him. Just like that, he’d dismissed her. He was not going to take her feelings or Sophia’s into consideration, as long as they married well and were off his hands. As long as Mama could boast to society that both her daughters were countesses.

  Countesses!

  “I refuse to marry Clivesden. You cannot force me.”

  He looked up from his ledger, his mouth working while his cheeks flushed a dull red. “You shall marry him. You owe me that much.”

  “Owe you?” She raised her arms and let them flop to her sides. “In what manner can I possibly owe you such a debt?”

  “Do you know how much the pair of you have cost me over the past few seasons? The gowns, the bonnets, the town house?”

  “And how much did your latest hand of vingt-et-un cost you?”

  He went pale. His hand curled into a fist, and his jaw worked. She’d gone too far. She’d never had cause to hand her father such cheek, mainly because, much of the time, he preferred to let Mama deal with his wayward daughters, while he hid himself in here and pretended his finances were in a better state.