One Tempting Proposal

by Christy Carlyle

  Dedication

  For John, your love and support encourages and humble me.

  Acknowledgments

  This heroine would never have had her happy ending without the guidance and wisdom of my fabulous editor, Elle Keck. Thank you!

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from One Scandalous Kiss

  About the Author

  Also by Christy Carlyle

  An Excerpt from Montana Hearts: Her Weekend Wrangler by Darlene Panzera

  An Excerpt from I Need a Hero by Codi Gary

  An Excerpt from Blue Blooded by Shelly Bell

  An Excerpt from Best Worst Mistake by Lia Riley

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  London, April, 1891

  KITTY ADDERLY STRAIGHTENED her back and planted her feet flat and firm against two enormous pink cabbage roses decorating the Osgood’s drawing room rug. She resisted fidgeting with the ribbon along the skirt of her gown and tried summoning a pleasant expression, though the tremor in her cheek probably meant she’d only managed to transfer a restless quiver to the corner of her mouth.

  The gilded timepiece over the mantel had to be broken. Despite the hour it seemed she’d spent perched on the edge of the settee, the clock’s hands insisted only fifteen minutes had passed. Even the vase of sunny daffodils and white narcissus on a table at her elbow failed to inspire any cheer.

  Time did tend to move slowly in the Osgood’s drawing room, especially when Cynthia, this week’s hostess of their regular ladies’ gathering, appeared determined to turn afternoon tea into a tedious skirmish. She’d already insulted one lady’s hairstyle, dismissed another’s taste in music, and implied that a third was such an awful dancer that she should consider avoiding the upcoming ball altogether. All of that in a quarter of an hour. She was efficient, if nothing else.

  “We’re looking forward to your mother’s ball, Kitty. Wait until you see my gown. My dressmaker is a true artist, and there’s never been a mauve like mine, I assure you.” Cynth’s boast had more to do with claiming a position among Kitty’s circle of friends than with fashion or balls. The leader of their group always chose the color of her gown first.

  Any other day, Kitty would put the younger woman in her place, but social ranking, announcing the color of her dress, and being the one to offer the cleverest set down seemed less important with every passing season.

  “Shouldn’t Kitty be the first to choose her gown’s color? Her mother is hosting the ball.” Bess Berwick occupied the other half of the couch and spoke low enough that the rest of the ladies at the tea party might not hear her retort.

  She was Cynthia’s younger cousin and the newest addition to their group, with a figure as round as her cheeks and a soothing softness in her tone. Kitty assessed Miss Berwick and wondered what it would be like to be soft, to allow herself to be meek and gentle. Would it smooth over her sharp edges? Compared to Bess’s curves, Kitty was all angles. She’d been taught to be steely on the inside too. After a childhood of sickness, her father demanded that she grow up strong.

  “What do you know of picking colors, Bess? You’ve chosen a bland white dress for the ball, which no one will even notice.”

  Neither the petulance nor the dismissal in Cynthia’s tone surprised Kitty. Cynth had a terrible talent for preying on the weak, and from the day Bess joined their circle, she’d become the main target of her older cousin’s snipes.

  Yet Miss Berwick refused to play the game. She offered no set downs, flung no insults, and made it a habit to speak as little as possible. Perhaps she simply waited for her moment, watching and learning from the rest of them.

  Kitty knew the power of waiting. She’d waited four seasons while all of her friends rushed into romances and engagements.

  If the girl refused to spar, Kitty would join the fray. “I don’t mind you choosing your gown’s shade first, Cynth. Mauve will suit you. Your complexion always benefits from a bit of color.”

  Except now, of course, when a rosy stain rushed up their hostess’s cheeks.

  “Thank you,” Bess whispered as she lifted her teacup, casting Kitty the quickest of glances.

  The girl had much to learn. None of them thanked each other in such circumstances. Bess’s gratitude was a faux pas. Acknowledging a barb or praising a retort opened the door to honesty, and truth was their nemesis. Truth would force each woman to admit the game they played at social gatherings, exposing their false smiles, backbiting whispers, and the art of cutting others to the quick with a few words.

  “What color have you chosen for the ball, Kitty?” Cynthia bit out.

  Now was her moment. Kitty could upset all of Cynth’s plans. If she chose a rose or pink or any color that might clash with Cynth’s mauve, the young woman would have to relent and chose another gown for the ball. Her father’s title and wealth gave Kitty status in their little group, and her popularity among their circle still exceeded Cynthia’s, despite the younger woman’s attempts to dethrone her.

  Yet Kitty couldn’t rally a cool smirk as she held Cynth’s dark gaze.

  These battles were ridiculous. Frivolous. Petty. Worst of all, they seemed to form the confines of her life. Explorers were out climbing mountains while great thinkers innovated technological marvels. One American lady journalist had even managed to travel around the world in seventy-­two days. Other women, like the members at the Women’s Union meetings Kitty sporadically attended, focused their energies on advancing the cause of women’s voting rights or charitable endeavors.

  Now her main task for the day would be deciding whether to smash the plans of one of her dearest and most false friends. Was this her mountain? Were these trifling battles all she had to look forward to during another social season?

  The airy, flimsy silliness of it all brought no laughter, only a dizzying queasiness that intensified when she thought of doing this again, and again, for the next several months. The next several years. The rest of her life.

  “Not to worry, Cynth. My gown is cream,” Kitty offered, infusing her voice with a reassuring tone she didn’t often employ in this company.

  Cynth frowned and pursed her mouth as if she’d accidentally taken a sip of something sour. “Cream? Isn’t that just a muddier version of white?”

  “My modiste calls the shade ecru and assures me it is all the rage in Paris.”

  Mention of Paris never failed to do the trick, and several ladies nodded approvingly while Cynth sniffed and turned her attention to pouring more tea.

  With the gown nonsense settled, Kitty considered raising a more interesting topic. Something that mattered. Any subject that might turn their thoughts to the world beyond the walls of fashionable drawing rooms and ballrooms.

  One of t
he ladies began describing the dress she’d wear to the dance. Then the others began a round-­robin, each lady enthusing over the cut and details of her ball gown, while the rest joined in with comments of approval or challenge.

  Kitty released the breath she’d been holding on a long sigh, but dizziness blurred the room’s walls whenever she tried to inhale deeply and met the restraint of her corset. She tried again, fighting the confines of laces and stays. If only her emotions were as easily bound as her waist and breasts.

  Poise. Decorum. She was the Marquess of Clayborne’s eldest daughter. She’d be his heir if the laws that decreed only men worthy of inheriting were ever overturned. Crumbling in public was not allowed. Her father’s admonitions were always with her, imparted in youth and repeated so often they’d become tattooed in her mind. Never display weakness. Never cry or lose oneself in sentiment. Never let them best you.

  Today the energy required to appear flawless—­to move with elegance, to smile at the right moment, to fight these silly drawing room battles while being witty and charming and never, ever boring—­had all been sapped by a fearsome row with her father.

  His shouts still echoed in her ears. Angry words spewed past a sneer that twisted his features until she’d barely recognized him.

  She’d been a fool not to anticipate his outburst.

  Four years of rejected suitors had worn down the modicum of patience he possessed, and he’d never had much where Kitty was concerned. He insisted this season she must relent and accept an offer.

  This season she must give up the freedom of being unmarried and place herself under a man’s control. Or, more accurately, another man’s control. Exchanging her father’s disapproval and admonishments for a husband’s sounded as appealing as spending a lifetime of afternoons sparring with Cynthia Osgood.

  He’d called her a disappointment, a cruel daughter, an unnatural woman for her lack of enthusiasm for marriage and children and a settled future.

  She swallowed and sat up tall. Not even her father could overturn the poise she’d worked years to perfect, and she couldn’t let her circle of friends glimpse any sign of weakness. The sweet-­natured few like Bess might offer comfort, but others would love to see her falter and rush to claim her place in their social circle, or attempt to push her out of the group entirely.

  “Are you looking forward to the season, Kitty?” Bess took a bite of scone while waiting for Kitty’s answer.

  “There can’t be much to look forward to when it’s your sixth season.” Cynthia had a talent for infusing every sentence with a sting.

  “It’s actually my fifth season, Cynth. And I look forward to it as I did all the others.” Which was to say, not much at all.

  Dancing could be invigorating, and she enjoyed attending social events to hear the latest gossip and speculate about who would be shackled to whom by the season’s end. But as to the main purpose of the season for every unmarried young woman—­the game of being gazed upon and measured for the role of some fop’s wife—­that prospect held no appeal. Independence called to Kitty more and more every year as she steeled herself for dozens of visits by overeager and utterly unappealing gentlemen.

  “Well, perhaps your fifth season will finally bring you some success.” Cynthia spoke with all the pomposity of a woman who’d “succeeded” in her second season. She’d captured a priggish earl who spent too much time twisting his mustache or patting his ample waistline and far too little time saying anything intelligent or interesting. Their engagement had lasted nearly a year and soon she’d have to commit to the man who held more appeal in prospect than he likely would in reality. Knowing Cynth, she judged him steerable and already plotted ways to manipulate the poor besotted fool for her own gain. Thirty thousand pounds per annum and a title could make almost any man tolerable. She’d become Lady Molstrey, and that’s what mattered most.

  “I can only dream of catching a gentleman as charming as yours.” Kitty couldn’t quite manage a grin, as Cynth always did when delivering one of her barely veiled set downs.

  Miss Berwick choked on her scone, and a few other ladies tittered behind their teacups. Lord Molstrey wasn’t anyone’s notion of charming.

  Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “Yes, well, I doubt you ever will when you chase away every man who offers you a bit of attention.”

  Kitty held Cynthia’s gaze as sparks of challenge and disdain electrified the air between them and the other ladies chattered among themselves.

  She longed to tell Cynth and the rest of them the truth. A loathing for marriage and the prospect of motherhood had less to do with her reticence to accept a proposal than the men who’d proposed. None of them moved her. None of them inspired trust or desire. None of them gave her any reason to hope that a life spent with them would be any different than living in the glare of her father’s judgments.

  Men had been disappointing her since her first season, and she’d been disappointing them in return. Snubbing gentlemen had practically become a skill. She’d turned away countless suitors and refused several offers of marriage.

  “Of course, there’s always Lord Ponsonby,” Cynthia purred before reaching for a neatly trimmed triangle of sandwich.

  Gasps echoed in the high-­ceilinged room and Bess pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle hers.

  Lord Molstrey might be a bit of a farce, but Kitty knew precisely what the rest of them thought of Lord Ponsonby. He’d rout Molstrey in a game of wits any day, but the man was old. Half their fathers were younger than Ponsonby, and yet the earl retained enough energy to haunt the London season, his eagerness to find a young bride swamping the air around him like a miasma. He’d served with Kitty’s father in the army, and she had long been his favored candidate to serve as broodmare. He’d all but bribed her father for the honor, but Kitty refused him. Several times. But he was as persistent as a weed, springing up at this ball or that social event when she least expected him.

  “Unlike some young women”—­Kitty scanned her gaze from face to face before turning to stare at Cynthia Osgood—­“I am not eager to marry. Why should I give up my freedom and choices to a man?”

  She thought of her sisters, both of whom longed for marriage and motherhood. Why was she different? She’d always imagined having a child one day, but it was impossible to envision being a wife, especially if she found herself married to a man like her father—­impossible to please and determined to mold her to his liking.

  “There are some worthy gentleman, surely.” Miss Lissman, who was usually content to let her older sister do the speaking at their gatherings, frowned at her declaration, as if she didn’t quite believe it either. “Our cousin married last summer and seems quite blissfully happy,” she added as further evidence of her dubious pronouncement.

  “But her husband is a bit of a saint, you must admit. How many of us will snare one of those?” The elder Lissman sister spoke matter-­of-­factly, but the younger seemed to take the words as chastisement and said nothing more.

  “A saint sounds terribly daunting. I think I’d prefer a sinner.” Bess’s soft voice sometimes went unnoticed during a particularly lively discussion, but in the quiet of the room, her words fell like a solemn decree. Cynthia wore a disapproving scowl but the rest of them lifted hands to cover grins or outright smiles. Kitty raised her teacup in a symbolic toast. The girl had the right of it.

  After striving to live up to her father’s expectations and forever falling short, the notion of a spending the rest of her life with a saintly man turned her stomach. If she did capitulate to the pressure to marry, it would be to a flawed man. Or, at the very least, one who could love her beyond her own flaws.

  She heard laughter echoing in the silence and realized it was her own. What a notion. A man who would love a woman for her flaws. Each woman in the room had been taught to eradicate their flaws, or at least give the appearance they had. Her own mother bought tonics to cover blem
ishes, salves to soften skin, unctions to make one’s hair glossy, and powder to whiten her teeth. And those only redressed physical flaws. What of the rest? Was there a miracle cure to improve one’s inner flaws, to turn unkind thoughts sunny, to fill the empty spaces in a heart and light up dark corners of doubt? If she could bottle that tonic and sell it, she’d never need any man’s income to sustain her.

  As their weekly teatime drew to a close, Bess moved to occupy the empty spot on the settee next to Kitty.

  “Are you all right, Kitty? You seem a bit unsettled.”

  “I’m well, Bess. Thank you.”

  The girl’s query wasn’t an accusation or a warning that her weakness would be used against her. Bess Berwick didn’t seem to possess that sort of malice.

  “You’re too sweet.”

  And she was. Sweet and naive and kind without expecting anything in return. She feared for anyone so gentle. In this company it was better to be hard, to wear one’s armor, as well as perfecting one’s noncommittal grin. If Bess ever challenged someone like Cynthia, she’d be cut down before she ever saw the scythe.

  “I don’t disagree with your notion of independence.” Even when espousing women’s independence, Bess spoke softly. “But what of love?” She waited a beat and turned to watch Cynthia leave the room to see the Lissman sisters off.

  When Bess turned back, her delicate features tensed as she whispered, “What of passion?”

  Yes, what of passion? Kitty had been waiting to feel it for four seasons. There’d been moments of excitement—­the thrill of catching a handsome man’s gaze, the zing of physical attraction when a gentleman took her in his arms before a waltz, and even the heady pleasure of conversing with a clever man interested in topics beyond sports and gentlemanly wagers.