by Lauren Smith
He doesn’t need his eyes to uncover her true beauty.
The League of Rogues, Book 3
Cedric, Viscount Sheridan, is cursed. Once the ton’s golden boy, the loss of his sight has left him a reclusive shell of man. His days of womanizing, horse racing and pistol shooting lost forever.
Offered the chance to recapture a small part of his old life, he can’t refuse—even if it means accepting the shocking proposal of the infamous ice maiden, Anne Chessley.
Still reeling from her father’s death, Anne’s deepest wish is to avoid the hordes of fortune hunters who will soon be beating down her door. Proposing marriage to Cedric is an act of desperation, his unexpected acceptance a strange and wonderful dream.
His only stipulation: she must respond passionately and wantonly in his bed. Her agreement barely crosses her lips before he begins a sensual assault on the icy walls bitter secrets have built around her heart.
Yet even as they catch a glimpse of true happiness, betrayal is poised to sweep them away on opposing tides of danger.
Warning: Contains an outwardly aloof heroine with a secretly tender heart, a once-notorious rake who isn’t quite as rusty at seduction as he feared, and a band of rogues who join together to make sure happily-ever-afters do come true.
Her Wicked Proposal
Lauren Smith
Dedication
For Meg, my beloved childhood dog who went blind in the prime of her life. You taught me true strength comes from surviving through adversity and how to count your steps when climbing stairs. You are deeply missed.
League Rule 5
A man’s best lover is a spirited lady, but one should treat spirited ladies the way one would a wild horse, with a firm hold and gentle voice.
Excerpt from The Quizzing Glass Gazette, April 21, 1821, The Lady Society Column:
Lady Society is in mourning. The dangerous rakehell Viscount Sheridan has been rendered blind. She cannot help but miss those dark brown eyes that scorched more than one innocent young lady’s heart as he watched them from the shadows of a ballroom. Oh, my dear Viscount Sheridan, won’t you come out into society again? Lady Society is issuing you a challenge. Do not hide from her, or else she will unearth those secrets you hold most dear.
Perchance there is a lady who might yet tempt your sightless eyes and convince you to live again. Would you not like a woman once more to warm your bed? A woman to tame your wicked heart?
Chapter One
London, April 1821
Using his silver lion’s head cane, Cedric, Viscount Sheridan, rapped it harshly against the cobblestones of the winding path in his London townhouse garden as he tried to navigate his way to the fountain. All around him the world was a winter gray. Yet his other senses assured him it was spring. Sunlight warmed his face and arms where he’d rolled up his sleeves. A flower-scented breeze tickled his nose and tousled his hair. Cedric took seven measured steps, counting them in his head.
Seven steps to the center of the garden, then five steps to… He caught the tip of his boot on a raised stone, stumbled and collided with the ground. He stifled a cry as stones bit into his palms and the bones of his knees cracked.
Panting, every muscle tensed, he lay on the ground for a long moment, fighting off the waves of shame and the childish urge to whimper with the pain. His eyesight hadn’t been the only thing he’d lost. It seemed sense and balance had abandoned him as well.
Finally he picked himself up, patted the ground around himself to find his cane and rose unsteadily to his feet. He was a grown man of two and thirty—he could and would bear this pain as any well-bred gentleman was expected to.
It was a small mercy none of his servants were around to witness this moment of weakness.
Once more. Five steps to the fountain, he reminded himself, and taking care to lift his feet higher, he avoided any more raised stones. He should know this path by now, as he had walked it a hundred times. Yet he still couldn’t see it as clearly in his head as he knew he should. When the tip of his cane rapped lightly on the stone fountain’s base, he bent over and reached out to find the ledge and, with a great sigh of relief, sat down.
Every hour of every day, from the moment he rose for the day until he retired to bed, he lived in constant fear of toppling precious family heirlooms, embarrassing himself in front of his friends or family, or worse, causing further damage to his body. It was a cruel twist of fate to have once been a virile man afraid of nothing, and reduced to someone who woke each morning only to remember he was forever trapped in darkness.
Too often in the last few weeks, he’d sat at his desk, head buried in his hands, the heels of his palms pressed deep into his eyes as he tried to bring back the vision he desperately needed.
His despair was too strong, and he couldn’t summon the will to care.
Thank God for this garden. Peace, quiet, no one to see him in this state. Moments like this were a blessing. There were no social callers, no awkward visits from people who didn’t understand the trials of being blind. Out in his garden, he could exist without worries, without anxiety. The fresh air, warm sun and the sounds of birds and insects made him feel alive again, as much as a broken man could. The temptation to remain outside forever was a strong one, but his hands burned from being scraped raw and he’d have to come inside to sleep and eat.
A bee hummed somewhere to his right, probably skimming the budding flowers. The twitter of birds in a nearby tree teased his ears, filling the silence with a delicate trill that was distinct and clear. He could make out every note, each singular melody and the changes in tempo and pitch as the birds talked to one another.
No more could he focus on the tiny details of sight, like the faces of his sisters and his friends as they laughed and talked, or the way wind would stir the trees into rippling waves of emerald in the summer, or the way a woman’s mouth turned that perfect shade of red when kissed by a lover. Sounds, scents and touch were his only companions now. He clung to the sound of Audrey’s delicate giggles, and the softness of Horatia’s hand when she held his while guiding him around.
The light steps of a footman on gravel disturbed him from his thoughts. The sure-footed steps had to be Benjamin Abbot, one of the older footmen. He’d learned so much about his servants in the last few months. The maids by their voices and the sounds of their skirts, the footmen by their heavier steps. Each servant was unique. It was one of the things he’d learned to value most after losing his sight. He’d always had a good relationship with his servants before, but now he relied on them more than ever.
“There is a young lady here to see you, my lord.”
“Oh?” Cedric didn’t bother looking in Benjamin’s direction. There seemed little point in looking at a person if one could not see them. “Did this lady give you a name?” he asked the footman.
“Miss Chessley. Baron Chessley’s daughter,” the footman replied.
Cedric drew in a sharp breath.
Anne is here? Why?
He’d been with many women over the years, seducing his way from one bed to the next. But not with Anne Chessley. She was different. She’d intrigued him, resisted him, and challenged him. A veritable ice maiden in her ivory tower, yet each time he caught her eye, for a brief second heat would flare, so bright and hot it made him hungry for her. She was a challenge, and he’d always been one for a good challenge.
Last year he’d courted her, but she hadn’t let him near enough for even one kiss. He’d spent a fortune on sending lavish bouquets and had purchased opera box seats fac
ing her father’s box in order to watch her enjoy the music from across the theater. And yet she had remained unattainable. Always polite, but never truly open. After months of trying, Cedric had been forced to admit defeat. She would never surrender to him or his attempts at seduction.
And then he’d lost his sight. Any thought of marriage now was inconceivable. While his fortune was still a draw for some eligible ladies, he could no longer stomach the macabre dance of courtship. Not when all he heard were the rude whispers of the ladies behind their fans about his condition. He wanted no such revulsion or pity from his future wife.
Anne would certainly pity him, or be discomforted by his newfound clumsiness. She was too cold-hearted to care whether he could make it five feet without hurting himself or damaging something around him. He couldn’t fathom what she’d be doing here of all places, not when she’d spent so much time avoiding him. Furthermore, she was not one for social calls and wouldn’t dare pay one to him. Add to that the news he’d recently heard regarding her, and he couldn’t imagine why she was here.
Last week when his friend Lucien and his sister Horatia had come by for their weekly visit, Cedric had learned that Baron Chessley, Anne’s father, had died in his sleep. Anne was now a wealthy heiress and had no need of anyone, let alone Cedric. Which brought him back to that infernal question—Why had she come?
Was she so ravaged by the grief of losing her only living relative that she was coming to him for solace? He doubted it. What could he offer a woman like her? He was half a man, broken, damaged. A bloody fool.
He forced his face into a businesslike façade. He would treat her the same way he treated all the young ladies he came across since he’d lost his sight, with polite distance. His pride demanded he maintain the upper hand, especially with Anne. She must never know that he still desired her, still craved her with a madness that escaped logic.
Visions of her gray eyes played tricks on his mind. To remember her so vividly, the pale pink lips that curved in a smile only when she dropped her guard, and the way her nose crinkled when she disagreed with him. His chest constricted at the memories of their often passionate discussions on horses, their shared interest. It was the only way he’d ever gotten her to respond to him, by drawing her out through her strong opinions. The icy little hellion loved to argue, and he’d taken great delight in provoking her to blushes.
Damn. I’ve become a sentimental fool.
The footman coughed politely, reminding Cedric he was waiting.
“Please bring her to me,” he instructed.
It was too much of a waste of time to find his way back inside now. Far easier to have her brought to him in the gardens instead. The weather was fine, and he knew Anne well enough to know that she enjoyed the outdoors.
The footman’s steps retreated, and a minute later Cedric picked up the sound of a lady’s booted steps on the garden path. He heard her gasp when she came close enough to see him.
“My lord! You’re bleeding!” Anne rushed over. Her scent hit him, an alluring scent of orchids that was uniquely hers. He sensed the warmth of her hands close to his own as she joined him at the fountain. She clasped his palms and gently touched his stinging skin. He’d become so used to the cuts and scrapes that he barely noticed them anymore.
She clasped his palms and gently touched his stinging hands. He repressed a shiver. Without sight, all he had left to make sense of the world were touch, taste and smell. Anne’s touch lit a hint of fire beneath his skin.
“Bleeding?” he asked dumbly, too wrapped up with the sensation of silk skirts brushing his shins. His hurt hands long forgotten. Excitement burned in his veins, and that old urge to seduce rose to the surface. He couldn’t recall a time when she’d been this close to him of her own accord.
“Yes, my lord. There are bits of gravel in your palms. Did you…” She hesitated to continue.
His need for her withered at the pity in her tone. “Did I fall? Yes,” he answered curtly. He’d never needed pity, and he didn’t want it now, certainly not from her. He puffed out his chest and scowled in her direction. An unsettling silence filled the air between them. Anne always had the power to put him on edge, make every muscle coil and tense. What expression was she wearing on that face of hers? Were those delicate brows he remembered arching above her lovely eyes with surprise, or set in a frown? Damnation, he wished he could see her.
“Would you let me help you?” Anne asked quietly.
“How?” Skepticism filled Cedric’s tone.
Rather than reply she tugged her gloves off and grasped his hands, putting them into the cold, crisp water of the fountain, and her fingers gently rubbed and scrubbed at his stinging palms. Then she brought his hands back up.
“Do you have a handkerchief?” she asked.
“In my breast pocket,” he said. He felt her hand delve into the pocket of his vest and retrieve it. The simple action was strangely erotic and sent his pulse fluttering. He was always the one to slide a hand under a lady’s bodice, or skirt. It was quite a different experience to have a lady’s hand moving under his clothes. He could feel the warmth of her skin close to his chest. With an inward grin, he relished the sensation of her soft hands invading his clothes.
When she found his handkerchief, she patted his hands dry and then held his palms up. Her warm breath glided over his skin in a soft pattern as she blew gently on his cuts to dry them.
“I don’t think they will bleed further. You must take care not to do anything rough to them for a few days so you won’t excite the cuts again.”
Her scolding tone caught him off guard and shattered the warm bubble of desire around him. “Thank you, ma’am,” he replied stiffly, more from shock than anything. “Pardon my bluntness, but why have you come?” The burning question why still plagued him.
Anne was silent for a long while before speaking. When she did, her hands pulled away from his, severing their contact.
“I am sure you’ve heard about my father.”
“I have,” Cedric said softly. “He was a good man, and I do not say that about most men of my acquaintance. You have my deepest sympathies and condolences.”
Pain lanced through him, sharp and sudden behind his ribs. His own parents’ coffins being lowered into twin graves. His two little sisters clutching his arms on either side, their cherubic faces stained with tears. Those were memories he did not want, memories he fought every day to keep buried.
“Thank you.” Her voice was steady, but he knew how strong Anne was and it made him proud of her. At the same time, he wanted to draw her close and whisper soft, sweet things in her ear, to comfort her.
That shocked him. Since when was he the sort of man to comfort? He was a rakehell, a seducer and rogue of the worst sort. Not one who cuddled a woman to his body.
“It is actually his death which has brought me to you.”
“Oh? I can’t imagine how…”
“If you forgive me for my bluntness, my lord, the truth of the matter is that I need to marry. My father’s death has left me wealthy and unfortunately more of a target for the fortune hunters of the ton than I would have liked.”
He didn’t miss the tinge of desperation in her voice. As long as he’d known her, she’d always shied from the public eye, and the burden of being an heiress must have been a great one.
“And what has this to do with me?” Cedric asked. Surely she didn’t think…it was too much to hope that she would ask him to court her again.
“I need a husband, and most of the eligible men seeking a bride are not what I would ever consider to be suitable matches. I came here…hoping that perhaps…” Her hands grasped his, and the action startled him, but he kept calm and gently held on to her.
What did she hope? His chest tightened. “Speak your mind, Miss Chessley,” Cedric demanded, perhaps a little too strongly. Her grip on his hands loosened, and his hands dropped int
o his lap.
“Perhaps this was a mistake. I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Anne muttered apologetically. He heard her rise to leave.
Cedric stood with her and reached blindly in her direction, hoping to catch her wrist to halt her. Instead his hand curled around the flare of a womanly full hip. Rather than release her, he dug his fingers in, just hard enough to halt her escape. A startled gasp came from the sudden contact.
“Tell me what you came to say, please,” he half-pleaded, not wanting her to go.
He’d spent so much time alone of late, which he’d thought he preferred given his condition. But Anne’s company was welcome. It reminded him of better times, yet it left no sting of his lost sight. Rather it lit a fire in his blood, reminding him of the way he used to tease her and how she’d resisted him with her delightful verbal sparring. He restrained himself from a grin when she did not try to escape his hold.
“I came to ask you if you would consider marriage…to me.” The last two words were a breathless whisper so faint, he wondered if he’d imagined them.
“You want to marry me?”
He could have Anne at last! Yet he’d sworn to himself that marriage wasn’t possible, that any woman who tied herself to him would never be happy with a damaged shell of a man. How could Anne think he would be a good choice? If she thought she could be his wife in name only, she was mistaken.
If he and Anne married, he would get her beneath him in a bed and find the heaven he knew awaited him there. If marriage was the only avenue in which he could find paradise, then he would have the banns read immediately. Still, if he knew Anne, which he did, there had to be a catch.
“Yes. Well…‘want’ is perhaps a strong word. But I would marry you if you asked me.”
“Why me?” If she had her pick of fortune hunters and other young bucks, why would she settle for a blind, pathetic fool? It made little sense.
“Of all the men I’ve met, you have remained interested in me and have no desire to pursue me for my fortune since it is well known yours is far greater than mine. I am under no illusion of the true reason for your interest. My father’s stallions would become yours, of course, should we marry. You would be free to breed your own mares with them. I thought perhaps that might entice you. I would be willing to work with you on the breeding, since it is a shared interest. I also believe we could grow to like each other well enough to get along. You have my father’s approval as well as Emily’s, and that assures me of your character.”
