“I suppose in any event I must invite him to dine.” Emily sent the maid an acid look. “You can cook him an oh-so-beautiful meal.”
“Ah, perfeito! With greatest glee will I serve him, mistress. And you—wear something to show off the eyes, in violeta.” She clapped her hands, looking absurdly pleased. “He is beautiful and rich, no?”
“Francesca…”
“Bah, I will be silent no longer. You are young, querida. Too many years you have been without a man. If this great lord, one of your own people, desires you, I say ’tis a gift.”
“Francesca, don’t!”
“You know I adored the comandante, your husband, may he rest with the blessed saints!” With a swift gesture she crossed herself. “But he is dead, mistress, morto! You must go on.”
Emily put her hands to her eyes, too tired to stem the tears. The passage of years seemed to have hardly dulled the edge of anguish.
“I know,” she whispered. “Do you think I want to linger in a past that holds only pain? I want to go on, truly I do! But how?”
Francesca wisely remained silent. After lighting the lamp, she patted Emily’s shoulder and walked out.
Emily drew blank paper from her drawer and stared down at it, soft amber in the pool of lamplight. Ignoring the lump that lodged in her chest, she reached for her pen and scrawled an invitation.
Over dinner she would offer Lord Cheverley her grateful thanks. And then, while he sipped his brandy, she could delicately hint…
Her imagination failed her and a tide of heat flooded her cheeks. Just how did a lady go about “hinting” so brazen and immodest a proposal? One could not just bluntly say, “My lord, you have expended sums on my behalf that I cannot repay. However, if you are interested, I could warm your bed until such time as you consider the debt canceled.” No, ’twas impossible!
Merely considering how to word such a proposition made her head ache and tied her stomach in knots.
But mayhap she misjudged him. Perhaps he would prefer cash, however slowly repaid. After all, so rich, handsome and highly titled a gentleman undoubtedly already possessed a mistress, doubtless one more beautiful and skilled than she.
The fire she remembered in his eyes didn’t lend much substance to that wistful hope. Since when had powerful gentlemen felt any compulsion to limit themselves to one woman at a time?
She’d worry about that later. With a deep breath, before her nerve failed, she sealed the note and propped it on the desk for Francesca to deliver.
In the tiny kitchen behind her she could hear the trickle of water and clinking of pots as the maid prepared their frugal dinner. Twisting her hands together in her lap, Emily stared sightlessly into the darkened salesroom. She should go in to dine. But at the thought of what she must do if Lord Cheverley refused cash repayment, her normal appetite vanished.
Chapter Three
His hands holding the ends of the untied neckcloth, Evan gazed again at the note propped on his dresser. “Lord Cheverley, I would be most pleased if you would honor me with your presence at dinner this evening at eight of the clock…Mrs. Emily Spenser,” he repeated to himself, though he had no need to look at the paper to recall the words.
Closing his eyes as he worked the knots, he could see her again as she’d looked that afternoon in the tiny garden behind her shop: thick, glossy black hair pinned in simple curls atop her head, a plain lavender gown that emphasized her elegant figure, the long fingers as fine as the bone china teacup she held.
In less than an hour he would present himself. A whirlpool of desire, anticipation and excitement spiraled in his gut at the thought. The maid would admit him and Madame would receive him, probably in some upstairs room.
Would she be wearing that proper lavender gown, or a shimmering sweep of satin night rail? At the image, his breath caught, his heart pounded and his fingers clutched at the linen cloth.
Get hold, he told himself, taking a deep, calming breath. She asked you to dine merely. Probably she just wishes to thank you, quite properly, for your kind intervention.
Ah, but if she intends more… After all, a virtuous middle-class lady didn’t ask a man to dine alone with her. And a widow, if discreet, might allow herself liberties forbidden a wife or unmarried girl.
How would he get through dinner without touching her? If she made him no offer, how could he compel himself to leave without taking her?
He looked down at his clenched fists and realized he’d just ruined another neckcloth. With an oath, he pulled off the crumpled linen and tossed it on the heap with the other failures. Already he’d dismissed his valet, insolent lad, who’d laughed after he’d hopelessly wrinkled his fifth attempt. If the fellow hadn’t been with him since Oxford, he’d have boxed the man’s ears.
Lord, he thought in disgust, Brent was right, he was behaving more like a green sapskull enamored of his first wench than a seasoned man of eight and twenty. He’d enjoyed the favors of a number of women, appreciated their company and paid cheerfully for services rendered. Even with his mistresses, he’d dallied in their beds and forgotten them the moment he’d left. Why should this be different?
With mercurial speed, his irritation faded and he grinned. Because I feel like the greenest sapskull, for the first time truly enamored of a woman. He’d been distracted and out of sorts ever since her note arrived, consumed by a fierce desire to be with her again. Ah, what a woman!
In just a short while he would see her once more. Somehow, he would restrain himself, concentrate on exerting all the charm a bevy of ladies had previously found irresistible. And then, this very night, she might be his….
If he ever got his bloody neckcloth tied. With a growl, he took another cloth from the stack and set to work.
“Excellent dinner,” Lord Cheverley complimented Francesca as she poured his coffee.
“Obrigado, my lord.”
“Have you set out the port?” Emily asked. At the maid’s nod, she continued, “You may go, then. Thank you, Francesca. My lord, if you please?”
With a smile, she indicated a small settee poised beside a woven floral carpet that adjoined the dining area. Lord Cheverley carried his cup and placed it on the side table. She followed him and took the adjacent armchair.
So far, so good, she thought, her nerves on edge but under control. Dinner had been excellent, one of Francesca’s best, and conversation had flowed with no awkward pauses.
Over the meal she’d drawn out her noble guest about his family and interests. He’d remained in town through the winter, he informed her, because of his work for the Army Department, something to do with the always-tangled supply routes for Wellington’s forces. She learned he was the sole protector of a mother and a younger sister soon to make her come-out, that he had estates in three different counties, that he loved riding and hated peas.
“You’ve discovered all my secrets,” he remarked, taking a sip of the strong brew, “and yet I know almost nothing of you. Your late husband was with Wellington, I understand?”
Careful, her inner voice warned. “Yes. He fought in almost every peninsular battle.”
“And you followed the drum?”
“Yes.”
“You must have been very young when you married.”
That brought a smile. “Indeed. I was but sixteen.”
“Sixteen! I’m astonished your family permitted you to marry and hie off to the Peninsula at such a tender age.”
Her smile faded. “Neither family approved the match. We eloped. After our scandalous runaway marriage, my father cut me off completely, so I had no choice but to follow the drum. Though never did I regret it, I assure you! I cherished every moment with—” Biting her tongue, she stopped herself before she made any rash disclosures. “More coffee, my lord? Or can I pour you some port?”
“Port, if you please.”
She took a glass from the tray and poured the deep cherry liquid. “What sort of work do you do at Horse Guards, my lord? Or are you not permitted to discuss it
?”
He smiled when she handed him the glass, as if amused at her diversionary attempt. “I don’t discuss it. Though my silence has more to do with avoiding boring you to death than any real need for secrecy.” He took a sip. “Did your father never forgive you?”
“No. He’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter.”
“And your husband’s family?”
She suppressed the urge to return a sharp answer. Better to respond pleasantly than reproach his curiosity or attempt to evade, she knew. “My husband’s father was just as autocratic as mine. His plans for his youngest son did not include soldiering in the Peninsula with a child-bride, especially one in disgrace who brought him not a groat of dowry. Even when I contacted him that his son lay d-dying—” she choked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice “—he did not relent. Where he is, and what he is doing now, I neither know nor wish to know.”
She realized she was gripping her cup so tightly the fragile handle was likely to break, and she loosened her hold. A demand that she give up her son had been her father-in-law’s only reply to her frantic message, but his Inquisitive Lordship didn’t need to know that. The less he knew of her, the less he might divulge in careless gossip at his club.
Cheverley was gazing at her thoughtfully. “Have you been in London long? I wonder I’ve not met you before.”
“I returned to England only a few months ago.”
“But—that means you remained abroad for years after your husband’s death! How did you manage?”
“When he was wounded I took him to the closest town, a small Portuguese village. He’d taken a ball in the lung and there was no doctor to remove it. He lingered for a time before…Well, I had done some painting, and after…it was over, the local lord, Don Alvero, commissioned me to do a portrait. It pleased him, and he was kind enough to recommend me to other nobles. Eventually I amassed sufficient funds to return to England and open my shop.”
“Alone, unprotected, a new widow in a war-torn country?” Cheverley shook his head in wonderment. “Madame, I’m appalled! ’Twas exceeding dangerous, was it not?”
She smiled at the dismay on his face. “On, no! The villagers were wonderful to us. As the widow of an English hero who died fighting the French invaders, I was everywhere treated with the utmost respect. And I wasn’t alone. Francesca has been with me since I arrived as a bride.”
“You are the most courageous woman I’ve ever met,” he said flatly, awe and respect in his voice. “The English lady who stayed behind to nurse her dying husband. I expect you became nearly a legend.”
She shrugged uncomfortably. “Hardly that.”
“A legend,” he repeated softly. “And no wonder. I have trouble myself believing you’re real.” Slowly, as if he couldn’t help himself, he reached a hand toward her. “You are so very beautiful.”
She forced herself not to flinch from the warmth of his gloveless fingers when they touched her cheek. “Be assured I am quite real,” she replied somewhat unsteadily. “And safe, thanks to you.”
She thought for a moment he might kiss her, and swallowing hard, closed her eyes. But he removed his hand, and relieved, she looked back at him.
His fingers were trembling, as if he were holding himself under rigid control. “And so you shall remain. I spoke with Mr. Manners late this afternoon, and he’s already amassed quite a dossier on the, ah, enterprising Mr. Harding. Indeed, so full was his account of that gentleman’s activities that I’m told the man was moved to book passage on a ship leaving next week for the Americas.”
Before she could thank him yet again, he waved her to silence. “His master is under scrutiny as well. Even if Mr. Harrington is indeed involved, I doubt he’d be foolish enough now to find another tool to implement his illegal designs. Though we plan to continue the surveillance another few weeks, to be sure all danger is past, I think you may feel safe in truth.”
“I cannot adequately express my thanks for all your efforts. Indeed, your consideration quite overwhelms me! You must allow me to reimburse your expenses. I could not cover them all immediately, of course, but—”
“Out of the question!” He held up both hands, as if warding off the suggestion. “Dear lady, under no circumstances whatsoever could I take your money. Knowing you are safe is reward enough.”
He would not take her money. As the full implications of those words sank into consciousness, Emily barely heard the rest. Could she not leave it at that? Oh, how the thought tempted! Mayhap he’d never press for repayment. Mayhap he’d smile, and leave, and ’twould be the end of it.
Mayhap he’d be back next month or next year with a proposition she was in no position to refuse.
No, she mustn’t risk it. Conjuring up the image of her son’s face, she took a deep breath. Her heartbeat accelerated and she felt light-headed.
You can do this. You will do whatever you must to keep Drew.
Tentatively she put her hand on the Earl’s arm. She felt his muscles tense, heard his rush of indrawn breath even as she spoke, her voice near a whisper. “To express my gratitude in any way that pleases you would be my greatest honor.”
She looked up into his eyes, praying he understood, that she would not have to utter words any more explicit. Her heart thudded in her chest and a flush of shame and anxiety heated her cheeks.
His eyes searched hers. She forced a smile, though her lips trembled.
He placed his hand over hers and gripped it tightly. “There is no compulsion.” His eyes glowing brighter, he made a move with his other arm as if to embrace her, then dropped it back to his side. “I don’t wish you to think—”
“I don’t. I know you would never force me.”
Though he retained her hand, he sat back a little, his eyes dimming as if affronted. “Of course not!” He gave her a twisted smile. “You cannot help but know it is my fondest hope to establish a more…intimate connection, but I would have you do so from desire, not out of—gratitude.” He almost spat out the word.
Though the statement nearly choked her, she made herself utter the lie. “’Twould be my fondest hope as well.”
His body tensed again, his gaze so heated she felt she must go up in flames. “Are you sure?”
Unable to voice another affirmation, she merely nodded.
It was enough. He seized both hands and brought them to his lips, kissing them fervently. “If you truly wish it, you make me the happiest man in England.”
So the die was cast. She felt detached, as if observing the scene from a vast distance. What should she do now? She couldn’t bear the thought of coolly choosing a date and time for the assignation. No, better it begin tonight, lest she be tempted to renege on the bargain.
Gently she disengaged her fingers. “Let me pour you another port.” She was proud that her voice wobbled only a little. “Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment?”
Evan watched her as, with a sensuous sway of hip, she disappeared through the doorway across the hall from the little parlor. He moved the glass to his lips with shaking hands, then set it back down.
No, best not drink more of that mind-dulling liquid. He was already too close to losing control. When she’d touched him, it had taken every bit of restraint he could muster to avoid sweeping her into his arms.
But she’d just invited him to do so, hadn’t she? Normally he’d know just how to proceed, but now…With his body on fire and every nerve screaming at her closeness, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t misinterpreting her response, was only imagining she shared some part of the enormous desire that consumed him.
After all, if her story could be believed, and he had no reason to doubt it, she’d been a virgin bride and a faithful wife. Despite what must have been severe pressure to do otherwise, she seemed to have remained chaste even after her husband’s death. Certainly her rejection of the lures cast out by St. Clair and his set confirmed that assessment.
How she must have loved her soldier-husband, to leave what had obviously been a privileged hom
e and follow him to the privations and dangers of war. Evan felt a swift, irrational flare of jealousy.
Well, she’d not rebuffed him. He’d given her every opportunity, reiterated his insistence that she owed him no additional thanks, but when he’d boldly admitted his desire, she’d avowed her own. What could be plainer than that?
He remembered the darting thrill yesterday when he’d touched her lip. He’d felt it in every nerve, and she’d felt it, too—he’d seen the shocked recognition in her eyes immediately after. Perhaps attraction didn’t burn in her as fiercely as in him, but she was hardly indifferent.
Mayhap, having been years without a husband and lover, she was as ready as he.
Well, she was unlikely to be that ready, he conceded. But she was drawn to him, he was certain of it, and he could build on that.
He would build upon it, court her until she welcomed him with anticipation as fervent as his own. Never, he vowed, had any woman been wooed as persistently, passionately and persuasively as he intended to woo Emily Spenser.
But to do so, he must finish his port and depart before her intoxicating closeness destroyed what little was left of his control. Before he did something rash.
He didn’t want this to be rash or hurried. He wanted their time together to be like her—perfection.
The door across the hall opened and Emily emerged. His mouth went dry and the glass slipped from his fingers. Smiling, she walked toward him clad only in a night rail.
’Twas not the flannel garment of a prim, virtuous middle-class matron. Oh no, the most skilled of courtesans would have delighted in how this gown of slithering, shining emerald silk swept from her shoulders over her full breasts to her narrow waist and past rounded hips to whisper about her thighs and calves as she walked. It clung to the taunting outline of pebbled nipples, the round of belly, the tempting fistful of curls at the junction of her thighs.
A Scandalous Proposal Page 4
