A Scandalous Proposal

by Julia Justiss

  How the smells of sun-baked earth and herbs brought it back—the sharp-cut scenery of rock and scrub, narrow gullies and steep ravines. The simple, whitewashed dwellings clinging to hillsides and gazing at the distant azure sea. How she’d loved to set up her easel on the wide balcony and work furiously to capture the changing light on those hills, that glimmer of ocean.

  She’d painted Andrew, too, of course, and Rob, his rascal of a brother and fellow soldier, and all their comrades. Canvases of men in uniform relaxing on the balcony, dining about her table or playing an impromptu game of cricket on the village square had begun to crowd her baggage, for when the troops were billeted in towns between engagements, the quarters of Lieutenant Waring-Black and his beautiful bride became a sort of junior officer’s mess. Many an evening had they laughed and played at cards, while Boyd or Matthew sang to Francesca’s guitar.

  Melancholy filled Emily’s chest along with breaths of lavender-spiced air. She loved this little garden, a tangible reminder of the happy sunlit days with Andrew. When accounts did not total, or a tradesman bickered, or some well-born lady puffed up with her own consequence belittled her, Emily would somehow find herself sitting on the bench below. She’d run her fingers along the stiff gray wands and inhale the herb’s sharp, cleansing scent. Whenever something troubled her.

  Like the thought of the tall, well-formed man returning tonight. Her lover.

  Her cheeks burned, her body heated and the thought escaped before she could check it: I’m sorry.

  Don’t be an idiot, she told herself crossly. You’ve chosen your course. There’s nothing to do but go on and make the best of it. Only children and cowards whine and regret.

  She was too honest to deny Cheverley’s lovemaking brought her intense—and sorely missed—pleasure. Nor could she deny the idea of receiving his caresses again, soon, sent a spiral of warmth to her very core.

  ’Twas just her pride that ached, and old memories she should have long since laid to rest. She should view the matter pragmatically, as Francesca suggested.

  A businesslike arrangement without long-term or legal complications might suit her very well. And if his lordship’s ardor lasted until she managed to build her income to such a level of security that she would never again be forced into this position, it would, as Francesca said, be all to the good.

  And just what does that make you? a little voice in her head whispered. She turned away from the garden, trying to shut out the ugly word that burned, unspoken, in her ears.

  After leaving Emily in the lightening dawn, Evan sought his bed. Too keyed up to sleep, though, he soon gave up the attempt. From the exasperated look his mama gave him when he left the breakfast chamber two plates of eggs, ham and sausages and three steaming cups of tea later, he must have missed half her conversation.

  Deciding in his present fog of abstraction he would likely run his high-perch phaeton into a post or allow the highbred cattle to bolt, he waved away his groom and elected to walk to his Horse Guards office.

  But during the stroll, instead of reviewing details of Wellington’s supply routes, his mind kept slipping back to the sounds and images of last night. The low velvet timbre of her voice. The curve of her little finger as she held her teacup. Her eyes, sometimes deep plum, sometimes the lighter veined lavender of a woodland flower.

  Flowers. He halted, electrified. To the woman beautiful as a perfect, fragrant violet he would send every blossom he could find. Grinning, he hailed a hackney and instructed the jarvey to carry him to the closest florist.

  Two hours and a good deal of blunt later, he had dispatched enough blooms, he calculated as he mounted the stairs to his office, to cover her desk and most of the dining table. Mayhap she could even strew some petals on the sheets.

  An immediate wave of heat assailed him. No, he dare not start thinking of that. Besides, he wanted this evening to proceed differently. He’d promised himself to court and woo her, then had taken her like a street-corner strumpet. The very thought of it galled him anew. He would have been well-served if she’d kicked him down the stairs afterward and bolted the door.

  Instead, she’d wept.

  His stomach twisted and his chest tightened. Ah, sweetheart, he vowed, never again will I make you weep.

  With a start he realized he now stood before the door to his office. Gathering his disjointed thoughts, he entered, extracted a supply ledger from the stack on his desk and sat down to review it.

  He was gazing out the window, thinking of violets and amethysts rather than account totals, when his door opened and Geoffrey Randall, his college mate and assistant, strolled in.

  “’Morning, Ev. Have you reviewed the ledgers yet?”

  Evan glanced at the page he’d smoothed open at least half an hour ago, unable to recall a single total. “Not quite,” he mumbled.

  “When you finish, could you check this report for powder and shot? I’ve added the columns three times, but the figures don’t make sense.” Frowning, Randall tapped the paper he held.

  Ah, figures. With a private smile Evan called to mind one particular willowy, well-rounded form.

  “Something doesn’t seem right,” Randall was continuing. “I’d appreciate your looking at it. If you would, Ev. Ev?”

  His drifting attention recalled, Evan focused on the secretary. “Y-yes. You were saying?”

  His assistant eyed him with some concern. “Seem a tad done-up this morning, old friend. Rough night? Surely you didn’t lose, for a change?”

  A sudden vision of Emily in his arms, and he in Emily, warmed him like a candle flame. “’Twas a wonderful night, and I certainly didn’t lose.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Randall laughed. “Ah, that sort of night. Why don’t you go get some sleep? You’re not doing any good here.”

  “Thank you most kindly,” Evan replied with a grin. “But you’re correct—my mind isn’t on ledgers today. Shall we discuss the matter later?”

  “Of course.” Randall grinned back. “And if the wench is even halfway deserving of that fatuous smile, you’re a lucky devil.”

  As Evan neared home, the idea of another gift struck him with vivid clarity.

  There must be no gown unfolded with memories tonight. No, tonight she should come to him in sheer purple silk and a whisper of cream lace. His woman, wearing his gown, making new memories that were theirs alone.

  Proceeding immediately to the shop of one of the city’s most exclusive mantua-makers, he swiftly made his choice. However, when he informed Madame she need not deliver the garment, for he intended to take it with him, she protested she’d be happy to insure it arrived wherever he wished.

  Catching the speculative gleam in her eye, he realized the seamstress was consumed with curiosity to discover the identity of his newest inamorata. Instinctively he knew his reserved, dignified Emily would not appreciate having her name bandied about. Cordially turning aside the dress-maker’s offer, he paid her well and left the shop.

  To be truthful, he found the notion of revealing Emily to be his mistress strangely distasteful. Not that he’d ever flaunted his women, but Emily was different—a treasure he wished cloistered for him alone. He’d not have what they shared be the subject of vulgar speculation by Willoughby and those of his ilk.

  What a many-faceted jewel she was, too: elegant and proper as the highest-born lady in that demure lavender gown the first day they’d met; siren last night, her ebony tresses flowing silken over her bare back and full, high breasts, her soft mouth and thighs promising sin and magic.

  Just thinking of her hardened him to such urgent need he groaned. How many more hours until dark?

  After avoiding his mama’s curious glances at tea, he dressed for dinner early and slipped away to his club. Surely he could find someone to get up a game of whist or piquet that would fill the hours until he could present himself back at her shop.

  “Ev, well met!” Brent Blakesly rose to greet him as he entered the reading room. “Missed you at White’s last night. I
take it that means your, ah, appointment was successful?”

  Evan knew he was beaming; he couldn’t help it. “Completely.”

  Brent whistled. “Congratulations, then! Come—” he motioned to a waiter “—let’s have some champagne! Though I can hardly credit it—Willoughby was so sure she’d not go down for anyone.”

  Evan jerked back the hand his friend was enthusiastically pumping. “Dammit, don’t you dare describe her in such terms.”

  Shocked into immobility, Brent simply looked at him. “Sorry, Ev,” he said at last. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Shocked himself by the depth of his outrage, Evan made himself smile and motioned Brent back to his chair. “I don’t want this to become common knowledge about London—not a hint of it. If you take my meaning?”

  Brent straightened, looking mildly affronted. “I’m hardly one to go gossiping about my friends. As I thought you’d know.”

  “Yes, yes, I do know. Just a reminder.”

  “Mrs. Spenser worries for her reputation?” Brent guessed.

  “No, I do. I don’t want some idle fool getting the wrong idea and bothering her.”

  Brent stared at him searchingly, then shook his head. “The lady must have made quite an impression.”

  Evan let his mind play over the images of Emily in all her guises, and of their own volition his lips curved into a smile. “She did indeed.”

  The champagne arrived, and with a flourish, Brent presented him a flute. “To you,” he raised his glass, “the luckiest bastard in London.”

  After they downed the wine, Evan put a restless hand to his pocket and frowned. “Blast, I seem to have left my watch. What o’clock is it?”

  Brent squinted at the mantel clock across the room. “Near on five, best I can see. How about a few hands of piquet before you leave me for the divine Madame? Mayhap I can fleece you of enough blunt to assuage my jealousy.”

  So strongly did the thought of Emily pull Evan, even the prospect of several hours spent over good wine in the company of his best friend didn’t appeal. He knew where he most wanted to be. So why not just go there?

  “Another time, perhaps,” he replied, deciding on the spot. “I think I’ll stop by the shop and make sure the runner is still on duty.”

  Brent grinned. “Righto, better check. Runners are such an inefficient lot.” He ducked Evan’s mock punch. “Give the widow my regards—you lucky bastard.”

  Already halfway across the room, Evan only nodded.

  Chapter Five

  Quietly entering the salesroom half an hour later, Evan saw Francesca by the office door, Emily bent over her worktable in the room beyond. As the maid’s face lit in a welcoming smile, he put a warning finger to his lips and beckoned her.

  “Don’t disturb your mistress,” he whispered when she reached his side. “Will she forgive me if I invite myself to dinner?”

  “You honor us, my lord,” the maid whispered back.

  Grinning, Evan handed her a pouch. “You’ll need to make some purchases. I doubt you usually cook enough to feed a healthy man’s appetite.”

  She shook her head sadly. “Not for years.”

  “Do so tonight. And if there’s a special dish your mistress particularly likes, prepare it.”

  “I know just the one!” Francesca pocketed the pouch, her dark eyes shining. “Ah tonight, such a meal I cook!”

  “If ’tis anything like last night’s, I may sack my chef and steal you away. Before you go, could you take this upstairs?” He handed her the tissue-wrapped package.

  He tiptoed to the office door. Lost in concentration, Emily toiled away unawares. Vases of flowers scattered about the salesroom wafted the subtle but pervasive scent of violets and pansies. Within the small workroom every available surface but the table itself was covered with bouquets. The spicy fragrance teased his nose.

  Though he’d not expected her to hide his tributes, he was absurdly touched to discover she’d placed them all around her, some even in public view. Surely she could not be bent on pleasing him only out of gratitude, could she?

  Despite the maid’s friendliness, he was unsure enough about her mistress’s reaction to his unannounced and uninvited arrival that he delayed making his presence known. Silently he settled against the wall, curious, and content to watch her.

  A sketchbook sat open on the worktable, a half-finished velvet bonnet on a stand beside it. From time to time she glanced at the book as her long fingers deftly fashioned rosettes of braid and added them to the hat. After completing a final flower, she lifted the bonnet and placed it carefully on her head.

  Before he realized what she was doing, she walked to the mirror to inspect it—and saw him behind her in the reflection.

  She gasped and spun around. “Lord Cheverley!”

  Once again, her beauty seen face-to-face took his breath away. For a long moment, he merely stood, tongue-tied and awkward as an infatuated adolescent.

  Quickly she replaced the bonnet on its stand. “I wasn’t expecting you this early, my lord.”

  All the gallant, polished phrases he’d practiced deserted him. “I couldn’t stay away.”

  Groaning inwardly at such gaucherie, he strode toward her. “But I don’t mean to interrupt. Please, complete whatever you intended to finish by evening.” He halted a foot away, conscious of a strong desire to pull her into his arms. Barely a minute close to her, and already he was lost. He settled for kissing the fingers she extended, savoring the scent, the touch of her skin.

  She smiled slightly. “I’m not sure it’s possible for me to work with you so near. But Lady Wendfrow expects this tomorrow, so I’m obliged to try.”

  Could she feel the attraction, that magnetic pull between them, as strongly as he? Evan fervently hoped so.

  He stepped toward the table, forcing himself to focus on something other than her intoxicating proximity. “You work from your own designs?” At her nod, he indicated the sketchbook. “May I?”

  “If you wish.”

  To distract himself while she finished, he opened the book, intending to flip idly through the designs. The first image facing up at him riveted his attention. “Why, that’s Lady Wendfrow to the life!”

  “’Tis easier to design a bonnet that flatters my client if I work from a detailed sketch of her face.”

  “If you can fashion something to flatter Lady Wendfrow, you’re a wizard.”

  She made a little gurgle of a laugh, the sound so enchanting it momentarily distracted him. “She does tend to wear plumed hats that only emphasize her narrow face, in shades of black that do nothing whatsoever for her coloring.”

  “You intend to rectify those errors?” He pointed to the half-fashioned bonnet.

  “Yes. The frame is mourning black, on which she insists, but I’ve lined the brim and trimmed the sides with peach satin. That soft tone beside her face will warm her skin to cream. And I shall drape the plume more to the horizontal, to broaden her face.”

  “By heaven, it might work. Mama said you were a genius. May I look at the other sketches?”

  “If you like. I’ll be just a few more moments.”

  She took up needle and thread and set to work.

  While she stitched, he flipped through the book, pausing to study several sketches of the ladies familiar to him. He had to marvel both at how well she had captured their images and at how skillfully each bonnet she’d designed emphasized their best features.

  Then he reached the last page and froze.

  Emily had caught the sitter at a pensive moment, one hand to her chin as she gazed into the distance. The pale ivory of her hair, the turquoise of her eyes and the wistful, half-smiling expression were so vividly rendered he felt as if his mama might at any moment speak to him from out of the sketchbook.

  “This is extraordinary!” he burst out. “Please, I must have it. May I buy it from you?”

  She glanced over, her hand with the needle momentarily stilling. “The sketch of Lady Cheverley? Take it, if
you like. That bonnet is already finished.”

  “I must pay you for it.”

  “Nonsense, ’tis only a pastel. Besides, you’ve already expended far too much for me. If the likeness pleases you, I should be honored for you to have it as a gift.”

  He hesitated, about to argue the point, but the oblique reference to her indebtedness and the slight lift of her chin alerted him that her pride was at issue.

  Give in gracefully, he decided. He could repay her in ways she’d not discover—through Francesca, who, unlike her mistress, seemed cheerfully willing to accept his largesse.

  “Thank you, then.” He took a knife from the worktable and carefully cut free the sketch. That task accomplished, he looked back to see her hunched over the bonnet, peering at the dark velvet in the rapidly fading twilight.

  “Emily, stop. You can’t possibly see black thread against black velvet any longer.”

  ‘A few more stitches, and ’twill be finished.” While he watched in exasperation, she stubbornly bent closer, her nose nearly buried in the bonnet as she attached a final ribbon. At last she knotted off her thread.

  “Enough,” he said, and put his hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her from the worktable. But at the feel of her flesh under his fingers, he found all his banked passion surging back. He shuddered and went still, resisting the sudden, sharp longing to enfold her against him.

  She’d gone motionless as well, and he could feel her muscles tense under his hands. Without thinking, he began to massage her stiff shoulders.

  “Ahh,” she sighed. “That feels lovely.”

  “No wonder your shoulders ache, standing in front of that worktable all day,” he chided, extending the massage to her neck and upper arms.

  “You scold just like Francesca,” she said with a giggle. ’Twas so infectious a sound, he found himself laughing, too. She rotated to face him. He looked down into those wide pansy eyes and caught his breath yet again.