A Scandalous Proposal

by Julia Justiss

  In addition, she was able to bring Drew to spend the weekends. Having her son’s company for two whole days rather than the Sunday afternoon to which she had been rationed since their arrival in London—what a joy it was. She had no reason to be melancholy.

  If her shop continued its progress, within a year she would be able to repay Evan in full the sum he’d initially spent to rescue her. Ah, Evan.

  Her glance traveled the room. Here, in this chamber, he had first carried her to bed. There by the balcony door he had undressed her, to let the moonlight painting her body show him where to kiss, he’d said.

  Her face flushed; a tingling began in her nipples. It seemed that, once awakened, desires long dormant refused to return to slumber.

  But less carnal reminiscences were no better. In the next room, where seamstresses now toiled, where her designs now hung, they had dined and chatted and laughed together.

  A dull pain vibrated through her. She pressed a hand to her chest. The sorrow was lessening, truly it was. It was just that everything here reminded her of their beginnings.

  It was even worse at her house—their house—where she knew every item of furniture, every rug, plate and vase, had been chosen by him to please her. Where they had dwelled together a few precious months in such total contentment.

  Damn and drat! She sprang up in exasperation. She was becoming a maudlin, whining weakling such as she despised.

  She needed a change, something to refocus her mind.

  Her restless glance fell upon the post Francesca had brought earlier. In it a playbill caught her notice. Announcing the premiere of a most excellent presentation of Will Shakespeare’s King Lear, it boasted the renowned Mr. Hampton in the title role.

  Hampton in Lear. The notion generated a spark of interest. And theater—she’d loved attending plays in Lisbon. Her father-in-law was still absent; Francesca had just checked. Why not treat them to a night at the theater?

  Would Evan attend? She wasn’t sure if he’d returned to London yet. He enjoyed Shakespeare, she knew. Warmth spread through her.

  A little fear chilled it. What would he do, should he be present and see her?

  The unease swiftly passed. ’Twould be in neither his best interests nor hers that he acknowledge her. If he were present, he’d most likely be with his betrothed.

  She stifled a pang. You will not, she told herself sternly, attend the theater solely on the ridiculous notion that you might, for a few moments, be able to watch him.

  In any event, ’twas just as like he’d not be there. Even to a family in mourning, London offered innumerable other entertainments.

  Should he chance to be present, she would not gaze at him, anyway. Certainly not. She’d go for the play itself and the revitalizing change in routine it offered.

  Smiling, she called Francesca to see about obtaining tickets. And told herself her rising excitement was merely the anticipation of seeing Mr. Hampton play Lear.

  From her seat among the lower tier of chairs Emily gazed about her with awe. She’d not been in a public assembly in so long, the sheer volume of sound, color and motion mesmerized her.

  In the pit just below, a group of flamboyantly dressed bucks lounged among a diverse assortment of shop boys, clerks and ill-clad ruffians she strongly suspected must be pickpockets. The scent and smoke of candles mingled with the odors of perfume, nosegays and unwashed bodies. Then one of the lounging men caught her eye and winked.

  Alarmed he might interpret her glance as encouragement, she jerked her gaze away and up to the boxes above. Perhaps she had been unwise to sit here. She’d feel safer had she been able to afford a box.

  But she’d have hesitated, even were she able to afford it. What would she do if she claimed a box—and saw Evan enter the one next door? The very idea caused a shudder.

  Besides, she thought as she watched the beautifully clothed, jewel-bedecked Upper Ten Thousand drift in amid laughter and called greetings, the few among society who knew Madame Emilie, hatmaker, would surely not approve her seating herself among them.

  For the first time since Andrew’s death she felt the full force of her social isolation—friendless among the bourgeoisie she had joined, banished from the society of her birth. Being isolated in Spain had been natural—she was a foreigner. In England, she had until this moment been too preoccupied with survival to spare a thought for position.

  Nonsense, she told herself, ripping her gaze from the upper levels and transferring it to the stage, where a herald was announcing the opening festivities. Years of foraging about Spain on her own had taught her how to send any potential heckler to the rightabout. And her grip on survival was still not firm enough that she waste time in maudlin reflection over her proper place.

  A blur of motion in an upper box caught her attention, and a shock of awareness jolted through her. Though the arriving gentleman had his back to the stage, adjusting his lady’s chair, she knew immediately it was Evan.

  He turned toward her. For the briefest moment her gaze clung to him, tracing every detail of that dear familiar face. Did his eyes seem shadowed, the lines at the corners of his mouth grim? Or was that merely an effect of the flickering torchlight?

  Then she forced her gaze away, before the unconscious, irresistible pull that telegraphed his presence alerted him to hers. She would not have him discover her staring up like a ragged waif begging alms.

  By the time the ringing in her eyes dimmed and her tumultuous pulse calmed, the first act was nearly over. With determination she focused her attention onstage.

  Though still acutely conscious of Evan in the corner box, she managed to immerse herself in the play. As the actors exited for the first interval, however, she stirred uneasily.

  She should observe the crowd, she told herself. Anything to hold her attention and prevent her succumbing to the nearly overwhelming desire to look up.

  Could she not dare one quick glance? Just to see if the lady privileged to become his bride was fair or dark, if she seemed kind? He deserved a wife with a warm heart, who would fill his home with gladness.

  So intent was she on her inward struggle that the touch on her arm made her jump.

  “’Evenin’, lovely lady,” said a slurred voice at her side. “Beauty such’s you shouldn’t be sittin’ alone.”

  A powerful odor of spirits hit her nose. She wrinkled it in distaste, recognizing at the same time one of the most persistent of the Corinthians who had been wont to drop by her shop—Lord Willoughby? Suddenly she wished Francesca had not firmly refused to accompany her mistress to a play whose Shakespearean language she could not fathom.

  The inebriated man was followed by several others who crowded close around her. She tried to step back, but the narrow aisle allowed no retreat.

  “See who I’ve found, lads,” Willoughby said. “Our little shopkeepin’ beauty, all alone and pinin’ for company.” Laughing, he took her arm.

  As she tried to shake it off, another dandy stepped to her other side. A liquor glaze on his face, he grasped her shoulder with one unsteady hand. “Gotta kiss for an old frien’, sweet’eart?”

  “Find your own tart, Baxter.” Willoughby gave his rival a push, to the hilarity of the watching group. “I’ve been waitin’ for this little morsel a long time.”

  Anger and a gathering panic rose in her throat. Without Francesca she was alone against them. One of these drunken ruffians she could handle, but four?

  What right had they to spoil her enjoyment with their boorish insults? Harnessing her rising indignation, she wrenched her arm free. “I do not appreciate your presence, sir. Kindly remove yourself.”

  “She don’t sound too friendly, Willoughby,” one said.

  “Needs a lit’l more charm,” Willoughby replied, pulling a coin from his waistcoat. “This’ll sweetin’ her tongue.” Grabbing her shoulder, he pulled her to him and made as if to jam the sovereign down her bodice.

  In anger as fierce as her fear, she prepared to deal him the roundhouse punch
her husband had taught her. Before she could swing, her tormentor was seized by the throat and yanked away, the coin tumbling from his fingers.

  “Kind of you to watch out for my guest, Willoughby, but as I’ve returned, further assistance is unnecessary.”

  To her infinite relief, the dark-haired form of Evan’s friend Brent Blakesly moved to her side. Positioning himself between her and the loitering bucks, he surveyed the men with a hard, unsmiling gaze. “’Evening, gentlemen.”

  Willoughby rubbed his throat. “Your guest?”

  “If you care to dispute that, I’ll be happy to oblige,” Brent replied. “Not, of course, at this moment. Excepting yourself, there is polite society present.” He made a quick gesture to the surrounding boxes. “Unless you’d like to provide the entr’acte amusement?”

  For a moment, face creased in a scowl, Willoughby stood fast. But as he met Brent’s implacable gaze, his own faltered. He looked away.

  “I thought not.” Turning his back on the group, Brent offered Emily a smile. “I’m sorry your visit to the theater was marred by these oafs. Won’t you stroll with me and see if I can reverse that bad impression?”

  He held out his arm. Grateful, she took it. “Thank you, Mr. Blakesly. Some cool air would be most refreshing.”

  The press of people prevented further conversation until they reached the lobby. He guided her into a space in the far corner and stood guard, back to the milling crowd.

  “Thank you again for your kindness. I don’t think I could have discouraged those gentlemen without a most embarrassing scene.”

  Brent grimaced. “No gentlemen there. I’m so sorry you were disturbed. Reflecting on it, I believe I must look Willoughby up later and teach him some manners. However—” a grin softened his face “—though it hardly excuses his behavior, I must warn you that so beautiful a lady seemingly unescorted does attract attention.”

  Was there reproof in his tone? “Francesca was to accompany me, but at the last minute found the prospect of Shakespeare too daunting. ’Twas not wise to come alone, I suppose.”

  “I find Shakespeare a bit daunting myself. But if you will permit, I would feel easier if I might escort you for the remainder. ’Twould be my privilege as well.”

  His unassuming courtesy touched her. “Thank you again, sir. I should be privileged to accept.”

  Her gratitude at his rescue helped ease the awkwardness she would otherwise have felt at being squired by a man so nearly a stranger. And his tall presence beside her not only put to rest any fears of a repetition of the unwelcome attentions she’d encountered, but distracted her from the compulsion to gaze back up at a certain box.

  She ended by enjoying the play much more than she’d anticipated. The awkwardness did not return until, as they walked out to the street thronged with carriages and theatergoers, he offered to escort her home.

  “A jarvey would most likely get you there safely, ma’am. But the streets at night can be dangerous, and I’d never forgive myself were something to happen en route.”

  She had to admit she’d been a bit anxious herself. There seemed no course but to allow him to accompany her.

  She held herself stiffly at the far edge of the seat, but he made no attempt to draw close. Indeed, he continued his commentary on the play, plying her with questions so absurd she knew he was trying to set her at ease.

  She couldn’t truly be easy, especially not when they reached her house. Her discomfort increased after he escorted her up the stairs and into the entry.

  Despite his kindness, she must make certain matters clear. After dismissing the footman, she turned to Brent.

  “Mr. Blakesly, I’m most grateful for your assistance.” She gave his hand a quick, firm shake. “However, you must realize I do not generally…” she fumbled for words “…accept a gentleman’s escort. Or keep company with one.”

  He smiled. “Then I am doubly lucky.”

  Did he take her full meaning? Flushing, she steeled herself to continue. “I know you are a friend of Lord Cheverley. Excuse me for being so blunt, but you must understand I will not, under any circumstances, undertake another…relationship such as I had with him.”

  She felt heat down to her toes. Despite the humiliation of so baldly stating the matter, she forced herself to meet his gaze, make sure he’d comprehended.

  A self-deprecating smile twisted his lips. “I’m no grand lord like Evan, to offer costly inducements. Nor, frankly, would I want to.” He met her gaze squarely. “I’d be lying if I said your beauty left me unmoved. But I also enjoy your company. Your wit, your very lack of flirtatiousness. I truly wish to stand your friend.”

  His face grave, he raised one hand. “Upon my honor, I would never do you the insult of suggesting something…else.” He paused, as if to give her time to judge his sincerity, then added softly, “Is your life so busy you have no room in it even for a friend?”

  She searched his face and could find only honesty. She recalled the comfort of him standing by her at the theater, the comfort of having someone with whom to share the evening’s enjoyment. Though caution urged her to refuse, a lonely longing kept her silent.

  A friend. Dare she allow it?

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “At least you haven’t refused.” He grinned, which combined with the dusting of freckles on his nose the bright lamplight revealed, made him appear younger. Not threatening. “Do you ride? If you followed the army, you must be a bruising rider.”

  Memory of some of those “bruising” rides brought a smile to her face. “Indeed.”

  “I’m a bit of an enthusiast, I admit—’tis my only extravagance. If you enjoy it, I’ve a mare in my stables I think would be perfect for you. And I ride early.” He held up a hand to fend off that probable protest. “’Tis the only time, before most of London is stirring, for a good gallop.”

  Oh, how tempted she was. A country girl born and bred, she’d always loved horses. Selling off Andrew’s cattle had been one of the most heartbreaking tasks she’d faced.

  “’Tis excellent exercise, and the morning air very beneficial,” he coaxed. “But I won’t push you. Send me a message any time, Curzon Street, Number 15. Now I should leave you to your rest.” He swept her a bow.

  He would not coerce her. That simple fact alone nearly prompted her to accept on the spot. But when she opened her lips, he put a finger against them.

  “Say nothing now, please. A refusal would cast me into the dumps, and an acceptance so excite me I should not sleep a wink. I need my rest, too, you know.”

  As he watched her, his teasing look faded. She could feel the tension between them build. Slowly, slowly, tracing her lip as he went, he removed his finger.

  Before her alarm escalated into retreat, he seemed to shake off the mood. He caught up her hand and kissed it briskly. “Good evening, ma’am. I will sleep in hope.”

  Someone to laugh and ride and chat with—no strings attached. Bittersweet longing filled her. “So shall I.”

  Bowing again, he walked out. She wandered to the window and watched as, whistling, he strolled away in the flickering gaslight, leaving her to ponder with bemused appreciation his wit and kindness.

  A friend such as that might be just what her aching heart needed.

  Hampton as Lear, Evan thought as the carriage approached the theater. Shakespeare always revitalized him, and Lear certainly fit his mood. Thunder and turf, he was tired of pasting a smile on his face.

  It’s getting better, he told himself, repeating the litany with which he’d extinguished all other thought these past weeks. Maybe soon, in a million years or so, he’d actually believe it.

  As always, he clung to long-engrained rituals of civility to get him through. See his mama and Clare and Andrea out of the carriage, make way for them through the throng to their box, arrange chairs for the best view.

  Andrea. She was in looks, her pale blond beauty shown to advantage in the cherry gown his mama had chosen. Mercifully, she demanded little
of him, seeming content to spend most of her time in his mama and sister’s company. But then, they had always been friends. Friends.

  As the time for their nuptials slowly approached he found it increasingly difficult to express even that limited emotion. He dared not allow himself to feel, lest the caged beast of rage and despair escape to ravage all around him.

  Grateful when the start of the play relieved him of the task of manufacturing more light chatter, he fastened his gaze on the stage.

  The lyrical cadences did soothe, allowing him to lose himself in the play for a time. As the interval began, he kept his eyes focused downward, delaying as long as possible the necessity to resume polite conversation.

  A commotion among the lower seats caught his attention, and in the next heartbeat, he saw her.

  Emily! She never went out in public, yet it was unmistakably her. And the group of rowdies surrounding her were Willoughby and his loutish friends, unmistakably accosting her.

  Rage brought him instantly to his feet. But before he could race to her assistance he saw Brent step in, shoulder Willoughby aside, say something that caused the group, with obvious reluctance, to disperse.

  Bravo, friend! he exulted. And watched intently as a moment later, Brent led her out.

  Was she upset, shaken? He must know. Suddenly aware of the curious stares of his family, he mumbled something disjointed about spotting a friend, and pushed his way from the box, nearly running in his eagerness.

  He didn’t pause until he reached the lobby. Stopping to scan the crowd, he located them in a corner. Brent stood protectively before her; Emily, head lowered, seemed to be listening to something Brent was saying.

  Something amusing, evidently. The hint of a smile curved her lips.

  Evan took one step to go to her before sanity returned. What could he say or do? Any acknowledgement from him would call down on them the worst of the gossipmongers, evil weaselly minds intent on ferreting out every detail.