A Scandalous Proposal

by Julia Justiss

  Even with Brent her presence was attracting some notice. Though as an undistinguished younger son with neither great fortune nor elevated title, Brent was able to do as he pleased with little comment from the ton.

  Unlike himself, whose every word and gesture would be noted. No, he must not go to her.

  And had to clench his teeth and curl his hands into fists to keep himself from it.

  Ah, how beautiful she was! If he could not hear the timbre of her voice, inhale the spice of her lavender scent, he could at least feast his eyes on her, trace his hungry glance through her glossy locks, across her smooth cheek and down the column of her throat, embrace her with his gaze as his arms ached to do.

  Focusing on her with longing so sharp it squeezed the air from his lungs, he finally realized despite his mama’s admonition that with time, his sacrifice would seem easier, despite his own determination to “move on,” he’d only been deceiving himself.

  He would never forget Emily. To his last breath he would carry her with him, under his skin, in his blood, feel the beat of her heart like his own, just as he had the last time they lay together.

  Close his eyes and he could hear the music of her voice, feel the smoothness of her satin forehead as he tapped it teasingly when making a point in some argument….

  A passerby jostled him and he stumbled back, flattening himself against the stairwell as the lobby crowd began returning to their seats. Obscured by the press of people, he stood watching as Brent took her hand, led her away.

  Not until the lobby stood empty, the custodians looking at him curiously, did he slowly climb the stairs to his box.

  He ignored the searching glance his mama sent him upon his tardy return. With only a slight change in the angle of his chair, he could see Emily. Through the rest of the play he watched them, the dip of Brent’s head as he spoke, her upturned face in reply.

  Her father-in-law must still be absent if she judged it safe to go out. But she shouldn’t be sitting there among the crowd, subject to the insults of any lounging buck. Simmering anger stirred again, and with anticipation he resolved to search out Willoughby and challenge him to a highly satisfying bout of fisticuffs.

  She should have a box available the rest of the Season, to use whenever she wished. He’d speak with Manners about it on the morrow.

  The frozen lethargy in which he’d moved, trancelike, this past month began to crack. He ought to have Manners check on the progress of her business as well. And why not instruct the lawyer to transfer the deed on her house into her name? Set up an account for her son’s education, another with a tidy sum to see her through any future financial difficulties. So she’d never again need to seek assistance from another or—his eyes rested on Brent—incur debts she felt obligated, one way or another, to repay.

  During the rest of the play he savored the sight of her, not jumping into his own waiting carriage until the hackney—he frowned a bit when Brent followed her into it—bore her away.

  Then for the first time in five weeks a genuine smile curled his lips. Tomorrow at opening of business he’d visit the lawyer. Then wait to hear every detail of how the very independent Mrs. Spenser responded to his gifts.

  Ten days later, Mr. Manners sat with a glass of Richard’s port and recounted his interview with Emily.

  “Quite a determined lady, and looking to be very successful,” the lawyer told Evan. “I think you shall see a handsome return on that investment.”

  “I’m glad of it, but about the box—what did she say?”

  Mr. Manners turned to him, his austere face almost…smiling. “She wished me to convey her appreciation, but said she could not put you to such inconvenience.”

  “You told her the box was already rented and will stand empty if she does not avail herself of it?”

  The solicitor’s smile broadened. “Aye, I did. And assured her that the box being now in her name, she and she alone could determine its use.”

  “And?”

  Mr. Manners cleared his throat. “She asked if my wife and I enjoy the theater.”

  Evan laughed. Damme, how long had it been since anything had stirred him to genuine amusement? Chuckling as well, Mr. Manners produced a ticket from his waistcoat pocket and waved it. “I remonstrated, but as she remained adamant, what could I do but thank her most kindly?”

  “And the house?”

  Mr. Manners sipped his port. “She insisted she could not accept the deed. I finally convinced her her acceptance is irrelevant. Once the title had been conveyed, the property was legally hers whether she wished it or no, to use or dispose of.”

  That prospect had not occurred to him. “Do you think she will sell it?” he asked, loath to lose any link to her.

  “No, quite the opposite. She assured me she considers the dwelling her home. However, she insisted she must continue to pay rent until such time as she reimburses the purchase price of the property.”

  Evan’s lips twitched. How he wished he might have spied upon this interview! He could see her, back ramrod straight, chin up and eyes shining as she proudly declined largesse he knew no other woman would conceive of refusing.

  “You told her that was unacceptable, I trust.”

  “Actually, no.” The lawyer paused to take a sip. “I told her she might continue to pay rent through my office.”

  Evan’s humor faded. “By no means, Mr. Manners! You know I would never permit—”

  The lawyer held up a hand. “Hear me out, my lord. If it makes the lady feel easier, why not let her establish what amounts to a savings fund? You must know she vowed she’d not touch a penny of the other trusts you established. In any future difficulties, she might be more likely to approach me if she thought I managed monies she herself had accumulated. Of course, her deposits could then be…augmented as you desire, the increase discreetly credited as interest.”

  Evan’s smile returned. “Small wonder, Mr. Manners, that my family has always been so pleased with your services.”

  The lawyer bowed. “My privilege, Lord Cheverley.” Setting down the empty glass, he turned to the door. “Thank you for your kind hospitality, and naturally I shall keep you informed of any developments.”

  Evan rose and offered his hand. After a startled moment, the lawyer took it. “Thank you, Mr. Manners. I can rest easy now, knowing she will be protected.”

  The lawyer paused on the threshold. “I must admit, when first you broached this project to me several months ago, I thought it most ill-advised. But Mrs. Spenser is not at all what I expected. A most…extraordinary lady.”

  Longing coiled within Evan, a familiar ache. “Aye.”

  After the lawyer departed, Evan looked over to the painting he’d hung over his mantel. Pots of lavender glowed in a mist of morning sun that shimmered over a stone sundial and spilled splotches of warmth on an old deacon’s bench.

  The scene beckoned every time he looked at it, inviting him into the garden—Emily’s garden at the shop.

  Just before she removed to the new house, knowing she’d be moving the picture, he’d baldly asked for it. He’d placed it first in his office at the ministry, but after their…break, he’d transferred it here.

  Since he’d brought Andrea to London to stay with them he’d established his library as his personal retreat, the one place in the house he allowed none but the cleaning maids to enter, refusing permission even to his mother.

  How many hours, ostensibly employed in business, had he spent gazing at that painting, scoured by memories?

  Returning unexpectedly, he’d once caught his mama at the open door staring at it. She’d walked quickly away, no doubt sensing the curt words of dismissal he’d not have been able to prevent himself uttering.

  He brought his mind back to the conversation with Mr. Manners, replaying every detail.

  The new venture was prospering and she’d secured an impressive number of advance orders. No problems with the house or shop, as far as Manners knew.

  Evan had, God help him,
even pressed the solicitor to comment on her gown and appearance. After one speculative glance, as if wondering about his client’s sanity, the lawyer recalled she had worn something in lavender and appeared pale but self-possessed.

  Evan sighed. As energizing as it was to be able to talk about her, Manner’s descriptions were far too sketchy.

  How he missed her still. Even the prosaic discussions they had held over evening tea about the details of the day he recalled with poignant fondness. He dare not allow himself to remember anything more intimate.

  Just how did he think he was going to steel himself to take Andrea as his wife?

  Pushing away that unanswerable question, he thought once more about the new business.

  There were many details the lawyer had not thought to ask. The advance orders were a clever idea, one he’d not considered, he thought approvingly. Should she hire an additional seamstress, or would those now engaged be sufficient to expeditiously complete the volume of orders?

  He could send Manners back again, but those answers would surely generate other questions.

  The idea electrified him the moment it flashed into his head. He was her primary investor. He had considerable, if secondhand, business experience, much more than his solicitor. Why should he not pay a call himself? Strictly business, of course.

  The Pandora’s box of suppressed longing bursting open, he jumped up, possessed of an urgent desire to seek her out.

  Struggling to retain perspective, he forced himself to sit down. He should send a note—but no, she might not wish to receive him, and once formed, the idea of seeing her so possessed him he doubted he could bear a refusal.

  Dropping by during business hours would be unexceptional. She met with other people of commerce during that time, why not her primary investor?

  His glance flew to the mantel clock and he cursed under his breath. Already too late to set out today.

  How many hours until start of business tomorrow?

  He sprang up again, paced the room and came to rest beneath the little painting. Thank heaven he was not promised to escort his family anywhere tonight. He might remain safely in his sanctuary.

  Or mayhap visit his club. Filled now with an edgy restlessness, he found the book-lined dimensions of this room too confining. If it hadn’t been coming on to night, he’d have headed to the park for a gallop.

  He’d visit his club.

  That sojourn was marginally satisfactory. Dinner was tolerable, he supposed, though he tasted none of it, after which he won several hands of whist without recalling a single moment of the play. Had gambling, drinking, the endless political gossip always been this much of a bore?

  But near midnight, as he tooled his curricle north from St. James, his hands seemed to take on a life of their own. Without conscious decision, they guided the bays west around Hyde Park, then south again toward the river.

  To a small, elegant townhouse.

  He pulled up the horses, gazing at the lamp glow in the window. His heart commenced to pound.

  He’d see her tomorrow. Surely he could wait that long. ’Twas unwise, no, ’twas insanity to try to see her tonight.

  Would she even admit him?

  Before his mind finished the thought he found himself looping the bay’s reins to a hitching post. He mounted the stairs, listened to the reverberating bang of the door knocker. Scarcely breathing, he waited.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emily gaped at the sleepy footman, the book she’d been reading sliding from her grasp. “Lord Cheverley is below?”

  “Aye, mistress, and desires but a word with ye.”

  A starburst of contradictory reactions exploded in her head, as if a match had been tossed into a box of firecrackers.

  How dare he intrude upon her peace, uninvited, at this hour? ’Twas preposterous, presumptuous in the extreme.

  Why had he come? Was he hurt, in some need? Anxiety fired through her fury.

  Had he broken off his engagement? An eager longing overshadowed all the others.

  Nonsense. She tried to extinguish the spurt of excitement. Even had he done so their relationship was over. There was nothing between them that could not better be conveyed by letter.

  “What do you wish I should tell him, ma’am?”

  Attention recalled to the waiting footman, she tried to marshall her scattered wits and reply.

  He was here, just below in her parlor, a few minutes’ walk down a short flight of stairs away.

  Without conscious volition she rose, patted the mystified footman on the sleeve as, still speechless, she passed him and moved to the stairs.

  Then she stood before the parlor door, dizzy with anticipation and dread, thoughts still flitting about in her head like a flight of demented butterflies.

  He shouldn’t have come. Why had he come? Dismiss him. Speak just for a moment. No, ’tis madness—send him away.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked in.

  He was staring out the window. Though she entered soundlessly he must have sensed her presence, for he turned.

  Body tensed, fists clenched, he examined her from hairline to the tips of her slippers, his intense gaze mesmerizing her. The powerful, instantaneous attraction that had always existed between them drew her irresistibly closer.

  A foot away she made herself stop, clasped her hands together lest she reach up to touch the tiny lines beside his eyes, the cleft of his chin.

  She opened her lips to order him out, and said “Why?”

  “Please, don’t send me away yet! I wanted—I needed to talk with you. For a moment only. About the business.”

  Business? She glanced at the clock. “’Tis hardly the hour for a business call.”

  Did he flush? “Yes. Sorry. But I talked with Manners about the…the shop this afternoon and I could not wait.”

  The shop. How could she concentrate on income, disbursements, supplies with him but a touch away? She made herself focus on the fire beyond him.

  “W-what did you need to discuss?”

  “Manners said you’d taken advance orders. How many? Do you anticipate needing additional help?”

  For the next few moments she struggled to harness her muzzy brain to extract intelligent answers for the smattering of questions he fired at her. Then silence fell.

  The question seemed to pop out of her still-disjointed thoughts. “This house—you bought it for me at the very beginning, didn’t you?”

  He smiled slightly. “Yes. Are you angry?”

  “Not any longer.” She raised her chin. “I’m purchasing it, you know.”

  His smile broadened. “I can always use another good investment. And—I’ve wondered about it but Manners wouldn’t tell me—is Spenser your real name?”

  “Part of it.”

  “So if you were to…disappear, I’d not find you.”

  “You’d have no need to.”

  “Need,” he repeated, and sighed deeply. “Ah, Emily.”

  She shouldn’t look back at him. The business discussion had ended. She should simply bid him good-night.

  But despite that wise counsel, her gaze lifted. A poignant tenderness welled up, and for a moment she gave herself over to the pleasure of studying each dearly remembered line of cheek and lip, the angle of brow and jut of chin. And his eyes, ah, the beautiful midnight blue depths of his eyes.

  So focused was she it took her a moment to realize he was approaching, his hand moving toward her.

  “Don’t—”

  “Please! Please, Emily. Just one touch. Then I’ll leave, I swear it.”

  No, no, no, the rational voice in her head shouted. Not closer. Not touching.

  But her feet wouldn’t move, her word of protest rusted in her throat. She could only watch his hand descend.

  “Emily,” he whispered.

  She closed her eyes as his fingers traced gently, so gently over her brow, her temple, her eyelids, her cheekbones, around her chin. She sensed more than saw his head move toward hers.

&nbs
p; “You mustn’t,” she tried to say, and caught the glancing touch of his tongue on hers. Had he crushed her against him, demanding, insistent, she might have shoved him away.

  But the kiss was gentle, too, so full of the same wonder and aching need she felt herself that her arms moved instead to encircle his neck and of her own will draw him nearer.

  Ah, here she belonged, close against his chest. Here her ragged incompleteness was smoothed whole, here and here alone she found peace.

  Then he was lifting her into his arms.

  “One touch,” she gasped. “You said one touch and you would leave.”

  “I thought I could. I was wrong.” Kissing her fiercely, he clutched her tighter and mounted the stairs.

  Emily sat propped against her pillows watching Evan sleep beside her, fighting the tenderness that constricted her chest.

  ’Twas daylight now, time to put an end to midnight madness, to this ill-advised reunion that changed nothing.

  That he was not yet married was a feeble sop to her conscience. Being but days or weeks from it, he was as good as married, and their night together inexcusable.

  As soon as he woke she would tell him so, force herself to make him leave.

  She hoped he would doze a very long while.

  All too soon he stirred. As his eyes opened, he saw her and a smile of pure joy illumined his face. “My darling,” he whispered, and drew her into his embrace.

  Despising herself for her weakness, she let him. Just this one last time she would lie beside him enveloped in the blessed comfort of his closeness. One last time before facing a future whose absolute bleakness she dare not contemplate.

  He stroked her cheek, the wispy tendrils of hair at her temple. “I’ve missed you so, sweeting. Every day and night and hour since we parted. I tried to convince myself it was for the best, that it must be. Not until last night did I realize how wrong I was.

  “We’ll have to be careful, of course. I shan’t be able to come to you every evening, and ’twould not be prudent for me to acknowledge you in public. Perhaps I shall lease a country house—’twould be easier to get away for a few days outside of London, and…”