A Scandalous Proposal

by Julia Justiss

  Get away? See her? The words jarred her to alertness. Could he possibly think—

  “No!” She pulled away abruptly and sat up. “What can you be imagining?”

  “I know none of the—circumstances have altered. But after the hell of these last weeks, surely you believe as I do that we must be together. Sweetheart, ’tis a sorry crumb of a loaf, but better the tiniest crumb than none at all.”

  He could rationalize his own conscience—and just dismiss hers? Once again seize control of her life and think to dictate what she would do?

  She fed the fortifying anger. “No, Evan. You’ve so much power, you think you can control me and by your wishing it, change the rules of conscience? It’s not that easy.”

  He stared at her a moment, disbelieving, then shoved himself upright as well.

  “Easy?” he repeated. “Do you honestly think anything about you, about us, has ever been ‘easy’? Do you think I don’t realize in doing this I sully my honor as well as yours, bend or break the solemn oaths I’ve pledged? But not to do so condemns me, us, to the unspeakable existence we’ve suffered these last seven weeks. In the depths of my heart I cannot believe what we share is wrong. ’Tis far more than lust, you know that! Bah, I’m no philosopher, to sort out reasoned arguments. I just know that what we have together is pure and precious. Can you deny it?”

  She dare not admit a feeling her self-respect demanded she smother.

  “Call it what you will, ’tis still wrong.”

  He wants to dictate, just like Papa and Andrew’s father, she thought, trying to refire her anger. Don’t let him.

  “What right have you to dismiss my honor, as if only yours mattered? I’m not a plaything, to toy with as you choose.”

  “No, you are not. You are the center of my world, my universe. I can’t conceive of a future without you.”

  His impassioned words flamed through her, scorching her weakening defenses. She must marshal her pitiful reserves and end this before he reduced them to smoking ruin, before she went mad. Or even worse, succumbed.

  “Those of lower status learn early they cannot always get what they desire, or turn wrong into right by wishing it. ’Tis a difficult lesson, my lord, but I think you must learn it.”

  He stared at her, his face inscrutable. At last he spoke, his voice near a whisper. “After I’ve beggared my honor and bartered my pride, you will still send me away?”

  He must never return, she must never see him again. She could not withstand a repetition of this. She forced herself to utter words that would make it so.

  “Let us not spoil the past with unpleasantness. You’ve been most generous, for which I thank you, but the bald truth is I don’t require your assistance any longer. For you I have been a useful convenience. But ’tis time to move on, so let’s not confuse the issue with pretty words.”

  She could not look at him and withstand the hurt she knew she’d find in his eyes, in every stiff line of his outraged body. She kept her face averted.

  “Convenient?” He spat out the word, then uttered a harsh bark of laughter. “Aye, madam, no more pretty words.” He leaned over and seized her.

  “Tell me, my heart, my darling,” he snarled as he forced her down on the bed, pinned her with his body, “tell me this is just ‘convenient.”’ Holding her head prisoned with one arm, he kissed her mouth and throat roughly, scouring her with his lips, his stubbled face.

  As his lips descended, though, their touch altered, became taunting, seductive. “Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely as kissing deep, nipping gently, he assaulted her collarbone, her chest, “tell me you feel nothing.”

  She wanted to resist, to reinforce with her body the lies of her lips, but, battered by her own anguish and his, she lay helpless, reserves exhausted. Tears came, welling in her eyes and dripping down into her hair. When his lips reached her breasts, when with infinite cherishing skill he played upon those sensitive nerves, she broke completely, bringing her limp arms up to cradle his head.

  At her touch he shuddered and went still. His arms slid around her shoulders and he bound her to him in a long, fierce, breath-stopping embrace, his face searing her chest with hot wet heat.

  The sudden coolness struck her when he sprang up. Swiftly he gathered his clothes, then turned to face her, his eyes stark.

  “Deny it to yourself, but never to me.”

  He turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  She knew not how long she lay immobile. She concentrated all her will on taking one slow steady breath after another, shutting out everything else. To think at all would be to scream in agony.

  Gradually the chill of the unheated room penetrated, each faint stir of breeze frosty over her damp eyes and moist hair. With shivering fingers she reached down to cover the frigid wetness at her belly. And touched the small cold pool of his tears.

  After a period of fitful slumber, Emily roused to a knock at her door. Francesca peeped in.

  “Mistress, Senhor Blakesly calls. Do I let him in?”

  Emily turned to peer at the mantel clock. “Heavens, Francesca, why did you not wake me sooner?”

  The maid stared at her a moment, a gentle sympathy in her eyes. “I sleep lightly, querida.”

  Francesca knew. Heat washed Emily’s face.

  Ever practical, the maid wasted no time in recrimination. “Do I tell him stay, or go?”

  Emily tried to focus her rattled thoughts. Had she promised to ride with him?

  The very morning after the theater trip, Brent had stopped by and repeated his offer of a mount. Unable to resist the dancing, spirited beauty of a mare he’d brought, she’d accepted, and now several times a week they rode together. Being able to lose herself in the simple pleasure of a hard gallop did much to ease her ever-present restlessness.

  Brent had stood by his offer to be her friend as well. Though she recognized desire within the warmth in his eyes, never did he hint of a closer relationship. Unique among the men she’d known, he did not attempt to dictate, a fact that was gradually relaxing her wary reserve. Witty, calm, attentive but not dominating, he let her, as he’d promised, set the tone and timing of their meetings.

  Sometimes she asked him to stay for breakfast after their rides, and twice she’d accompanied him to the theater. Struggling as she was to contain her sadness and desperate longing, she could not help but appreciate his steady, un-demanding presence.

  She was quite sure she’d not agreed to ride this morning. What else would bring him here at so unfashionable an hour? Good friend that he’d been, if there were some trouble she should help. Despite her physical and mental exhaustion, she pushed aside the bed linens.

  “Tell Mr. Blakesly if he can wait a few moments, I will join him. And bring tea, please, Francesca.”

  Brent was standing by the fireplace when she walked in some moments later—exactly, she recalled with a pang, where Evan, bathed in moon glow, had stood last night. She felt the fraying threads of her control loosen again and jerked herself from memories she must never again indulge.

  “Good morning, Brent. This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you here—no trouble, I hope?”

  He turned then and studied her face. “Should I not rather ask you that?”

  She gave her head a tiny shake. Her wits were so scrambled this morning, it took her a moment to puzzle out his meaning. “W-why should you think there was trouble?”

  He said nothing for a time, continuing to subject her to close scrutiny, as if searching for—what, she couldn’t fathom. Finally he said, “I brought a new mare to town yesterday for you to try.” He uttered a short laugh. “As a surprise. I brought her by early this morning, knowing you are usually awake, and…and saw Evan leaving.”

  Shame, embarrassment and regret swirled in her. She wanted to explain, to apologize, but how could she excuse the raw truth he had seen?

  “I can’t imagine what you must be thinking of me. All I can say is—”

  “Please, don’t!” He captured one
hand and kissed it. “I think you the most beautiful, talented, courageous woman I’ve ever known. Nothing, absolutely nothing could happen that would change that opinion.” He looked away. “’Twas my belief, however, that Evan had—relinquished his claim.”

  “We parted weeks ago. But last night he stopped by unexpectedly, and we—” She broke off, flushing.

  “He forced you? The blackguard, I’ll—”

  “No, you mustn’t think that of him! ’Twas my fault as much as his.”

  Shame heated her cheeks, but remembering that night ignited flames of another sort all over her body. Curse her for a fool, she still wanted him. She still missed him.

  She closed her eyes, fighting the insidious longing. Then opened them and made herself continue. “’Twas only last night. I knew ’twas wrong, but…”

  “Do you love him?”

  She mustn’t, couldn’t love him. “No. But he is still…very dear to me.” The truth, surely. “Regardless of that, our…association is over, quite finally. I do not expect ever to see him again.”

  The heaviness that descended on her chest as she spoke those words was merely fatigue, she assured herself.

  “You are certain that is what you want?”

  Want? No, but conscience permitted no other course. “Yes.”

  Brent released a long, slow sigh, almost as if he’d been holding his breath. “Then he will never bother you again. I give you my word on it.”

  A stab of foreboding pierced her. “You mustn’t—oh, please do not speak of me to Evan! There’s no need, I assure you. I would not wish to sow discord in your friendship.”

  “Hush, now.” Smiling, he put his finger against her lips. “If there be discord, ’twill not be you who is the cause. You…you do still wish to see me?” Though his tone was casual, his body tensed as he awaited her answer.

  He really did forgive her. More than that, though she had just given him ample cause to despise her, for some reason he still wanted her for a friend. She blinked back a prickle of tears.

  “Should I not rather ask you that?”

  His eyes lit and his smile turned brilliant. “Then I believe we are scheduled to ride tomorrow. Perhaps if I’m especially witty you’ll ask me to stay for one of Francesca’s marvelous breakfasts. But now you must get to the shop.”

  “Yes. I shall see you tomorrow, then.”

  He took her hand, but rather than brushing it with his lips, he turned it over and placed a lingering kiss on her palm. He raised to her violet eyes dark with emotion. “Thank you.” After a brief bow, he walked out.

  She didn’t deserve Brent’s fidelity, she thought guiltily as she watched him leave. But the soothing balm it offered was immense.

  He really ought to forget her, Evan mused as he stared up at the little landscape. In a fit of anger upon his return after their bitter parting, he’d yanked the painting from above his library mantel.

  Later that day he’d rehung it. Her words had been meant to wound, to rip a final breach through their accord and cauterize it beyond hope of mending. He understood that intuitively, once the blindness of hurt and outrage faded, understood why she had spoken thus.

  But he could not believe her. To some resonant note deep within him she still played the resolving chord, a harmony beside which disdainful words were as the thunder of a passing storm outside an unbreachable fortress, irrelevant, unable to cause harm.

  Her resolve to remain parted he did believe. She was right; ’twas for the best to uphold honor and fulfill duty. If behind that facade of fortitude the inner self suffered, he must be man enough to endure.

  He would bury himself in work and think on her as little as possible. And if late at night he drifted back to the library to gaze at her landscape and cherish their memories, should he not be allowed some small reward for soldiering through yet another endless day?

  The sound of a throat being repeatedly cleared finally pulled him out of meditation.

  “My lord, Mr. Blakesly to see you.”

  He’d been so busy upon his return to town, he’d not seen his friend since Richard’s funeral. With pleasure he extended his hand to the tall figure entering the library.

  “Brent, good to see you! It’s been too long.”

  Brent halted a pace away. His face unsmiling, he glanced at Evan’s outstretched hand and, arms held stiffly at his sides, made him a short, stiff bow.

  “I’ve not come for a visit, my lord.” He gave the courtesy scornful emphasis. “I’ve but a message to deliver.”

  Surprise at the rebuff held Evan speechless for a moment. “Message?”

  Eyes narrowed and jaw set, Brent leaned until his face was but a few inches from Evan’s. “You call yourself a gentleman? You celebrate your engagement—notices in the press, small elect gatherings among the ton. Then under cover of darkness slink away to treat Emily as your whore!” Face contorted with anger, he spat out the word.

  Shocked, shamed, Evan could think of no reply.

  Brent exhaled an explosive breath. His voice, when he continued, was cool, his face deadly calm. “Well, no more. Sooner or later I intend to marry Emily, if she’ll have me. And married or not, as God is my witness, if you ever go near her again I’ll kill you.” He made an elaborate bow. “Your servant, my lord.”

  Brent turned on his heel, began to walk away. Finally finding his voice, Evan strode after and halted him with a hand to the shoulder. “Marry Emily? How can you? ’Tis impossible!”

  Jerking free, Brent whirled toward him. “I’m not the mighty Earl of Cheverley, with duties owed a portrait gallery of ancestors long dead. To think I used to envy you that title and wealth.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “My family may squawk, but duty in the Blakesly line falls on Cousin Edward. If they wish to see me and my children, they’ll treat Emily with the respect due my wife. And should it come to a choice between her and the cut direct from the ton, I swear to you I’d have the ring on her finger faster than you could blink.”

  Brent to marry Emily? His love, his secret joy? Corrosive jealousy and anger born of weeks of repressed longing fired to instant rage. “You cannot marry her. I forbid it!”

  Brent tensed as if to throw a punch, then relaxed. “You forbid it?” He laughed shortly. “You forfeited the right to say anything months ago. This time, see that you remember that fact, for I assure you, my warning is no idle threat. Stay away from her, Evan.” He bowed again, curtly. “My regards to your mother and Andrea.”

  Before Evan could remonstrate further, Brent strode from the room. Fuming, Evan followed, but at the door, reason returned and he halted.

  There was nothing he could or should do. Brent was a good man; he’d take care of Emily. She deserved that, deserved someone fine enough to recognize her excellence, someone willing to brave the scorn of the ton to claim her.

  Why did the mere thought of someone else touching her burn in his gut like acid?

  Perhaps because their shared memories were his most precious possession. The idea of yielding her to another, even a man as worthy as Brent, was like having the most cherished part of himself ripped out.

  Yes, he wanted Emily comfortable, appreciated and cared for. He just could not kill the hopeless longing that he be the man to do so.

  A few days later, Emily sat over her portfolio at the desk in her old office. In the wake of that disastrous night with Evan, a lingering depression bore down her spirits, from which even Brent’s quiet, thoughtful companionship couldn’t entirely distract her.

  Dear Brent, whose words still spoke of friendship but whose assiduous attention and increasingly ardent glances were growing ever more like a courtship.

  With a pang of guilt, she couldn’t help wishing, bruised as she was in body and spirit, for a continuation of their straightforward camaraderie. Anything more was beyond her just now.

  At least here at the shop, adding detailed notes to her sketches, she could accomplish something useful. She did find solace in perfecting her designs, directing the
busily stitching seamstresses, did feel satisfaction watching what began as visions in her head turn into gowns whose sale would buy a safe future for herself and her son.

  She heard the entry bell ring. Francesca was in the kitchen fixing her soup and tea, so the newly hired shop girl met the customers at the door. From the corner of her eye as she studied a sketch Emily noted them enter, heard the murmured greetings.

  She had but to add a few more instructions and the riding dress would be complete. Long, slender, its cap-sleeved pelisse trimmed with epaulettes and gold braid, the gown was a feminine interpretation of Andrew’s army uniform. She smiled, remembering the stir she’d created the first time she’d worn a similar garment out riding in Portugal. “Daughter of the Regiment,” some of Andrew’s fellow officers had said, teasing her.

  Ah, Andrew. She rested her head on her hand as shame swirled up to color the old familiar burden of grief. Praise God you cannot see me now….

  A shadow fell across her, followed by two hands that seized hers hard. “Auriana! Blast it, woman, I’ve been the length and breadth of Spain hunting you!”

  Fear shot through her and she looked up so sharply little stars of light marred her vision. Not until a moment later did her eyes focus enough for her to recognize a dearly familiar face: her brother-in-law, Major Robert Alan Waring-Black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Rob!” she cried joyfully. “Whatever are you doing in England? And out of uniform? I thought you still with Wellington’s staff!”

  “No. I took a hit a few months after Andrew was wounded—but ’tis a long story. Ah, Ari, how good it is to see you!” He wrapped her in a hug.

  She hugged him back, then grasped his hands. “’Tis wonderful to see you, too, Rob.”

  “Robert?” A tall blond woman entered the little office. Her startled gaze went from Emily’s face to the hands her brother-in-law still held, and lingered there.

  After giving her fingers another squeeze, Robert released them, but left one hand resting on her shoulder, as if to reassure himself she was truly found. “Natalie, my dear, only see who I’ve discovered. Auriana, may I present to you my wife Natalie. Nat, this is my brother’s elusive widow, Auriana.”