A Most Scandalous Proposal (37 page)

At that, Clivesden let out a mirthless bark of laughter. “And who would listen to you? You’ve all brought such scandal on yourselves the hostesses of the
ton
would never tolerate your presence.”

Sophia’s eyes flicked to Julia for a fleeting second. “I find I do not much mind. You?”

“No,” Julia croaked.

“Be that as it may,” Highgate said, “my sister wields a certain influence. Word still has a way of getting out.”

Clivesden shoved himself away from Upperton and stalked toward his carriage. “I’m through with the lot of you.”

“You can expect my marker for the five thousand pounds,” Upperton called after him.

“A surgery is no place for a woman.” Dr. Campbell’s white hair clung in wisps to his reddened pate. “Most especially not a young, unmarried miss.”

Julia exchanged a glance with a grim-faced Upperton and held herself firm next to Benedict’s bed. She’d be damned if she was about to give in. “I wasn’t aware this was a surgery.” She gestured to the masculine furnishings—heavy, dark woods and deep burgundy wallpaper with nary a bit of frippery in sight.

“Even worse,” the doctor spluttered. “Neither do you belong in a gentleman’s bedroom.”

She bit down on her tongue, but she could hardly blurt out that it was too late. Besides, with Upperton present and Highgate waiting downstairs with her sister, her virtue was hardly at risk. “There’s no time to argue.”

She curled her fingers into a fist to stop their shaking. Benedict’s complexion fairly matched the bed linens. The
doctor had staunched the flow of blood on-site, but the ball still remained embedded in Benedict’s chest. God, she might still lose him.

Dr. Campbell glanced at his patient and pressed his lips into a line. “You’re right, there. You’ll be leaving now.”

She clutched at Benedict’s hand. So cold, it lay like a dead weight in hers—just like Miss Mallory.
No
. He could not die. She would not allow it.

“I stay.” Astounding how her voice remained so steady when, inside, her heart fluttered in her throat. “Tell me how I can help.”

“You’ll stand well out of the way. And if you swoon, God help you for I shall not.”

Julia poked her chin higher. “I won’t swoon.”

It was a near thing, however. Unable to look away, she stood aside and watched Dr. Campbell strip Benedict’s shirt entirely away. Fresh blood blossomed across his chest and stained the doctor’s fingers as he probed for the ball, and her knees turned watery.

With a groan, Benedict rolled his head against the pillow. At the doctor’s nod, Upperton pressed down on Benedict’s shoulders, while Julia bit back a cry of sympathy.
Don’t let him wake up. Not now. Not when the pain must be unbearable. But dear God, don’t let him die, either
. The idea of living out the rest of her years without him sank into her stomach and lay like a block of ice.

Deep in concentration, Dr. Campbell muttered a string of oaths under his breath. He pulled a pair of forceps from his bag and thrust them into Benedict’s chest. Something small and hard emerged in their grasp and plunked to the floor as he slackened the instrument’s grip.

Julia swallowed, and she released a fistful of skirt. “Was that it?”

The doctor looked up sharply, as if he’d forgotten she was there. Drops of perspiration beaded his weathered
brow. “Yes, but I’m not finished yet. A wound like this introduces other material into the body. Bits of fabric. Bone fragments.”

She shuddered.

“If I do not clean the wound properly, infection is bound to set in.”

He lowered the forceps for another probing. Julia closed her eyes, but she couldn’t shut out the image of that obscene hole in Benedict’s chest. Amid the blood, it blighted the lovely stretch of muscle just above his heart.

His heart. So close.

The devil take Clivesden for his aim. He’d nearly taken Benedict from her. He might yet succeed.

At a low moan of pain, she dared look once more. Benedict’s eyes were still closed, but he strained against Upperton’s grip. His breath came in shallow puffs.

“You’ll have to add your weight, miss,” the doctor grated. “If he doesn’t lie still, I’ll never get everything out.”

Straightening her spine, she approached the bed. This close, the blood tainted the air with a faint metallic smell. She could nearly taste the copper on her tongue.

“Put your hands on his shoulders and hold him down.”

While Upperton moved to the far side of the bed, she laid her hands on the knot of muscle that capped his right arm and pressed. Thank God, the skin under her fingers was still warm and vital. Beneath the skin, steely muscles, accustomed to wrestling hundreds of pounds of horseflesh, fought her grip.

“Not much longer,” she murmured, unsure of whom she was trying to convince. “You have to lie still so the doctor can finish.”

Dr. Campbell brushed against her as he continued to extract tiny bits of lead, but she paid no heed. She didn’t care, as long as Benedict came through this. The doctor
poked once more, and Benedict heaved under her weight, nearly throwing her off.

She pushed until her arms strained with the effort. “Do it. Do it for me. Do it for our future.” She choked on the word and bent over his face until they were nose to nose. “Do it because I cannot face life without you.”

“You realize that pistol was loaded, don’t you?” Highgate’s smooth voice sent a ripple of pleasure through Sophia.

She shoved aside her untouched cup of tea. As the gray morning passed to a dull afternoon, they waited in the sitting room. The doctor had descended with Upperton hours ago. Julia was still upstairs at Benedict’s side. Sophia recognized his comment for what it was—a distraction.

She turned on the settee to find his eyes sparkling with admiration. Admiration! She couldn’t recall a man ever gazing on her in admiration before, not admiration of this whole and utter sort, reserved for her entire being, and not just her face or her body. Warmth bloomed in her beneath the fire of his gaze.

“Well, yes, that’s what Clivesden admitted,” she replied faintly. “I don’t suppose I gave the matter any thought when I grabbed it. I would not have known how to fire it at any rate.”

The scene from the park crowded her mind. “Gracious! Pray Benedict will be all right.”

The warm weight of Highgate’s arm settled about her shoulder, and she leaned into his embrace. “It quite depends on how deep he was hit.” His tone betrayed nothing, but a stolen glance at his face revealed a set jaw.

“He cannot die, not over something so stupid. He simply cannot.” Her voice wobbled on the final syllable. Her throat constricted painfully.

Heedless of any servants who might pass in the corridor beyond the sitting room, Highgate pulled her against his chest. She rested her head on his shoulder. “If Benedict dies, I’m going to wish I’d shot that miserable man.”

His lips brushed her hairline. “No, you won’t. You would not want that on your conscience. You ought to be comforted in the knowledge you have one and do not allow self-interest to rule your every action.”

She raised her head. “But I have. For the past five years—”

“Hush.” He cut her protests off with a swift kiss. Then he held her gaze. “There’s acting in self-interest, and there’s acting in self-interest.”

Watching him, she felt suddenly lighter, as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders.

“Would it have been in your best interest to marry one of your other suitors?”

“I cannot really say. I never gave any of them the consideration they deserved. I … I suppose I might have learned to be happy with one or another of them.”

Highgate stretched his legs in front of him and leaned back against the stiff settee, watching her from the corner of his eye. “And would that have been enough for someone like you?”

She turned her head to peer at him. “What does that mean, someone like me?”

He angled his legs about until he faced her. Reaching out, he curled his fingers about her upper arm, his grip strong. “Someone admirable and brave.”

Brave? No one had ever called her brave before. All her suitors had taken great pains to compliment her beauty. None ever bothered to exclaim over anything substantial like bravery.

But that was the problem. She, the essential Sophia, was not anything substantial—not to the men of the
ton
. She was window dressing, something pretty for them to look
at over the breakfast table, someone presentable to show on their arm at balls, someone lovely enough to grace their beds, but none of them had taken the time to see beyond the surface and to know her, to learn her likes and dislikes. To ask her opinion.

“Someone,” he whispered, “with a great deal of love in her heart to bestow on some fortunate soul.”

She caught her breath at the longing, the yearning in his tone.
He
wished to be that fortunate soul. Rufus Frederick Shelburne, Earl of Highgate, he of the tortured, broken heart. He, too, possessed a wealth of love, emotions he’d squandered on an undeserving wife. He deserved a partner who could return his feelings.

No longer able to withstand the intensity of his gaze, she focused on his cravat. “Only I’ve just wasted five years of my life on someone who did not deserve it. I can see that now.”

He slipped a hand to her chin and tipped it upward, compelling her to face the truth. “In light of that knowledge, can you say you loved him?”

“I couldn’t have, could I, when I did not know him.” No, she’d supposed him a paragon based on looks and charm alone.

As she spoke, she awaited the familiar pain, but it didn’t materialize. Its nature had changed from sharp and bright into more of a dull ache, tinged with the heat of shame that she’d allowed herself to be caught up in someone so unworthy for so long. It no longer held her in thrall. In fact, she had only to gaze on Highgate, and he eclipsed it.

He reached out and pulled her into an embrace. “I know. Believe me, I know. I have stood where you are now and forced myself to look reality in the eye. In spite of the few months of our marriage, I doubt I ever got to know my wife any better than you got to know Clivesden.
She refused to let me in. We were strangers inhabiting the same house.”

Sophia closed her eyes, leaned into him, and listened to the words rumble from his chest. She breathed them in, took them into herself, made them part of her. Their low-pitched rhythm soothed her, as did his hand skimming along her spine.

“After all these years,” he went on, “I believe I’ve come to understand something. Love isn’t always big and dramatic. It’s big, it’s deep, but it’s also quiet and calm.”

Quiet, calm, just as the two of them were now. She eased back, needing to look into his eyes, wanting to see what was written there. “I think it’s easy to imagine all manner of strong feelings,” she said thickly, “but in the end, they’re quite baseless when what they’re built on has no substance.”

He nodded. “That’s it, exactly.”

“It’s more like Benedict and Julia. They’ve both loved each other for years, and they’re only now coming to believe it.”

He trailed his fingertips along her cheek. “And what of you, who sees everyone else so clearly? What is it you know? Might you ever find it in your heart to let me in?”

In the face of such raw emotion, Sophia’s throat constricted. Even now a hint of wariness edged his expression; at least part of him dreaded her reply. He’d suffered so long. He deserved a gentle hand and a measure of happiness. Unable to voice her reply, she nodded.

He slipped his hand to the back of her neck and drew her to within a hairsbreadth of his lips. “Then would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

H
E
woke with a groan. His chest burned as if someone had shoved a red-hot poker into his ribs. The entire area throbbed with a pulse that mimicked a heartbeat.

“Benedict?”

The scrape of chair legs against the wooden floor accompanied the anxious sound of his name. He opened his eyes to the familiar sight of the ceiling just above his bed. His bed. How had he got back to his town house? The last thing he recalled was Hyde Park and fire streaking close to his heart. An instant later, Julia’s wan face filled his vision. Julia. Thank God.

“What happened?” he croaked.

“You let yourself get shot, you great, bloody idiot, that’s what happened.” A flush rose from her bodice to stain her cheeks.

“Ah.” A grin pulled at his parched lips. If she could natter at him like a fishwife, his injury couldn’t be all that serious.

Julia’s breasts rose as her chest expanded; then she let out a huff. “Is that all you have to say for yourself? You found a way to replace Papa, you allowed yourself to become a target, and all you can say is ‘ah’?”

“If you gave me some water, perhaps.”

With a tiny shake of her head, she turned away. A moment later, she reappeared, glass in hand. The mattress sagged as she sat beside him. With surprising gentleness considering her mood, she eased an arm around his shoulders. His injury throbbed a protest at the movement, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

Leaning against her softness, he inhaled the sweet scent of jasmine. Her perfume soothed him as much as the cooling draught of water she pressed to his lips. He covered her hand with his, helping to support the glass, for the simple excuse to touch her more.

“Do you know how fortunate you are to be alive?” she asked as he swallowed. “He was aiming to kill you, you know.”

“I know. I saw it in his eyes.” He would not tell her the rest—that there’d been a second set of loaded pistols
in case satisfaction was not obtained in the initial volley.

“And yet, you still shot into the air.”

“I thought he’d miss.” He’d never let on that her shout at the last possible moment had distracted him.

She let out another little huff, another rise and fall of those perfect breasts. “He did, if you want to see it that way. The ball hit a rib. Half an inch in the wrong direction, and you would have died.”

She choked on the last word. Head sagging, she pressed a fist to her lips. Blood stained the ruffle that edged her sleeve.

“What have you done?” Gritting his teeth, he reached for her hand. “That’s my blood, isn’t it?”