A Most Scandalous Proposal (38 page)

“The doctor needed help extracting the ball,” she replied thickly. “I had to hold you steady.”

He gave her half a smile. “At least I could have been awake for that.”

Her gaze hardened. “I’m glad you weren’t.”

She looked away, and he didn’t press the issue. More than anything else, her tone told him what a close scrape he’d had. His heart swelled with sympathy. Inwardly, he railed against the weakness and pain that prevented him from drawing her into his arms. “Julia—”

“It would have been my fault,” she burst out. “Do you realize that?”

“Julia, no.”

“Yes!” Her hand sliced through the air above him. “It was my idea that you compromise me. I cried out at the wrong moment. I brought this on you. I brought so much on you, and you never said a word.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye and traced a salty path along the curve of her cheek.

Benedict swallowed. “I reckoned Clivesden would call me out. I expected that from the beginning. When he didn’t, I arranged things as they should have been.”

“Why didn’t you say anything when you asked me to consider the consequences?”

Gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his chest, he opened his arms. She eased herself into his embrace, and he sifted his fingers through her hair. “If I mentioned the possibility, would you have gone through with it? Would you have come with me to Kent?”

She raised her head to face him. A single droplet quivered on her cheekbone. “Would I have risked your life? No, of course not.”

“Then I’m glad I never said anything.”

“But if we’d never gone to Kent, I wouldn’t have seen …”

He drew his hand through her hair, sifting the fine strands through his fingers. “What did you see?”

“Don’t laugh.”

He didn’t feel like laughing in the least. “I won’t.”

“I saw our child. I saw our future.”

“We will have it.”

She sniffed, an unladylike, yet endearing sound. “I’ve put you through hell, haven’t I?”

He skimmed his knuckles along her temple and down, brushing away that clinging teardrop. “You sent me to heaven as well. As I told you the other morning, that moment trumped all. Anything that preceded it is forgotten.”

“My God, what have I put you through? Years of waiting.” She pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment and inhaled, a single, trembling breath. “Years. I watched Sophia go through it, and I put you through the same. I never realized—”

He held up a shaky hand. “There’s a huge difference between you and Clivesden. You know me, and, more important, I know you. Whatever you’ve put me through, it’s been a waiting game more than anything.” Reaching
up, he drew a finger along her cheek. “But I have you now. I will not let you go.”

“What … what if my feelings never match the depth of yours?” At least she acknowledged their existence. It was a start.

“I do not believe that for a moment. You’ve already opened yourself to me.” He reached for her hand and entwined their fingers. “I do not just mean in my bed. When you told me of Miss Mallory. Now. You would not be so upset if you did not care.”

“Of course I care. You’re my friend.”

“We are more than friends, Julia. We’re lovers. We’ll become husband and wife as soon as I recover.”

He studied her reaction, caught the tension around her mouth as she contemplated their future.

“It’s like with kissing, Julia. We start there and see where it leads. You told me you quite liked the kissing.”

She ducked her head. “I liked more than that.”

A grin tugged at his lips. “You should not admit such things to me when I’m in no condition to act on them.” He raised her hand and pressed his lips to the soft skin on its back. “Never fear, I shall make it up to you.”

S
HE
woke cradled against Benedict’s shoulder. The light filtering through the curtains indicated early evening. She couldn’t even remember drifting off, but considering the long hours passed in vigil by his side, her exhaustion came as no shock. She closed her eyes against the image of him lying, pale and bleeding, on the dead grass. She’d carry it with her forever, but for now, at least, she could blanket herself in his warmth and listen to the even rhythm of his breathing.

In and out, a steady rise and fall that soothed in its constancy. He would survive, and she could lock away the blinding fear that she’d lose him.

She nestled as close as she dared, wary of disturbing the white bands of linen wrapped about his torso. Peace surrounded her. It filled her. If not for her stubborn heart, they might have slept this way in Kent, wrapped in each other.

They could still sleep this way, for years on end. All she had to do was let him in. But she had—ages ago, whether or not she’d realized it, and never once had she lost herself. She could give herself to him in marriage and trust him with her heart. He was a good, honorable man, and he loved her. And it was long past time she let go her reservations and childish fears. She had only to free herself and follow her heart.

She slipped an arm about his waist, and he shifted in his sleep, turning into the embrace. One of his hands pressed over hers, the fingers tightening into a firm grip.

“I’ll have to send you back home again,” he murmured. His eyelids fluttered, but he kept them closed.

“I cannot leave yet.”

“I’m sure your sister will have something to say about that.” The sleep-induced roughness of his voice settled deep in her belly. “Haven’t you left her to cool her heels long enough?”

“She and Highgate left yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” He blinked. “How long have I been insensible?”

“Over a day.”

“And you’ve been here the entire time?” His voice deepened on the words, sending a shiver along her spine.

“I can hardly make the scandal any worse than it is already.”

“Still, you ought to go home before your father decides to come after you.”

“I cannot leave until I tell you something.” She turned their hands over and entwined her fingers with his. “I’ve made my choice.”

He arched a brow. “Your choice? You mean to tell me you’re running off with Clivesden, after all?”

She gave his hand a warning squeeze but could do nothing to prevent the grin that stretched her cheeks until they ached. The moment she admitted to having made up her mind, a burst of emotion released inside her to race along every vein and every nerve ending.

Happiness. Pure joy. Love—love that she was ready to claim and acclaim buoyed her up until she felt as if she was about to float off the bed like one of the Montgolfier brothers’ contraptions.

“I ought to, just for that. No, you told me when we came back from Kent that I had to choose how I meant to conduct our marriage.”

She leaned over and pressed her mouth to his, her fingertips tracing through the stubble on his cheek. When she pulled back, her lips broadened into a smile that he mirrored, as if he knew what was coming.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, and I want you to be happy. I want
us
to be happy.”

He gave her hand an answering squeeze. “Then we will be.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
HE SANCTUARY
of St. George’s Hanover Square soared to heights made all the more cavernous by the size of the gathering. Really, why such a huge space to solemnify nuptials with such a tiny attendance?

Sophia suppressed the urge to waltz up the nave. Her glance skipped past Benedict, standing stiffly before the altar, to settle on Highgate. Heavens, she’d spent hours dreaming of her wedding day, and for the most part, reality mirrored those fantasies. The church was the same, the rector in his ceremonial vestments, her parents in attendance and happy.

Goodness only knew Mama spent the morning beaming while fussing at Sophia to hurry along. Papa, too, walked ahead of her with an actual bob in his step, as if he were thirty years younger. The forgiveness of a five-thousand-pound debt would do that to a man.

The one deviation from the plan was the groom. Highgate, if not as tall and broad-shouldered as the fairy-tale prince of her dreams, acquitted himself quite well in a black coat, brocade waistcoat of silver gray, his cravat fashionably knotted. How long would it take her to untie that intricate tangle of pristine linen? Her fingers tingled, as if they already battled starched fabric, her knuckles brushing the heated skin of his throat.

Thank God those dreams had never come completely
true. She would never trade solid reality for something so insubstantial again.

As she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, he gave her a broad smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. She couldn’t help but answer with a grin of her own.

“Shall we?” As if he were asking her for a walk in the park. Or a ride in his carriage.

“Absolutely.” How could she hesitate before the glimmer of promise in his dark eyes?

He leaned in to speak low in her ear. “I confess I’m in a bit of a hurry to get through the ceremony. We’ve quite a long journey ahead of us.”

“I am certain we shall find a way to pass the time.” She had no idea how she carried off such an air of nonchalance when, inside, her blood hummed in anticipation. The thought of their pervious jaunts alone in his barouche flooded her mind with scandalous images. Images that were most definitely inappropriate in church.

His smile broadened until the creases in his cheeks masked his scar. “I’ve had a few thoughts on the matter myself, only I fear I cannot discuss them in such a setting.”

She slipped her fingers from his elbow and slid them along his sleeve to catch his hand in hers. “I believe that makes us of one mind, my lord.”

J
ULIA
smoothed her palms down her silk skirts as she made her way up the nave to where the rector stood, ready to preside over the vows—both Sophia and Highgate’s and hers with Benedict. She focused on her sister’s suspicious radiance. The pale gold of her gown, an echo of her curls, explained only a small part of it. Most of it emanated from the roses blooming in her cheeks, the spark in her eye, the wicked little grin playing about her lips that proclaimed she knew some enticing secret.

If Julia didn’t know better, she might suspect Sophia was in love. What a preposterous notion. After five years of pining over the wrong man, she couldn’t possibly have got over her
tendre
this quickly.

Could she?

The manner in which she gazed at Highgate—as if William Ludlowe, Earl of Clivesden had never existed, as if no other man had ever existed—put lie to the thought. All the tears shed through countless evenings during which she’d been overlooked were seemingly erased. And from all appearances, Highgate returned the sentiment, fully, openly, unabashedly.

Julia trained her gaze on her hands folded demurely in front of her. Benedict looked at
her
that way, with such an ease and an intensity, it left her fluttery with a yearning that melted her insides. She paused to give herself a mental shake. Surely such thoughts were forbidden in church.

A delicate cough interrupted her musings. Her mother stood at her elbow. “Come, Julia. They’re ready.”

Julia lowered her lashes, not wanting to see the recrimination, the judgment, the disappointment. She’d borne the weight of her mother’s shattered hopes since her return from Kent as a just punishment for her waywardness, but no more. The sooner she laid her hand in Benedict’s, the better. With a nod, she started for the altar.

“Wait.”

Eyes wide, she turned. “Oughtn’t we get the matter settled?”

She left the rest of the thought unspoken, but the words hovered in the air between them, nonetheless.
Then you can go on pretending you have only one daughter
.

“In a moment.” Mama flipped her hand in an impatient gesture. Lines of tension formed about her lips. “They’ll allow us a little time before they start.”

Julia cast a suspicious glance past her mother’s shoulder to determine if Lady Wexford had deigned to put in an appearance. Vexing Highgate’s sister by holding up the proceedings was the only reason Julia could imagine behind her mother’s actions. But no, Lady Wexford had decided to deprive them all of her presence.

Thank the heavens.

“I …” The decisiveness in Mama’s tone gave way to a wobble. “I thought we should discuss your choice of husbands.”

Julia kept her gaze trained on Mama’s forehead so she could give the appearance of looking into her eyes without actually doing so. She’d had enough of judgment. “It’s rather late for that, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I realize …” Mama stopped and pulled in a breath. “I did not wish to begin an argument.”

Julia shifted her weight in the direction of the canopied pulpit. The rector stood beside it, impatient to begin. Sophia and Highgate had stopped gazing on each other to cast curious glances over their shoulders, while Benedict … Benedict held himself rigid, his fingers beating a slow but tense tattoo against his thigh.

“Then perhaps this isn’t the ideal topic. Nor is it the time.”

“For heaven’s sake, I mean to apologize.” Mama spit out the words between gritted teeth, the sound low enough to split the expectant silence and carry into the far corners of the sanctuary.