A Most Scandalous Proposal (9 page)

“Pity, ’at one.” At the groom’s coarse accent, Benedict
looked up. “Ye wants a runner, ye’d best look elsewhere. Great prospects, ’at one, ’til she broke down.”

“I’m not in the market for a racehorse. I’m looking for breeding stock.”

The groom rested an elbow against the side of the stall. “Can’t beat ’er bloodlines. ’Er sire won at Ascot five years running, ’e did.”

“Are you quite through?” Upperton’s bored drawl sounded from the aisle beyond. “I’m sure I’ve got a pressing engagement or other, one that doesn’t involve horseflesh.”

Biting back the obvious comment about Upperton’s taste in mistresses, Benedict gave the mare a final pat and pushed his way out of the stall, noting in passing the name and lot number. Nefertari. A queenly name for a prizewinner.

Upperton was lounging against the door of an empty stall, arms folded over a brocade waistcoat and one foot propped up. Against the backdrop of rough wood and bales of straw, his polished Hessians, intricately knotted cravat, and artfully tousled sand-colored hair looked rather out of place. The man might well fancy himself a dandy, but Benedict knew him to be a loyal friend in a pinch.

“Since when have you got such an objection to horses?” Benedict asked.

“I’ve none at all.” Upperton kicked himself away from the wall. “I like them just fine when they’re winning me bets. I just prefer not to commune with the creatures. If I’m to run my hands all over a female and murmur sweet nothings, I’d rather she be able to reciprocate.”

Benedict cocked a brow. “When’s the last time a woman let you get that close?”

Puffing himself up in mock outrage, Upperton stabbed a finger in Benedict’s direction. Benedict braced himself
for a verbal barrage that never came. Instead, Upperton let out a grunt, his gaze fixed somewhere past Benedict’s shoulder.

A prickle of awareness caused the hairs at Benedict’s nape to stand on end, and he pivoted. Perfect, white teeth gleaming in a wide grin, William Ludlowe strode down the aisle.

“I say there, isn’t this a lucky chance?”

Benedict attempted to return the smile, but he feared he’d only succeeded in grimacing. Two encounters in as many days was hardly what he’d term lucky.

Upperton pushed past him, jostling his shoulder with unnecessary force—a warning, no doubt.

“Lucky indeed,” Upperton boomed. From several nearby stalls came the restless rustling of hay as their occupants shifted nervously. “Never thought you were much on cattle. What brings you here?”

“I’m in the market for a bit of flash, you know. Something to befit my new station.”

“Ah.” Upperton didn’t miss a beat.

Benedict, on the other hand, gritted his teeth. His grimace must resemble a death mask, his face was so stiff.

“Heard there was a fancy little bit on offer come Monday,” Ludlowe went on. “Wanted to come have a look for myself. Name of Neffer-titty.”

“Nefertari,” Benedict grated.

“That’s it.” Ludlowe stepped past Upperton. “Groom said she was somewhere around here.”

Benedict shifted his weight until he blocked Ludlowe’s path. “You don’t want that one.”

“Oh, I say!”

Benedict inhaled: fresh hay, wood, leather, horse. Ordinarily, he found such scents soothing. Not today. Not now. Rather than point out the obvious, he settled for a gibe. “I didn’t think fashionable nobs rode about on mares.”

Beyond Ludlowe’s shoulder, Upperton arched a brow. “Better listen to him, old man. When it comes to horseflesh, he knows what he’s about.”

Ludlowe’s grin didn’t waver. Not a flicker. “Oh, I don’t want her for me.” He leaned closer, all manly confidentiality, as if he and Benedict were old school chums. “I’m in the market for a wife. Any bride of mine ought to ride in style.”

Upperton broke into an explosive fit of coughing. Nefertari pinned her ears back and tossed her dainty head. Down the row, another horse kicked at his stall.

Benedict balled his hands into fists, but he couldn’t let on what a complete and utter idiot Ludlowe was if he thought to win Julia over with a saddle horse. “You still don’t want this one. They retired her from racing because she broke down. She isn’t fit for much more than a sunny pasture and breeding.”

Ludlowe tapped his chin with an immaculately manicured finger. “I suppose you would know a thing or two about horseflesh, wouldn’t you? Tell me, if you wished to surprise a lady with a really prime mount, what would you recommend?”

Upperton’s coughing fit turned into a wheeze. His reddened cheeks darkened to crimson. Was he so childish as to laugh over an unintentional double entendre?

“If you cannot rein in your juvenile sense of humor,” Benedict snapped, “would you mind stepping outside?”

Upperton’s chest expanded as he drew in a lungful of air. With a series of splutters, he brought his breathing under control. “Go on then,” he gasped. “Answer the man’s question.”

“It all depends on the particular lady. Some prefer to walk. Others prefer carriages.”

“Nonsense!” Ludlowe burst out. “They all take to riding eventually. Some just want lessons.”

The corners of Upperton’s mouth twitched. Benedict
quelled him with a glare. “Subtlety is wasted on the likes of you.”

“Oh, come now, Revelstoke. One might say you’ve misplaced your sense of humor.”

“Or one might say I prefer to wait until I’m diverted to laugh.”

Ludlowe made another tentative move toward Nefertari’s stall. “Do you think I might …?”

Benedict could hardly prevent him. He didn’t own Nefertari—yet. Suppressing a sigh, he stepped aside and allowed Ludlowe to pass.

“Ah! And aren’t you a fine-looking specimen?”

Upperton arched a brow. “Perhaps they’d like a little privacy.”

Benedict might have been all too happy to comply with the suggestion, except he wanted to ensure Ludlowe didn’t decide to bid Nefertari out from under him, in spite of her unsuitability. “Be certain to take a good look at her knees.”

“Delightful things, ladies’ knees,” Upperton commented. “You might want to run your hands over them.”

Benedict sent him another glare. “If you’ve got nothing constructive to add …”

Upperton shrugged. “Just passing the time until we can get on to something more agreeable.”

Ludlowe stuck his head out of the stall. “Run my hands down her legs, you say? Whatever for?”

“Remind me why all the ladies twitter over him again.”

Benedict ignored Upperton’s dig and stepped back into the stall. Resisting the impulse to shove Ludlowe into a fresh pile of manure, he bent down and cupped his hands about the mare’s near knee. “If you know what to look for, you can see she’s in no condition for any sort of hard riding. There’s swelling in the joints. They’re warmer than they ought to be. A nice, quiet life in the country is about all that’s left in her, and you
might get a foal or two out of her once she’s had a good rest.”

Or at least that was what Benedict was hoping to get from her.

A jet of warm air shuddered out of Nefertari’s nostrils. Shuffling her feet in the straw, she nosed hopefully at Benedict’s pockets.

He rubbed a hand down her bony face. “Sorry, old girl. I’m all out of carrots.”

“Here.” Ludlowe produced a lump of sugar and held it out in his flattened palm. Nefertari shouldered Benedict aside and lipped up the offering. “Suppose I’ll be seeing you at the auction, then, Revelstoke.”

J
ULIA PRESSED
her fingers to her temples, but the pounding in her head was relentless. The air in the crowded room weighed on her. If only she hadn’t chosen to sit in the middle of the row. Boxed in between Sophia and their mother, she could not escape easily. Henrietta Upperton’s rendition of “Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms” was not helping matters, nor was her younger sister’s accompaniment.

The poor girl’s voice squeaked on the final note. She cut it blessedly short, while a blush crept up her cheeks. After a few moments’ awkward silence, a scattering of polite applause broke out.

Julia nudged her sister. “Pardon me.”

Sophia remained in place, her gaze fixed on the matron seated directly in front of her.

“What’s the matter with you?” Julia whispered in her ear.

Sophia gave a start and turned a vague glance on Julia. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“I was just remarking on Miss Upperton’s lovely voice. Don’t you agree?”

Sophia nodded, the golden ringlets brushing the sides of her face. “Oh yes, quite.”

Julia wrapped her fingers about Sophia’s upper arm and tugged.

Sophia blinked at her. “Oh, is it over?”

“Of course not, but I cannot stand another butchered rendition of Mozart, and you’re obviously off in your own little world.”

With a quick excuse to Mama and many apologetic nods to the other spectators, she urged her sister toward the back of the room. As they slipped through a paneled door into the main hall of the Upperton town house, Julia cast a final glance over her shoulder.

The reason behind her sister’s distraction became immediately apparent. His snow-white cravat arranged in an artfully complicated knot, William Ludlowe lounged against one of the far walls. He caught Julia’s eye and acknowledged her with a smile and a nod.

Julia turned her back on him. “Why did he have to choose tonight of all nights to begin attending musicales?”

In reply, Sophia let out a moan. Julia studied her sister for the least sign of illness. If anyone were to express disgruntlement, it should be Julia herself.

“You aren’t feeling faint by any chance, are you?”

Sophia waved her fan in front of her reddened cheeks. “Certainly not. I’ve resolved never to faint in society again. It gets me into the worst sort of trouble.”

Julia was about to point out that fainting was not exactly a reaction Sophia could control, when her sister added, “Oh, I should never have come tonight.”

“I cannot say I blame you there. The Upperton sisters do seem to get worse each year, don’t they?” The strains of a new tune reached the hallway. Julia winced.

Sophia’s fan came to rest against her bodice. “I did not mean it that way.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Only I’m not fit to be seen in society now.”

“What nonsense. Of course you are.”

“But Lady Wexford—”

Julia reached for her sister’s arm. “Lady Wexford is
nothing more than a vicious gossip with nothing better to do than create scandal where none exists.”

“Be careful who you say that to.” Sophia slumped against the fading chinoiserie wallpaper. The faint offkey warbling of some Scottish air drifted from the conservatory. “If she gets wind of it, she’ll be out to ruin you, as well.”

“How will she get wind of it?”

“You never know.” Sophia inspected her nails for a moment. “At any rate, Mama’s invited her to dinner on Monday, so be careful what you say.”

Julia frowned. “Why would Mama invite her to dinner? Or perhaps I ought to ask why Lady Wexford would accept.”

“Something happened today while you were out paying calls.” Sophia sighed and stared up at the crown molding for a moment. “I knew I should have gone with you. I might have avoided this mess altogether.”

“What mess?” Her sister’s face took on a grayish tinge, and Julia grabbed her wrist. “Sophia, what’s happened?”

“While you were out, Lord Highgate paid me a visit.” Sophia’s blue eyes sought out Julia’s. “He proposed.”

“And?”

“I accepted,” Sophia murmured.

“You
what?
Sophia—”

“It isn’t as if I intend to go through with it,” she rushed to add.

“Good evening, ladies.”

Sophia gasped. Julia whirled. Benedict loomed at the far end of the hall with George Upperton. Their heels thudded on the parquet floor as they approached.

A grin split Upperton’s good-natured face. “Taking the intelligent route and hiding out in the corridor, I see. It’s a strategy that’s served me well over the years.”

Julia nodded at the new arrivals, while inwardly cursing
their sense of timing. She ducked her head to avoid Benedict’s gaze.

“Miss Julia.” The gravelly quality of his voice struck her as somehow different. But why? She’d been hearing it for years.

She closed her eyes in a vain effort to ward off an inner prickle of recognition. Drat Sophia, why had she teased her with the possibility that Benedict was in love with her? Now Julia would question all his actions toward her. And what if what Sophia had said in jest turned out to be true?

If I remain forever a bachelor, I shall lay the blame at your feet
. And what, precisely, had he meant by that?

If she had to face his feelings, she might well have to examine this terrifying and new but insistent reaction she experienced in his presence. Soon, it would become impossible to ignore. Years of friendship had proven he wasn’t like the other men of the
ton
, but his experience with the cavalry had deepened those familiar traits. He’d grown graver, more earnest. His presence, his person, might swallow her so easily until the essential Julia became lost, the same way Sophia had lost herself in her unrequited
tendre
over the past few years.