A Scandalous Proposal (15 page)

He drained the glass and walked out. As he reached the entry to call for his coat, Lady Cheverley appeared on the landing. “Evan, my dear. Can I speak with you?”

Much as he loved her, nearly the last thing he wished at the moment was a cozy chat with his mama.

“Could this wait, ma'am? I'll see you at dinner.”

“I shall not require you for long. As you are so
busy
of late—” she emphasized the word “—I should very much appreciate your speaking with me immediately.”

Inwardly gnashing his teeth, he gave her the only reply possible. “Very well. I'm at your disposal, madam.”

“Are you?” Her face grave, she surveyed him up and down. “We shall shortly see.”

With those unencouraging words, she beckoned him up to the sitting room.

He strode in and hesitated before the Louis XV sofa.

“Sit, please.” She walked to a side table where tea had been set out. “Should you like a cup?”

“No, thank you, Mama.”

She halted, her hands in the process of pouring a cup, then set down the pot. “Very well.” In a swish of skirts, she came to sit beside him. “I had hoped never to see the day when you were too busy to take tea with me.”

“'Tis hardly that,” he protested, irritated. “I've just supped, you will remember. And I
am
busy, so if you could tell me what you wished to say?”

She sighed. “I expect it's not a good time, but of late there hasn't been a better one. I shall just state it baldly, then, without roundaboutation. Do you intend to keep your promise to Richard regarding Andrea?”

The question caught him off guard. “W-what?”

“Your vow to marry her. I was present when you promised Richard, you will remember.”

He hadn't remembered. Not sure yet himself how he would reconcile that pledge with his need for Emily, he had no ready answer; exhausted both physically and emotionally, he was ill-equipped to reason it out on the spot. Irritation deepened to anger.

“I shall arrange something. I've always told her if she found no other man to her liking, I would marry her.”

“If she is set upon leaving London, she's unlikely to meet anyone else. You know how she avoids society—”

“She'll be taken care of,” he snapped. “I should see to it even if I'd not promised Richard. Sorry, Mama, to be so
abrupt, but I'm fatigued and I have pressing business. If you'll excuse me?”

“Another moment, please!” She held out a hand to stop him as he rose from the sofa. Fuming, almost out of his skin with impatience to be off, with great reluctance he sat.

“I know you're tired—we're all tired. And I hate forcing you to a matter you obviously don't wish to discuss, but 'tis important. Indeed, 'tis crucial.”

She paused, as if gathering her thoughts. Too weary to attempt anticipating them, he gritted his teeth and waited.

“This ‘pressing business' that's been so occupying you these past months…it's a woman, isn't it? A woman unworthy of you.”

Totally unprepared for the attack, he found the words leaving his lips before his overwrought mind could judge their wisdom. “She is the equal of me or anyone!”

Damn and blast,
he swore under his breath. He should have ignored the statement, pleaded ignorance. Emily was the last topic he wished to discuss with his mother, even when in full possession of his wits, which he was definitely not at this moment.

“Unworthy of you,” his mama repeated. “If she were not, you'd have brought her to me long ago.”

He stared at her, fiercely resenting her prying, resisting her words, but unable to counter them. How could he explain to her his Emily—her courage, her endurance, her charm and fire?

“This is none of your concern.”

“Oh, don't bristle up! I realize you are a man grown, with a life that does not wait upon my approval. Nor, must you admit, have I ever before questioned your…little affairs. But this is different, I can feel it. This is…serious.”

She paused, as if waiting for him to speak. Having nothing he wished to say, he remained silent.

Lady Cheverley sighed. “You will not make this easier,
will you? I am sorry to meddle in a matter you obviously consider none of my business, but I must ask. Just what are your intentions in regard to this…lady?”

Having no clear answer to that question himself, he held on to his rapidly fraying control with an effort. “No disrespect, Mama, but I repeat, this is
not
your concern.”

“You can hardly argue that the welfare of our family and your sister's future are no concern of mine.”

He stiffened. “And you, madam, can hardly believe I do not keep a watchful eye over both.”

“Do you, Evan? Have you, these last three months? Tell me, this lady whom you so admire—would she be deemed your equal in the eyes of the world?”

“The world is a shallow and cynical place, Mama. In any arena that judges true merit she would.”

His mother sighed deeply. “Oh my son, I wish we lived in such a place. But we must deal with the world as we find it. Can you be considering—marriage?”

When he made no immediate denial, she drew in her breath sharply, her eyes widening in alarm. “Then it is more serious even than I feared. Oh, my dear son!” She leaned over and imprisoned his hands between her own. “Can you not see what effect such a dreadful misalliance would have on your family? On Andrea? On your innocent sister?”

“Mother, I think this has gone far enough—”

“You must listen! You
will
listen!” She hung on to his hands as he attempted to pull away, waiting until, anger raging so fiercely he could barely prevent himself from jerking free and stomping out, he at last reluctantly met her gaze.

“Speak your piece, then, and have done with it.”

“Andrea would make you an unexceptional wife, though I am not set on her, should you prefer another of your own rank and station. Despite her limp and lack of fortune, I feel sure we could fulfill your pledge to Richard by contriving another suitable match. But if you were to disgrace the fam
ily with a misalliance such as you seem to be contemplating? Oh, Evan! For myself, I care nothing. But what of Andrea and Clare—what would happen to their prospects were you to make us outcasts from polite society?”

He tugged at the hand she still held, struggling to contain his fury. “I believe I know enough what is due my name not to make a misalliance. Nor do I see at present any need to marry at all. I'm hardly in my dotage, Madame.”

“Let's suppose, then, that you maintain an informal but long-term…alliance with this lady. What if there should be a child?”

He felt a flush hotter than anger stain his cheeks. “How irresponsible do you think me?”

“Oh, Evan, no protective measures are completely effective! Just consider—should your…precautions fail, could you stand aside and see your babe by a woman for whom you obviously care deeply born out of wedlock? Can you swear to uphold your duty to the family even then?”

For the first time he thought of Emily bearing a child. A child to displace her fixation on the soldier,
his
child of her body, the body he worshipped every night they lay together.
His son.

And realized with unshakable certainty he could never give up such a child, never allow him to be born a bastard.

The conviction must have been written on his face, for his mother shook her head silently. “You see how it would be. Oh, my darling, I am sorry it will cause you pain, but you must break with her. You must! Now, Evan, before something…irreversible happens.”

That she was correct, that she was forcing him to face the full implications of an undeniable, unpalatable truth he'd never before considered, made his guts churn with impotent fury. Break with Emily? The very notion sent a lance of agony to the core of him.

First Richard, now Emily? One could lose only so much
of one's self and go on. Writhing inwardly, he tried to twist out of the dilemma.

“Have I not always done what is necessary?”

“Then you must break with her and form an attachment elsewhere—with Andrea or another, it matters not as long as she's suitable. Only a formal betrothal will prevent your resuming…inappropriate bonds. My darling, I know this is the worst possible time, with us all still in agony over Richard, but later you'll be grateful you took the proper course.” Her eyes pleading, she squeezed his hands.

Hardly able to bear her touch for the rage churning in him, he jerked away. Speaking softly, lest the howling beast within break free to rant at her, he said, “Dare you
presume
to instruct me in my duty?”

She flinched at the harshness of his tone, tears starting at the corners of her eyes, lips trembling. But she held his gaze, implacable.

“If you know your duty, then do it.”

With a growl he flung himself to his feet. “Very well. If I must marry someone
suitable,
” he snapped, giving the word savage emphasis, “then it might as well be Andrea. I'll propose as soon as she's recovered enough to hear me. You shall have your socially approved wedding. But ask me nothing more.”

She grabbed at his arm. “Dearest, I didn't mean—”

“Unhand me!” he barked, ripping his sleeve free.

Weeping openly now, fingers to her mouth, his mother nodded. Without a backward glance he stalked out.

D
espite his bone-deep weariness, instead of riding or summoning a hackney Evan set out for Emily's town house on foot. He needed time to sort out his ragged emotions and decide what to do.

A few blocks of pacing were enough to convince him, much as he frantically tried to devise some rational alternative, that his mother was indeed right.

He couldn't marry Emily. Doing so would irreparably damage his sister, for no family of stature would wish to align itself with one so lost to what was due its name and lineage. Andrea would likely not marry, either, unless he wed her. There was no other way to preserve honor, to honor his vow.
Ah, Richard,
he thought, bleeding inwardly,
how could you ask this of me?

How could he wed Andrea and not lose Emily?

They could remain friends, could they not? He could stop by, consult with her, share hopes and plans….

It wouldn't be the same. He would no longer be free. And their time, their precious time together would be even more restricted than it had been since Andrea's arrival.

Marrying Andrea was the right, the only honorable course.
Since there was no acceptable alternative, he would do so. Why, then, did it all feel so wrong?

Once he did his duty, he would be more at ease, lose this sense of impending catastrophe. Andrea would make it easier—they had always been friends. That in his current frame of mind he had to struggle not to view even the innocent Andrea with distaste he would not dwell on. He pushed the whole detestable vision of a forced marriage from his mind.

For the short, sweet infinity of the next few days, until Andrea recovered enough to entertain his proposal, their relationship could continue as it was. He could watch Emily at tea, curving her little finger over her cup as always; tease her into that throaty gurgle of a laugh; fence with her sharp wit; cherish the touch of her hands and lips, the deep satisfaction of their intimate joining.

Before he lost the privilege forever. That stark realization sucked the breath from his lungs.

It was unthinkable. It was inescapable.

He closed his eyes for a moment, marshaling the remains of his waning strength. Extinguishing further thought of so unspeakable a future, he forced his weary mind to a scarcely more palatable problem.

How was he going to break the news to Emily?

He toyed with the notion of delaying the announcement. After all, as Andrea was prostrate with grief, he could hardly rush her with a proposal for several days at least. That she would accept his proposal was nearly certain, he knew, swiftly extinguishing a flare of hope.

Could he not savor these last few days with Emily?

It would be unfair to conceal his imminent change of status, he concluded reluctantly. Emily had the right to know, to prepare herself—and to help him think of a way to salvage as much as possible of their life together.

That last thought was the only faint glimmer of hope he could glean out of this whole dreadful business.

He halted before her door, awash in yearning for what could never be. Then, chastising himself not to waste another second, he mounted the steps.

As he'd never mentioned Andrea, the news he would shortly deliver must come as a shock. Would Emily greet it with tears, pleas that he not marry another, vows of devotion? Or the cool pronouncement that to all things there is a season?

Raising his hand to knock, he took a deep breath. One way or another, he was about to find out.

 

Humming to herself, Emily arranged sandwiches and biscuits on the tea tray. Well pleased with the progress of her seamstresses, she'd returned home early today. She'd be able to report to Evan that “Créations Madame Emilie” would soon have its debut.

She expected that, as her primary investor, he'd greet the news with enthusiasm—though she wasn't sure. His brief note, in a nearly illegible script so unlike his usual precise penmanship, spoke of the depth of his grief over his friend's death. Vividly she remembered reeling from such blows, and poignant tenderness swelled in her breast. She longed for him to come to her, that she might let him talk it out, offer sympathy and wifely comfort.

The thought caught her up short. Cheeks heating, she reminded herself yet again, as she seemed to have to do with increasing frequency of late, that she had no right to intrude into his personal life. Such instincts were best firmly squelched, lest she slip into viewing her role as something it was not nor could ever be.

She heard his distinctive step in the hallway and a smile sprang to her lips. A gust of raw, rain-scented wind, memento of the wintry storm that had plagued the city all day, blew into the room with him.

His face worn and bestubbled, he came and drew her im
mediately into his arms. Compassion for his evident distress flooding her, she held him close.

He moved her to arm's length, but instead of releasing her, bent to place gentle, lingering kisses on her brow, her eyelids, her cheeks, her chin. Finally he claimed her lips in a kiss so infinitely tender her guarded heart beat faster and a melting warmth spread through her.

Rather than extending his kisses into the interlude such ardor seemed to promise, he drew back, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “My sweet Emily.”

'Twas so difficult sometimes to maintain her distance—but she must. Swallowing the “My darling Evan” that sprang to her lips, she reached instead to brush some errant raindrops from his dark hair.

“I'm so sorry, Evan.”

He opened his lips, then closed them and acknowledged her condolence with a short nod.

“Should you like tea?”

With a little sigh he released her. “Yes, tea would be good.” He walked toward the sofa, halted, paced to the window and stood staring out at the street.

She regarded him with concern. What could she say or do to help? Words, she knew, were meaningless at such a time. Instead, she brought him his tea.

“Here, drink this.” She touched his cold fingers. “You seem chilled—'twill help warm you.”

“Emily, I…I shall have to leave town shortly.”

Conscious of a sharp disappointment, she nodded. Settling his friend's estate, probably.

“I see. Will you be away for long?”

“I'm not sure. We'll…need a mourning period.”

“You must take all the time necessary,” she said, trying to damp down the hurt that he evidently chose not to seek her solace. “Grief can neither be ignored nor quickly mastered.”

Still standing, his gaze on the far distance, he took a sip. “When I do return, things…will have to be different. I…I shall be engaged.”

She was stirring her tea when the import of his words exploded in her mind like an unexpectedly tossed fire-cracker. Her heart stopped, the spoon dropped from her nerveless fingers and clattered against the saucer.

As the shock waves of meaning spread, her hearing dimmed, her eyesight blurred, she felt at once hotly dizzy and piercingly cold. She had the sensation of falling before Evan's firm hands grasped her.

“Emily! Emily, are you all right?”

His words penetrated, barely. Taking deep, unsteady breaths, she locked her vision on small details and willed them to remain in focus. The teacup that lay shattered on the carpet where she must have dropped it. She should call Francesca to mop up…

Then Evan was lifting her, carrying her to the sofa.

“Emily, sweeting, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have just—blurted it out, but I didn't know how to tell you.”

He laid her down, but with trembling hands, she pushed back to a sitting position. He took a seat beside her.

“Please don't be angry with me, my darling.” Evan chafed her cold fingers, kissed them. “Taking this step has nothing to do with any change in my feelings for you! I'm here now, I'll always be here for you, just as I promised. Anything you wish, anything you need, you have but to say it and 'twill be yours, I swear it. Please believe me!”

He gazed at her, face strained, his eyes desperate. “I've a duty to Richard—to his sister, Andrea. Her horse fell on her in a hunting accident several years ago and nearly crushed her leg. She's a lovely girl, but shy, uncomfortable and fearful of strangers. Our families have always been close, and I'm all she has left. Before Richard died, I…I promised I would marry her.”

Emily's numbed brain was finally beginning to function. “Yes, of course. I understand.” Over the rapid beating of her heart and the faintness that kept trying to overwhelm her, she endeavored to tell herself this was right. Sooner or later it would have to end.

Did it have to be so soon?

He drew her into his arms, kissed her fervently. “Things do not have to change between us, though I'll not be able to be with you as oft as I have. I'll have to be more discreet in my visits, but—”

As his meaning slowly penetrated her still-muzzy brain, a second shock struck her. She seized his caressing fingers. “Evan, of course things will change! You cannot think that I…that I would…No, 'tis not possible.”

“Sweeting, it's not what I wish, either, what I would want for us. I know the…circumstances are distressing to you. But nothing would be as distressing as losing you altogether.”

Could it be he did not understand? That he thought his engagement—his
marriage
—would have no effect on their relationship? Had her coming to him given him that erroneous an impression of her?

The chilling thought focused her. She pulled her hands free. “Your marriage must mean the end of our—friendship, Evan, surely. There's no other way. I've…sinned with you already, for which I'll owe a lifetime of penance. I will not be an adulteress. I cannot.”

He looked from the hands folded on her lap to her set face. “You would send me away?” he asked, his tone aghast, disbelieving. “Refuse to see me again?”

She said nothing, unable to trust her voice to reaffirm the truth that cut like a saber's slash into her heart. But if she did not stand firm now, she sensed the force of his persuasion and her own treacherous longing would sweep her into actions that would lead to self-loathing and destruction.

“Does what we share mean so little to you?” he whispered at last.

The anguish in his eyes echoed his tone, but she made herself meet his gaze firmly.

“Marriage vows mean more. 'Tis a holy promise, Evan, given before God, to love, cherish and keep thyself only unto one other. I would not wish you to break such a vow, could not live with myself were you to break it with me.”

He remained silent a long time, as if her words were so difficult he must struggle to comprehend them. “We shall have to part, then?”

“Yes.”

“Permanently?”

“Yes.”

“And there is no way, no circumstance under which we might be together?”

Tears scratching at her eyes, she shook her head.

“Even as friends…my dearest friend?”

'Twas as if a giant fist had clamped around her chest, squeezing, squeezing ever tighter. “Oh, Evan, could you truly pledge to meet me just as a friend?”

“I would pledge the world and everything in it not to have you tell me goodbye.”

The despair in his voice so closely mirrored her own she could bear it no longer. Clamping her lips together to hold back the words she must not say, she threw herself into his arms.

He crushed her close. Driven by the gale of imminent farewell, the sparks that always glowed between them ignited to a mutual hunger as elemental and irresistible as the forces driving them to part. Breathing her name in a sigh, he carried her to bed.

Their first coupling was fierce, frantic, the next so sweetly tender Emily felt she would weep. Afterward, again by mutual unspoken desire, they did not go down to dinner, did
not attempt to play cards or chess or even exchange the candid, incisive commentary about current happenings that normally formed an enjoyable finish to their day.

Instead, they remained holding each other close, conscious of the mantel clock steadily ticking away the precious minutes and hours of their last time together. At length, the street noises outside faded and Emily dozed.

Sometime in darkest night she woke to Evan's touch. With lips and hands he cherished her from the crown of her head to her toes, lingering where he knew her to be most exquisitely sensitive—her nipples, the soft cleft of her thighs—and bringing her to blindingly intense release. Then slowly rebuilding the tension again to couple her pleasure with his own.

Afterward, in the lightening dawn, still joined, Evan turned them to the side, then laid one hand between her chest and his.

“You feel it?” he whispered. “Even our hearts beat as one.”

The tears started as he left the bed to dress. Fisting them away, she rose as well, threw on a dressing gown and sat silently watching him. She should assist him as she had since their first night, but a listless languor held her motionless.