A Scandalous Proposal (16 page)

Her chest tight in that squeezing grip, she felt her heart match the tick of the mantel clock, each beat seeming to chip away at something deep inside.

Buttoning his last cuff, he turned to face her. “This is it, I suppose. For a few days. Then we shall have a month or so before the…event takes place.” He squeezed his eyes shut, took a shuddering breath. “A month…and then eternity.”

His words finally penetrated her lethargy. “A month? No, Evan, that cannot be. As soon as your lady accepts you, you are bound to her. Regardless of when the wedding occurs.”

“That fierce conscience of yours cannot give us even another month?”

Dying a little with the word, she uttered it anyway. “No. I cannot. I'm sorry. Probably even last night was a mistake.”

His head snapped up, his whole body instantly alert. “How can you say that? How can you feel anything—
anything
—for me, for us, and call what we shared together last night—for the whole of the time we've known each other—a
mistake?
”

His affronted tone nearly broke her resolve. “Oh Evan, did you really think there was a place in this world where an earl and a shopkeeper together would be right?”

“I thought we made it right.”

It was never right—but oh, how precious you are,
she thought. But now that he was to marry, what good would it serve to admit tender feelings she shouldn't have allowed herself to develop in the first place? Emotions that might encourage him to attempt dissuading her from the end she knew they must make.

No, better that he stay angry, better for him—and for her—to make the break swift and irreversible.

“We both knew from the first our time together would be brief. Now we should acknowledge it was…
pleasant—
” she uttered the insultingly tepid description with a slight tremor “—and move on.”

He stared at her as if she had spoken in tongues.
“Pleasant? Move on?”
he echoed furiously. “To a new novel, a new bonnet…a new lover?”

She swayed with the force of his derision, but somehow it reinforced her resolve to deal the final blow.

“Whatever is suitable.” Summoning some inner reserve of strength, she stood up and made him a deep curtsey. “May I wish you and your wife very happy, my lord.”

His lip curled, he raised one hand, and for a moment she thought he would strike—or seize her. Then, exhaling in a
ragged rush of breath, he straightened. His voice, when he spoke, was barely a whisper.

“So be it. Thank you for your kind sentiments,
Madame.
” He swept her an exaggerated bow. “And let me add I will earnestly endeavor to forget you with as much dispatch as you seem eager to dismiss me.” Turning on his heel, he walked out.

After the echo of his retreating footsteps faded she staggered to the bed, collapsed on the edge with arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes closed.
This is better, this is better, this is better.
To admit how enormous a loss his leaving was, how trenchantly deep the pain, would be to acknowledge an emotion that spelled disaster to any present or future peace of mind.

Must it have ended had she revealed her full identity at the outset, before his friend's death? But even though her birth was better than he assumed, she was still unrecognized by both her husband's family and her own, still virtually penniless, still engaged in trade. Any one of which factors would make her unsuitable to be his bride.

Nor in the midst of all his protestations of devotion had he ever hinted he desired her for
that
role. The only role she could in good conscience fulfill.

No, as parting was inevitable, better sooner than later, she told herself.

Of course it hurts,
she soothed.
Losing a friend, a very dear friend, is never easy. You will get through it. You've survived worse.

She'd almost convinced herself when Francesca entered. But when, after one glance, her friend gasped,
“Mão de Deus!”
and gathered her close, the fierce, body-racking sobs welled up and broke free. For a very long time she could not make them stop.

 

At midmorning, after he'd forced himself to down a Spartan breakfast and tea that might as well have been hemlock,
Evan went to check on Andrea. He found her still abed, pale, but awake and composed.

“I'm glad you stopped by before leaving for Horse Guards, Evan. I wanted to thank you for…” She swallowed hard. “Well, for everything. I hate to ask anything more, but—could you take me home?”

Despite his own anguish, her distress moved him. “Of course, Andy. As soon as you feel strong enough.”

“I'm ready, whenever you can break away. I want—I need to be home.” She bit her lip, obviously struggling for control. “Maybe then I won't be so afraid.”

He came to the bed and took her in his arms. “Don't be afraid, Andy. I'll take care of you.” Recognizing the moment, he sucked in a breath and made himself say the words. “I'd like to take care of you always. Will you marry me?”

She pushed herself back and studied his face.

“Are you sure, Evan?”

Evading that question, he said, “I already asked you once, you'll remember.”

A smile lightened her face. “By the lake at Wimberley years ago. You made me a wedding ring out of daisies.”

“Yes. But you haven't given me an answer.” His heart beat faster with crazy hope she might refuse.

“I'm sorry I'm so weak.” Was it an apology? She smiled again, tremulously. “If you're truly sure you want me, then yes, of course I'll marry you.”

The words struck his heart like a deathblow. Numbly he took her hand and kissed it. “You honor me,” was all he could manage in reply.

 

Several weeks later Evan sat at Richard's desk in the library at Wimberley. He'd sorted through almost all his friend's papers; the solicitor had called yesterday to inform him the will should go to probate.

Evan needed to return briefly to London, to finish estate details and check at Horse Guards. Though he'd received courier mail, he was anxious to see if headquarters knew any more about the progress of his friend Geoffrey's mission.

London. Emily.

Savagely he crushed the wave of longing, as he had on each of the innumerable occasions it had seized him these past weeks. Emily was quite content to be on her own again. She'd made that point brutally clear.

“Evan, may I come in?”

Startled, he turned to the doorway where Andrea stood. “Of course. Come, sit with me.”

Slowly she approached with her awkward, uneven gait and took the armchair beside the desk. “I'm afraid I have another favor to ask. I know it's quixotic of me, after practically dragging you and your family out of town, but the fact is I…I want to return to London.”

Again, that instinctive leap of anticipation. Again he squelched it.

“You needn't go back, Andy. I do need to return, for a few days at least, but Mama can accompany me and arrange all the wedding details.”

“No, I want to come. I thought being here at Wimberley would be better, but it's not. Oh, Evan! Everywhere I turn, I see Richard—his horses, his books, his hunting rifle. Even that silly rapeseed blooming in the meadow he insisted we t-try….” She broke off, struggling with tears.

Once again he gathered her close. “Of course I'll take you back. You needn't go out or see anyone if you don't wish to.”

“Actually, I think I should prefer going out. Not to balls or parties, of course, but you never took me to Hampton Court or to Astley's or the theater. I have friends, too, who can help…divert me. I don't have to worry now about mak
ing a good impression on gentlemen or their mamas.” She looked up to smile at him. “Now I have you. I'm just sorry I'm such a bother.”

He looked down at her gentle, guileless face. He should say, “Nonsense, you'll be my wife soon, I want to care for you.”

The best he could do was, “You're never a bother.”

Her smile widened. “Thank you, Evan. You're so good to me. Well, I shall start to pack!”

He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. Not seeming to mind that lack of ardor, she patted his hand and walked out.

If they were to depart soon, he'd best finish these papers. But as he worked, though he struggled to banish them, two words kept thrumming at the back of his mind.
London. Emily.

E
mily sat at the desk in her new office, previously her bedchamber, and gazed over at the sitting-room-turned-design-studio where the first completed toilettes hung.

Her clients had responded with enthusiastic praise and a number of advance orders—in cash. She gazed down at the sum she was about to insert in her money pouch and sighed.

She ought to be delighted with herself and the business. In a detached way she was. In her head she could acknowledge satisfaction that her trust in her design instincts had been well placed.

In addition, she was able to bring Drew to spend the weekends. Having her son's company for two whole days rather than the Sunday afternoon to which she had been rationed since their arrival in London—what a joy it was. She had no reason to be melancholy.

If her shop continued its progress, within a year she would be able to repay Evan in full the sum he'd initially spent to rescue her. Ah, Evan.

Her glance traveled the room. Here, in this chamber, he had first carried her to bed. There by the balcony door he had undressed her, to let the moonlight painting her body show him where to kiss, he'd said.

Her face flushed; a tingling began in her nipples. It seemed that, once awakened, desires long dormant refused to return to slumber.

But less carnal reminiscences were no better. In the next room, where seamstresses now toiled, where her designs now hung, they had dined and chatted and laughed together.

A dull pain vibrated through her. She pressed a hand to her chest. The sorrow was lessening, truly it was. It was just that everything here reminded her of their beginnings.

It was even worse at her house—their house—where she knew every item of furniture, every rug, plate and vase, had been chosen by him to please her. Where they had dwelled together a few precious months in such total contentment.

Damn and drat! She sprang up in exasperation. She was becoming a maudlin, whining weakling such as she despised.

She needed a change, something to refocus her mind.

Her restless glance fell upon the post Francesca had brought earlier. In it a playbill caught her notice. Announcing the premiere of a most excellent presentation of Will Shakespeare's
King Lear,
it boasted the renowned Mr. Hampton in the title role.

Hampton in
Lear.
The notion generated a spark of interest. And theater—she'd loved attending plays in Lisbon. Her father-in-law was still absent; Francesca had just checked. Why not treat them to a night at the theater?

Would Evan attend? She wasn't sure if he'd returned to London yet. He enjoyed Shakespeare, she knew. Warmth spread through her.

A little fear chilled it. What would he do, should he be present and see her?

The unease swiftly passed. 'Twould be in neither his best interests nor hers that he acknowledge her. If he were present, he'd most likely be with his betrothed.

She stifled a pang.
You will not,
she told herself sternly,
attend the theater solely on the ridiculous notion that you might, for a few moments, be able to watch him.

In any event, 'twas just as like he'd not be there. Even to a family in mourning, London offered innumerable other entertainments.

Should he chance to be present, she would not gaze at him, anyway. Certainly not. She'd go for the play itself and the revitalizing change in routine it offered.

Smiling, she called Francesca to see about obtaining tickets. And told herself her rising excitement was merely the anticipation of seeing Mr. Hampton play Lear.

 

From her seat among the lower tier of chairs Emily gazed about her with awe. She'd not been in a public assembly in so long, the sheer volume of sound, color and motion mesmerized her.

In the pit just below, a group of flamboyantly dressed bucks lounged among a diverse assortment of shop boys, clerks and ill-clad ruffians she strongly suspected must be pickpockets. The scent and smoke of candles mingled with the odors of perfume, nosegays and unwashed bodies. Then one of the lounging men caught her eye and winked.

Alarmed he might interpret her glance as encouragement, she jerked her gaze away and up to the boxes above. Perhaps she had been unwise to sit here. She'd feel safer had she been able to afford a box.

But she'd have hesitated, even were she able to afford it. What would she do if she claimed a box—and saw Evan enter the one next door? The very idea caused a shudder.

Besides, she thought as she watched the beautifully clothed, jewel-bedecked Upper Ten Thousand drift in amid laughter and called greetings, the few among society who knew Madame Emilie, hatmaker, would surely not approve her seating herself among them.

For the first time since Andrew's death she felt the full
force of her social isolation—friendless among the bourgeoisie she had joined, banished from the society of her birth. Being isolated in Spain had been natural—she was a foreigner. In England, she had until this moment been too preoccupied with survival to spare a thought for position.

Nonsense,
she told herself, ripping her gaze from the upper levels and transferring it to the stage, where a herald was announcing the opening festivities. Years of foraging about Spain on her own had taught her how to send any potential heckler to the rightabout. And her grip on survival was still not firm enough that she waste time in maudlin reflection over her proper place.

A blur of motion in an upper box caught her attention, and a shock of awareness jolted through her. Though the arriving gentleman had his back to the stage, adjusting his lady's chair, she knew immediately it was Evan.

He turned toward her. For the briefest moment her gaze clung to him, tracing every detail of that dear familiar face. Did his eyes seem shadowed, the lines at the corners of his mouth grim? Or was that merely an effect of the flickering torchlight?

Then she forced her gaze away, before the unconscious, irresistible pull that telegraphed his presence alerted him to hers. She would not have him discover her staring up like a ragged waif begging alms.

By the time the ringing in her eyes dimmed and her tumultuous pulse calmed, the first act was nearly over. With determination she focused her attention onstage.

Though still acutely conscious of Evan in the corner box, she managed to immerse herself in the play. As the actors exited for the first interval, however, she stirred uneasily.

She should observe the crowd, she told herself. Anything to hold her attention and prevent her succumbing to the nearly overwhelming desire to look up.

Could she not dare one quick glance? Just to see if the
lady privileged to become his bride was fair or dark, if she seemed kind? He deserved a wife with a warm heart, who would fill his home with gladness.

So intent was she on her inward struggle that the touch on her arm made her jump.

“'Evenin', lovely lady,” said a slurred voice at her side. “Beauty such's you shouldn't be sittin' alone.”

A powerful odor of spirits hit her nose. She wrinkled it in distaste, recognizing at the same time one of the most persistent of the Corinthians who had been wont to drop by her shop—Lord Willoughby? Suddenly she wished Francesca had not firmly refused to accompany her mistress to a play whose Shakespearean language she could not fathom.

The inebriated man was followed by several others who crowded close around her. She tried to step back, but the narrow aisle allowed no retreat.

“See who I've found, lads,” Willoughby said. “Our little shopkeepin' beauty, all alone and pinin' for company.” Laughing, he took her arm.

As she tried to shake it off, another dandy stepped to her other side. A liquor glaze on his face, he grasped her shoulder with one unsteady hand. “Gotta kiss for an old frien', sweet'eart?”

“Find your own tart, Baxter.” Willoughby gave his rival a push, to the hilarity of the watching group. “I've been waitin' for this little morsel a long time.”

Anger and a gathering panic rose in her throat. Without Francesca she was alone against them. One of these drunken ruffians she could handle, but four?

What right had they to spoil her enjoyment with their boorish insults? Harnessing her rising indignation, she wrenched her arm free. “I do not appreciate your presence, sir. Kindly remove yourself.”

“She don't sound too friendly, Willoughby,” one said.

“Needs a lit'l more charm,” Willoughby replied, pulling
a coin from his waistcoat. “This'll sweetin' her tongue.” Grabbing her shoulder, he pulled her to him and made as if to jam the sovereign down her bodice.

In anger as fierce as her fear, she prepared to deal him the roundhouse punch her husband had taught her. Before she could swing, her tormentor was seized by the throat and yanked away, the coin tumbling from his fingers.

“
Kind
of you to watch out for my guest, Willoughby, but as I've returned, further assistance is unnecessary.”

To her infinite relief, the dark-haired form of Evan's friend Brent Blakesly moved to her side. Positioning himself between her and the loitering bucks, he surveyed the men with a hard, unsmiling gaze. “'Evening, gentlemen.”

Willoughby rubbed his throat. “
Your
guest?”

“If you care to dispute that, I'll be happy to oblige,” Brent replied. “Not, of course, at this moment. Excepting yourself, there is polite society present.” He made a quick gesture to the surrounding boxes. “Unless you'd like to provide the entr'acte amusement?”

For a moment, face creased in a scowl, Willoughby stood fast. But as he met Brent's implacable gaze, his own faltered. He looked away.

“I thought not.” Turning his back on the group, Brent offered Emily a smile. “I'm sorry your visit to the theater was marred by these oafs. Won't you stroll with me and see if I can reverse that bad impression?”

He held out his arm. Grateful, she took it. “Thank you, Mr. Blakesly. Some cool air would be most refreshing.”

The press of people prevented further conversation until they reached the lobby. He guided her into a space in the far corner and stood guard, back to the milling crowd.

“Thank you again for your kindness. I don't think I could have discouraged those gentlemen without a most embarrassing scene.”

Brent grimaced. “No gentlemen there. I'm so sorry you
were disturbed. Reflecting on it, I believe I must look Willoughby up later and teach him some manners. However—” a grin softened his face “—though it hardly excuses his behavior, I must warn you that so beautiful a lady seemingly unescorted does attract attention.”

Was there reproof in his tone? “Francesca was to accompany me, but at the last minute found the prospect of Shakespeare too daunting. 'Twas not wise to come alone, I suppose.”

“I find Shakespeare a bit daunting myself. But if you will permit, I would feel easier if I might escort you for the remainder. 'Twould be my privilege as well.”

His unassuming courtesy touched her. “Thank you again, sir. I should be privileged to accept.”

Her gratitude at his rescue helped ease the awkwardness she would otherwise have felt at being squired by a man so nearly a stranger. And his tall presence beside her not only put to rest any fears of a repetition of the unwelcome attentions she'd encountered, but distracted her from the compulsion to gaze back up at a certain box.

She ended by enjoying the play much more than she'd anticipated. The awkwardness did not return until, as they walked out to the street thronged with carriages and theatergoers, he offered to escort her home.

“A jarvey would most likely get you there safely, ma'am. But the streets at night can be dangerous, and I'd never forgive myself were something to happen en route.”

She had to admit she'd been a bit anxious herself. There seemed no course but to allow him to accompany her.

She held herself stiffly at the far edge of the seat, but he made no attempt to draw close. Indeed, he continued his commentary on the play, plying her with questions so absurd she knew he was trying to set her at ease.

She couldn't truly be easy, especially not when they
reached her house. Her discomfort increased after he escorted her up the stairs and into the entry.

Despite his kindness, she must make certain matters clear. After dismissing the footman, she turned to Brent.

“Mr. Blakesly, I'm most grateful for your assistance.” She gave his hand a quick, firm shake. “However, you must realize I do not generally…” she fumbled for words “…accept a gentleman's escort. Or keep company with one.”

He smiled. “Then I am doubly lucky.”

Did he take her full meaning? Flushing, she steeled herself to continue. “I know you are a friend of Lord Cheverley. Excuse me for being so blunt, but you must understand I will not, under any circumstances, undertake another…relationship such as I had with him.”

She felt heat down to her toes. Despite the humiliation of so baldly stating the matter, she forced herself to meet his gaze, make sure he'd comprehended.