A Scandalous Proposal (18 page)

How many hours, ostensibly employed in business, had he spent gazing at that painting, scoured by memories?

Returning unexpectedly, he'd once caught his mama at the open door staring at it. She'd walked quickly away, no doubt sensing the curt words of dismissal he'd not have been able to prevent himself uttering.

He brought his mind back to the conversation with Mr. Manners, replaying every detail.

The new venture was prospering and she'd secured an impressive number of advance orders. No problems with the house or shop, as far as Manners knew.

Evan had, God help him, even pressed the solicitor to comment on her gown and appearance. After one speculative glance, as if wondering about his client's sanity, the lawyer recalled she had worn something in lavender and appeared pale but self-possessed.

Evan sighed. As energizing as it was to be able to talk about her, Manner's descriptions were far too sketchy.

How he missed her still. Even the prosaic discussions they had held over evening tea about the details of the day he recalled with poignant fondness. He dare not allow himself to remember anything more intimate.

Just how did he think he was going to steel himself to take Andrea as his wife?

Pushing away that unanswerable question, he thought once more about the new business.

There were many details the lawyer had not thought to ask. The advance orders were a clever idea, one he'd not considered, he thought approvingly. Should she hire an additional seamstress, or would those now engaged be sufficient to expeditiously complete the volume of orders?

He could send Manners back again, but those answers would surely generate other questions.

The idea electrified him the moment it flashed into his head. He was her primary investor. He had considerable, if secondhand, business experience, much more than his solicitor. Why should he not pay a call himself? Strictly business, of course.

The Pandora's box of suppressed longing bursting open, he jumped up, possessed of an urgent desire to seek her out.

Struggling to retain perspective, he forced himself to sit
down. He should send a note—but no, she might not wish to receive him, and once formed, the idea of seeing her so possessed him he doubted he could bear a refusal.

Dropping by during business hours would be unexceptional. She met with other people of commerce during that time, why not her primary investor?

His glance flew to the mantel clock and he cursed under his breath. Already too late to set out today.

How many hours until start of business tomorrow?

He sprang up again, paced the room and came to rest beneath the little painting. Thank heaven he was not promised to escort his family anywhere tonight. He might remain safely in his sanctuary.

Or mayhap visit his club. Filled now with an edgy restlessness, he found the book-lined dimensions of this room too confining. If it hadn't been coming on to night, he'd have headed to the park for a gallop.

He'd visit his club.

That sojourn was marginally satisfactory. Dinner was tolerable, he supposed, though he tasted none of it, after which he won several hands of whist without recalling a single moment of the play. Had gambling, drinking, the endless political gossip always been this much of a bore?

But near midnight, as he tooled his curricle north from St. James, his hands seemed to take on a life of their own. Without conscious decision, they guided the bays west around Hyde Park, then south again toward the river.

To a small, elegant townhouse.

He pulled up the horses, gazing at the lamp glow in the window. His heart commenced to pound.

He'd see her tomorrow. Surely he could wait that long. 'Twas unwise, no, 'twas insanity to try to see her tonight.

Would she even admit him?

Before his mind finished the thought he found himself looping the bay's reins to a hitching post. He mounted the stairs, listened to the reverberating bang of the door knocker. Scarcely breathing, he waited.

E
mily gaped at the sleepy footman, the book she'd been reading sliding from her grasp. “Lord Cheverley is below?”

“Aye, mistress, and desires but a word with ye.”

A starburst of contradictory reactions exploded in her head, as if a match had been tossed into a box of firecrackers.

How dare he intrude upon her peace, uninvited, at this hour? 'Twas preposterous, presumptuous in the extreme.

Why had he come? Was he hurt, in some need? Anxiety fired through her fury.

Had he broken off his engagement? An eager longing overshadowed all the others.

Nonsense. She tried to extinguish the spurt of excitement. Even had he done so their relationship was over. There was nothing between them that could not better be conveyed by letter.

“What do you wish I should tell him, ma'am?”

Attention recalled to the waiting footman, she tried to marshall her scattered wits and reply.

He was here, just below in her parlor, a few minutes' walk down a short flight of stairs away.

Without conscious volition she rose, patted the mystified
footman on the sleeve as, still speechless, she passed him and moved to the stairs.

Then she stood before the parlor door, dizzy with anticipation and dread, thoughts still flitting about in her head like a flight of demented butterflies.

He shouldn't have come. Why had he come?
Dismiss him. Speak just for a moment. No, 'tis madness—send him away.

Taking a deep breath, she walked in.

He was staring out the window. Though she entered soundlessly he must have sensed her presence, for he turned.

Body tensed, fists clenched, he examined her from hairline to the tips of her slippers, his intense gaze mesmerizing her. The powerful, instantaneous attraction that had always existed between them drew her irresistibly closer.

A foot away she made herself stop, clasped her hands together lest she reach up to touch the tiny lines beside his eyes, the cleft of his chin.

She opened her lips to order him out, and said “Why?”

“Please, don't send me away yet! I wanted—I needed to talk with you. For a moment only. About the business.”

Business? She glanced at the clock. “'Tis hardly the hour for a business call.”

Did he flush? “Yes. Sorry. But I talked with Manners about the…the shop this afternoon and I could not wait.”

The shop. How could she concentrate on income, disbursements, supplies with him but a touch away? She made herself focus on the fire beyond him.

“W-what did you need to discuss?”

“Manners said you'd taken advance orders. How many? Do you anticipate needing additional help?”

For the next few moments she struggled to harness her muzzy brain to extract intelligent answers for the smattering of questions he fired at her. Then silence fell.

The question seemed to pop out of her still-disjointed
thoughts. “This house—you bought it for me at the very beginning, didn't you?”

He smiled slightly. “Yes. Are you angry?”

“Not any longer.” She raised her chin. “I'm purchasing it, you know.”

His smile broadened. “I can always use another good investment. And—I've wondered about it but Manners wouldn't tell me—is Spenser your real name?”

“Part of it.”

“So if you were to…disappear, I'd not find you.”

“You'd have no need to.”

“Need,” he repeated, and sighed deeply. “Ah, Emily.”

She shouldn't look back at him. The business discussion had ended. She should simply bid him good-night.

But despite that wise counsel, her gaze lifted. A poignant tenderness welled up, and for a moment she gave herself over to the pleasure of studying each dearly remembered line of cheek and lip, the angle of brow and jut of chin. And his eyes, ah, the beautiful midnight blue depths of his eyes.

So focused was she it took her a moment to realize he was approaching, his hand moving toward her.

“Don't—”

“Please! Please, Emily. Just one touch. Then I'll leave, I swear it.”

No, no, no,
the rational voice in her head shouted.
Not closer. Not touching.

But her feet wouldn't move, her word of protest rusted in her throat. She could only watch his hand descend.

“Emily,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes as his fingers traced gently, so gently over her brow, her temple, her eyelids, her cheekbones, around her chin. She sensed more than saw his head move toward hers.

“You mustn't,” she tried to say, and caught the glancing
touch of his tongue on hers. Had he crushed her against him, demanding, insistent, she might have shoved him away.

But the kiss was gentle, too, so full of the same wonder and aching need she felt herself that her arms moved instead to encircle his neck and of her own will draw him nearer.

Ah, here she belonged, close against his chest. Here her ragged incompleteness was smoothed whole, here and here alone she found peace.

Then he was lifting her into his arms.

“One touch,” she gasped. “You said one touch and you would leave.”

“I thought I could. I was wrong.” Kissing her fiercely, he clutched her tighter and mounted the stairs.

 

Emily sat propped against her pillows watching Evan sleep beside her, fighting the tenderness that constricted her chest.

'Twas daylight now, time to put an end to midnight madness, to this ill-advised reunion that changed nothing.

That he was not yet married was a feeble sop to her conscience. Being but days or weeks from it, he was as good as married, and their night together inexcusable.

As soon as he woke she would tell him so, force herself to make him leave.

She hoped he would doze a very long while.

All too soon he stirred. As his eyes opened, he saw her and a smile of pure joy illumined his face. “My darling,” he whispered, and drew her into his embrace.

Despising herself for her weakness, she let him. Just this one last time she would lie beside him enveloped in the blessed comfort of his closeness. One last time before facing a future whose absolute bleakness she dare not contemplate.

He stroked her cheek, the wispy tendrils of hair at her temple. “I've missed you so, sweeting. Every day and night and hour since we parted. I tried to convince myself it was
for the best, that it must be. Not until last night did I realize how wrong I was.

“We'll have to be careful, of course. I shan't be able to come to you every evening, and 'twould not be prudent for me to acknowledge you in public. Perhaps I shall lease a country house—'twould be easier to get away for a few days outside of London, and…”

Get away? See her? The words jarred her to alertness. Could he possibly think—

“No!” She pulled away abruptly and sat up. “What can you be imagining?”

“I know none of the—circumstances have altered. But after the hell of these last weeks, surely you believe as I do that we must be together. Sweetheart, 'tis a sorry crumb of a loaf, but better the tiniest crumb than none at all.”

He could rationalize his own conscience—and just dismiss hers? Once again seize control of her life and think to dictate what she would do?

She fed the fortifying anger. “No, Evan. You've so much power, you think you can control me and by your wishing it, change the rules of conscience? It's not that easy.”

He stared at her a moment, disbelieving, then shoved himself upright as well.

“Easy?” he repeated. “Do you honestly think anything about you, about us, has ever been ‘easy'? Do you think I don't realize in doing this I sully my honor as well as yours, bend or break the solemn oaths I've pledged? But not to do so condemns me, us, to the unspeakable existence we've suffered these last seven weeks. In the depths of my heart I cannot believe what we share is wrong. 'Tis far more than lust, you know that! Bah, I'm no philosopher, to sort out reasoned arguments. I just know that what we have together is pure and precious. Can you deny it?”

She dare not admit a feeling her self-respect demanded she smother.

“Call it what you will, 'tis still wrong.”

He wants to dictate, just like Papa and Andrew's father,
she thought, trying to refire her anger.
Don't let him.

“What right have you to dismiss my honor, as if only yours mattered? I'm not a plaything, to toy with as you choose.”

“No, you are not. You are the center of my world, my universe. I can't conceive of a future without you.”

His impassioned words flamed through her, scorching her weakening defenses. She must marshal her pitiful reserves and end this before he reduced them to smoking ruin, before she went mad. Or even worse, succumbed.

“Those of lower status learn early they cannot always get what they desire, or turn wrong into right by wishing it. 'Tis a difficult lesson, my lord, but I think you must learn it.”

He stared at her, his face inscrutable. At last he spoke, his voice near a whisper. “After I've beggared my honor and bartered my pride, you will still send me away?”

He must never return, she must never see him again. She could not withstand a repetition of this. She forced herself to utter words that would make it so.

“Let us not spoil the past with unpleasantness. You've been most generous, for which I thank you, but the bald truth is I don't require your assistance any longer. For you I have been a useful convenience. But 'tis time to move on, so let's not confuse the issue with pretty words.”

She could not look at him and withstand the hurt she knew she'd find in his eyes, in every stiff line of his outraged body. She kept her face averted.

“Convenient?” He spat out the word, then uttered a harsh bark of laughter. “Aye, madam, no more pretty words.” He leaned over and seized her.

“Tell me, my heart, my darling,” he snarled as he forced her down on the bed, pinned her with his body, “tell me this is just ‘convenient.”' Holding her head prisoned with
one arm, he kissed her mouth and throat roughly, scouring her with his lips, his stubbled face.

As his lips descended, though, their touch altered, became taunting, seductive. “Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely as kissing deep, nipping gently, he assaulted her collarbone, her chest, “tell me you feel nothing.”

She wanted to resist, to reinforce with her body the lies of her lips, but, battered by her own anguish and his, she lay helpless, reserves exhausted. Tears came, welling in her eyes and dripping down into her hair. When his lips reached her breasts, when with infinite cherishing skill he played upon those sensitive nerves, she broke completely, bringing her limp arms up to cradle his head.

At her touch he shuddered and went still. His arms slid around her shoulders and he bound her to him in a long, fierce, breath-stopping embrace, his face searing her chest with hot wet heat.

The sudden coolness struck her when he sprang up. Swiftly he gathered his clothes, then turned to face her, his eyes stark.

“Deny it to yourself, but never to me.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the room.

 

She knew not how long she lay immobile. She concentrated all her will on taking one slow steady breath after another, shutting out everything else. To think at all would be to scream in agony.

Gradually the chill of the unheated room penetrated, each faint stir of breeze frosty over her damp eyes and moist hair. With shivering fingers she reached down to cover the frigid wetness at her belly. And touched the small cold pool of his tears.

 

After a period of fitful slumber, Emily roused to a knock at her door. Francesca peeped in.

“Mistress, Senhor Blakesly calls. Do I let him in?”

Emily turned to peer at the mantel clock. “Heavens, Francesca, why did you not wake me sooner?”

The maid stared at her a moment, a gentle sympathy in her eyes. “I sleep lightly,
querida.
”

Francesca knew.
Heat washed Emily's face.

Ever practical, the maid wasted no time in recrimination. “Do I tell him stay, or go?”

Emily tried to focus her rattled thoughts. Had she promised to ride with him?

The very morning after the theater trip, Brent had stopped by and repeated his offer of a mount. Unable to resist the dancing, spirited beauty of a mare he'd brought, she'd accepted, and now several times a week they rode together. Being able to lose herself in the simple pleasure of a hard gallop did much to ease her ever-present restlessness.

Brent had stood by his offer to be her friend as well. Though she recognized desire within the warmth in his eyes, never did he hint of a closer relationship. Unique among the men she'd known, he did not attempt to dictate, a fact that was gradually relaxing her wary reserve. Witty, calm, attentive but not dominating, he let her, as he'd promised, set the tone and timing of their meetings.