A Scandalous Proposal

A slender figure in lilac, her pale oval face framed by dusky curls above full, petal-pink lips. When she raised inquiring violet eyes to meet his mesmerized gaze, a frisson of pure energy flashed between them, rocking him to his toes and riveting him, speechless, to the spot.

 

A faint scent of lavender teased his nose. His heartbeat stopped, then stampeded. Aftershocks darted to every nerve. “Perfection!” he whispered, his voice unsteady.

 

As if compelled, Evan walked toward her, only dimly aware of shouldering aside a heavyset matron who appeared to be conversing with the Vision. “Lord Cheverley, Madame Emilie.” Seizing her hand, he brought it to his lips.

 

He felt it again, that…current, passing between them. By the faint pinking of her porcelain cheeks, Evan knew she must have felt it as well….

Harlequin Historical

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Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

E
mily Spenser crept along the shrub-shadowed edge of the garden at the center of St. James Square. After years of fierce Portuguese sun, the damp morning chill seeped into her bones, and she shivered despite her woolen shawl. Halting at the corner, she pressed herself deeper into the overhang of branches and scrutinized the town house opposite.

Was the knocker off the door? Given the distance and the swirling mist, she couldn't be sure. The windows overlooking the square were certainly shuttered, but as it was barely past dawn, that didn't necessarily indicate the owner was out of town.

Cautiously she retraced her steps, crossed the square behind the shelter of garden, and slipped to the mews beyond. Heart hammering at her ribs, she made herself enter the back gate. Surely at a great house like this, where vendors and suppliers came and went constantly, in her shop girl's apron and mobcap she would attract no special notice.

A soft lull of voices emanated from behind the half-open door of the kitchen wing. Gathering her courage, she hurried across the deserted stable yard, knocked once and entered.

A knot of workers gathered around the glowing hearth,
mugs of steaming brew in hand. Picking out an older woman with keys hanging at her waist, Emily dipped a curtsey.

“I've a parcel for his lordship,” she announced, mimicking the broad accent of the Hampshire peasantry among whom she'd grown up. “Mistress says as how I was to deliver it personal.”

“Lawks, missy, you've a far piece to walk, then,” the woman replied with a laugh. “He ain't in Lunnon now.”

Damping down a rush of relief, Emily made herself utter instead a dismayed squeak. “But Mistress'll box my ears iff'n I don't get this to 'im. He be back today, ma'am?”

“Not likely. Seein's how he sent half the staff on holiday, tellin' 'em he'd fetch 'em back later, we don't expect 'im anytime soon.”

Emily couldn't believe her luck. “He be gone that long?” she asked faintly.

“Aye. Last week, you mighta caught 'im, but he left out suddenlike, and Mr. Daryrumple—that's the butler, lass—told us he'd not be returnin' afore Easter, 'n likely not afore summer.”

Emily hid her excitement behind a woebegone look. “Mistress'll be that unhappy.”

“Nay, don't fret yourself. She canna expect you to make here what's gone by wishin' it. A reg'lar dragon, is she?” The woman clucked. “Have a mug o'tea and rest your bones, then, afore you go back to face 'er.”

“Thank 'ee kindly, ma'am, but I daren't. Mistress'll rap my knuckles iff'n I'm not back by seven.”

Amid sympathetic murmurs from the staff and a general grumble about the unreasonableness of employers, Emily bobbed another curtsey and made her way out.

Once outside the back gate, she tore off her servant's mobcap, threw it in the air and hugged herself fiercely.

He was not in London. She could begin.

“F
etch a bonnet for your mother? My, what a dutiful son!”

Evan Mansfield, Earl of Cheverley, widened the swinging arc of his walking stick just enough to whack the speaker behind his ankle. Over the ensuing yelp, he replied, “Since your own mother had the good sense to expire when you were an infant, you have no idea how to care for a lady.”

Grinning as his friend Brent Blakesly shot him a baleful glance, he continued, “Actually, Mama intended to collect the bonnet herself, but I wouldn't hear of it. She's not yet fully recovered from that putrid cold. There's no need for you to come, though. Why not hie on to White's, and order us wine? Charge it to my account.” Evan directed a look at Brent's ankle. “'Twill ease the pain.”

Brent's frown smoothed. “Feel better already. Mind you hurry. I should hate to drink all
your
wine before you arrive.” Tipping his hat, Blakesly set off.

“I'll not be long,” Evan called after him. “Madame Emilie's shop is just off Bond Street.”

Brent halted in midstep. “Madame Emilie?”

When Evan nodded, his friend strode back. “On second thought, I'll accompany you. Let's be off, shall we?”

Evan raised his eyebrows. “What possible reason could you have for visiting a bonnet shop?”

“Let's just say I might find it…interesting.”

As they strolled, Evan pressed him again, but Brent would vouchsafe nothing further, only shaking his head and saying Evan must see for himself.

After a few minutes, they reached the neat shop front. Entering to the tinkle of a warning bell, Evan murmured to Brent, “Shall I now discover what great myster—”

A tall woman in the shop's shadowed interior turned toward them. As Evan's eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, the rest of his sentence dissolved on his lips.

Shapes and colours blurred; the mutter of voices faded to a distant hum. He saw only Her: a slender figure in lilac, her pale oval face framed by dusky curls above full, petal-pink lips. When she raised inquiring violet eyes to meet his mesmerized gaze, a frisson of pure energy flashed between them, rocking him to his toes and riveting him, speechless, to the spot.

A faint scent of lavender teased his nose. His heartbeat stopped, then stampeded.

“Damme, Ev, she's as enchanting as Willoughby claimed!”

At his friend's awed undertone, Evan shook his gaze free. Aftershocks darted to every nerve. “She's perfection,” he agreed, his voice unsteady.

“Fortunate sod, to have a perfectly unexceptional reason to speak with her,” Brent murmured. “Well, get on with it!” He gave the earl a shove.

In truth, Evan could not have stayed away. As if compelled, he walked toward her, only dimly aware of shouldering aside a heavyset matron who appeared to be conversing with the Vision. “Lord Cheverley, Madame Emilie.” Seizing her hand, he brought it to his lips.

He felt it again, that…current, passing between them. By
the faint pinking of her porcelain cheeks, Evan knew Madame must have felt it as well.

Amazingly, she gave no other sign, her pansy eyes expressionless now as she fixed a cool gaze upon him. After a moment, she frowned and tugged at her gloved hand, which he continued to retain in rather too tight a grip.

With a mumbled apology, he released it.

“Lord Cheverley?” she repeated in cultured tones. Then her forehead smoothed. “Ah, yes. I received the note from your lady mother, and her bonnet is ready. A moment only, my lord.”

With a nod to him, she turned to the stout woman beside her, who was regarding Evan with a frosty air of outrage. “Lady Stanhope, I'm honored the bonnet pleases you, and grateful for your patronage. Now, if you will excuse me?” She made a deep curtsey. With a disdainful sniff in Evan's direction, the client stalked off.

“This way, my lord.”

He followed Madame closely toward a small office, his eyes glued on her graceful sway of hip. When she halted inside the door, he nearly ran into her.

She turned to him with a quizzical look, her long, alabaster fingers holding out something. “Is the bonnet acceptable, my lord? Shall I box it?”

The fullness of her moving lips, the tantalizing glimpse of tongue fascinated him. Her subtle lavender scent, stronger now, clouded his brain. A nearly overpowering urge filled him to touch that ivory cheek, to feel those lips yielding under his own. He would pursue her elusive tongue into its warm wet haven, trace his fingers toward that swell of bosom…. His body hardened and moisture broke out on his brow.

“Yes, well. Mama…I'm sure,” he murmured from within a suddenly too tight neckcloth, trying to yank his
thoughts back to conversational channels. “'Tis fine—exquisite. The, ah, bonnet.”

Madame arched a dark eyebrow and studied him. Evan gazed back, thinking he could stare forever into the depths of those wood-violet eyes. No, more like sweet violets, or the pure blue-tinted petals of an unfolding Dutch iris.

Then the tempting lips curved into a half smile, and he realized with a jolt what a perfect idiot he must appear. Before he could try to make a recovery, Madame Emilie handed him a hatbox. “Please convey to Lady Cheverley my gratitude for the great honor of her patronage. Good day, my lord.”

She curtseyed, then nudged him toward the door. The touch of her gloved hand seemed to sizzle through the layers of cloth, leaving him once again speechless.

When coherency returned, he found himself standing beside Brent on the street outside the shop. An elaborately painted iron hat with the words
Madame Emilie
swung gently from its bracket above him.

“
Bouleversé,
were you?” Blakesly looked him up and down and chuckled. “Can't recall seeing you so thrown off your stride by a woman since that ballet dancer years ago, when we first came down from Oxford.”

Evan shook his head, not sure himself what had just transpired. His hands and feet tingled, as if he'd been in the proximity of lightning. “The dancer couldn't hold a candle.”

“No, indeed.” Brent gave a wistful sigh. “But come. To recover, I recommend a strong liquid restorative.”

Though his feet moved in the direction of St. James, Evan's glance kept straying back to the shop. “What does Willoughby know of her? Tell me!”

“Aye, your lordship!” Brent snapped a mock salute. “But 'tis little enough. She's a fairly recent widow, to judge by the half-mourning she wears.”

“Half-mourning?”

“You didn't notice?” Brent laughed. “I expect you were too busy envisioning her
un
dressed. Though I must warn you, based on the bit Willoughby knew, if you've seduction in mind, you're likely to be disappointed. Seems St. Clair discovered her first, and his whole set of bucks started dropping by her shop on the slenderest of pretexts.”

“St. Clair?” Evan sniffed derisively.

“Indeed. Knowing St. Clair, the hints were probably none too subtle, but she apparently turned down every invitation to tea or dinner or the theater. In fact, Willoughby says, no one got more from her than civil words about ordering bonnets for their womenfolk. He concluded she must be middle-class and hopelessly virtuous.”

Evan gave him a sharp glance. “You seem to have listened closely. Rather unusual for you to display so much interest in a woman.”

Brent returned a hard stare. “And you? Surely you're not considering setting up a new flirt, after just ridding yourself of La Tempestina. Besides, I thought when Richard left to rejoin Wellington you promised to drag Andrea to town. Didn't you two have some sort of…understanding?”

“Nothing formal. You know how shy she's grown since her accident. I just assured her that if she didn't find anyone else to her fancy by the end of the Season, she could always marry me. But—” he waved a hand dismissively “—that's a long way off. Have
you
an interest in Madame?”

“I'd hardly have much of a chance.” Brent twisted his lips into a wry smile. “If she wouldn't consider St. Clair and all his blunt, she's not likely to grant her favors to an untitled younger son with a modest competence. Now you, on the other hand—” he made a sweeping gesture “—might breach the citadel. Rich, handsome, society's darling—”

“Stubble it,” Evan growled. “I must find some reason to return—oh, blazes, what a sapskull!” He halted abruptly.

“What is it?”

“I was supposed to tell her Mama wanted to commission another bonnet, but I was so busy making a cloth-headed cake of myself, I forgot. Nor did I settle the account.” His irritation dissolved in a grin. “Well, I'll just have to go back immediately to rectify that. And redeem myself as well. At the moment, she must think me a mutton-headed idiot. I'll meet you at White's.”

He paced off so swiftly, Blakesly had to run to catch up. “Wait, Ev! The shop's probably closed by now.”

Evan shrugged off his friend's hand. Not even to himself could he explain his irresistible compulsion to see Madame Emilie again, now, immediately. “She can't have left yet. We've only just departed, and she had other customers. Go on—I'll see you shortly.”

Brent fell behind, chuckling. “Don't need to tell me when I'm de trop. All right, I'll see you later,” he called after Evan. “But don't say I didn't warn you if you encounter nothing more amorous than a bolted shop door!”

 

Emily Spenser sighed after the figure of her last departing customer. Mrs. Wiggins might be a nouveau riche, name-dropping mushroom, but at least her closeness to her middle-class roots led her to pay her bills on time. Unlike most of the Upper Ten Thousand who frequented her shop.

Emily dropped into the chair behind her small desk and pulled out a bag, inserting Mrs. Wiggins's money. She could hear Francesca bustling about overhead, singing softly in Portuguese as she fixed her mistress's tea. Maybe a warm drink would soothe her jangled nerves.

Not as much as a few dozen more clients with ready cash would, she thought ruefully. She much preferred hard coin to the heated glances of that last titled gentleman. Indeed, she wished fervently that Lady Cheverley herself had col
lected the purchase. Her ladyship, though of impeccable ton, always paid upon delivery.

He'd surprised her, though, Lady Cheverley's son. Given the still-youthful beauty of the mother, Emily had been expecting a mere stripling. Certainly not the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman who'd seemed to fill her little office, dwarfing her and his surroundings, while his smoky gaze hinted at far-from-juvenile pleasures.

An altogether arresting man, she admitted, assuming one was susceptible to that sort of thing. Which, of course, she was not. Nonetheless, a sudden vision of the fiery sparkle in a pair of dark blue eyes sent a little chill skittering down her spine. One that was but a faint echo of the…she refused to put a name to the sensation that had seized her when he'd first gazed at her, when she'd casually touched his sleeve.

In any event, she should mistrust such looks. What she required was honest payment for her labors, not another dose of the degrading innuendo she'd already endured from others of Lord Cheverley's ilk. Though she'd mastered the art of masking her outrage and gracefully turning such remarks aside, the insult of those veiled offers still rankled.

Resolutely she looked back to the ledger. Neat figures recorded the sums demanded for buckram padding, felt stuff, straw and lace, trims of feathers, silk tassels, satin and cording. When she'd calculated the amount necessary to run her millinery business, she'd not envisioned a clientele of fashionables who seemed more willing to wager their blunt on silver loo and faro than to pay their haberdashers.

Well, she'd simply have to retrench. She'd not survived long bitter months in that Portuguese village watching Andrew die by inches, then a year of painting aristocratic portraits across the length and breadth of Spain, only to succumb to despair a few bare months after returning to England.

Somehow they would earn enough to pay Drew's tutor
and save for his eventual tuition at school. Drew, the best and most beautiful reminder of her life with Andrew. The image of her son's face, mischievous light glowing in green eyes so like his papa's, warmed her troubled heart and sent the gray tide of grief and worry receding. A bittersweet backwash of longing followed.

With resignation she quelled it. Having him here with her was impossible, she knew. An aristocrat's son who would one day return to an aristocrat's life could not live over a shop. Reminding herself of that fact each Sunday as she left after a too-brief visit at the genteel home of his tutor, Father Edmund, did little to ease the ache of loss.

Best, she told herself briskly, that she cast off maudlin thoughts and concentrate on her task: ensuring their survival, stockpiling funds and keeping Drew hidden from the threat that would rip from her even those precious few hours with him.

The tinkling of the entry bell interrupted her. Though she'd neglected to bolt the door, 'twas past regular business hours, and she wondered which tardy customer was paying her a visit. Hopefully one with pockets full of sovereigns, she thought as she summoned a welcoming smile.