A Scandalous Proposal (17 page)

A self-deprecating smile twisted his lips. “I'm no grand lord like Evan, to offer costly inducements. Nor, frankly, would I want to.” He met her gaze squarely. “I'd be lying if I said your beauty left me unmoved. But I also enjoy your company. Your wit, your very lack of flirtatiousness. I truly wish to stand your friend.”

His face grave, he raised one hand. “Upon my honor, I would never do you the insult of suggesting something…else.” He paused, as if to give her time to judge his sincerity, then added softly, “Is your life so busy you have no room in it even for a friend?”

She searched his face and could find only honesty. She recalled the comfort of him standing by her at the theater, the comfort of having someone with whom to share the evening's enjoyment. Though caution urged her to refuse, a lonely longing kept her silent.

A friend. Dare she allow it?

“I…I don't know.”

“At least you haven't refused.” He grinned, which combined with the dusting of freckles on his nose the bright lamplight revealed, made him appear younger. Not threatening. “Do you ride? If you followed the army, you must be a bruising rider.”

Memory of some of those “bruising” rides brought a smile to her face. “Indeed.”

“I'm a bit of an enthusiast, I admit—'tis my only extravagance. If you enjoy it, I've a mare in my stables I think would be perfect for you. And I ride early.” He held up a hand to fend off that probable protest. “'Tis the only time, before most of London is stirring, for a good gallop.”

Oh, how tempted she was. A country girl born and bred, she'd always loved horses. Selling off Andrew's cattle had been one of the most heartbreaking tasks she'd faced.

“'Tis excellent exercise, and the morning air very beneficial,” he coaxed. “But I won't push you. Send me a message any time, Curzon Street, Number 15. Now I should leave you to your rest.” He swept her a bow.

He would not coerce her. That simple fact alone nearly prompted her to accept on the spot. But when she opened her lips, he put a finger against them.

“Say nothing now, please. A refusal would cast me into the dumps, and an acceptance so excite me I should not sleep a wink. I need my rest, too, you know.”

As he watched her, his teasing look faded. She could feel the tension between them build. Slowly, slowly, tracing her lip as he went, he removed his finger.

Before her alarm escalated into retreat, he seemed to shake off the mood. He caught up her hand and kissed it briskly. “Good evening, ma'am. I will sleep in hope.”

Someone to laugh and ride and chat with—no strings attached. Bittersweet longing filled her. “So shall I.”

Bowing again, he walked out. She wandered to the window and watched as, whistling, he strolled away in the flick
ering gaslight, leaving her to ponder with bemused appreciation his wit and kindness.

A friend such as that might be just what her aching heart needed.

 

Hampton as Lear, Evan thought as the carriage approached the theater. Shakespeare always revitalized him, and Lear certainly fit his mood. Thunder and turf, he was tired of pasting a smile on his face.

It's getting better,
he told himself, repeating the litany with which he'd extinguished all other thought these past weeks. Maybe soon, in a million years or so, he'd actually believe it.

As always, he clung to long-engrained rituals of civility to get him through. See his mama and Clare and Andrea out of the carriage, make way for them through the throng to their box, arrange chairs for the best view.

Andrea. She was in looks, her pale blond beauty shown to advantage in the cherry gown his mama had chosen. Mercifully, she demanded little of him, seeming content to spend most of her time in his mama and sister's company. But then, they had always been friends.
Friends.

As the time for their nuptials slowly approached he found it increasingly difficult to express even that limited emotion. He dared not allow himself to feel, lest the caged beast of rage and despair escape to ravage all around him.

Grateful when the start of the play relieved him of the task of manufacturing more light chatter, he fastened his gaze on the stage.

The lyrical cadences did soothe, allowing him to lose himself in the play for a time. As the interval began, he kept his eyes focused downward, delaying as long as possible the necessity to resume polite conversation.

A commotion among the lower seats caught his attention, and in the next heartbeat, he saw her.

Emily! She never went out in public, yet it was unmistakably her. And the group of rowdies surrounding her were Willoughby and his loutish friends, unmistakably accosting her.

Rage brought him instantly to his feet. But before he could race to her assistance he saw Brent step in, shoulder Willoughby aside, say something that caused the group, with obvious reluctance, to disperse.

Bravo, friend!
he exulted. And watched intently as a moment later, Brent led her out.

Was she upset, shaken? He must know. Suddenly aware of the curious stares of his family, he mumbled something disjointed about spotting a friend, and pushed his way from the box, nearly running in his eagerness.

He didn't pause until he reached the lobby. Stopping to scan the crowd, he located them in a corner. Brent stood protectively before her; Emily, head lowered, seemed to be listening to something Brent was saying.

Something amusing, evidently. The hint of a smile curved her lips.

Evan took one step to go to her before sanity returned. What could he say or do? Any acknowledgement from him would call down on them the worst of the gossipmongers, evil weaselly minds intent on ferreting out every detail.

Even with Brent her presence was attracting some notice. Though as an undistinguished younger son with neither great fortune nor elevated title, Brent was able to do as he pleased with little comment from the ton.

Unlike himself, whose every word and gesture would be noted. No, he must not go to her.

And had to clench his teeth and curl his hands into fists to keep himself from it.

Ah, how beautiful she was! If he could not hear the timbre of her voice, inhale the spice of her lavender scent, he could at least feast his eyes on her, trace his hungry glance through
her glossy locks, across her smooth cheek and down the column of her throat, embrace her with his gaze as his arms ached to do.

Focusing on her with longing so sharp it squeezed the air from his lungs, he finally realized despite his mama's admonition that with time, his sacrifice would seem easier, despite his own determination to “move on,” he'd only been deceiving himself.

He would never forget Emily. To his last breath he would carry her with him, under his skin, in his blood, feel the beat of her heart like his own, just as he had the last time they lay together.

Close his eyes and he could hear the music of her voice, feel the smoothness of her satin forehead as he tapped it teasingly when making a point in some argument….

A passerby jostled him and he stumbled back, flattening himself against the stairwell as the lobby crowd began returning to their seats. Obscured by the press of people, he stood watching as Brent took her hand, led her away.

Not until the lobby stood empty, the custodians looking at him curiously, did he slowly climb the stairs to his box.

He ignored the searching glance his mama sent him upon his tardy return. With only a slight change in the angle of his chair, he could see Emily. Through the rest of the play he watched them, the dip of Brent's head as he spoke, her upturned face in reply.

Her father-in-law must still be absent if she judged it safe to go out. But she shouldn't be sitting there among the crowd, subject to the insults of any lounging buck. Simmering anger stirred again, and with anticipation he resolved to search out Willoughby and challenge him to a highly satisfying bout of fisticuffs.

She should have a box available the rest of the Season, to use whenever she wished. He'd speak with Manners about it on the morrow.

The frozen lethargy in which he'd moved, trancelike, this past month began to crack. He ought to have Manners check on the progress of her business as well. And why not instruct the lawyer to transfer the deed on her house into her name? Set up an account for her son's education, another with a tidy sum to see her through any future financial difficulties. So she'd never again need to seek assistance from another or—his eyes rested on Brent—incur debts she felt obligated, one way or another, to repay.

During the rest of the play he savored the sight of her, not jumping into his own waiting carriage until the hackney—he frowned a bit when Brent followed her into it—bore her away.

Then for the first time in five weeks a genuine smile curled his lips. Tomorrow at opening of business he'd visit the lawyer. Then wait to hear every detail of how the very independent Mrs. Spenser responded to his gifts.

 

Ten days later, Mr. Manners sat with a glass of Richard's port and recounted his interview with Emily.

“Quite a determined lady, and looking to be very successful,” the lawyer told Evan. “I think you shall see a handsome return on that investment.”

“I'm glad of it, but about the box—what did she say?”

Mr. Manners turned to him, his austere face almost…smiling. “She wished me to convey her appreciation, but said she could not put you to such inconvenience.”

“You told her the box was already rented and will stand empty if she does not avail herself of it?”

The solicitor's smile broadened. “Aye, I did. And assured her that the box being now in her name, she and she alone could determine its use.”

“And?”

Mr. Manners cleared his throat. “She asked if my wife and I enjoy the theater.”

Evan laughed. Damme, how long had it been since anything had stirred him to genuine amusement? Chuckling as well, Mr. Manners produced a ticket from his waistcoat pocket and waved it. “I remonstrated, but as she remained adamant, what could I do but thank her most kindly?”

“And the house?”

Mr. Manners sipped his port. “She insisted she could not accept the deed. I finally convinced her her acceptance is irrelevant. Once the title had been conveyed, the property was legally hers whether she wished it or no, to use or dispose of.”

That prospect had not occurred to him. “Do you think she will sell it?” he asked, loath to lose any link to her.

“No, quite the opposite. She assured me she considers the dwelling her home. However, she insisted she must continue to pay rent until such time as she reimburses the purchase price of the property.”

Evan's lips twitched. How he wished he might have spied upon this interview! He could see her, back ramrod straight, chin up and eyes shining as she proudly declined largesse he knew no other woman would conceive of refusing.

“You told her that was unacceptable, I trust.”

“Actually, no.” The lawyer paused to take a sip. “I told her she might continue to pay rent through my office.”

Evan's humor faded. “By no means, Mr. Manners! You know I would never permit—”

The lawyer held up a hand. “Hear me out, my lord. If it makes the lady feel easier, why not let her establish what amounts to a savings fund? You must know she vowed she'd not touch a penny of the other trusts you established. In any future difficulties, she might be more likely to approach me if she thought I managed monies she herself had accumulated. Of course, her deposits could then be…augmented as you desire, the increase discreetly credited as interest.”

Evan's smile returned. “Small wonder, Mr. Manners, that my family has always been so pleased with your services.”

The lawyer bowed. “My privilege, Lord Cheverley.” Setting down the empty glass, he turned to the door. “Thank you for your kind hospitality, and naturally I shall keep you informed of any developments.”

Evan rose and offered his hand. After a startled moment, the lawyer took it. “Thank you, Mr. Manners. I can rest easy now, knowing she will be protected.”

The lawyer paused on the threshold. “I must admit, when first you broached this project to me several months ago, I thought it most ill-advised. But Mrs. Spenser is not at all what I expected. A most…extraordinary lady.”

Longing coiled within Evan, a familiar ache. “Aye.”

After the lawyer departed, Evan looked over to the painting he'd hung over his mantel. Pots of lavender glowed in a mist of morning sun that shimmered over a stone sundial and spilled splotches of warmth on an old deacon's bench.

The scene beckoned every time he looked at it, inviting him into the garden—Emily's garden at the shop.

Just before she removed to the new house, knowing she'd be moving the picture, he'd baldly asked for it. He'd placed it first in his office at the ministry, but after their…break, he'd transferred it here.

Since he'd brought Andrea to London to stay with them he'd established his library as his personal retreat, the one place in the house he allowed none but the cleaning maids to enter, refusing permission even to his mother.