by Sara Portman
“I am sure she is quite grateful for your companionship.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Perhaps because he seemed so kind, or perhaps because his expectant look demanded some continuation of the conversation, she added, “I am sorry to have intruded upon your wait, my lord, but perhaps it is fortuitous that I have done so.” Lucy smiled brightly at him, then faltered. Would Lord and Lady Ashby would prefer a stern governess? She amended her expression to a more neutral, less happy one. It would not do to appear overeager, after all.
She thought idly as she stood, not quite smiling, not quite scowling at the man, that Lady Ashby must be a particularly lovely woman. He was handsome enough to have set thousands of lashes fluttering across London before he was married, and with his title to match, he would have had his pick of any lady. His eyes were the dark gray of smoldering coals.
Those eyes, she realized, were staring at her in patent confusion. “Fortuitous in what manner?” he inquired.
She immediately regretted her choice to speak boldly, though the quirk of his brow did appear more amused than annoyed. There was no help for it now.
In for a penny, as they say…
“I am so terribly sorry to be presumptuous, my lord. I mean only that I am…that is, circumstances are such that I find I must…” Her flush deepened. Lucy looked up at the imposingly tall man with dark eyes and hair too perfectly unstudied to be accidental and knew without question that she was making an absolute fool of herself.
She had to get through it now that she had begun. Pleasant, but not eager, she reminded herself. Serious, but not stern. “As a matter of fact, I had hoped for an introduction as…well, you see, once I am no longer needed here, I will be in need of another position.”
She felt the heat in her cheeks rising and concentrating into burning splotches. Even as she knew she appeared more foolish with every word, she continued speaking, somehow unable to stop. “My Lord,” she said, stepping forward, “I apologize. It was very unconventional and impulsive for me to approach you in this manner, and I am sorry for it. It was poorly done of me, but I assure you I am not usually impulsive. I had hoped to make a positive impression when first we met.” She smiled bravely up at him, wishing fervently that he would somehow at least see the good intention behind her error.
Again, the eyebrow danced. This time his dark eyes danced as well. “Did you, now?” he asked, seeming more curious now that she’d explained.
She relaxed just a bit. At least he could see the humor in it. She considered it a boon that she had not been summarily dismissed. “Of course, my lord. I’m sure you can understand my desire to gain your favorable opinion.”
“You desire my favorable opinion?”
“Certainly.” She tilted her head to the side and peered up at him. “On what other basis would you select me, my lord?”
* * *
Select her?
Bex Brantwood peered down at the pixie-sized person who stared back up at him with wide frost-blue eyes that matched her frock and decided he must have misheard the girl. “Select you?” he asked.
She bit her lip, drawing his gaze to her mouth, which was just as sweetly pink as her cheeks at that very moment. She looked like a fairy sprite—an odd, nonsensical fairy sprite who had wandered distractedly into the room and then calmly requested that he select her.
Select her for what?
“You seem to know considerably more of me than I know of you,” he observed.
“Oh, of course, my lord,” she gushed, clasping her hands in front of her. “How thoughtless of me.” She ran her hands down the front of her frock and took a deep inhale of air before beginning. “I am the only daughter of the vicar in the village of Beadwell. I am a longtime acquaintance of the Duchess of Worley. I play both the pianoforte and harp and am widely read. At four and twenty, I have recently concluded that it is well past time I cease to be a burden to my parents and make some arrangement for my future, so you can understand how fortuitous it was to learn that your visit to the duke and duchess would be coinciding with my own.”
She exhaled. Good lord, how did she have breath left after that soliloquy?
He said nothing. So that was it. The poor vicar’s daughter from the local village had decided to arrange for her future and was importuning him to become that arrangement. So much boldness for such a little thing. At least she was honest. That was a bit braver than most girls who might have tried to lure him into a situation that compromised her and forced his hand.
Honesty or not, she had chosen the wrong mark. Security was the last thing he had to offer anyone. All attempts at marital arrangements concerning Bexley Brantwood had come to a definitive halt the previous year when his cousin, the true duke, had returned to claim the title. Clearly this poor girl was too naïve to realize Bex’s only remaining friends were gamblers, ladies of the night, and unscrupulous money lenders.
“I applaud you, dear, for your sensibility in addressing your future. You are young and pretty. Marriage to some amiable and stable young gentleman is, of course, what you should consider. For precisely that reason, I am unable to be of any assistance to you. I do wish you success in your pursuit.” With the briefest of smiles meant to punctuate the end of their conversation, Bex stepped aside so that she might be allowed to exit the room.
She remained standing in place, her eyes growing large as she comprehended his response. “Oh, no, my lord. I understand you might have concerns about taking me on if you believed I intended to marry, but I am much more…practical…than that.” Her cheeks flushed again and her smile took on a self-deprecating asymmetry. “I am well aware that without any family connections or dowry my marriage prospects are dismal indeed. When added to the fact that I am limited to my small village with no gentleman of marriageable age and the lack of funds for even a local season…I…well, I am resigned to my circumstances, sir.” She averted her eyes, but he could see the way her cheeks flamed to be laying bare these truths of her situation. “I understand I must be practical about my future and pursue other arrangements.”
Other arrangements? Christ. What had he stumbled into? Was this angelic sprite of a vicar’s daughter actually offering herself up to him as his mistress? Bex had received such offers in the past, but they were veiled invitations from the jaded London set, not blushing, flustered proposals from the daughters of country gentlemen.
She was very becoming in the way that a china doll is becoming—all pale porcelain and disastrously fragile. Her frost-blue eyes were anything but cold, however. They were quick. They darted everywhere and expressed everything. They had none of the veiled mystery she would need if she truly expected to spend her prettiest years moving from one protector to the next based upon their pocketbook rather than their likeability.
He tilted his head to one side. “So you’ve given up entirely on the prospect of marriage, have you?”
She nodded vehemently. “I have, my lord, and I assure you, I am quite enthusiastic about this next endeavor.”
Bex couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed aloud. This was becoming absurd. If he were a good man—a truly, good man—he would pat her on the head, send her on her way, and perhaps even have a good talk with her father once he’d done so.
Frankly, whatever she thought she knew of his reputation was inflated and he couldn’t afford her anyway, but still his conscience could not find any objection to at least humoring the girl for a few more minutes just to see what else she might say. She’d told him about her skill at the harp, for God’s sake. Who gave a fig whether their mistress could play the damned harp?
“You’re a bold bit of cake, aren’t you?”
She managed to look genuinely confused at his question. She took a small step backward. “I…I apologize,” she said. “I realize it was unforgivably impertinent of me to approach you.”
Don’t back away now, you little minx, he thought. Not now that you’ve put the proposal to me and I’ve not yet answered. She bit her lower lip a
nd the action caught his attention. She was lovely. He had never been particularly drawn to the sweet and innocent, but never had it been offered up to him so audaciously. He regretted that he could not afford her in that moment, watching how her pink lower lip slid temptingly from the hold of white teeth. If he could, he would be quite tempted to accept.
Of course, she may not be as innocent as she appeared. It was very likely, he reasoned, that she was ruined already. That would certainly make a respectable marriage unlikely, wouldn’t it? He looked at her again, hints of her dainty shape visible beneath her prim pastel gown. He wondered whether her boldness would manifest itself in the bedroom, then the unexpected thought captured his imagination.
His body heated at the visions that assailed him and he stepped toward her. “I respect your self-sufficiency and…shall we say, ingenuity… Miss Betancourt. I cannot in good conscience deny you without a fair trial,” he coaxed.
She eyed him warily. “A fair trial?” she asked. “I’m not sure what you mean?”
“A sample of your skills, perhaps?” he said, warming more and more to the idea.
“My skills?” she asked, her eyes wide with uncertainty. “I…I could play for you, I suppose.”
His grin widened. “I do not require a musical audition.” The more wolfish he felt, the more visibly apprehensive she became. She had approached him, had she not?
“There are more applicable skills to consider,” he said, and catching her around her doll-sized waist with one arm, he dropped his mouth to hers in a searing kiss.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sara Portman is an award-winning author of historical and contemporary romance. Her debut historical romance, The Reunion, was named the 2015 winner in the Historical Category of the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart contest. A daughter of the Midwest, Sara was born in Illinois, grew up in Michigan, and currently lives in Ohio. In addition to her writing endeavors, Sara is a wife and mother in a large, blended family. When not reading or dreaming up romantic fiction, Sara works in corporate finance by day. As part of her academic experience, Sara spent a semester studying in London, England. Her anglophile tendencies continue today. Visit her at www.saraportman.com.