A Notorious Proposition

by Adele Ashworth

  The more he stayed by her side day by day, the more he troubled her. She couldn’t decide if he’d been truthful about his memory loss or if he was deceiving her because of his involvement in Ian’s disappearance. The problem, she decided, was her memory of him.

  She’d only known him for a week, but during that time she had trusted him implicitly. Part of her knew it was because of her gift and her ability to detect deceit in others. But there was something else involved where Garrett was concerned. Even now she had trouble defining her feelings for him, though she knew they comprised a mixture of grief, annoyance, desire, and probably what love remained from two years ago when she had fallen for him in a shamefully lust-filled passion. But she didn’t hate him, and he knew it, which was likely why he insisted on remaining by her side regardless of her intentions to keep their association practical and proper. Nothing had ever been practical or proper between them, and it bothered her immensely that she couldn’t keep her impractical feelings in check.

  She did acknowledge, however, that she couldn’t yet forgive him for the damage he’d done to her heart two years ago because she knew—positively knew—he was still hiding secrets from her. She sensed a reluctance in him to tell her everything about that night, his past, his desires, and, admittedly, she understood it. In that regard, she decided neither of them could trust the other until they discovered the truth behind the disappearance of the Martello diamonds. And her mission, now, centered on finding Ian.

  The click of the latch in her withdrawing room brought her attention to the present. Garrett had arrived.

  Quickly, she walked in to see him enter, her heartbeat quickening at just the sight of his broad shoulders squeezing through the opening.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  He grinned wryly at her as he closed the paneling. “It’s so good to know you care about my arrival time each night, Lady Ivy.”

  She turned her back on him and returned to her bedroom. “I have news.”

  He shook off whatever dust he’d collected from his journey through the tunnel, removed his coat and gloves, which he tossed on the settee, then walked close to the fire to warm his hands.

  “What news might that be?” he asked at last.

  “I received a note from Lord Rye,” she replied at once. “He gave his permission for the Winter Masquerade.”

  Without glancing at her, he said, “And you’ve probably already sent word to Lady Madeleine.”

  She shrugged. “Of course.”

  “I’m sure her husband is thanking you even now.”

  Grinning, she added, “The marquess has also promised to finance the entire event, and even mentioned he might attend himself.”

  Garrett drew in a long breath and turned to face her, arms folded across his chest, his expression skeptical.

  “Now I’m certain her husband is thanking you,” he drawled.

  She grew sober as she eyed him candidly. “You haven’t asked me what I think about it.”

  His brows drew together. “What you think about it? I should think you’re happy.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Garrett sometimes you can be such…a man.”

  “Thank you.”

  She groaned and walked to her bed, the covers already lowered by Jane when she had helped Ivy undress, and sat upon the edge, watching him. “I meant, that I’m very surprised to learn the marquess might appear. It gives credence to the notion that he’s more involved in this mess than I first suspected.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and sat heavily on the settee, lifting a leg over one arm of the furniture and relaxing against the other. “Ivy, that’s pure speculation.”

  She ignored that. “He suggested holding the masquerade in two weeks.”

  His brows shot up. “Two weeks? Can you plan a party of that size in such a short time?”

  Confidently, she replied, “Of course I can. And really, the sooner the better. It will be the first time in two years everybody in Winter Garden will be inside this house. I think it could be very telling.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured.

  She sighed, drawing her legs up and crossing her arms over her knees. “I don’t know what else to do, Garrett. We’ve searched the tunnel system, there have been no more clues left regarding Ian’s whereabouts, and I have no idea where the diamonds or Benedict Sharon might be. You don’t either, or you’d be gone by now.”

  He tipped his head to the side a little. “Gone by now? You think I’d pack my bags and leave you if I found the jewels myself?”

  She squirmed a little on the bed, then lowered her legs and gazed at him frankly. “Would you?”

  He stared at her for a second or two, then grumbled something under his breath and leaned his head back on a small lavender pillow, lifting his arm to rest it across his closed eyes. Aloud, he said, “No, I wouldn’t leave you, but then, I shouldn’t need to tell you that.”

  That simplistic answer annoyed her. “Why do you say that?”

  He was quiet for a moment, them muttered, “Turn the light out, Ivy.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m tired, that’s why.”

  “I want an answer to my question, first,” she insisted stubbornly.

  Seconds later, he conceded, “Turn the light out, and I’ll give you one.”

  She hesitated, uncertain of his mood, and his intention. “You’ll stay there?”

  He chuckled. “Ivy, it’s late. Unless ghosts attack in the middle of the night, I’m not moving till morning.”

  Curiosity overcoming her misgiving, she leaned to her right and extinguished the oil lamp at her side so that all that remained was flickering light from the low-burning fire.

  She snuggled down under her blankets and waited for him to begin since she refused to beg, and he probably knew it.

  Finally, in a near whisper, he said, “I shouldn’t need to tell you because of what happened between us two years ago.”

  Intrigued, Ivy turned on her side and propped her arm up on her pillow, her cheek in her palm. “I don’t understand.”

  He remained silent for a long moment, then murmured, “I may not remember the details, Ivy, but you do. And I know what I’m like, and what I like in a woman. Tell me how I treated you.”

  Part of her couldn’t believe he asked her that, and the other part remembered that such an intimate question might have come from his lips two years ago, too. She understood his question, his desire to let her find the answer herself, but it also unsettled her to have to be reminded by verbalizing her feelings of him during their week together.

  Relaxing against her pillow, she stared at the fire in the grate. “You…were warm. Kind. Your smile engaged me first, then your good humor.”

  She paused, and when he said nothing, she continued. “You treated me like a princess, Garrett,” she divulged in a low voice. “I liked you at once.”

  “I remember your voice,” he murmured gruffly from the settee. “I remember you laughing about something I said.”

  She smiled in the darkness. “What else?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do,” she charged. “What are you afraid to tell me?”

  “I remember your breasts—”

  “You’re right,” she cut in, “I don’t want to know.”

  He laughed very softly. “You asked. And I’m the one with memory loss.”

  Ivy smiled to herself and hugged her pillow. “So you say.”

  A long silence lingered, the comfort of his presence and the warmth of the fire making her drowsy. “Did you tell my brother about us?”

  “No, I’m sure I didn’t,” he answered without pause.

  Her relief was enormous. “Anyone?”

  He sighed. “Honestly, Ivy, I don’t remember. But I know myself as a gentleman. I wouldn’t ruin your reputation like that. Secondly, if I’d asked you to marry me, I’m certain I thought I’d be asking Ian to court you formally when the quest for the jewels was over.”


  “You—you said you knew the secret of my parentage.” With an inner turmoil, she asked, “Weren’t you concerned that I was the bastard daughter of Robert Sharon?”

  “No,” he said at once. “At least, I’m assuming I wasn’t concerned then. I’m not now.”

  “But you’re not planning to marry me now.”

  She made that statement before considering her words, yet once uttered she had no choice but to wait anxiously for him to agree with her. Instead, she heard him turn again on the settee.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked very softly.

  The question took her aback. “Did you hurt me?”

  “Physically,” he clarified. “When I made love to you.”

  His boldness coupled with such a depth of sincerity, both stunned her intellect and melted her heart. And it didn’t take her long to decide he asked because he needed to know.

  “No, it didn’t hurt, at least not more than I expected. You…you were a marvelous lover.”

  She heard the settee creak again under his weight, and for a second or two, she feared he might be rising to come to her anyway, despite his promise. Then in a gruff, faraway voice, she heard him ask, “Now I’m glad to know I’m the one who seduced you. I clearly knew what I was doing.”

  She almost giggled. “Garrett, if I am to have only one lover in my life, and I suspect that’s true, I’m certainly glad I was seduced by you.”

  He chuckled softly. “Somehow I know that’s a compliment coming from you.”

  “Rest assured, sir, I would never speak of such a thing to anyone else.” She paused, then added, “And yes, you may consider it a compliment.”

  “So tell me how it happened,” he murmured.

  Snuggling down deeper into the warmth of her blankets, she replied, “How what happened?”

  “My incredible seduction of you, Lady Ivy.”

  If it had been any other time, in any other circumstance or place, she would have been thoroughly embarrassed by such an intimate question. But right now, in a locked room lit by firelight, with Garrett both near at hand and yet at a distance, she felt wonderfully safe. Warm and safe, as she had felt in his arms two years ago.

  “You gave me roses,” she replied.

  After along pause, he grumbled, “That’s it?”

  Grinning in the darkness, she said through an exaggerated sigh, “Even if you have no memory of the experience with me, Mr. Burke, you must remember how you’ve done it before.”

  “I’ve never done it before.”

  She had no idea how to respond to that quick statement. Guardedly, she said, “You’ve never seduced any woman but me?”

  “I have no memory of it,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “You’re a cad,” she muttered, fluffing her pillow with a fist.

  He chuckled again. “Lady Ivy, you are far too easy to tease.”

  A long silence lingered, and then she whispered huskily, “That’s how you seduced me.”

  Through a yawn, he asked, “How?”

  Closing her eyes to the memory, she confessed, “You charmed me, Garrett, by teasing me. You teased me about seeing into your future, and when I teased you in return by telling you how sad you’d be after I was gone, how alone you’d feel, you moved very close to me and told me you were going to kiss me.” She inhaled deeply. “I told you I didn’t see any kisses between us in your future, and you said that made you sad. And then you kissed me anyway.”

  “I remember kissing you, Ivy,” he said in a gruff, sleepy voice. “Or I should say it’s a vague remembrance. I can still see your lips, and if I close my eyes and let the pieces come together on their own, I can remember how it felt.”

  She had to ask. “How did it feel?”

  He waited, as if gathering his thoughts, then replied, “It felt like heaven.”

  It took a long time for his words to sink in, but she sensed the honesty in them. She swallowed back tears of a lingering happiness coupled with frustration, of sorrow and regret and even a certain peace in knowing she hadn’t imagined the emotions she witnessed from him at the time.

  “You know I’m going to kiss you again,” he whispered.

  She didn’t say anything to that, though very deep inside she longed for the time, the hour when he would hold her in his arms once more.

  “Good night, Garrett,” she whispered.

  Through a sigh of contentment, he replied, “Good night, sweet Ivy.”

  Chapter 13

  Penelope Bennington-Jones and Mrs. Catherine Mossley had been friends for thirty-seven years. Both now widows, they met for tea at least once a week, sometimes for nothing more than to discuss their good fortune at being rid of the tediousness of taking care of a husband.

  Today was different, however. Penelope had important news, and although she preferred not to gossip, she simply couldn’t resist. Catherine always listened attentively anyway, and she knew more of the details regarding Penelope’s daughter Desdemona’s shameful past than anyone. It helped, Penelope supposed, that Catherine wasn’t an actual lady by birth, but by marriage, as her late husband had made a fortune in the gas-lighting industry before his untimely demise, leaving his wife comfortably settled for the balance of her life. If only she had been so fortunate. Still, Catherine remained the only friendly person in Winter Garden, and the only lady to graciously offer invitations now that her daughter had disgraced them all. For that reason alone, Penelope would always count the woman a friend, even if her manners were a trifle inappropriate. As of course they were now.

  Sitting across from her in Catherine’s small country home, decorated deplorably in bright greens and yellows, and eclectic furniture that didn’t at all embrace any style or match anything else in her parlor, she sipped surprisingly good tea and listened as her hostess rambled on about the weather. Or some such nonsense.

  After dressing in her best day gown of sunshine yellow silk and donning her most expensive jewelry and fur-lined mantle, Penelope set out for Catherine’s home. Since her own manners were impeccable, Penelope hadn’t immediately chimed in with her reason for calling today, but allowed her friend to make pleasantries first. Yet the wait to tell all thus far had been grating her nerves. To her good fortune, Catherine brought the subject up first.

  “So tell me, Penelope,” the corpulent woman fairly demanded as she munched on a watercress sandwich, “what have you heard about the mysterious Lord Rye?”

  Penelope took a long sip of her tea, then placed her cup and saucer on the table in front of her. “Actually, I’ve heard little about him personally, but the woman staying at his house certainly has become the talk of the village.”

  Catherine’s brows rose sharply. “Indeed. I have yet to meet her, but she is rather…famous, is she not?”

  Hiding her annoyance, Penelope smiled flatly, and replied, “She’s a seer, Catherine.”

  “Yes, but isn’t that fascinating?”

  One thing that had repeatedly bothered Penelope was Catherine’s manner in finding enjoyment in everything, even when there wasn’t any to find. Life wasn’t about joyful gratification, it was about manners, good breeding, enriching one’s interests by meeting people of quality. But then her friend hadn’t been raised in the good home she had.

  “I suppose,” she answered after fluffing her skirts. “I do find it odd that she’s also a lady, the sister of the Earl of Stamford.”

  “Odd? How so?”

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “If you’ll remember correctly,” she chided with a smile, “the former earl and his wife, Lady Ivy’s parents, lived in Winter Garden for a time when she was a child.”

  Of course such information wasn’t exactly odd, or newsworthy, but that was beside the point. Catherine wouldn’t think about that anyway.

  “I think I recall them now that you mention it,” Catherine said, her thick brows pinched in thought. “The earl’s wife was lovely.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed vaguely. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that the daughter is back i
n the house?”

  Catherine reached for another sandwich. “I don’t know. I suppose.” She took a large bite and talked while she chewed. “It doesn’t belong to Lord Rothebury anymore so—what’s she staying there for anyway?”

  This was the opening Penelope had hoped for. Eyes wide with feigned excitement, she lowered her voice to reply, “Supposedly, she’s been invited by the new owner, the Marquess of Rye, to hunt for ghosts.”

  Catherine gasped, then reached for her tea to wash down a mouthful of bread. “You think the ghost of Richard is haunting his own home?” she fairly whispered.

  Penelope almost rolled her eyes but had the good manners to refrain. “Naturally, I wouldn’t know. But since Benedict disappeared while living there, I suppose there’s a good chance she’s investigating the house for the ghosts of both brothers.” She paused for effect, then added in murmur, “Or so that’s the story she’s giving.”

  Thankfully, Penelope didn’t need to resort to greater clarity as Catherine seemed to grasp her intent. She watched her friend’s eyes widen to saucers and her mouth drop open a little as she absorbed the gossip as factual information.

  “Well, do tell, Penelope, why else would she be living in such a frightening place?” She lifted the teapot to refill their cups. “Since she’s a seer, it makes perfect sense that she’d be hunting for ghosts.”

  “Indeed, it does, which is why I find it highly suspicious,” Penelope agreed at once, her tone conspiratorial.

  “Ahhh…” Catherine cast her a sideways glance. “You think there’s something else, something more involved?”

  She lifted her cup and took a sip of hot tea. “Well, there’s that architect she’s been seen with on occasion.”

  Catherine sat back, fairly slumping in her chair. “Mr. Burke. Yes, I met him. Handsome man, too,” she said, and winked. “My granddaughter Elizabeth has caught his eye, I think.”

  Penelope ignored her friend’s very common disposition and carried on. Some people, even if considered a friend by those of good breeding, never seemed to change. And to think that very ordinary Elizabeth, who lived on the other side of the village with a family as their governess, and found herself nearly on the shelf at twenty-four, would catch the eye of a man like the architect was simply too much to imagine.