A Notorious Proposition

by Adele Ashworth

  She glanced up to his face to see him grinning beautifully at her.

  She scoffed, tying the sash at her waist. “Meaning making love without mussing a lady’s hair is given to a man by birthright?”

  He grabbed her at the shoulders and yanked her against him. “Precisely,” he whispered, his lips teasing hers. “But the truth you should know, my darling, is that you are the only woman who has ever held my heart in her hands.”

  She grinned against his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Then I’ll try very hard not to drop you…”

  “Ever?” he breathed, skimming her lips back and forth with his own.

  She shrugged negligibly. “Perhaps.”

  “That’s an awfully vague answer.”

  “But it’s an answer,” she whispered.

  He growled softly and lowered his mouth to her neck. She tilted her head back to give him access.

  “Answer one more question for me, Ivy,” he murmured, drawing a hand down to her bottom and pulling her close. “Truthfully.”

  “Mmmm…If I can…”

  “What were you going to say to me when I returned to you that night two years ago?”

  Her heart stilled, the emotions of their lovemaking still forefront in her thoughts as she considered the depth of what he asked. She knew what he wanted to hear from her, and although the pain of that night would always remain, she wouldn’t lie to him now.

  Grasping his cheeks lightly, she gazed into his eyes. “Even though we’re not of the same class, and I knew my brother would fight against it, nothing mattered to me but you. I would have said yes.”

  She watched the turmoil cross his brow, sensed the same frustration in him that she felt in losing what could have been, the loneliness in years lost. And then he exhaled a long breath and rested his forehead against hers.

  “Promise me,” he maintained soberly seconds later, “that no matter what happens this night, you will remember what you just told me and what it means for us now.”

  “Why?” She tilted her head to the side with curiosity and leaned back. “What is it?”

  “Just make me that promise,” he insisted.

  Smiling, she pacified him through a sigh. “I promise, Garrett. Now tell me what you’re afraid is going to happen tonight?”

  He smiled faintly in return and released her. “The problem is I’m not sure what will happen, but I need you to believe in me, Ivy. And trust me.”

  Her eyes narrowed teasingly as she placed her hands on her hips. “Trust you? You entered my bedchamber and took advantage of me, sir—”

  He chuckled, and then in one quick action, wrapped a large palm around her neck, brought her face to his, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  “I need to leave,” he whispered seconds later.

  She nodded, reluctantly letting him go for a final time. “Will you arrive before the marquess? I’d rather not greet him alone.”

  He ran his fingers along her jaw as he murmured, “You won’t greet him alone. That’s a promise I will make to you.”

  And then before she could comment further, he was at the door to the passageway, glancing back once before he closed it softly behind him.

  He only had crumbs left to eat, and little water, which he safeguarded with growing despair. The woman hadn’t been to see him in a long time, or at least it seemed that way, since the drugs had slowly worn off to leave him with an awareness of how desperate his situation had become.

  He couldn’t see anything in such thick blackness, not even his wrist chained to the wall at his side. He could move from the cot, but only two or three feet, and he heard nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  She kept him in some sort of dungeon, that much was clear, though he couldn’t be certain how long he’d been here. Probably weeks, he thought. And as his head had cleared, he also realized his confinement had something to do with the Martello diamonds stolen two years ago.

  Their loss had been partially his fault, he accepted that. But being held captive by a woman who told him nothing went far beyond all he could understand. He remembered following Benedict Sharon to Winter Garden, watching the man for days before deciding to confront him by surprise, but instead, finding the man in dinner clothes, sprawled out facedown on the floor of his library. And the next thing he remembered was waking up here with a splitting headache. The woman had arrived hours later to leave him the broth and bread, and when he was weakened and could no longer physically fight for his freedom, she began drugging him with laudanum.

  But now something had changed. He could feel it, just as he could feel Ivy’s presence. She was searching for him, and he felt sickened at the thought of her becoming involved in this—whatever it was.

  Suddenly, Ian became aware of a very low vibration surrounding him, a deep hum, like a gushing of water or the thunder of horses in the far distance, though he still could hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing in the stale, foul air.

  He sat up, glancing around into nothingness, his head spinning from such a quick movement on his part. And then he heard the click of the latch on the door and an odd rush of relief swept through him as he realized he hadn’t been completely abandoned.

  The door slowly opened and she stood there, a small lantern hanging at her side. For seconds she watched him, her body hooded and cloaked so he still couldn’t see her face within the shadow.

  “Who are you?” he croaked out, his throat dry and raspy, his eyes squinting even from the very dim lighting.

  “You’re awake,” she said quietly. “That’s good because I have news.”

  He got the sense she was young, or at least not old, though without seeing her features he couldn’t know for sure. And although her English proved she came from good family, her voice could be anyone’s.

  “Have you come to release me?” he asked, trying to sound hopeful rather than as enraged as he felt.

  “The Marquess of Rye and your sister are lovers. She is living in the Baron Rothebury’s home, and he joins her at night. I’ve seen them.”

  She gave him time to absorb that news, and when the meaning of her words finally seeped into his muddled brain, he didn’t know what to think, to feel—furious at his sister, baffled by the coincidence, agitated that he hadn’t, and couldn’t, protect her like he should. And who could know if it was true. But right now, he decided, the information wasn’t nearly as important as the timing.

  “Who are you?” he repeated gruffly. “And why are you telling me this?”

  She took a step closer, clasping the lantern behind her with both hands so he couldn’t see her face.

  “I’m going to the ball, to surprise them all, and then I’m bringing her here.”

  His heart began to race. He swallowed the bile in his throat, and muttered through clenched teeth, “You have me, you don’t need her. Leave Ivy out of this.”

  She chuckled, then replied, “She’s worth more than you are.”

  He bolted, attempting to reach for her, but the chains gripped his hand. He roared with rage when he couldn’t get quite close enough to break her neck, though his swift movement startled her enough that she stepped back to the safety of the doorway.

  “There has been a change to the plan,” she said seconds later, her tone growing distant, somber. “Nobody has found the diamonds because they haven’t tried hard enough. But they are surely in the house. If your sister disappears, the generous marquess will tear the walls apart to find her. He will trade them for her, and I’ll be gone before anyone knows what happened to either of you.”

  “I’ll kill you,” he seethed in a deadly breath.

  She shook her head to whisper, “We met once, long ago, but you don’t remember me, do you? You don’t even know who I am.”

  Another loud shout of agony escaped his chest, and he yanked forward full force with the thick chain again, this time drawing blood from his wrist. But she only looked at him from the shadow of her hooded cloak.

  “Men have died here before y
ou, and after I leave, nobody will know this dungeon exists.” Dropping her voice to a whisper of loneliness, she said, “I’m sorry, Ian. You shouldn’t have been a part of this.”

  And then she was gone, leaving him with nothing but the blackness.

  Crushed by a feeling of helplessness he could no longer control, Ian fell back on the cot, brought his hands to his face, and wept.

  Chapter 17

  It started snowing at four o’clock. By six, the Winter Masquerade was well under way, music playing, footmen in blood-red livery serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres to a growing crowd in the Rye estate’s magnificent ballroom.

  Ivy stood in the foyer with nervous anticipation. In every respect, she was the Marquess of Rye’s chosen hostess, though to her great relief, Madeleine and Thomas, Lord and Lady Eastleigh, stood beside her. As the highest-ranking members of the aristocracy in Winter Garden, aside from the marquess, who had yet to make an appearance, they greeted the arriving guests with stately elegance, giving her moments here and there to move away and observe the growing crowd.

  With her hair dressed in pearls, not a curl out of place, she wore the earrings Garrett had given her, stunning teardrop emeralds, as the only jewelry on her person. Her gown, made of the finest white silk, accented them beautifully, as tiny ribbons in yellow, blue, pale green, and pink, curled into the shape of roses, lined the white lace of her neckline and wide skirt.

  Footmen stood on either side of the sparkling, stained-glass archway, handing out masks in black or white silk for those who hadn’t brought their own. As yet, nobody had arrived who seemed out of place or reluctant to be inside the former Rothebury home, and Ivy had yet to notice anything odd. In that regard, she supposed it might only be the Marquess of Rye’s arrival that would stun the crowd this night, and certainly the appearance by a man rumored to be either a rake or recluse would no doubt create a stir worth revisiting at tea for months to come. At the very least such a stir would make the Winter Masquerade a success, especially to those who chose to attend only for the resulting gossip.

  Thomas and Madeleine made a striking pair, both dressed in deep blue, both foregoing masks, as did she, while making introductions. Madeleine’s gown fit her perfectly in a shade that accented the unusual color of her blue eyes. Thomas, clearly proud to be her husband and escort, kept a hand at her lower back in a display of possessiveness.

  Ivy envied them. They disagreed on occasion, but in a loving manner that showed the deep respect they had for each other. She felt the same kind of admiration for Garrett, she supposed, but not at such a deep level, as they still had so many questions unanswered between them. Her feelings for him had returned full force during the last few weeks, however, and it concerned her that when, or even if, he found the famous Martello diamonds, he would leave her with a kiss on the lips and a gentle good-bye. She still worried that his feelings for her were only a function of her usefulness, though recalling the events of just a few hours ago assuaged her. And he had given her a small fortune in emeralds, which of course meant something. Unless he stole them, she decided, grinning outwardly at his comment.

  “Having a good time already?” Madeleine asked softly, her face close to Ivy’s.

  Ivy groaned, keeping the smile on her lips. “I admit I’ll feel better when Garrett arrives.”

  Madeleine sighed. “Well, at least the gossip is about to flourish. Penelope Bennington-Jones and her daughters just arrived.”

  Ivy glanced toward the front doorway, noting Newbury taking pelisse-mantles from the three. She recognized Penelope at once as an older image of Hermione, large of stature, with broad hips and shoulders, having nearly the same homely features and prosaic expression. Penelope looked a bit flustered as she brushed fresh snow from her plaited blond hair, her gown a veritable plethora of bows, ribbons, and lace in every imaginable bright color, that fairly begged to be noticed. Hermione appeared less enthusiastic, her features somewhat dour as she cast her eyes to the ballroom with obvious apprehension. Tonight, she wore a gown of pale yellow and white lace that did nothing for her coloring but would, perhaps, allow her to blend into the background should that be her desire.

  Yet it was Viola who stood out among the three. A young woman of no more than eighteen, she’d been blessed with dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and rather angular features on an angelic face far prettier than her mother or sister’s. She’d donned a gown of green-and-red-plaid and dressed her hair with a green satin ribbon that accentuated her coloring. She also seemed more intimidated than the other two, casting quick glances all around her and lightly furrowing her brows when she noticed the grandness that was now a fairly full ballroom of masked dancers.

  Penelope strode toward them, her head high, a flat smile pasted on her rouge-painted lips.

  “Good evening, Lord Eastleigh,” she said with a quick curtsy, “you look well.”

  The earl offered her a slight bow. “As do you, Mrs. Bennington-Jones.”

  Penelope cleared her throat before acknowledging Ivy or Madeleine.

  “Lady Eastleigh,” she remarked, “it’s always good to see you.”

  “And you as well, Penelope,” she returned in a tone thickly accented. “I hope you and your daughters will come to tea sometime soon.”

  Penelope blinked, then seemed to gather her wits as she replied, “We should enjoy that, I think.” Turning to her side, she presented her daughters. “Viola, Hermione, you remember Lord and Lady Eastleigh.”

  Both girls curtsied, Hermione looking bored, sullen, Viola curious as she kept glancing back to the ballroom.

  “And you must be Lady Ivy, sister of the Earl of Stamford,” Penelope asserted through a rush of air. “I remember you from years ago. You and your brother always playing at the lake.”

  That surprised her, more so because Penelope made it sound as if children playing outdoors at a lake was a highly peculiar event. Smiling, Ivy brushed over the comment, and answered simply, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Bennington-Jones. I’m delighted you could attend tonight.”

  Penelope’s brows rose and she looked her up and down while offering a slight curtsy. “Will your brother be here as well?”

  She swallowed a choke in her throat. “Unfortunately, he’s in Italy for the season, though we expect him back home in the spring.”

  “I see.” She glanced around. “Then who is escorting you tonight, madam? Mr. Burke or the mysterious Marquess of Rye?”

  Ivy detected a blunt shrewdness in the woman that made her all the more unappealing. Viola seemed to notice as she all but cowered from her mother’s rather obnoxious questioning. Hermione simply looked at her, her pale eyes narrowed as she focused on her words.

  Clasping her gloved hands together in front of her, Ivy replied matter-of-factly, “It’s probably more accurate to call me Lord Rye’s hostess for the evening, along with the gracious company of Lord and Lady Eastleigh. As for Mr. Burke…” She shrugged minutely. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea if he’s coming at all.”

  Penelope stiffened and patted the uplifted plaits at the back of her head, probably just realizing there was no gossip to be had along that line.

  “Well,” she said with exasperation, “there are so many people we need to see tonight. If you’ll excuse us, Lord Eastleigh, Lady Ivy.”

  Then without even a curtsy, she turned and hustled her daughters toward the footman handing masks to guests at the top of the ballroom stairs.

  “Her manners are atrocious without the outward appearance that her manners are atrocious,” Ivy observed just loud enough for Madeleine to hear. “I should say that’s quite a talent.”

  Madeleine laughed. “I thought she was fairly well behaved today, actually.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Ivy asserted, more to herself.

  Thomas leaned in to interject, “Are you sensing that as a woman or a seer?”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Both, I think.”

  Thomas rubbed his wife’s back. “Most of the gues
ts have arrived. I’m going to walk around the outside of the house to look for anything suspicious.”

  “It’s snowing, Eastleigh,” Madeleine cautioned. “Take your coat.”

  “Of course,” he growled with a grin. “Whatever did I do to survive before I married you, my lady?”

  She sighed. “I’ve no idea, my darling, but do please go. You’re wasting time, and Ivy and I must mingle.”

  He caressed her chin lightly with his thumb. “Stay alert.” And then before she could offer a reply, he turned and walked to Newbury to request his coat, his limp pronounced from the effects of the cold.

  “He adores you,” Ivy said with an enviousness that surprised her.

  Madeleine grinned, tilting her head to the side as she lifted the string of rubies at her neck. “He does, doesn’t he?”

  A footman approached them holding a tray of champagne, but while Madeleine took a glass, Ivy declined, intent on staying focused this night.

  “Do you enjoy marriage, Madeleine?” she asked, hoping she sounded merely curious.

  The Frenchwoman turned and smiled. “Of course. Some days I miss the independence I had before Eastleigh and I met, but it’s usually a fleeting reflection. You’ll feel the same after you’ve married.”

  She felt her pulse speed up, her stomach suddenly flutter with uncertainties. “I fear I’m rather too old for marriage.”

  “Nonsense,” Madeleine scoffed. “I was nearly thirty when I married.” Her eyes narrowed, and the side of her mouth curved up coyly. “Besides, I don’t think Garrett will let you go so easily.”

  Ivy almost choked and wished at once she’d taken the proffered champagne. “I’m not so certain that’s true. He’s…obsessed with finding the Martello diamonds, and I fear that may be his only concern. I don’t think he’s truly considered marriage to anyone.”

  Madeleine’s fine brows arched for a few seconds, then she lifted her own champagne, pausing before taking a sip. “You know, Ivy, before I fell in love with Eastleigh, I thought much the same.”