A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  By rights, he should have paid his call yesterday instead of William. If she stayed out here long enough, patiently clipping dead branches and clearing off dried leaves, she might bring herself to believe Highgate would never come. And if he never turned up, perhaps the entire situation would conveniently disappear.

  As if that would happen.

  Her secateurs slipped. The sharp blade sliced through the leather of her glove and into the fleshy pad of her forefinger. Blinking back tears, she tugged off the glove and popped the digit into her mouth.

  “Blast.” Her mother would have fits to hear her utter such an unladylike word. “Damn and blast.”

  That felt even better—pity Mama couldn’t overhear. It was her fault Sophia was in this predicament. If only Mama had kept quiet, they might have hushed up the scandal.

  No one could conjure any hope of that given Mama’s determination to see her married to a title.

  “Is that a China rose?” rumbled a deep voice. That voice.

  Sophia raised reluctant eyes.

  The Earl of Highgate leaned over to inspect the bush she’d been pruning. “Lovely specimen. Very rare, that.”

  He knelt beside her and snatched her discarded secateurs off the pea-stone path. With a few deft strokes, he removed most of the overgrowth.

  “There, that’s an improvement. They will not bloom properly if you leave all those old branches.” He turned and caught her eye. “But I suspect you already knew that. It must be quite pleasant here in the summer, a peaceful little oasis amid the bustle of Town.”

  She slipped her finger from her mouth. “I’m not usually here past the end of June. We always attend as many house parties as Mama can wheedle invitations to.”

  He settled back on his heels. “Seems a shame to spend so much time tending roses you’re not here to enjoy.”

  She twitched one shoulder upward in a casual shrug. “I like looking after them. It makes me feel useful.”

  “And now you’ve cut yourself.”

  She glanced down. The throbbing had dulled, but blood oozed in a steady trickle down the side of her finger. Highgate reached into his greatcoat and produced a handkerchief. Without a word, he took her hand in his and wrapped the scrap of fine linen around her wound.

  Sturdy fingers closed over her palm. She stared at the deep tan of his glove, her white hand tiny in his.

  Ludlowe had all but insinuated he’d raised that very hand against his own wife.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she studied Highgate’s weathered face. Even-featured, somewhat stern, with deep-set dark eyes and strands of gray in his hair, no one would ever describe him as handsome. Rugged, perhaps, but never handsome, not with that scar slicing across his cheek. A sense of calm radiated from him—or perhaps it was resignation—and when he spoke to her of such mundane topics as gardening, she had trouble picturing him as the sort of person who would commit violence against another.

  He was doing her a kindness, applying gentle pressure to her cut—and sacrificing his handkerchief in the process. Even the other night at the ball, when she’d been a stranger to him, he’d shown concern for her welfare.

  He seemed a nice enough gentleman, but, Lord help her, she wished he’d remained a stranger. Then Ludlowe might have called on her in all earnestness and not her sister. She tried to push aside the insistent thought that Ludlowe had been overly interested in Julia even before that disastrous fainting spell, but it kept cropping up like a tenacious nettle between paving stones.

  Had Julia done something to attract Ludlowe’s attention? A chill that had nothing to do with the weather spiked through her gut. No. Julia would never betray her like that.

  “Why have you come?” she asked.

  He blinked but did not release her hand.

  “Forgive my lack of manners,” she added quickly. “You’ve shown me a kindness on two different occasions.”

  “Perhaps I ought to quit while I’m ahead.” Humor sparked in the depths of his dark eyes, and the lines at their corners deepened.

  “What do you mean?”

  One side of his mouth quirked upward. “Only that if I’d been a bit more coldhearted on that first occasion, you might not be in such a predicament.”

  “Oh.” She slanted her eyes down to the side. Her glance fell on their joined hands. “You mean you should have left me insensible on the floor?”

  His chuckle somehow settled deep inside her. Warmth radiated through the leather of his glove and into her hand. How odd. “Quite selfish of me not to, wouldn’t you agree?”

  A smile caught at the corners of her mouth and pulled them up. She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I cannot blame you. You’d have had all the society matrons shouting at you for leaving an obstruction in the middle of the corridor.”

  His smile faded, and a strange sense of disappointment washed through her. If only he’d laugh again.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d laughed with a man for the sheer pleasure of it. She’d spent five years dodging potential suitors and worrying about whether she’d run into William, and if so, whether she’d possess the proper wit to capture his attention—so long she’d forgotten how to relax and enjoy herself.

  She wished this occasion might have lasted a little longer.

  “Instead, I managed things so my sister took her venom out on you.” Bitterness infused his tone. “I owe you an apology for her words to you in the park yesterday.”

  “Her words? But how—”

  “She made certain I learned of the incident. Brazen, I believe she termed you.”

  She focused on her fingers resting across his palm. Somehow he made brazen sound complimentary. “It was nothing.”

  “It was not, and well you know it.” He drew in a breath. “You must know why I’ve come.”

  She tugged at her hand, but he tightened his grip. With a sigh, she gave up the struggle. “Pray, say your piece so I can refuse you, and we can have done with this farce.”

  “Miss St. Claire.” His tone was so serious, it compelled her to meet his gaze. “You cannot refuse. You must understand that.”

  Again, she strained against his grasp. “Why can’t I? Do you know how many proposals I’ve turned down?”

  “None of them signify. You cannot refuse this one.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you not realize the damage that has been done to your reputation? I do not trust Ludlowe’s companion to keep the matter silent. If you refuse my proposal, you will never get another.”

  “Perhaps I do not want another.” A lie, but a small one. The chances of Ludlowe falling to one knee to beg for her hand were fading as quickly as snowflakes in May. Even she could no longer deny that fact, not when he’d come calling on Julia.

  Julia.

  All these years she’d wasted on unrequited feelings for the man, and he’d set his sights on her sister. Bile filled her mouth, and she swallowed against its bitter taste.

  She waved her free hand. “I’m nearly on the shelf as it is.”

  “By your own choice.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Three and twenty.”

  “So young,” he murmured, low enough that she had to strain to hear him. “I suppose it’s natural you do not understand the ramifications.”

  Her breath caught on a gasp. How could she not understand the ramifications? To him, she might seem young, but that didn’t make her a simpleton. She yanked her hand from his grip, shot to her feet, and strode away.

  Booted feet crunched down the pea-gravel path behind her. In all her dealings with the haut ton, she had yet to meet a man who equaled Highgate for sheer arrogance, and that was saying quite a lot. He caught at her arm, and she whirled, her eyes on a level with his. Perhaps he was like Napoleon—what he lacked in size, he compensated for in pride.

  “What don’t I understand, my lord? Please explain in terms I will understand.”

  He inclined his head. �
��My apologies. We are essentially strangers. In time, we shall learn to get along.”

  She raised her chin and bit back a smile of satisfaction when he pushed himself up on his toes to remain on her level. “We most certainly shall not. If I was not inclined to refuse you before, you’ve just tipped the scales against yourself.”

  “I see you do not give a fig for your reputation. Have you stopped to consider mine?”

  Sudden gratitude toward William washed through her. Unwittingly, he’d given her a weapon to use against Highgate. “Your reputation precedes you, my lord.”

  He studied her for a long moment, his gaze piercing, assessing. Her blush provided little protection against the feeling of transparency, as if her every last hope and desire were laid bare before him. It stripped her naked. A shiver coursed through her, and she gathered her pelisse more closely about her shoulders.

  “So you’ve heard of my first marriage,” he said at last.

  Certain victory was near, she allowed herself a smile. “Yes.”

  He waved a hand. “Rumors, of course. What have you heard?”

  Sophia bit her lip. She couldn’t come out with an accusation of murder. He was going about in society. Her parents must have admitted him to the house. What William had hinted at yesterday morning could not have been in circulation.

  Come to think of it, Lady Wexford would never have let him show his face at the Posselthwaites’ if he’d had a hand in his wife’s demise. Little comfort, somehow, that thought.

  “Rumors, as you’ve said,” she replied.

  “If it will lay your concerns to rest, I can tell you what happened. Quite simply, I made what I thought was an advantageous match. But what society deems an advantage and what is, in fact, an advantage in the actual living are two different things. In short, we did not suit, but we did not realize our mistake until it was too late.”

  A stiff breeze blew into the garden, tossing dried leaves about in a swirl and whipping the points of Highgate’s collar against his chin. Sophia hunched her shoulders.

  “I see.” But she didn’t. Not completely. His explanation only covered half the story. But perhaps he’d never heard the darker insinuations. Didn’t that fact alone put the lie to them?

  “I’m not sure you do. Since that time, I’ve preferred to avoid another such entanglement, and I’ve stayed away from society. Gossip, as my sister is ever eager to remind me, has made of my marriage what it will.”

  “I do not understand. Why offer for me, if you do not wish another marriage?”

  He rubbed his hands together. The raw wind had stained his cheeks red. “I must marry. It is my responsibility to leave an heir to whom I can pass my title.”

  “You do not need me, specifically, for that. Any young miss would do. Even a widow.”

  His breath released on a heavy sigh. “I have no choice but to offer for you now. Surely you see that. If I do not, any good family will discount my suit, and given my disastrous first marriage, I do not need any further black marks to my name.”

  Anger seethed inside her, its heat little comfort against the day’s chill. “So that’s it then. Because of a few moments, my entire life will be dictated to me. I cannot even call it an indiscretion. My goodness, I did not get so much as a kiss out of the evening, and yet I’m forced into marriage with you. A marriage, I might add, that neither one of us wants.”

  He reached for her shoulders, his hands sliding along her woolen pelisse, up her neck, until they framed her face. Leather-clad thumbs traced her cheekbones.

  She pulled in a lungful of cold air. A light leapt into his eyes, an intensity she recognized. She’d seen it before on her erstwhile suitors. Not that she’d ever given in to the temptation to allow so much as a kiss. Whenever she caught the slightest hint of descending lips, she turned her head aside to offer her cheek.

  Fending off Highgate would be another matter. His grip burned into her flesh.

  “Would you like a kiss from our dealings, I wonder? Or do you find me too repulsive?”

  She puzzled over the sudden bitterness behind his words. While she’d never qualify his looks as classic or chiseled, neither did he repel her. The thought shook her to the core. She’d once vowed never to kiss any man but William. But now, as she stood in the garden under a lowering sky, she found herself intrigued.

  “I do not think you’re repulsive.” Her cheeks heated at the admission.

  His lips stretched into an ironic semblance of a smile. “How you tempt me to put that statement to the test.”

  Fathomless eyes focused on her lips, and she tangled her fingers in her skirts in anticipation of the inevitable descent of his mouth toward hers.

  Without warning, he dropped his hands. Reflexively, she covered her burning cheeks with her palms, her touch a poor substitute for his.

  “Best not give in to temptation,” he muttered, “or we truly will find ourselves bound for life.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Did you not come today to propose?”

  “I did, and to salvage your reputation, you must accept. If we are careful, however, we need not carry the charade as far as the altar.”

  “How are we to manage that?”

  “Simple. We will pass a week or two as betrothed, and then, I shall be gentleman enough to allow you to cry off, should you wish it. Is that agreeable, Miss St. Claire?”

  BENEDICT rested his cheek against the bay’s warm flank and leaned his weight into her hip. With a snort, she lifted a dainty hoof just as she ought. Well-trained, if a bit high strung.

  As he inspected the underside of her hoof, he inhaled. The clean, sharp scent of fresh hay wafted into his nostrils. Only a slight underlying earthiness of manure and the tang of urine marred the effect. The stalls at Tattersall’s were kept cleaner than many a London stew—or, for that matter, an army encampment—all for the equine elite and noble clientele the horse trader catered to.

  Gently, Benedict released the mare’s hoof, and she settled her weight on it. Her tail swished at a nonexistent fly. Benedict patted the heavy flesh of her rump. Powerful muscles flinched at the touch.

  “You’d have been a real goer at Newmarket, wouldn’t you?”

  She let out a soft whicker of agreement.

  Moving to her head, he reached into his coat and offered a lump of carrot on the flat of his palm. Supple, velvety lips snatched at the treat. As her heavy teeth crunched, she nosed for more, regarding him with intelligent, liquid eyes.

  He reached up and stroked the blaze of white that streaked down her face.

  “Pity, ’at one.” At the groom’s coarse accent, Benedict looked up. “Ye wants a runner, ye’d best look elsewhere. Great prospects, ’at one, ’til she broke down.”

  “I’m not in the market for a racehorse. I’m looking for breeding stock.”

  The groom rested an elbow against the side of the stall. “Can’t beat ’er bloodlines. ’Er sire won at Ascot five years running, ’e did.”

  “Are you quite through?” Upperton’s bored drawl sounded from the aisle beyond. “I’m sure I’ve got a pressing engagement or other, one that doesn’t involve horseflesh.”

  Biting back the obvious comment about Upperton’s taste in mistresses, Benedict gave the mare a final pat and pushed his way out of the stall, noting in passing the name and lot number. Nefertari. A queenly name for a prizewinner.

  Upperton was lounging against the door of an empty stall, arms folded over a brocade waistcoat and one foot propped up. Against the backdrop of rough wood and bales of straw, his polished Hessians, intricately knotted cravat, and artfully tousled sand-colored hair looked rather out of place. The man might well fancy himself a dandy, but Benedict knew him to be a loyal friend in a pinch.

  “Since when have you got such an objection to horses?” Benedict asked.

  “I’ve none at all.” Upperton kicked himself away from the wall. “I like them just fine when they’re winning me bets. I just prefer not to commune with the creatures.
If I’m to run my hands all over a female and murmur sweet nothings, I’d rather she be able to reciprocate.”

  Benedict cocked a brow. “When’s the last time a woman let you get that close?”

  Puffing himself up in mock outrage, Upperton stabbed a finger in Benedict’s direction. Benedict braced himself for a verbal barrage that never came. Instead, Upperton let out a grunt, his gaze fixed somewhere past Benedict’s shoulder.

  A prickle of awareness caused the hairs at Benedict’s nape to stand on end, and he pivoted. Perfect, white teeth gleaming in a wide grin, William Ludlowe strode down the aisle.

  “I say there, isn’t this a lucky chance?”

  Benedict attempted to return the smile, but he feared he’d only succeeded in grimacing. Two encounters in as many days was hardly what he’d term lucky.

  Upperton pushed past him, jostling his shoulder with unnecessary force—a warning, no doubt.

  “Lucky indeed,” Upperton boomed. From several nearby stalls came the restless rustling of hay as their occupants shifted nervously. “Never thought you were much on cattle. What brings you here?”

  “I’m in the market for a bit of flash, you know. Something to befit my new station.”

  “Ah.” Upperton didn’t miss a beat.

  Benedict, on the other hand, gritted his teeth. His grimace must resemble a death mask, his face was so stiff.

  “Heard there was a fancy little bit on offer come Monday,” Ludlowe went on. “Wanted to come have a look for myself. Name of Neffer-titty.”

  “Nefertari,” Benedict grated.

  “That’s it.” Ludlowe stepped past Upperton. “Groom said she was somewhere around here.”

  Benedict shifted his weight until he blocked Ludlowe’s path. “You don’t want that one.”

  “Oh, I say!”

  Benedict inhaled: fresh hay, wood, leather, horse. Ordinarily, he found such scents soothing. Not today. Not now. Rather than point out the obvious, he settled for a gibe. “I didn’t think fashionable nobs rode about on mares.”