A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Unperturbed, the auctioneer forged ahead. “What am I offered for this fine beast?”

  Benedict opened his mouth, but another shout preceded his. “Two hundred!”

  Damn. Pressing his lips together, he scanned the gathering of men about the perimeter of the ring. The dull day lent little light to the proceedings, but somehow his glance picked out a shock of golden hair on the opposite side. Ludlowe. Blast it all.

  “Two twenty-five!” Another voice joined the fray.

  “Two fifty!” cried a third.

  “Three hundred.” Ludlowe. Damn that idiot’s eyes.

  “Three fifty,” called the second gentleman before anyone else had a chance. No matter. The two unknown bidders were likely trying to get a bargain. Benedict could wait.

  “Five hundred.”

  The auctioneer smiled.

  Benedict glowered across the enclosure. Ludlowe’s jump may have silenced the other two, but if the price kept rising at this rate, Nefertari would be beyond Benedict’s means. Time to test the waters.

  He settled against the pillar and affected a bored expression. “Five twenty-five.”

  “One thousand.”

  Next to Benedict, Upperton let out a colorful string of invective, a sentiment echoed all around the enclosure. A thousand was probably the most Nefertari could hope to fetch in her condition. It was also the upper limit of what Benedict had hoped to spend.

  Upperton nudged him. “Where do you think he’s getting all the blunt?”

  The auctioneer intervened before Benedict could reply. “One thousand once!”

  “Eleven hundred!” Benedict shouted.

  Upperton raised his brows. “Come to that, where are you getting all the blunt?”

  Benedict was on the verge of telling him to shut his gob, when Ludlowe bid again. “Twelve hundred.”

  Benedict gritted his teeth. Upperton did have a point about his finances. His father, the late Marquess of Enfield, had bequeathed him a decent settlement, and the sale of his commission had fetched him another two thousand or so. Once his stud was up and running, he might count on enough revenue to live quietly in the country. He would never have the sort of funds Ludlowe obviously did.

  “Thirteen hundred!” Or Upperton, for that matter.

  Benedict turned to his friend. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Upperton smiled. “Driving up the price.”

  “I was bidding on that mare.”

  “You don’t want a bit of horseflesh to drive you into the poorhouse, do you?” Of course, Upperton would have a general idea what Benedict could afford. They wagered on enough ridiculous trifles.

  “Fourteen hundred!” At Ludlowe’s latest bid, a broader smile spread over the auctioneer’s features. Nefertari’s former owner would end today quite pleased with himself—and so would Tattersall when he collected his share of the proceeds.

  “Fifteen hundred!”

  “Upperton,” Benedict growled, “you haven’t got fifteen hundred pounds.”

  His friend shrugged. “Not at the moment, no, but you’ll spot a few guineas to an old chum, won’t you?”

  The deuced man had always been rather reckless where wagers were concerned. Benedict was about to refuse on principle, but the next second proved any protest unnecessary.

  “Sixteen hundred.”

  “Why do you think he wants that damned horse so much?” Upperton asked.

  “You heard him. He thinks he’ll impress Julia with it.” Benedict allowed himself an ironic smile. “That or he’s a complete idiot.”

  Upperton rubbed his jaw. “I’d vote for both. What’s more, he was a horse’s arse while we were at school. I can think of an incident or two I’d like revenge for.”

  Benedict frowned. So could he—not so much for himself, but for others. Or, more specifically, one other.

  “Sixteen hundred once!”

  Upperton raised a hand. “Two thousand.”

  Benedict rounded on him. “Are you mad? That’s fully twice what the animal’s worth.”

  “I may be mad,” Upperton said with a flip of his hand, “but Ludlowe’s madder.”

  “Twenty-one hundred.”

  “There you are.” A wicked gleam came into Upperton’s eye. “Now let’s see how far we can push him.”

  “FIVE thousand!” Upperton plunked his empty glass on the polished mahogany table and sloshed himself another measure of Boodle’s best brandy. “Good God. It must be nice to have those kinds of funds to toss about.”

  His friend could well laugh, but the thought of emptying Ludlowe’s coffers, however deserved, did little to lighten Benedict’s mood. “You’re damned lucky you didn’t find yourself with a bill you couldn’t afford. Fully five times the nag’s worth.”

  “Nag.” Upperton shook his head. “A fine way to refer to a beast you wanted.”

  Benedict emptied his glass and set it down with a thump. “I’d have had more use for her than Ludlowe. At least I know Julia will never ride her. As long as he doesn’t try to impress some other girl with a fancy mare.”

  “He would not have placed that wager if he was going to change his mind about his choice of bride. No one bets that sort of blunt, not even Prinny.”

  That was just the problem. Ludlowe had made up his mind and with his looks, his natural charm, with his usual success in seducing the ton’s ladies, Benedict was not sure even Julia could resist a determined assault forever.

  Not without reinforcements. Few ladies managed the feat. Ludlowe was reputed to have collected more conquests than Bonaparte and, unlike the Corsican, held on to them.

  He consulted his pocket watch. Nearly five, just enough time to drop by his town house and arm himself for the evening ahead. He set his glass aside and pushed himself to his feet.

  Upperton eyed him. “Where are you off to? It’s early yet.”

  “Julia’s invited me to dinner.”

  “Ah, yes. Didn’t recall you’d have another round with Ludlowe so soon.” He tossed back his drink. “Best of luck then.”

  Benedict grunted. He had the feeling he was going to need all the luck he could get.

  “I do not think I can go through with this.”

  Julia turned to look at her sister through the dressing room door, ignoring the protests of the maid, who was trying to pin up her hair. “Why did you agree to the match then?”

  Already clad in a dinner dress of virginal white, Sophia sank onto the mattress. “It did not seem like such a bad idea the other day, when he asked me.”

  “I think you’re more worried about facing Lady Wexford. Not that I blame you there.”

  “Why did Mama insist on inviting Mr. Ludlowe?”

  Mr. Ludlowe? Interesting. At least her sister had stopped referring to the man by his first name. Was it a step in the right direction? Julia stood.

  “Miss,” Watkins admonished, “how’m I to do yer hair if ye won’t sit fer me?”

  Julia glared the girl down. “That will be all.”

  “But miss, I ain’t done.”

  She suppressed a sigh and turned to the maid. “It hardly matters how I look. Tonight’s dinner is in Sophia’s honor.”

  Sophia heaved herself to her feet and slumped into the dressing room to take Julia’s place.

  Julia laid a hand on her sister’s arm. “You’ll be just lovely, and Mr. Ludlowe will not be able to take his eyes off you.”

  “It will not matter.” Sophia plopped herself into the seat and gave herself over to Watkins. “For goodness’ sake, I’m announcing my betrothal to another man.”

  “A betrothal you’re planning on breaking.” Julia plucked a diaphanous wrap from a shelf and set it about her shoulders. “What do you think?”

  Watkins stifled a screech. Sophia was more forthright. “Perfectly ghastly. You cannot wear a silvery shawl with a peach-colored gown.”

  “I know.” Julia grinned. “That’s why I chose it.”

  “It makes your face look washed
out.”

  “It’s perfect, then.”

  Sophia pressed her lips into a line. “It doesn’t matter how much effort you go to, Mr. Ludlowe is still bound to pursue you.”

  In the midst of considering other accessories, Julia paused. Her sister had sounded almost … jealous. She placed a yellowed lace cap that must have belonged to her great-aunt Harriet back on the shelf. Carrying things a bit too far, that cap. “Why must you be so pessimistic?”

  “It’s the way of things. Even before the unfortunate incident with Lord Highgate, he sought you out.” Not only jealous, but accusatory. “And he continues to do so, even though you keep setting him down.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Julia insisted. “If he dares propose, I’ll turn him down flat.”

  “You will do no such thing,” said a new voice. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  Julia whirled. Mama marched into the dressing room. With a frown, she plucked at Julia’s wrap. “And you will remove that awful thing at once. Why aren’t the two of you ready yet?”

  Julia pulled the silver confection tighter about her shoulders. “Sophia wants to look her best for her betrothed. Don’t you?”

  Mama advanced on her. “That’s no reason for you to take fashion advice from Lady Epperley. Your hair isn’t even done yet.”

  “I was considering hiding it under a turban, actually.”

  “At your age?” Mama gasped. “Do you want people to believe you’re on the shelf?”

  “That’s exactly what I want.” Julia punctuated this statement with a firm nod. “Sophia’s bagged herself an earl. Can’t you be content with that?”

  “What sort of talk is that?” Mama sniffed. “Bagged herself an earl. You have been spending entirely too much time in the company of Lord Benedict and his feckless friends. I shall not rest until I see both my daughters comfortably settled.”

  Julia exchanged a glance with her sister. “She’ll see us comfortably settled, yes,” she muttered. “Comfortably settled but completely miserable.”

  Mama drew herself up. “Why would you think such a thing? As long as you arrange for the proper family connections, you oughtn’t be miserable.”

  “But what of one’s personal feelings?” Sophia asked.

  “It’s a matter of becoming accustomed,” Mama stated firmly. “You learn to get on together, and you learn to get on with life. It’s the way of the world.”

  “I could be perfectly contented in marriage,” Julia said, “as long as people didn’t insist on love entering into it.”

  Sophia let out a squawk of protest, but Mama ignored her. “You always were sensible, my dear. Find yourself a man of proper standing. Over time, a fondness will develop. And you’ll have children to dote on. Don’t you want children?”

  Julia looked away. “I suppose so. I just don’t want the entanglement the getting of children entails.”

  Mama stepped closer and gently unwound the wrap from Julia’s shoulders. “The entanglement, as you call it, can be the best part.”

  She meant the physical entanglement. She must. The last thing Julia wanted to consider was the emotional side. “I do not wish to hear this.”

  “But you need to, my dear. You set yourself on the shelf, and before you know it, you’ll have faded away into a corner, unnoticed. Spinsters hold no place in the ton.”

  “Perhaps that’s what I want.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. You give Mr. Ludlowe a chance to charm you at supper and see if you don’t change your mind.”

  Sophia let out a splutter, or perhaps more of a warbling, dangerously close to tears.

  Mama turned to her. “Chin up, my dear. In spite of the way you’ve gone about it, you’ve done well for yourself. You’ll be a countess before the season is over. Society will flock to you for invitations. See if they don’t.”

  With a firm nod, she swept from the room, no doubt convinced her views on domestic happiness were universal.

  Julia retrieved the shawl and wrapped it about her shoulders once more. “I do not want to turn out like her.”

  “How’s that?” Sophia replied thickly.

  “So concerned about her position in society, she sets it above all else. She wants to push me at Ludlowe, and the devil take your feelings for him.”

  Sophia pressed her fingers to the base of her throat. “Don’t let her hear you use such language.”

  Julia shrugged. “She’ll only blame it on Benedict’s influence.”

  “And if she forbids your association?”

  “She can try.” Julia smiled to herself. Mama had on any number of occasions, but she’d never taken into account the lure that the forbidden held for two inquisitive children. “But she’s never succeeded in the past.”

  “Does she know you invited him to dine with us tonight?”

  Julia’s smile broadened. “I don’t think she does. I discussed it with Cook directly and swore her to silence. And I’ll arrange it so Ludlowe sits with you. See if I don’t.”

  “Oh, Julia, you mustn’t. How would it look at my own betrothal dinner?”

  “He certainly will not sit with me. You can be sure of that. Perhaps I shall foist him on Lady Wexford.”

  A line formed between Mrs. St. Claire’s brows the moment Billings announced Benedict’s arrival. “Lord Benedict, to what do we owe your presence here this evening?”

  Quite a cold greeting coming from a woman he’d known since childhood. Of course, if she’d known about all the scrapes he and Julia had got into during the summers in Kent, she might have reason behind her chill. She couldn’t know of every incident, though, or she’d have taken firmer measures to prohibit their association.

  “I invited him.” Julia stood on the staircase, several steps from the bottom. Graceful fingers trailed along the mahogany handrail. Her tumble of honey-colored curls reflected the candlelight. Hazel eyes met his, and she nodded, her head dipping for a second, while the corners of her mouth tipped upward.

  Such quiet beauty, and she didn’t even seem aware of it. A heavy awareness arrowed downward.

  To mask the reaction, he placed a gloved hand over his heart and bowed to her in turn. She clutched at a ridiculous drape of silvery fabric and descended the last few steps.

  “My dear,” Mrs. St. Claire muttered out of the corner of her mouth, “you do realize we’re expecting guests.”

  “Of course I do. I felt Revelstoke ought to join the festivities. He’s known Sophia all his life.”

  Mrs. St. Claire pressed her lips together. “And how is the marquess faring these days? A pity your brother could not join us in Town for the season.”

  He smiled at the reference to his older brother, who had inherited their father’s title, while Benedict had received the typical second son’s lot of an army commission. “I’m afraid he opted to remain in the country with his wife so close to her confinement.”

  “Quite prudent of him, I’m sure.” Mrs. St. Claire lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

  Julia floated down the remaining steps. “Perhaps his fortunes will change, and the marchioness will present him with a son this time.”

  “One can only hope,” Benedict replied.

  The line between Mrs. St. Claire’s eyebrows, that smallest of flaws, deepened. “You do not aspire to take your brother’s title one day should he suffer the misfortune of not producing an heir?”

  “And be required to endure the ton on a regular basis? Heaven forbid.”

  Julia’s skirts brushed against his leg as she tucked her hand into his elbow. Long, tapering fingers curled about his arm, and he breathed in the hint of jasmine that hovered in the air about her.

  He stopped himself from leaning closer. He was here to protect her from a right bastard, not to spend the evening basking in her perfume.

  “Now you’ve done it. You’ll set Mama off,” she muttered, as, with subtle pressure, she drew him upstairs toward the drawing room. “No one else has arrived yet. Stick close beside me until w
e go down to dinner. That way I can avoid Ludlowe.”

  “Has he been making a particular nuisance of himself? Just say the word, and I’ll be glad to take care of him for you.” Glad. Such a mild word for the pleasure it would give him to see that bastard get a little of his own back.

  With a sharp jerk of her head, she looked up. “Nothing that requires you to defend my honor.”

  He let her words sink in. He’d love nothing more. “You only need say the word, my lady, and I shall gladly take up my lance for your sake.”

  He twisted his lips into an ironic smile. Her laughter echoed through the drawing room, and he joined her until the realization struck. Overly dramatic phrasing aside, he’d willingly take up arms to defend her, if necessary.

  She leaned closer. “If you’re to be my champion, perhaps I ought to give you my favor. Isn’t that the way they used to do things?”

  In spite of himself, he stiffened. The blood drained from his face to pool in his groin. Damn her. This was Julia, and yet, ever since the waltz the other evening, she’d become a regular feature of his dreams.

  Her lips hovered inches from his, plump and tempting. His sleeping mind already knew their flavor, their pliancy. In dream-state, he’d already experienced the paradise of her body gripping his in climax.

  Her breath hitched, a sharp intake, and the awareness deepened. If he closed those final inches between them—if he put his fantasy to the test—would she repay him with a slap?

  Or would she respond with all the wonder and enthusiasm of the Julia who figured in his dreams?

  A commotion downstairs in the foyer interrupted his thoughts. New arrivals, thank God. Given Julia’s reputation for spurning all suitors, he suspected his face would have been stinging in another minute or two.

  Turning, he bit back a groan. Just visible from the drawing room, Ludlowe appeared ascending the stairs, grinning as if tonight’s dinner was held in his honor—his and Julia’s. Head held high, he propped his walking stick in a corner.

  Benedict ground his teeth. How he’d love to break that shiny oaken staff right over Ludlowe’s thick skull.

  To make matters worse, Ludlowe’s gaze shifted in their direction, and he strode into the drawing room. “Ah, Miss Julia.” His smile faded slightly. “Revelstoke. Such a coincidence, you being here. It seems every time I run into Miss Julia these days, you’re never far behind, are you?”