A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Julia’s fingers wound themselves into the crook of Benedict’s elbow and squeezed a warning. His gaze fixed steadily on Ludlowe, he covered her hand with his. “I’m here as an invited guest.”

  Julia nodded and leaned into him, a fleeting touch of her shoulder, nothing more. But it left a pleasant tingle in its passing along with a heightened sense of her proximity.

  “Yes, well.” Ludlowe shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if, for once in his life, he had no idea what to say. “Frightful weather we’re having lately. Hardly springlike at all.”

  “Indeed.” Julia’s one-word reply held all the chill of tonight’s wind.

  Benedict fought off a grin.

  SOPHIA stared at the glass a footman had just pressed into her hand. Deep red liquid sloshed from side to side, emitting a sweet, cloying odor that turned her stomach. She’d never manage a bite when the gathering went down to supper.

  Her father raised his glass and with his other hand smoothed the burgundy brocade of his waistcoat over his belly. “A toast. To the happy couple.”

  All about the drawing room, the others followed suit. Sophia attempted a smile, but she feared it did not come off very well. Her glance darted from face to face. Lady Wexford’s frown deepened, even as she raised her glass to her lips.

  Ludlowe smiled, actually smiled at her. How dare he encourage her? Not even a week ago, he’d insinuated Highgate had a hand in his wife’s death. Now he was actually drinking to her happiness.

  Why had Mama even invited him to witness this humiliation? Pointless to ask. She knew very well Mama expected Ludlowe to offer for Julia.

  At the thought, she knocked back her sherry. The liquid burned a path to her stomach, where it settled uneasily. She had to believe that Julia, at least, would refuse him. She was already sticking so close to Benedict that they might have been the engaged couple here tonight.

  Billings appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”

  Papa offered Mama his arm and led her toward the staircase. Spine stiff, he plodded down the steps as if he were headed to prison rather than a meal. Julia quickly followed with Benedict, leaving Ludlowe to escort Lady Wexford.

  Sophia blew out a gust of air. A few hours more, and this farce would be over. Setting her empty glass on a side table, she turned to find Highgate scrutinizing her. “Aren’t you going to escort me to dinner?”

  “Not quite yet. A word, first, if I may.”

  She raised her eyebrows by way of response.

  “If you do not at least pretend to play along with the charade, it will not work.”

  “Oh? And here I thought everyone would be nicely convinced when I cried off.”

  He stepped closer, his eyes capturing hers. Such a deep, rich brown, those eyes. “The way you’re going about things, they’ll never understand why you accepted me in the first place.”

  “Then we can put it about that my father is forcing the match.” As if Papa would do such a thing. He far preferred to leave such considerations as marriage to Mama in favor of more masculine pursuits.

  His elbow bumped her as he crossed his arms. “No one would believe that when you are of age.”

  She released her breath in a little huff. “Do you always approach everything so logically?”

  He inclined his head. “Logic has never failed me in the past, and on occasions where I haven’t let it govern my actions, I’ve lived to regret it.”

  The flickering candlelight emphasized the lines about his eyes and on his brow. As it had the evening of the Posselthwaite ball, an urge rose in her to raise her fingers, to smooth those lines away. She curled her hand into a fist and berated herself for downing an entire glass of sherry on an empty stomach.

  He betrayed no hint of emotion, except perhaps in his eyes. For a second or two, a shadow dulled their depths, giving Sophia the distinct impression he was thinking of his first marriage.

  His wife was dead. There was no questioning that fact. But Sophia couldn’t believe society would tolerate a murderer. Had he even cared for his wife, or had the entire marriage been a simple arrangement for appearances’ sake?

  Just like what he was asking her to embark on. A façade, a fraud meant to preserve both their reputations.

  “We ought to go to dinner before your mother decides to send out a search party.” An ironic smile twisted his lips. “She catches us alone again, she may take it into her head to procure a special license for us.”

  “I do not think a ball to announce the engagement would be at all proper under the circumstances.” Mariah set down her wineglass and dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin.

  It did not happen often, but for once Rufus, Earl of Highgate, agreed with his sister. The more elaborate social trappings he could avoid, the better. He didn’t need the attention of the ton focused on him. That road would only lead to bitter memories of the last time he’d been subject to gossip.

  His sole aim now was to get on with the business of finding himself a new wife to appease the demands of his title. He wanted no emotional entanglements this time. Cold logic, just as he’d said to Miss St. Claire. And given her reticence and her feelings for another man, she seemed the ideal candidate. Her youth, her beauty, her figure were mere bonuses. How he would enjoy schooling her in their marriage bed. If only he could manage to convince her.

  Mrs. St. Claire plunked down her fish fork. “Oh, I was so looking forward to hosting a ball in honor of the betrothal. I’ve waited years for this moment.”

  With a loud clatter, Sophia dropped a spoon onto her still-full plate. The look she gave her mother was quite telling—all wrinkled brow and reddened cheeks. Under the table, Rufus nudged her with his foot. She turned to glare at him.

  “Smile,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

  She picked up her napkin and made a show of wiping her lips. Beneath the cover, she muttered, “Easy for you to say when they’re discussing us as if we weren’t even here. And in front of Mr. Ludlowe, no less.”

  Hurt put a tremor in her voice. His smile faded, and he covered the moment by sipping at his claret. Ludlowe, always Ludlowe. He’d have to have a serious talk with her about the man she’d pinned her hopes on. A long, private discussion where he laid out the list of Ludlowe’s sins, at least those he was aware of—a list that certainly must have lengthened in the years since the passing of Lady Highgate. In ten years, the scoundrel had had scores of opportunities to multiply his liaisons.

  “Have you given any thought to how you’d like to proceed?” St. Claire’s voice broke in on Rufus’s musings. The older man blinked at him from behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. “You could get a special license and have it over with before a week is out.”

  The man sounded entirely too eager to get rid of his older daughter, perhaps understandably, given how many other proposals she’d turned down. Rufus had badgered the information from his sister—four in her first season alone. Quite a tendre she harbored for such an unworthy bastard.

  He fingered his wineglass. “Would that not give the gossips fodder for speculation—that there’s a reason we must rush matters? Let the banns be called.”

  More time for him to convince Miss St. Claire that marriage to him might be worth the risk.

  As a footman removed the white soup and fish, Rufus took another sip of his claret. Decidedly sour and metallic. He pulled a face, and set the glass aside. If St. Claire could afford no better, no wonder he was so eager to marry off his daughter. The financial burden of all those seasons must be draining his coffers.

  Across the table, Ludlowe leaned forward, nearly elbowing Benedict in the ribs as he made yet another attempt to engage Julia in conversation. “I was at school with Revelstoke, you know.”

  At the pronouncement, Sophia sat a bit straighter. “Why, Lord Benedict, you’ve never mentioned that before.”

  Benedict set aside his wineglass. “Our paths only crossed for a year. Ludlowe finished his studies after the summer half.” His words were
clipped and final, as if the topic annoyed him.

  “Oh come,” Sophia said, “you must have an amusing story or two you could recount. You’re usually bursting with them.”

  Benedict gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m afraid my memory’s deserted me.”

  Mr. St. Claire’s fleshy cheeks wrinkled into a grin. “One might think you acted as Mr. Ludlowe’s fag boy, the way you’re reacting.”

  Ludlowe let out a shout of laughter. “Oh, no. That was Amherst. Runty little thing. Clumsiest blighter I ever set eyes on. Couldn’t even make me a cup of tea before he’d spilt it all over himself.” He shrugged. “I wonder whatever became of him.”

  Benedict shot a dark look in Ludlowe’s direction. “He died at Corunna.”

  Julia let out a gasp. “If you were at school with him, he could not have been more than—”

  “He was eighteen. His father took him out of school and bought him a commission. Thought to make a man out of him.”

  “All these years and you’ve never spoken of him,” Sophia said faintly.

  Benedict stared hard at her. “It’s not the sort of thing one boasts of, when one stood by and did nothing while the older boys goaded Amherst into being even clumsier.”

  “Older boys?” asked Sophia. “But what—”

  Benedict cut her off with a wave of his hand. “It no longer signifies.”

  Rufus slanted a glance at Ludlowe, who had suddenly taken a great interest in his wineglass. If Revelstoke’s tone was any indication, Ludlowe had led those older boys to torment the younger and weaker. Or he’d said nothing and used the excuse to heap abuse on a lad under the guise of punishment. Hardly surprising that Ludlowe had engaged in such behavior as a school boy. The years had done little to change him.

  On Rufus’s right, Mariah was too engaged in a stiffly polite squabble with Mrs. St. Claire to pay attention to the rest of the conversation.

  “Of course, my Sophia must have an entirely new trousseau before we can even think of holding a wedding,” her mother grated through a fixed smile. “Won’t the trip to Bond Street be diverting, dear?”

  Sophia kept her eyes fixed on her plate. “Quite.”

  Mr. St. Claire muttered, “Bond Street, always Bond Street,” and drained his wineglass with a grimace.

  Mariah sniffed. “I insist on giving you the name of my modiste. She is more than capable of whipping up something tasteful in no time. None of this vulgar, flimsy stuff that’s in fashion now. Why, in my day, a lady had the decency to cover up.”

  In her day. As if she were in her sixties and not five years Rufus’s senior. Of course, when one was built along Mariah’s lines, covering up was the only decent option. He considered his wine and decided any further imbibing wasn’t worth the damage to his stomach.

  “There is nothing wrong with the modiste I currently patronize.” Mrs. St. Claire’s cheeks took on a rosier cast. “She always has done wonders for my daughters’ wardrobes.”

  Mariah cast a pointed look at Julia. “So I see.”

  St. Claire gave a discreet cough and angled his head toward Rufus. “Enough to make you reconsider the special license, isn’t it?”

  “Enough to make me reconsider the prospect altogether,” he replied, lowering his voice, “only circumstances are against me there.”

  St. Claire leaned back while a footman refilled his glass. “I hear you’ve an estate in Dorset.”

  “I do,” Rufus agreed. “I spend most of my time there.”

  “Good man. I expect your efforts at proper management pay off in the form of increased revenues.”

  “Indeed.”

  The footmen reappeared, bearing silver-domed platters and placed them about the table. As one, they removed the covers. Rufus bit back a smile. Equidistant between Ludlowe and Mariah sat a heaping platter of tripe. If Ludlowe’s fleeting look of disgust was any indication, he hated the stuff as much as Mariah.

  Catching Ludlowe’s glance, Rufus raised his glass. Ludlowe answered the salute with a benign smile, but the malice that glittered in his eyes was anything but.

  Yes, malice. Enough for Ludlowe to take advantage of a fortuitous situation at the Posselthwaite ball, a chance to play a nasty trick on an old rival and, at the same time, rid himself of a besotted Sophia.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SOPHIA POKED at the choice morsel of quail Highgate had placed on her plate. The sole bite she’d managed to swallow had turned to sawdust on her tongue.

  The evening was turning out worse than she feared. A tense atmosphere reigned about the table as everyone pretended her mother and Lady Wexford weren’t nearly at stiffly polite blows over the wedding plans. They’d both clamped their mouths shut just short of sniping at each other.

  Across the table, Ludlowe’s laughter rang out, high and false, over some remark Julia had just made—to Benedict, but that didn’t matter. Ludlowe had been trying unsuccessfully to attract Julia’s attention the entire night. The singular loudness of his booming laugh only proved how desperate he’d become.

  He’d barely glanced at Sophia all evening.

  Swallowing, she pushed her chair back. Highgate immediately turned in her direction, his eyes sharp, discerning. Beyond a few exchanges with her father, he’d hardly said a word the entire meal, but in all that time, his presence had borne down on her like a weight. He didn’t have to make a single observation for her to know he’d taken in every last nuance of the dynamic.

  And now he pinned her with his gaze. “Should you be leaving when tonight is partly in your honor?” he murmured.

  “I cannot stand this charade another moment.”

  “Are you all right, Miss St. Claire?” This from Ludlowe. It had taken him several hours, but at last he’d deigned to pay her more than passing heed.

  “Forgive me, Mama, Papa. I’m afraid I’m feeling rather ill.”

  Lady Wexford harrumphed. “No wonder. You’ve barely eaten enough to keep a bird alive. Sit down and have a proper meal. You’ll feel better in no time.”

  Sophia stared at the chunks of quail swimming in rich sauce, and her stomach lurched. “If you’ll excuse me, I really think I ought to lie down.”

  “Nonsense! In my day, young ladies were brought up with better manners.”

  To Sophia’s left, her mother puffed up, but before she had a chance to explode—in as mannerly a fashion as possible, of course—Highgate intervened.

  “That will do.”

  He pronounced the words quietly, but with such an understated command, Sophia froze in place while an odd shiver crept up her spine. Then he turned back to her, pinning her once again with that fathomless gaze. “Go if you must. Don’t let my sister stop you.”

  Sophia’s slippers scarcely made a sound on the risers as she climbed to the library. The tense twitter of the conversation in the dining room faded. Without a doubt, she’d given them a new topic to discuss, or perhaps another reason for her mother and Lady Wexford to continue their dispute.

  She breathed in. Even the air, free now of the sickly-sweet scents of overly rich sauce, smelled fresher away from the scrutiny of her family.

  The handle turned easily in her hand, and the door’s creak echoed through the empty room. At one time, her father’s collection of learning lined three walls of shelves. New leather and parchment had filled the room with their distinctive odor. Gilt titles embossed the works of Plato, Aquinas, Shakespeare—anything that might indicate education and culture.

  Not that her father had ever cracked the spine of a single volume. At any rate, the shelves lay mainly empty now, the books sold to make up the expenses of several seasons’ worth of ball gowns.

  Sophia passed them by, experiencing a pang of regret for the loss of Linnaeus’s Species Plantarum. The pang was fleeting. Tonight she needed to escape, both her family and the reminder that Ludlowe would never look her way.

  Padding to the fourth wall, she reached for her copy of Sense and Sensibility, its pasteboard covers well thumbed. Even in their r
educed circumstances, the Dashwood sisters had managed to find happiness. If only Sophia could hold as much hope for her future.

  A sob escaped before she could catch it.

  Behind her, hinges groaned. She whirled. A man stood silhouetted on the threshold, his profile singularly unimposing. Highgate. Why must he invade her solitude? Could she not have a moment of peace to cry over Ludlowe?

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice wavered, but she pressed onward. “You said it yourself not two days ago—we need to be careful not to put ourselves in a spot where we cannot call things off.”

  He advanced into the room and shut the door. With the latch’s sharp click, the darkness deepened.

  Sophia let out a gasp. The sheer and utter gall. She was trapped. If she raised a fuss, the entire household—Ludlowe included—would come running. She and Highgate would be well and truly caught.

  “We need to have a discussion.” He advanced, his boots thudding closer and closer. She no longer held a clear idea where he was. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a branch of candles? On closing the door, he’d cast the library into darkness. The only source of light came from weak moonbeams filtering through the window.

  “We already had one before dinner.”

  “We need to have another.” His booted feet thumped to a halt. Heat radiated from her right. If she breathed in deeply, she might scent sandalwood. She tamped down the urge to shrink away. “It is past time you got over your feelings for Ludlowe.”

  Her fingernails bit into her palms. “That, my lord, is none of your affair.”

  “I’ve chosen to make it my affair.” A quiet authority laced his tone.

  Once more, she shivered. “Why? What does it signify? In two weeks or so I shall cry off our arrangement, and we’ll never see each other again. What could you possibly care about my feelings for another man?”