A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  “I did not wish to mention this, but you leave me no choice.” He spat each syllable. “I owe Clivesden five thousand pounds.”

  “Five thou—”

  He slammed his fist onto his desk. “Five thousand, I might add, that I do not possess. Clivesden could see me in debtor’s prison. And then where would the rest of you be, without the protection of husbands?”

  The floor listed beneath Julia’s feet, and she clutched at the desk. A husband’s protection. A fine job Papa had done protecting his own wife. If he went to debtor’s prison, she, Mama, and Sophia would find themselves on the street. “Does Mama know?”

  “She does not know the full extent of my debts, and I’ve arranged to keep it that way.”

  “How?” Her fingers dug into the wood until they ached. “How could you possibly keep such a matter from her?”

  “I’ve an agreement with Clivesden. He has agreed to overlook the marker if I provide him with a suitable wife.”

  Julia opened her mouth and closed it again. Her hands turned to ice. For a moment, she could not summon a word for lack of breath. “And you chose me?” she asked faintly. “Me? Why not Sophia?”

  “It’s quite simple. He asked for you.”

  He asked for her. Of course he had, and she knew why, but was her reputation so widely noised about that her father had heard? And if he had, would he even bother to put the rumormonger in his place? “Did you ask yourself why that was?”

  He glared at her from behind his spectacles. “The why does not signify in this matter. Clivesden provided me with a solution, and I took it. Sometimes, we must make sacrifices for the good of all.”

  Sacrifices. The word echoed through her mind. He wished to sacrifice her for a situation of his making.

  JULIA made it as far as her bedchamber before giving in to her anger. Her arguments had left her father unmoved. The more she protested, the more adamantly he insisted she do her duty as his daughter.

  In four strides, she crossed the chamber—one, two, three, turn; one, two, three, turn—and at each turn she dug her nails into her palms. By the tenth trip across the room, blood welled from little half-moons. She was going to have to do it. She was going to have to accept Clivesden’s suit and hang her sister’s feelings. And all over five thousand pounds. How appalling.

  Her father had as good as sold her.

  The backs of her eyes pricked, and she stared across the room to stave off the impending flood. She needed a plan, not tears.

  Her gaze lit on the miniature of her and Sophia as children. They were so young then, so innocent. So ignorant of the ugliness of life. She couldn’t stand to look at those smiling children another moment.

  She marched over to the bedside table, snatched the portrait and hurled it against the wall. The wooden frame splintered with a crash. That time in her life was just as irreparably damaged as the miniature, as the relationship with her sister would ever be.

  She choked on a sob that suddenly blocked her throat. Sophia would never forgive her for going through with the marriage, not when her sister would have Clivesden thrown in her face at every turn.

  In the end, that was what her choice boiled down to—her sister or her irresponsible wastrel of a father. If he ruined himself, it was through his own folly. Why should she have to pay the price? Why should Sophia and Mama?

  Julia drew in a puff of air, and her shaking subsided. She could pay the money back, somehow. Not all at once, of course, but she might manage installments. And if she married, she could manage to secure Mama’s and Sophia’s futures. But first she needed to find a way out of her betrothal.

  Papa wanted her settled, did he? If she was honest with herself, being settled was the least of her concerns, but if she must marry, then she would—as long as it was not to Clivesden.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JULIA CLUTCHED at her cloak as she huddled in the servants’ entrance. Outside, rain poured in sheets, buffeted by an icy wind. She’d have to go out in it and soon, even if it meant catching her death of cold.

  One ear cocked in the direction of the kitchen, she listened for sounds of impending doom, or in her case, Billings’s precise march. Servant or no, he’d haul her straight above stairs and turn her over to her mother if he caught her running off.

  Footsteps echoed along the corridor that led to the back stairs. Closer, closer. Nothing for it now. Gathering her courage, she plunged into the weather.

  A howling gust whipped stinging droplets of rain into her face and tore the air from her lungs. In spite of a heavy woolen cloak and bonnet, she’d be soaked to the skin in minutes. Ladies did not venture out in such weather, not without a ready carriage and a footman to hold an umbrella and stand as a shield against the elements.

  Today, Julia was no lady. Today instead, her behavior was scandalous. Today, she was taking her future into her hands.

  Skipping to avoid ankle-deep puddles scattered about the cobblestoned alley, she darted into Boulton Row, headed fast for Curzon Street in the hopes of finding an unoccupied hackney.

  What little daylight remained was fast fading. In spite of the deserted streets, she lengthened her stride. Though she might live in the heart of Mayfair, footpads were not unknown, and a lady alone was simply unthinkable.

  The clatter of wheels barreling along the cobblestones made her scramble to one side. Her foot sank to the ankle in an icy puddle, while the carriage rumbled past. Her heart leapt into her throat as she caught sight of a crest emblazoned on its doors—for an instant, she was afraid she’d recognized Clivesden’s arms.

  She hurried on. At the rate the rain was soaking into her cloak, it would soon not matter whether or not she found a hackney. Even if she walked the entire way, she could hardly arrive at her destination any more miserable and bedraggled.

  Half an hour later, she arrived, wet to the skin, teeth chattering and her fingers frozen about the strings of her reticule. Letting out a relieved breath, she sloshed up the steps to the imposing oak door, raised the brass knocker and let it fall once. Then she hugged herself in a vain attempt to retain warmth, while praying the butler would not take one look at her and run her off for a ragamuffin.

  “Please hurry. Please be home.” She muttered the litany between clenched teeth while the wind tore at her wraps.

  She was about to reach for the knocker a second time when the door opened. Phipps loomed on the threshold, peering down at her from over his beak of a nose. His brows lowered. “Yes?”

  “Please, is Lord Benedict at home?”

  “I shall have to inquire. And who might I say is calling at such an odd hour?”

  From beneath her cloak, she produced a dripping card. Phipps accepted it with a sniff. A moment later, his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Miss Julia. Forgive me. I did not recognize you in such a state. But alone? This is highly irregular.”

  “Please, Phipps, if I could at least get out of the rain.”

  “Of course, miss, of course.”

  He stepped aside and allowed her to wade into the foyer of Benedict’s town house. Or rather, the house belonging to his older brother, the Marquess of Enfield, who had opted to remain in the country this season.

  Phipps’s dark eyes went round at the sight of the ever-widening puddle at Julia’s feet. “I hardly know what to say, miss. You really ought to put on something dry before you fall ill, but …”

  “But there’s no lady in residence to lend me anything,” she completed. There. She’d acknowledged what she was doing—paying a call, alone, on a bachelor. “A warm fire must suffice for the moment.”

  “I shall send a maid with tea straightaway. Or perhaps Cook can roust up something more bracing. I’m afraid Lord Benedict spends far more time at his club these days than he does here.”

  Julia’s heart gave an awful lurch. “Is he not at home then?”

  Half a second’s blink and a slight darkening of the butler’s cheeks were the only signs that betrayed the man’s discomfort. Anyone unfamiliar with t
he family might have passed the indication by without a second thought. Not Julia. Not when she’d grown up as Benedict’s neighbor and been in and out of his house nearly as often as her own.

  “I shall inquire. Please wait in the parlor.”

  Mindful of the thick Persian carpet in that room, Julia cast a rueful glance at her feet. True to form, Phipps’s expression remained implacable as he reached for her sodden cloak. “Be off and warm yourself, miss.”

  The moment Phipps disappeared down the hall, Julia hurried up to the parlor. Standing as close as she dared to the dancing flames, she allowed their warmth to seep into her. Slowly, she began to feel a bit more human and slightly less like an icicle.

  But while she thawed, a gale of worries blew about her mind. What if Benedict had already gone out? What if he refused to see her? But then it occurred to her: Her presence here might well be sufficient. If only she could contrive for word to get out. A difficult prospect when the very weather that had provided the perfect cover for her to sneak out of the house also conspired to keep most sensible people indoors and not in a position to catch her.

  Sensible.

  She’d always thought of herself as a sensible person. Sensible, practical, mindful of her reputation. She’d been all those things up until the moment her father announced her betrothal to a crowded ballroom.

  Now she was merely desperate and perhaps even insane. One had to be to venture out in such weather.

  The thud of approaching footsteps echoed in the hall. Certain it was a maid arriving with sustenance, she kept her gaze trained on the fire. Booted feet tramped closer. Odd, she heard nothing to indicate a tea cart.

  The thumps came to a halt. She turned her head to find Benedict standing on the threshold. His brows lowered as his gaze raked her from head to foot.

  “What the devil possessed you to come here?”

  At his cold words, Julia whirled, her soaked skirt clinging to her legs.

  Benedict propped an elbow against the jamb, his stance casual, his manner dismissive. His black hair flopped onto his brow, more becomingly disheveled than any dandy’s whose valet spent hours on artful arrangement. He hadn’t bothered with a topcoat or waistcoat. His shirt hung slack, unbuttoned at the neck, displaying a fascinating wedge of skin. The notch at the base of his throat lay shaded by an overhang of unshaven chin.

  She caught her breath. No gentleman ought to appear in front of a lady in such a state of undress, and now she understood why. The sight set her heart fluttering and made drawing in air a suddenly difficult proposition. It did more to warm her than any fire.

  As she stood gaping, he pushed himself away from the doorframe and advanced on her. His buckskin breeches hugged his powerful thighs like a second skin. Julia caught her lower lip between her teeth. Why had she never before noticed the play of muscles when he prowled toward her?

  “Are you going to answer me, or shall I assume you’ve come to stare?”

  She had to swallow before she could reply. “Perhaps I’d be a bit more willing to answer your question if it were phrased more politely.”

  “You want politesse?” His crack of derisive laughter sent a chill through her. “Yes, I suppose you do. As I recall, your parting words to me were nothing if not de rigueur.”

  “Are you foxed?”

  He stalked closer. “Not yet, no matter how much I’d like to be.”

  A tuft of hair peeked from the placket of his shirt. She closed her fingers into a fist as her wayward mind urged her to raise her hand and sample its texture. “Have you just got out of bed then?”

  He sketched her a mocking bow. “Quite perceptive of you. Yes, the past few days I’ve found myself keeping rather interesting hours.”

  A rattle in the corridor announced the tea cart’s arrival. The maid cast a fleeting glance at her employer and wheeled it toward the settee, before withdrawing with a quick bob of her mobcapped head.

  Benedict raised an eyebrow and strolled to a side table where a cut glass decanter reflected the firelight. Taking a snifter, he poured a measure of deep amber liquid and sipped at it. Julia watched the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

  The glass halfway to his lips, he paused and regarded her over the rim. “No need to look so disapproving. Or perhaps you’d rather drink this than tea. Quite good, but strong if you’re not used to it.”

  Julia slogged to the tea cart. “No, thank you.”

  “Are you certain? It might help you feel less bedraggled.”

  She poured a cup of tea, added sugar, and took a bracing swallow. “I did not come here to drink with you.”

  “Pity. I intend to drink, at any rate.” To prove it, he downed his brandy. “But now we’ve got to the point. Why have you come? More to the point, why have you come unchaperoned to the residence of a confirmed bachelor? Won’t your betrothed have something to say about that?”

  She tightened her grip on the teacup. “So you’ve heard.”

  “Upperton could not wait to tell me. He seemed to think I’d be happy to come rushing to your rescue.” Benedict shrugged. “He was quite disappointed to discover otherwise.”

  Julia’s heart plummeted toward her feet. “I do not suppose you’ll want to hear why I’ve come then.”

  He poured another measure and tipped back his glass. “Indulge me. I’ve got a few minutes before it’s worth heading to my club.”

  She squared her shoulders and took in a lungful of smoke-tinged air. Part of her recognized that his aloofness was an act. While his posture indicated disinterest, a subtle tension radiated about the set of his shoulders. As earlier with the butler, Julia could thank long acquaintance for allowing her to see past the façade.

  “I’ve a proposition for you.”

  He studied the olive-and-cross pattern on the crystal. “Do you, now? What is it?”

  “I need you to compromise me.”

  His spine went rigid for a moment, but then he tipped the decanter and a swirl of rich liquid filled the glass, at least two fingers high. “Indeed?” Throwing back his head, he downed the portion. “Ah, wonderful stuff. Are you certain you’d not like any? It’s got more of a kick than you’re used to, of course, but I highly recommend it.”

  She lifted her cup. “I’ll stick to tea, thanks. And perhaps you’d like to go a bit easier.”

  “Why? I’m nowhere near the condition I’d like. But perhaps you’re concerned about your proposition. Afraid I might get myself into such a state I cannot perform?”

  Her mouth dropped open. What on earth was he talking about? “You must be farther gone than I realized if you’re going to talk such nonsense.”

  He set his empty glass aside with a sharp click. In a matter of strides, he closed the distance between them to loom over her. He traced the back of a forefinger along her cheekbone, trailing fire in its wake. At the sensation, she let out a gasp, but his expression remained hard, immovable.

  “I assure you I am most definitely not too far gone. Pity I will not be taking you up on your offer.”

  “What?”

  “The answer is no. I will not compromise you.”

  “If you’re concerned for your honor—”

  “That is the least of it.” He turned away and strode to the window. “Not a week ago, you dismissed me for attentions that, should we have been discovered, would have left you quite thoroughly compromised. That same evening you claim to have turned down Clivesden’s proposal. Now I hear you not only accepted that idiot’s suit, you’ve changed your mind about me, as well.”

  With a sigh, he turned back, coming to stand in front of her. “You are the last person I expected to play fickle female games, and yet, here you are, doing exactly that.”

  She stepped forward, holding out a placating hand. “You do not understand. I never agreed to his suit.”

  He thrust her hand aside. “Then why announce it in front of the entire crowd at the Pendleton ball?”

  “He worked the arrangement out as a deal with my fath
er. I had no inkling of our engagement until Papa saw fit to announce it.”

  “And by all accounts, you went along with it.”

  “I was in shock. They blindsided me, the pair of them. Please—”

  His eyes glittered, hard as sapphire. “I find myself singularly unmoved by your pleas.”

  Julia opened her mouth and closed it again. A sob rose in her throat, but she refused to give it voice. Benedict, her dependable Benedict, refused his assistance when she most needed it. Unbelievable. And yet—it was unbelievable the way he claimed not to care and ranted on at length. He’d clearly cared enough to listen to more than one account of the evening.

  Poking up her chin, she drew a steadying breath. “Fine. If you will not help me, I shall find someone who will. Perhaps Upperton will oblige me.”

  Before she could draw away, his fingers clamped about her wrist, burning into her skin like brands. “You will not offer yourself to the likes of Upperton.”

  “The likes of Upperton? I thought he was your friend.”

  “I do not expect you to understand. Let’s just say I know more than I’d like about his views on … females. Although as a gentleman, he ought to refuse.”

  Perhaps, but a slight waver in his tone betrayed an uncertainty. She tugged at her wrist, but he held fast. “You leave me with no choice. And if Upperton refuses, I shall have to find a more willing gentleman. Lord Chuddleigh might be interested.”

  His fingers tightened until she was sure she’d find five parallel bruises the next morning. “You would not dare.”

  A smile threatened to curl her lips. Ruthlessly, she composed her features. No need to warn him of her imminent victory, or he might dig in his heels. Time, once again, to change tack.

  “Revelstoke.” She stepped closer and laid her fingers against his forearm. Beneath the fine fabric of his shirt, strong muscles shifted. Tightened. “Benedict, I need you to compromise me.”

  Tension radiated through the linen. Muscles clenched beneath her touch. The glance he slanted at her was laced with caution—or wariness. Julia’s heart gave a painful throb. He would refuse her again, for what she’d just asked of him was more than he was willing to give.