A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  His arm went rigid beneath her hand. “I will not deny making the place habitable is more than I can take on with the staff I’ve got, but I was not in London to seek a wife. You did not catch me attending many balls, did you?”

  She studied him. The raw sea breeze had reddened his cheeks. “Other than the Posselthwaites’.”

  “I went to the Posselthwaites’ to find you and warn you about Ludlowe. That was all. I had no plans to marry.”

  She stared at him, trying to divine the meaning beneath that last sentence. His tone suggested an “unless.” Unless I could marry you. She lowered her eyelids to examine the path at her feet and idly kicked a stone. It skittered among the smaller bits of gravel to become lost in a weed-ridden border.

  Benedict cleared his throat. “I came to Town in search of bloodstock. I’m sure I told you.”

  “Ah, yes. Tattersall’s. Why hire a gardener when you can throw your money away on cattle?”

  “In the event, I did not throw away as much as a farthing.” He enunciated each syllable with military precision. Beneath her hand, his arm went rigid. “I know I’ve neglected my duty here. I do mean to make something of this place, but I cannot breed mares I do not have.”

  Well, blast. She’d managed to strike at the quick with her blunder. She reached out with her free hand, but he dropped her arm and stalked toward the stables. She hurried after him but came to a halt as an excited chorus of barking shattered the eerie silence.

  Several rust-colored hounds came pelting round the corner of an outbuilding. Julia shrunk back, but Benedict strode into their midst, scratching at their ears and patting their flanks, while they leapt at him and smudged his coat with muddy paw prints. His laughter rang over the dogs’ yammering. A broad smile spread over his features, and his face took on a boyish expression of mischief, an echo of the sunlit summer days of their childhood.

  Something in her heart thawed and swelled at the sight. Suddenly, the ruin and neglect of his estate mattered not at all. He was happy here, happy as she never saw him in Town.

  Watching him crouch and take one of the dogs by the loose skin about its neck, rubbing until the beast’s tail shook with delight, she caught a sudden vision of him as a father. He would not be content with consigning his children to tutors and governesses. He would chase them across the pastures and through the woods, sharing every discovery. She pictured him crouched beside a dark-haired little boy, poking at the dirt with him, heedless of soiling their clothes.

  In her mind, the child suddenly looked up, and his inquisitive gaze met hers. He smiled, an impish little grin that promised nothing but trouble. She returned the sentiment, certain her expression mirrored his exactly.

  And then, as realization sank in, her heart turned over. The little boy’s eyes, glinting with mischief, matched her own—hazel flecked with gold. Heavens, this was her son. Hers and Benedict’s. Upperton’s words echoed through her memory. Any children you produced would be the absolute terrors of their schoolmasters. It’d be perfect revenge. Put their names down for Eton the moment they’re born.

  A bittersweet longing for this future rose in her belly, not as insistent as the desire that arose when she and Benedict kissed, but more compelling, somehow. Poignant and aching, nonetheless. She could have this future if only she possessed the courage to risk her heart.

  A high-pitched whine caught her attention. One of the hounds had wandered over to stare at her with soulful dark eyes. Its tail, stained white at the tip, gave a hopeful thump against the hard-packed earth of the stable yard.

  She crouched to pat its head and scratch behind its ears. “And aren’t you a well-behaved fellow? Look at you, patiently waiting for your due, rather than jumping about like the rest of the pack.”

  The tail pounded a joyous cadence at her praise. She smiled. How long had it been since she’d patted a dog? Years and years, certainly. Not since her childhood at Clareton House. She might have been ten years old when her mother decided she couldn’t abide the creatures, not the smell and certainly not the stains and rents the hunting hounds tore in her daughters’ skirts.

  Julia extended her hand to stroke the animal’s flanks and let herself dream. Her children would be allowed to play and explore without sparing a thought to the state of their clothes. Her children.

  She stole a glance at Benedict. He’d left off romping with the pack of dogs and straightened. He watched her closely, expression serious, his gaze hard and piercing enough to make the hairs on her nape stand on end. The breeze ruffled his hair, causing locks of it to ripple like tattered black banners.

  Slowly, she uncurled her fingers from the hound’s coat and unfolded herself. Still he watched, gaze intense, leaving her with the impression that he, too, had been imagining their future.

  The wind harshened, lashing his hair and tearing at her cloak. An icy drop of rain struck her face. More pattered to the ground about her feet, leaving shallow depressions to mark their passing.

  He approached and held out a hand to her. “Best we get inside.”

  He took her hand and tore off. Julia stumbled after him, one palm pressed into a stitch in her side. The air tore from her lungs in ragged bursts by the time they reached the cottage.

  HE watched her through supper, watched her pick at cubes of stewed mutton with shaky fingers, while sipping steadily at a glass of claret. As she drained her goblet for the third time, he laid his fork on the scarred wood. Here they sat in the most rustic of settings, eating simple food, stiffly, one at each end of the table, as if they were separated by twenty feet of polished mahogany, overhung by a crystal chandelier and served by liveried footmen.

  Julia blinked at him over the rim of her wineglass, her hazel eyes round and soulful and reflecting the firelight. The claret stained her mouth a becoming cherry red. Her lips parted slightly in an unconscious invitation to taste the lingering remains of wine on her tongue.

  Blood pooled in his groin at the thought of the bed that awaited them, the mattress cold, certainly, but they’d warm it soon enough. Not yet, though. He wished to savor the anticipation a little longer. And if he touched her tonight, above all, he wanted her to be sure. While he required her to be his wife in truth after their marriage, she was not his wife yet. If she wanted more time to adjust to the idea of their physical intimacy, he was willing to allow her that much.

  “You’ve hardly touched your supper.” He confined his comment to the banal, to the safe, in hopes of curbing his own eagerness.

  If, in the end, she refused him, he would pass another night of pure hell. No, best not think about that, either. Whatever depths of passion lurked beneath Julia’s surface, she was still a virgin, still sheltered as any young lady of her class. The raw reality of a carnal relationship, even with him, still carried the power to shock her.

  With her fork, she poked at a chunk of carrot. “I do not suppose I’ve ever been much on mutton. The wine is rather nice.”

  The words were a hint if he ever heard one. “You might want to take things easy. No one’s watered it.”

  “Oh.” Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and then she giggled, a bubbling, joyous sound he didn’t think he’d ever heard her emit.

  In all their past, he’d heard her laugh, certainly, a deep, throaty gush more suited to the bedroom than the ballroom. He greatly enjoyed coaxing it from her with pointed comments. But such a girlish sound as a giggle? He’d never heard that, even during her childhood.

  “It’s already affecting you. You sound like your sister.”

  His remark provoked another outburst, this one long enough to set the halo of curls about her face to swaying. “Oh my. Oh my goodness.” She covered the ruffles on her bodice with a hand. “At least I don’t sound like the strumpet. Do I?”

  Benedict nearly spit out a mouthful of claret. “Strumpet? What do you know of strumpets?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know that she really is a strumpet. Only Sophia calls her that because Ludlowe … No, I suppose he’s Clivesden
now.”

  “Call him whatever you like. Personally, I prefer ‘that great bloody idiot.’ ”

  She broke into another fit of giggles, and he smiled to himself. Once they were safely married, he planned on having a great deal of fun plying her with strong wine and provoking her to laughter. Preferably while stark naked in his bed. If her giggling set her curls aflutter in such a way, he could only imagine the effect on her un-corseted breasts.

  Ah, yes, once they were married, he would indulge her taste in wine. He’d indulge his own taste for it, as well—sipped straight from her body.

  Pop!

  The sound, accompanied by a fresh spate of giggles, brought him back to the present. “What the devil?”

  Pop, pop.

  That hadn’t come from the fire. No, it had come from Julia. The rosy glow spread to her forehead. Her lips and chin quivered. Before long, she could no longer hold it in, and she broke into gales of laughter.

  Pop, pop, pop.

  “What is that?”

  “This gown.” Pop. “It’s rather too small.” Pop. “The stitches keep breaking.”

  He ought to tell her to stop laughing, but the idea of her giggling her way out of that ridiculous gown was far too appealing. A flounce at her collar gave an ominous lurch. How long before the bodice gave way entirely to expose the creamy upper swells of her breasts? He shifted on the unforgiving wood of the chair, but nothing would relieve his current discomfort, unless it be her hand, her mouth, her soft, yielding body …

  She paused to collect herself.

  Damn.

  “Now, where was I? Oh yes. That great bloody idiot threw Sophia over for a girl with the ton’s most irritating laugh. Come to think of it, she’s a great bloody idiot, as well.”

  He bit down on his tongue to keep from smiling. He might regret the indulgence at some point in the future, but she really was endearing when she swore. “Why is that?”

  “I think she must wish she had the great bloody idiot for herself. Good God, imagine if they produced children. An entire family of bloody idiots. In any case, at the Pendleton ball she gave me the nastiest look. And that was before Papa made the announcement about my betrothal. I had no idea why she would do such a thing, but I suppose she was jealous.”

  She paused for air and made a sweeping gesture with one hand that threatened to send the congealing remains of her supper crashing to the floor.

  Benedict propped his chin on the heel of his hand and stared for a moment. Claret, yes. After their wedding, he would order it by the case. It had surely loosened her tongue. He would have to find a better way to occupy that luscious pink tongue later.

  “Now, where was I?”

  “Nattering on about strumpets, I believe.”

  “Nattering? Was I really nattering?”

  “A little bit, yes. But do go on. I find it diverting. In fact …” He tipped more wine into her glass.

  She blinked and took a ladylike sip. The tip of her tongue darted out to catch a stray drop, and lust streaked through his gut at the sight. He’d been about to pour himself another glass but decided against it. Once he had her warm and willing in his bed, he wanted to ensure he enjoyed every second of the experience.

  The inviting smile that spread across her features sent another jolt southward. Tipsiness brought a becoming glow to her cheeks. Her hazel eyes sparkled. He held her gaze to memorize her as she was now—still innocent and yet willing to trust him, with her body at least.

  If he wanted her heart as well, he’d have to work for it. He would start with the physical, and cultivate her response in the hopes of igniting deeper feelings within her. In unleashing her passion, he might yet foster love in her heart.

  The direction of his thoughts must have shown in his expression, for she slanted her eyes downward. Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass, and she took a drink—more than a sip this time, a full swallow that sent a ripple coursing down her neck muscles.

  He pushed his plate aside and stood. Her eyes snapped back to his, wariness flashing through them. He knew her to possess an adventurous side, but, he supposed, a few nerves were only natural. Her eyes followed his movement, as he skirted the table and held out a hand to her.

  She looked up at him through her lashes. “Don’t you want dessert?”

  One corner of his mouth edged upward. “Oh yes.”

  Again that slanting glance, down and away. He’d seen that before. It might mean a woman was interested, as long as—There. Julia’s gaze drifted back to meet his. Interest—anticipation, even—warred with the wariness.

  He crouched at her knees, bringing his face below the level of hers, allowing her the power. If she wished to refuse him in the end, so be it. Reaching out, he placed a hand on her thigh.

  With a gasp, she stiffened beneath his palm, even as warmth welled through her skirt and shift into his skin.

  “Are you frightened?”

  Her eyes glittered and her nostrils flared, a sure sign she was about to lie, but then she relented and nodded. “Perhaps a little.”

  “Is it me that frightens you or the act?”

  “I think it’s mostly the unknown.” Her voice broke on the final word.

  That response might well apply to her ignorance of what transpired between lovers behind closed doors. Or it might refer to their future.

  “I will not force my attentions on you. Not so much as a kiss if you do not want it.”

  “The kissing is rather nice, actually.” The wine-enhanced pink glow on her cheeks deepened to red.

  “Then I suggest we start there and see where it leads.” He paused. The second half of what he was about to say might prove painful indeed. “Wherever you wish to stop, I swear to you, I will.”

  Eyes closed, she nodded again.

  He leaned in and kissed her. Her lips parted beneath his on contact, her breath drifted into his mouth, and her tongue rose to meet his. She tasted of claret, and the air about her carried the slight salt tang of desire. God help him if her fears overcame her, and she asked him to stop. He would keep his word to her, but it might well kill him.

  Not breaking the kiss, he reached up to smooth her hair back from her face, to tangle his fingers in her curls. A popping sound filled the air—a few more of her threads breaking—as her hands sought the support of his shoulders.

  He bit back a groan. His mind had just filled with images of ripping that ridiculous too-tight confection from her body, ruffle by ruffle, to expose the porcelain perfection of her breasts. With a growl, he tore his lips from hers before he lost control entirely and laid her out on the table.

  Oh God, to seat her firm little bottom at the very edge, lift her skirts and drive himself home. Or perhaps he’d feast on her first. His hand clenched in her hair, and he trembled.

  No, too soon. She needed him to take this night slowly. He owed her that much. They’d have the rest of their lives to explore the depths of his passion and hers.

  Her breath hitched, and her bodice sagged. “Why did you stop?”

  He blinked open his eyes and held her gaze. “Do you feel the pull between us?”

  Her eyes, flecked with green and gold, darkened with need, regarded him steadily. “Yes.”

  “Where do you feel it? Show me.”

  She slid a hand to cover her belly—just over her womb. “Here.”

  Triumph surged through him, entwined with a bolt of pure need. Carefully, deliberately, he slipped his hand from her hair, tracing along her neck and down beneath her gaping bodice, until he covered one firm, round breast. It filled the hollow of his palm perfectly. He’d always known it would.

  “Oh!” Her eyes drifted shut, her head tilted back in such blatant invitation, while her nipple pebbled into a taut peak.

  He leaned in to set his lips just below her ear. Her pulse beat, wild and erratic like the flight of a drunken butterfly. “How you respond to me, my love.”

  She stiffened. The flutter against his lips increased, and her fingers tighte
ned.

  Too late, he realized his mistake. Too late to deny it. She was not so far gone with wine and lust that she missed the ring of truth behind the endearment.

  “What is it?”

  She pulled away and stared at him. The haze of passion had lifted to give way to fear. Her eyes were round with it.

  “Julia?”

  “I … If we do this …” The muscles in her throat rippled as she swallowed. “What … what will happen to me?”

  He dropped his hands. “What are you talking about? Nothing will happen. Well, no.” He rubbed the back of his neck while his thoughts raced. He had no experience with calming a virgin’s nerves to know what to say to her at this point. It didn’t help clear his mind that certain parts of his anatomy ached with an urgency to finish what they’d started.

  “No?”

  “I mean, you’ll be ruined of course, but you already are. We’ll have to marry. You know this.”

  “Yes, I know that, but that’s not what I mean.” She stared at her folded hands. “When you look at me, the way you were looking just now. Like you want to devour me. It’s just … Oh, I don’t even know how to say it. I feel as though you might consume me, and there won’t be anything left once you’re through.”

  Oh God, she had no idea the images she conjured. He ignored the insistent throb in his groin and reached for her hands. “The last thing I wish to do is hurt you. I want there to be something of you left for next time.”

  The line of her jaw shifted toward tension. Damn it, why had he thought to make light of the matter, when she was dead serious? “I can’t think of next time. I can’t think of the future.”

  “Then don’t. Concentrate on how you feel. Relax and let the pleasure take you.”

  Her brows lowered. “You swore you’d stop if I asked.”

  The devil take it all. “That I did. Are you asking?”

  “I …” She nodded. “I think I am.”

  He released her hands and shot to his feet. His body screamed with unslaked lust. Time to get away from her now, before he broke something.

  “Benedict?” She must have caught his expression if the hesitance in her voice was any indication.