A Most Scandalous Proposal

by Ashlyn Macnamara

He studied her reaction, caught the tension around her mouth as she contemplated their future.

  “It’s like with kissing, Julia. We start there and see where it leads. You told me you quite liked the kissing.”

  She ducked her head. “I liked more than that.”

  A grin tugged at his lips. “You should not admit such things to me when I’m in no condition to act on them.” He raised her hand and pressed his lips to the soft skin on its back. “Never fear, I shall make it up to you.”

  SHE woke cradled against Benedict’s shoulder. The light filtering through the curtains indicated early evening. She couldn’t even remember drifting off, but considering the long hours passed in vigil by his side, her exhaustion came as no shock. She closed her eyes against the image of him lying, pale and bleeding, on the dead grass. She’d carry it with her forever, but for now, at least, she could blanket herself in his warmth and listen to the even rhythm of his breathing.

  In and out, a steady rise and fall that soothed in its constancy. He would survive, and she could lock away the blinding fear that she’d lose him.

  She nestled as close as she dared, wary of disturbing the white bands of linen wrapped about his torso. Peace surrounded her. It filled her. If not for her stubborn heart, they might have slept this way in Kent, wrapped in each other.

  They could still sleep this way, for years on end. All she had to do was let him in. But she had—ages ago, whether or not she’d realized it, and never once had she lost herself. She could give herself to him in marriage and trust him with her heart. He was a good, honorable man, and he loved her. And it was long past time she let go her reservations and childish fears. She had only to free herself and follow her heart.

  She slipped an arm about his waist, and he shifted in his sleep, turning into the embrace. One of his hands pressed over hers, the fingers tightening into a firm grip.

  “I’ll have to send you back home again,” he murmured. His eyelids fluttered, but he kept them closed.

  “I cannot leave yet.”

  “I’m sure your sister will have something to say about that.” The sleep-induced roughness of his voice settled deep in her belly. “Haven’t you left her to cool her heels long enough?”

  “She and Highgate left yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” He blinked. “How long have I been insensible?”

  “Over a day.”

  “And you’ve been here the entire time?” His voice deepened on the words, sending a shiver along her spine.

  “I can hardly make the scandal any worse than it is already.”

  “Still, you ought to go home before your father decides to come after you.”

  “I cannot leave until I tell you something.” She turned their hands over and entwined her fingers with his. “I’ve made my choice.”

  He arched a brow. “Your choice? You mean to tell me you’re running off with Clivesden, after all?”

  She gave his hand a warning squeeze but could do nothing to prevent the grin that stretched her cheeks until they ached. The moment she admitted to having made up her mind, a burst of emotion released inside her to race along every vein and every nerve ending.

  Happiness. Pure joy. Love—love that she was ready to claim and acclaim buoyed her up until she felt as if she was about to float off the bed like one of the Montgolfier brothers’ contraptions.

  “I ought to, just for that. No, you told me when we came back from Kent that I had to choose how I meant to conduct our marriage.”

  She leaned over and pressed her mouth to his, her fingertips tracing through the stubble on his cheek. When she pulled back, her lips broadened into a smile that he mirrored, as if he knew what was coming.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, and I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy.”

  He gave her hand an answering squeeze. “Then we will be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE SANCTUARY of St. George’s Hanover Square soared to heights made all the more cavernous by the size of the gathering. Really, why such a huge space to solemnify nuptials with such a tiny attendance?

  Sophia suppressed the urge to waltz up the nave. Her glance skipped past Benedict, standing stiffly before the altar, to settle on Highgate. Heavens, she’d spent hours dreaming of her wedding day, and for the most part, reality mirrored those fantasies. The church was the same, the rector in his ceremonial vestments, her parents in attendance and happy.

  Goodness only knew Mama spent the morning beaming while fussing at Sophia to hurry along. Papa, too, walked ahead of her with an actual bob in his step, as if he were thirty years younger. The forgiveness of a five-thousand-pound debt would do that to a man.

  The one deviation from the plan was the groom. Highgate, if not as tall and broad-shouldered as the fairy-tale prince of her dreams, acquitted himself quite well in a black coat, brocade waistcoat of silver gray, his cravat fashionably knotted. How long would it take her to untie that intricate tangle of pristine linen? Her fingers tingled, as if they already battled starched fabric, her knuckles brushing the heated skin of his throat.

  Thank God those dreams had never come completely true. She would never trade solid reality for something so insubstantial again.

  As she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, he gave her a broad smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. She couldn’t help but answer with a grin of her own.

  “Shall we?” As if he were asking her for a walk in the park. Or a ride in his carriage.

  “Absolutely.” How could she hesitate before the glimmer of promise in his dark eyes?

  He leaned in to speak low in her ear. “I confess I’m in a bit of a hurry to get through the ceremony. We’ve quite a long journey ahead of us.”

  “I am certain we shall find a way to pass the time.” She had no idea how she carried off such an air of nonchalance when, inside, her blood hummed in anticipation. The thought of their pervious jaunts alone in his barouche flooded her mind with scandalous images. Images that were most definitely inappropriate in church.

  His smile broadened until the creases in his cheeks masked his scar. “I’ve had a few thoughts on the matter myself, only I fear I cannot discuss them in such a setting.”

  She slipped her fingers from his elbow and slid them along his sleeve to catch his hand in hers. “I believe that makes us of one mind, my lord.”

  JULIA smoothed her palms down her silk skirts as she made her way up the nave to where the rector stood, ready to preside over the vows—both Sophia and Highgate’s and hers with Benedict. She focused on her sister’s suspicious radiance. The pale gold of her gown, an echo of her curls, explained only a small part of it. Most of it emanated from the roses blooming in her cheeks, the spark in her eye, the wicked little grin playing about her lips that proclaimed she knew some enticing secret.

  If Julia didn’t know better, she might suspect Sophia was in love. What a preposterous notion. After five years of pining over the wrong man, she couldn’t possibly have got over her tendre this quickly.

  Could she?

  The manner in which she gazed at Highgate—as if William Ludlowe, Earl of Clivesden had never existed, as if no other man had ever existed—put lie to the thought. All the tears shed through countless evenings during which she’d been overlooked were seemingly erased. And from all appearances, Highgate returned the sentiment, fully, openly, unabashedly.

  Julia trained her gaze on her hands folded demurely in front of her. Benedict looked at her that way, with such an ease and an intensity, it left her fluttery with a yearning that melted her insides. She paused to give herself a mental shake. Surely such thoughts were forbidden in church.

  A delicate cough interrupted her musings. Her mother stood at her elbow. “Come, Julia. They’re ready.”

  Julia lowered her lashes, not wanting to see the recrimination, the judgment, the disappointment. She’d borne the weight of her mother’s shattered hopes since her return from Kent as a just punishment for her waywardne
ss, but no more. The sooner she laid her hand in Benedict’s, the better. With a nod, she started for the altar.

  “Wait.”

  Eyes wide, she turned. “Oughtn’t we get the matter settled?”

  She left the rest of the thought unspoken, but the words hovered in the air between them, nonetheless. Then you can go on pretending you have only one daughter.

  “In a moment.” Mama flipped her hand in an impatient gesture. Lines of tension formed about her lips. “They’ll allow us a little time before they start.”

  Julia cast a suspicious glance past her mother’s shoulder to determine if Lady Wexford had deigned to put in an appearance. Vexing Highgate’s sister by holding up the proceedings was the only reason Julia could imagine behind her mother’s actions. But no, Lady Wexford had decided to deprive them all of her presence.

  Thank the heavens.

  “I …” The decisiveness in Mama’s tone gave way to a wobble. “I thought we should discuss your choice of husbands.”

  Julia kept her gaze trained on Mama’s forehead so she could give the appearance of looking into her eyes without actually doing so. She’d had enough of judgment. “It’s rather late for that, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I realize …” Mama stopped and pulled in a breath. “I did not wish to begin an argument.”

  Julia shifted her weight in the direction of the canopied pulpit. The rector stood beside it, impatient to begin. Sophia and Highgate had stopped gazing on each other to cast curious glances over their shoulders, while Benedict … Benedict held himself rigid, his fingers beating a slow but tense tattoo against his thigh.

  “Then perhaps this isn’t the ideal topic. Nor is it the time.”

  “For heaven’s sake, I mean to apologize.” Mama spit out the words between gritted teeth, the sound low enough to split the expectant silence and carry into the far corners of the sanctuary.

  Julia balanced herself on both feet, shoulders dropping to their usual position. “Apologize?”

  “For pushing you at Clivesden. I had my heart set on you—both of you—gaining titles. But I understand now.”

  “Understand what? That I could not hurt Sophia by allowing myself to follow along like a sheep and bend to your wishes?” The words were harsh, but they only mirrored Julia’s feelings. How could her mother be so blind to such a simple truth?

  “Well, yes.” Mama cast her eyes downward. “No, there’s more than that.”

  “What else could there be?”

  “I’ve been so incredibly blind. I ought to be happy for you. If you can’t have a title, at least you’ve made a love match.”

  At last, she dared meet her mother’s gaze. Sincerity shone in Mama’s blue irises, and Julia felt suddenly buoyant. Her heels lifted from the floorboards, and she touched the back of Mama’s gloved hand. “I’m glad you finally see.”

  She cast a longing glance up the aisle at Benedict, who raised questioning brows. “I must go. They’re waiting for me.”

  The pale peach silk skirts of an old ball gown rustled as she made her way to Benedict’s side. She arrived at the front of the church and laid her hand in the crook of his elbow, delighting in the warmth and vitality that emanated from him.

  He leaned over to murmur directly into her ear. “What did your mother want? Trying to talk you into changing your mind at the last minute?”

  Julia suppressed a smile at the delicious shiver his warm breath stirred to life. “And cause even more of a scandal? Heaven forfend.”

  JULIA watched as Benedict dipped the quill into the ink. Her eye followed each swoop as he scratched his name onto the parish register. Such a strong, firm hand to match the strength and starkness of his name.

  A name which now belonged to her.

  Their fingers brushed as he handed the quill over, and heat streaked up her arm. Awareness of the slightest casual touch consumed her and filled her mind with thoughts of the coming night, and all the other nights stretching ahead of her, one after the other, to fill out the years of their future.

  The quill trembled in her fingers as she signed her name below his. She blinked at the register, at the glistening of the drying ink on the page. It was done now. Julia and Benedict, forever united in matrimony.

  His fingers slid along her wrist, searching to twine with hers. He lifted her hand and laid it in its proper place—on his arm. “Ready to face the crowd?”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “What crowd?”

  “You cannot imagine the gossip hasn’t made the rounds, can you? I’m sure more than one member of the ton has decided to take a constitutional this morning and wander past Hanover Square. Mere chance, of course.”

  “Of course.” She fell into step beside him, following her sister and her parents in the direction of the door. “They’ll want to catch a glimpse of Highgate.”

  “And the young lady some idiot threw five thousand pounds away on.”

  “You mean that scandalous trollop?”

  “Hush, you’re still in church.” He grinned at her and lowered his voice. “You might want to use a milder term. I recall a certain affinity for the word strumpet.”

  She waved a hand. “Never to refer to myself.”

  His grin broadened, taking on a rather evil bent. “If you take it into your head to act the strumpet on occasion—just for me—I don’t think I’ll mind.”

  She raised both brows and assumed what she hoped was an appropriate expression of innocence. “Hush, you’re still in church.”

  But at that moment, they stepped over the threshold and onto the columned portico. “Not anymore.”

  SUCH a crowd of gawkers. Not that the size of the gathering ought to have shocked him. Benedict had lived his whole life among these people, long enough to know how quickly word spread through the ton and how much its members enjoyed a spectacle.

  After all, it wasn’t every day a man married off two such notoriously reluctant daughters as the St. Claire sisters—and under such scandalous circumstances. The gossips would have enough fodder to last them until Christmas.

  Too bad the weather had decided to cooperate for once. A few rays of weak sunlight, their warmth nearly palpable, broke through the clouds to cast their benediction on the nuptials. Given his choice, Benedict would have preferred a drenching downpour.

  He scowled at Lady Epperley, who held court firmly at the front, peering at them through her lorgnette. Lady Posselthwaite craned her neck to see past the dowager’s bonnet. In the next instant, she let out a squawk, as Lady Epperley’s elbow made contact with her ribs, the movement so rapid, Benedict was not quite sure he’d actually seen anything.

  Suppressing a grin, he ushered Julia past the columns of the façade toward the waiting carriage. He had plans for her, none of which involved exchanging insincere pleasantries with various and sundry passing acquaintances. Julia had expressed a desire for their future happiness, and he intended to start with her happiness.

  Or at the very least, her pleasure.

  A ripple passed through the onlookers. Some sort of commotion erupted farther down the street. Heads turned. Even Lady Epperley directed her attention away from a beaming Sophia to face the disturbance. Good. Perhaps they could make their escape from Town without any further ado while the ton found something new to talk about.

  “I say, Revelstoke!” Upperton’s voice carried over the heads of the assembly. Nudging the gathering aside, he made his way to Benedict’s carriage. “You cannot leave without your wedding present.”

  “What present?”

  Beside him, Julia craned her neck. Upperton clutched a length of rope in his fist, a lead, actually. Benedict followed it with this eye to the source of the commotion. Standing behind Upperton, Nefertari tossed her proud head. With a snuffle, she took an ambling step forward to nose at Upperton’s pockets.

  “What’s this?” Benedict asked, disbelieving.

  Upperton held out the lead. “It’s your wedding present.”

  “What have you done? Y
ou cannot expect me to believe Clivesden, of all people, has sent me a token of his esteem to mark the day.”

  “Of course he hasn’t. He was, however, all too happy to part with this nag in lieu of paying his debt to me. Beyond what he owed, she was costing him a fortune in oats.”

  Benedict swallowed and then swallowed again. It would not do for him to put on a display of emotion in front of the ton’s premiere gossips.

  Julia leaned across him, the better to take in the proceedings, and the softness of her breast pressed against his arm. “What’s this?”

  He had to clear his throat before he could reply. “Remember when we were in Kent, and I told you I was in the market for bloodstock?” At her nod, he gestured toward Nefertari. “There’s my bloodstock.”

  “But what does Clivesden have to do with any of it?”

  “He outbid me in the auction. It seems he took it into his head to present you with a saddle horse.”

  Julia’s laughter rang out over the scene. Nefertari snorted and pawed the ground. “After I told him horses made me sneeze, you’d think he’d have taken the hint.”

  Benedict’s cheeks stretched in a grin. “You told him that?”

  “He wanted to take me riding in the park. It was all I could think of to get rid of him.”

  Benedict held her gaze. Such a lovely smile she had. It spread across the whole of her face until she glowed with happiness. “You could have told him the truth, that you don’t ride.”

  “And have him offer me lessons?”

  He cleared his throat. “You’re absolutely right there. I’m the only one who ought to give you riding lessons.”

  A discreet cough forced him to look away. Upperton thrust the lead into his hand. “If the pair of you want to get on with … things, I suggest you take your wedding present and be off.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Upperton shrugged. “The least I could do.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now off with you. I expect there to be a little Revelstoke before this time next year. Don’t forget to put him down for Eton.”