One Tempting Proposal

by Christy Carlyle

  Kat drew back and stood with a gray ball of fur tucked in her arms. The kitten blinked up at each of them accusingly.

  “I should introduce the two of you properly.”

  “Your Grace, may I present my sister, Lady Violet?” Violet stepped in front of him at Kat’s pronouncement and bowed a graceful little curtsy.

  “Violet, the Duke of Wrexford . . .” Seb straightened his back and bent to offer the girl a chivalrous bow. “He’s not at all odious, as far as I can tell.”

  “Such high praise, Lady Katherine.” Seb cast his feigned betrothed a wry grin.

  “Let’s hope you don’t prove me wrong.”

  Before he could offer another retort, Kat turned to her sister. “I’ve made a place for your kitten in the conservatory. Shall we take her?”

  The girl nodded and gazed up at Seb expectantly. Apparently, it was her way of inviting him to come along.

  “Don’t worry, Persie. We’ll hide you so that Wiggins will never find you.”

  “Who’s Wiggins?” In for a penny, in for a pound. If he was to be a part of this cat-­hiding mission, he might as well have all the facts.

  “Our butler,” Kat called back over her shoulder.

  “He said he’d eat Persie,” Violet insisted.

  “That sounds rather extreme.” He’d teased Pippa mercilessly when they were children, but he could easily imagine how well even a jest about eating one of her pets would have been received.

  Kat turned back and lifted a hand to pat Violet’s arm. “He was teasing you, sweet. You know Wiggins isn’t fond of pets.”

  Slowing her pace as they approached the conservatory, Kat looked back and forth to make sure none of the housemaids or other staff saw them enter. Once inside, she led Seb to a corner near the edge of the glass wall that extended into the town house’s outdoor garden. The morning sun had already warmed the spot, and as soon as she began to lean forward, Persephone jumped down and onto a plush pillow arranged near a dish of water.

  Violet hunched beside her kitten and began stroking its fur into order while rambling through a series of questions. How did Persie like her new home? Was she frightened of Wiggins too? Would she like a treat before supper? Unless her languid blinks were a kind of cat Morse code, the kitten seemed disinclined to answer.

  Kat drew close and whispered. “I don’t think he’d do the kitten any real harm, but she’ll be safe in here. The conservatory makes him sneeze and other staff rarely come in here.”

  “That puts my mind at ease.” Seb grinned but didn’t look at Kat. Both of them focused on Violet as she fussed over her kitten. “You’ve allowed me into your conservatory twice and claim I’m not odious. One might almost think you’re growing fond of me.”

  He hoped his light tone might ease the tension between them, but Kat remained stiff and quiet at his side.

  Then finally, without turning to look at him, she said, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Wrexford.”

  Seb turned to study her profile, but Kat ignored him and continued to stare ahead, watching her sister.

  “Your father is expecting me. May we have a word after I meet with him?”

  “I’ll wait for you in the drawing room.” Though she spoke agreement, the sharpness in her tone sounded like resistance to Seb’s ears.

  He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You do still want to carry through with this?”

  His question earned him a glance before she turned back toward Violet. “Yes, of course.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Violet.”

  The child lifted a finger to her lips. “Not so loud, Your Grace. Persie’s almost asleep.”

  Seb took a deep breath, steeling himself for his performance with Lord Clayborne. He’d yet to tell his sister or Ollie about their plan. He hadn’t lied to anyone yet. Kat had taken the initiative of telling Alecia and Ponsonby and he’d stood by mutely, lying by omission. But now he’d face the marquess alone, and he was the kind of man Seb suspected could spot a liar from across a room.

  As he exited the conservatory, he frowned at the sound of lighter footsteps trailing his own. He turned and Kat reached out to grasp his upper arm.

  “When you meet with my father, please don’t mention the kitten. My sisters and I have learned that, in some cases, the less my father knows, the better.”

  He glanced over her shoulder. Violet had found a book and held it up for perusal with one hand while resting the other on the gray fluffball’s steadily rising and falling back.

  “Let’s distract him with planning a wedding instead.”

  It was their one objective. The good that could come of all their subterfuge, and the reminder of it finally seemed to chip through the chill between them. Kat almost grinned. Seb hadn’t realized how much he craved some sign of pleasure or camaraderie from her. He sighed, letting a bit of his anxiety about meeting Clayborne ebb.

  As he gazed at her, Seb recalled the first time he’d found her in this green space. That studious, unfashionably dressed woman fascinated him, and he didn’t like how much he looked forward to getting a few more glimpses of her over the coming weeks.

  “I’ll be waiting in the drawing room.” Her practical tone drew him back to the matter at hand. “We have much to do.”

  “Do we?”

  “Yes, of course. We both want this over with quickly. In a short time, we must carry on a courtship, prevent our own wedding, and plan Hattie and Oliver’s.”

  Kat turned to retreat to her conservatory, but then she paused and gazed back at him over her shoulder. It was just what he needed to bolster him for the meeting with the marquess.

  “Good luck, Sebastian.”

  “MARRY HER? MARRY Katherine?”

  Seb loathed the way her father said her name with a hard emphasis on the three syllables and an incredulous tone, as if he doubted any man could desire her.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He’d said it twice, as clearly as he could. The direct approach seemed best. No use prevaricating or dragging it out.

  The man was as confounding as his daughter. He’d all but insisted on a match with Kat the first time Seb met with him, and now he stared as if he thought requesting her hand meant Seb was bound for Bedlam.

  The marquess seemed more interested in studying Seb than in giving due consideration to the request to marry his daughter. At first he’d glared from across the expanse of his desk, then stood and circled Seb’s chair like a predator sniffing its prey, and now he’d positioned himself before the fireplace, a hand on each hip, starring at the back of Seb’s head.

  Not only could Seb feel the man’s gaze boring into him, but thanks to an ornate mirror on the wall before him, he could watch Clayborne assessing him.

  “Why?”

  “Pardon?” Seb turned in his chair, but the furnishing was too narrow and damnably uncomfortable. He stood, stretching his muscles, and faced Clayborne.

  “The season breeds matches and hasty ones at that, I’ll allow, but you’ve known my daughter for the sum of three days.”

  “It’s a short acquaintance admittedly, but Lady Katherine . . . makes an indelible impression.” It wasn’t a lie. From the moment Seb laid eyes on her, she’d been a tenacious presence in the back of his mind.

  “And your friend wishes to marry her sister.”

  Seb tried to grin or lift his mouth in the semblance of amusement, but his cheek spasmed instead. “A fortuitous coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “I shall consider Treadwell now, of course.”

  Seb inhaled and it was easier than it had been a moment before. Anxiety lifted, like a fever leaving his body, and his pulse danced as it had the first time he’d spoken to Kat. It was worth it. The torment of growing close to a woman only to break with her publicly in a few short weeks. The guilt of lying to those he loved. For this moment and
the prospect of seeing Ollie happily wed, it was all worth it.

  Clayborne cleared his throat. “Don’t count your winnings until the race is finished.”

  Seb swallowed down joy as he nodded his head.

  “Betrothals are well and good, Wrexford, but none of it matters until the ceremony. If Mr. Treadwell meets muster, perhaps we should consider a double wedding.”

  “Yes, perhaps.” He and Kat had decided nothing further than this moment. Beyond the plan to end the ruse in as few days as they could, Seb had no real notion how they’d pull it off. Clayborne intended to see Kat married. How could they dissuade him? He’d feared the marquess might slap Ollie with a breach-­of-­promise suit, but now he could foresee a legal battle in his own future.

  “Cigar?”

  Seb never smoked. “No, thank you, my lord.”

  “Well, sit at least.”

  Rather than returning to his desk chair, Clayborne seated himself in front of his study’s unlit fireplace before flicking a hand toward the opposite chair, indicating Seb should sit. Like his daughter, the man moved with precision, as if sparing energy for comfort or giving into slouching was against his philosophy of life.

  “You have my blessing, of course. But tell me how you convinced her.”

  “Convinced her?”

  “To accept your proposal.”

  His lips were dry. His mouth was a desert. And his mind was momentarily as uninhabited as the Sahara.

  “She’s refused six others.” Clayborne held still, watching Seb closely for a reaction.

  Seb liked that she’d refused other suitors. Irrationally, pointlessly adored the fact.

  Ponsonby would be among the six. And the others? He imagined men fumbling to impress her, to win her affection. His was no true victory, but whether ego or conceit, some part of him that refused to parse truth from fiction thrilled at the notion of being the only one who could rightfully call himself her betrothed. At least for a few weeks.

  For a few weeks he would get to spend time with her, touch her, learn more about the woman, and then part from her. He was a fool to anticipate it at all.

  “Kat . . . Katherine is a fascinating woman. It doesn’t surprise me she’s had six other suitors.”

  Clayborne’s fingers twitched, jerking into motion, and then the movement spread to his face, until the staid controlled man actually broke into a grin around the stub of his cigar.

  “Six proposals, Wrexford. There have been three times as many suitors. You’re the nineteenth.” He blew rings of smoke into the air to punctuate the revelation.

  Seb coughed, less from the smoke of Clayborne’s cigar than the unpalatable image of eighteen men crowding the Adderly drawing room bearing flowers and baubles to tempt Kat. He wondered if anyone ever thought to bring her a living flower or a seed? Perhaps some of the plants she tended in her conservatory represented failed suitors.

  The nineteenth suitor and seventh proposal. At least they were special numbers, each an indivisible prime.

  “Can you understand my curiosity now, Wrexford? You’ve pulled off quite a coup.” Clayborne reached over to tap his cigar against a crystal dish on the table between them. “At least tell me what drew you to my daughter. Most are distracted by her beauty and only realize too late that she lacks the soft, mild manner men desire in a woman.”

  Seb had touched her, held her. Kat’s skin was achingly soft. He slid his thumb across the fingers of his right hand, remembering the silken curve of her cheek.

  And mild? Weather could be mild. Bland soup was mild. A tamed horse might be mild. Who wanted a woman to be mild?

  “Speak, man. Was it her meekness?” The marquess’s tone turned derisive as his mouth contorted in a sneer. “Or was it her lack of opinions? No, no. It must be her willingness to be led rather than grasping the crown and scepter for herself.”

  Seb stared at Clayborne, studying him in the same cool manner the nobleman had raked Seb with his gaze. Is this what she endured? Did he mock Kat to her face or only to the men who asked to spend their lives loving and protecting her? Never mind that his own intentions were false.

  No father had the right to belittle his daughter, simply because she knew her own mind. And no man in his right mind desired a silly, simpering wife.

  Not that Kat would be his wife. Or that he was truly reconciled to having a wife. All of that changed nothing about Kat’s cleverness or her appealing confidence. None of which her father seemed capable of appreciating.

  “Quite the opposite. I look forward to hearing all of Lady Katherine’s opinions.”

  “And do you look forward to engaging in skirmishes with her over every choice you make?”

  “She is headstrong.” Seb was quite content in the knowledge that there was no equation in which the addition of a women’s confidence subtracted any of a man’s. He’d spent his whole life surrounded by outspoken women.

  “She is challenging.” The marquess worked over the final word as if it was a bit of tough meat and hard to chew.

  “I do enjoy a challenge.”

  Clayborne reached up to stroke his beard. “Then you’ve chosen well.”

  It should have been the end of it. The words were, Seb suspected, as much of a blessing as he was likely to get from the man. But none of it settled well with him. The marquess had changed his manner since their first meeting, and Seb feared his acting skills hadn’t convinced him. More than convincing the man, Seb wanted to tell Clayborne he’d wronged his daughter. If his own father had held such outdated views about women, what would have become of Pippa when she decided she wanted to study mathematics alongside mostly male classmates at Cambridge? What of his mother, who had begun writing letters to her member of parliament at the age of eighteen, asking the man to consider the suffrage for women?

  He’d encountered Clayborne’s sort before, and he suspected many such men were fathers of intelligent, headstrong women. The notion that Kat endured discouragement from her father made Seb respect her more.

  And respecting her more, when he was already battling an attraction that distracted and disturbed him, did not bode well for the day when their false engagement came crashing to an end.

  Chapter Twelve

  KITTY PACED THE drawing room. Too much time had passed. Her father wouldn’t deny a duke who wanted his daughter’s hand in marriage, and he certainly wouldn’t refuse the one man she’d been all but instructed to wed. But he could make the conversation miserable. He could interrogate and scrutinize until a man—­or a daughter—­wished to crawl out of their own skin just to get away.

  What would utter shock look like on Desmond Adderly’s face? Papa was used to reading every situation so well that virtually nothing came as a surprise. He was an undefeated chess master who could predict his opponents’ next three moves.

  But he’d be well and truly stunned when he heard she’d finally accepted a suitor’s proposal. And that might be the sticking point. He wouldn’t expect her to accept Wrexford. Perhaps he’d given up hope that she would accept any man. She’d once declared her intention to live out her days alone. Old maid, spinster, whatever they wished to call her, it had seemed a more appealing future than being viewed as a man’s possession, his property. Any fate of her choosing held more appeal than marriage to a man she could not bear.

  At the sound of her father’s study door opening and closing, she peeked around the drawing room doorway. Sebastian exited in one piece but sighed deeply before turning and striding toward her.

  Kitty closed the door behind him, slipping the lock with a decided snick.

  “Is it prudent to close the door?”

  “I’m afraid most of our housemaids are terrible gossips, and I’ve already mentioned my sisters’ inability to keep a confidence.”

  He may have been thinking more of propriety than privacy, but Kat imagined Mama would allow her a moment
alone in an overstaffed town house with the man she planned to marry. Privacy would be essential in order to plan their strategy and maintain their secret long enough to allow Oliver and Harriet to exchange vows.

  She settled on the end of the settee and indicated the adjacent chair. He lowered himself into it but looked as uncomfortable as if she’d asked him to perch on a cushion of needles.

  “It went well?”

  He nodded sharply. “The best part is that it’s over.”

  “You make it sound like you’ve had a tooth pulled.”

  Pursing his lips as if his jaw actually did hurt, he said, “I would have preferred that, I think.”

  She wouldn’t make excuses for her father. He’d laugh at the notion of any woman defending him. Perhaps Papa didn’t think her worthy of a duke’s attentions. Perhaps he found it difficult to believe she’d finally given up her yes. Perhaps he refused to believe any man could love her for the very qualities he’d spent years trying to chastise out of her character.

  Would any man ever love her that way? This false engagement might be as close and she’d come, and it was all artifice.

  Kitty shook her head. Practical matters were far preferable to ruminating over romantic nonsense. Lifting a small journal from her skirt pocket, she slipped a finger into the spot she’d marked with a piece of ribbon and smoothed open the pages on her lap.

  “Hattie’s agreed to a simple ceremony, which should save a good deal of time. We needn’t plan for anything elaborate. Mama will protest, of course.” She reached up to tap her finger against her bottom lip.

  “Hattie’s happiness trumps a lavish display. Surely your mother will come around.”

  Kitty had never met such a practical man. His direct and decisive manner put her father’s prevaricating ways to shame. Sebastian seemed unflappable, with a sanguine confidence that everything must fall into place. In Kitty’s experience, it was better to prepare for the worst and be pleasantly surprised by good fortune.