Lord Stanhope's Improper Proposal

by Cerise DeLand

  But he said, “About what?”

  “I am Miss Proper.” She inclined her head toward the broadsheet. “I am the author of those columns. I took money from Drayton Howell, and in return, I was to write libelous pieces about you.”

  Her forthrightness assuaged much of his bitterness. He inhaled.

  She seemed to sway backward as if she thought he meant to strike her for her admission.

  He was appalled that she would have been so mistreated by others. Or that she would think such punishment suitable to her error in judgment.

  At once, he put on a face of reason and calm as he asked her, “When did you begin this?”

  Confused at his reaction, she went on. “Weeks before we married. Drayton came to me when he heard the rumor that you would come down and propose to me. I, of course, knew nothing of your intentions. But when he came, he did so asserting that Wallace owed him money.

  From losses at dicing and cards.”

  “Did you ask for an accounting?”

  “An accounting? No, no. I had no need. I knew Wallace’s penchant for gambling. We pinched pennies because of his ridiculous addiction to it. Howell’s statement seemed sound.”

  “And did you agree that the stories would be aimed at me, about me and mine?”

  “No, of course not. I simply agreed to write a series for him that would rival the other broadsheets for their scandalous stories. I had no idea he meant to rake you over the coals. But nonetheless, it happened.”

  “How did he do it?”

  “He told his typesetter to change the names of the characters. Once he started, he could continue to become bolder. And he did.”

  “And this typesetter of his agreed to this?”

  “Oh, yes. What’s a man to do when his family depends on his income to eat and pay the lodgings?” She shivered, rubbing her arms.

  “You should stand before the fire. Change your clothes and get warm.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am leaving, Adam. I have no excuses to give you for my behavior. I have no means to apologize other than my frail words. No way to ameliorate my sins against you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Howell?” he blurted, done with beating about the bush for an answer to this mystery. “Why not just tell me?”

  “I saw no way out. I saw Howell milking me forever!”

  “Could he do that?”

  “Why not? He could say I was willing participant. That I was the gambler, not Wallace.

  He even threatened to say Wallace had a child by a prostitute in the Seven Dials. That I was with child, and that’s why you married me so quickly. There was no end to what he would print in that rag of his!” She retreated backward to the fire. Shaking with fury and sorrow, she let in to the tears that racked her. “I wanted to show you that the curse was a myth, a fable, and all I did was show you how real it is!”

  She whirled toward her dressing room.

  He caught her before she made it to the door. “Don’t cry.”

  She turned up a face so ravaged by sorrow, his heart fell to his toes.

  He cupped her cheek and brushed a stream of tears away with his thumb.

  “Adam, I have ruined you. I want to go.”

  “Fee,” he declared, “come sit with me and talk.”

  “No! I can hardly bear to—”

  “Look at me! I did not resign!”

  Her lashes fluttered. She shook her head. “What? Why not?”

  “Ulmsly retracted the request. Most unnecessary, he called it, in light of developments.”

  “I am confused. What developments?”

  “Come sit with me and I will tell you.” He took her hand and led her back to the chair he had left. Though she was reluctant to sit on his lap, he tugged her down. “There. Now. I went to see a few people today.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I want to hear about Ulmsly.”

  “So you shall.” He pushed a wisp of her hair from her eyes. “Have I told you lately how I adore your eyes? They are brilliant as pure gold, you know.”

  “Adam,” she beseeched him as her lips quivered. “Do not praise me, please.”

  “But you are my wife,” he affirmed.

  “Not for long. You cannot want me now, not after today and this.” She put a hand to the Tell-Tale, while the other swiped at a stream of tears on her cheek.

  “And if I do?” he ran his hand up her throat to cup her nape.

  “I’ll say you’re mad.”

  He put his mouth to the hollow behind her ear and whispered, “Such madness is proof of a man who adores his wife.”

  “You mustn’t,” she rasped, her eyes closing as he wrapped her closer and kissed her cheek and her luscious, trembling lips.

  “But I do love you, Fee.” He blessed her mouth with a light stroke of possession. “I think I have loved you for years, darling, and only just have come to my senses.”

  She struggled up from his grasp. “You cannot! The curse!” She waved her arms about.

  “Dear god, the curse has worked its will, and I have been its instrument!”

  He sprang to his feet. She retreated, and he stalked her. “I would rather love you than not.

  Live with you than without you. To hell with the curse!”

  “How can you say that?” she sobbed.

  “Because I forgive you.”

  “Oh, you are mad.”

  “For you, yes. Don’t you see,” he said as he proceeded to follow her as she backed into her dressing room, “none of this was really your fault?”

  She blinked. “I take responsibility.”

  “And for that, my darling, I am proud of you. But you must not take more than your due.”

  She stood now within the voluminous froth of her many gowns. Enfolded as she was in the colors of the rainbow, he had to grin at her.

  “You are a rare jewel, Felice Stanhope. Stunning and inventive, wise and dear. I am a very fortunate man to be your husband.”

  “I think you are foxed. Or someone has hit you on the head.”

  “You do not know what is in that issue of the Tell-Tale, do you?”

  She gritted her teeth. “I do. I certainly do. I saw Howell order his man to set the type.”

  “All of it?”

  She rolled a shoulder. “What does it matter? All, some, none?”

  “No matter. I know the answer to that question.”

  “You do?”

  He took her hand. “Come with me, and I will show you.”

  “How do you know the answer?” she asked, skepticism written on her features as he led her back toward his bedroom.

  When he sat her on the edge of their bed, he handed her the broadsheet. “Jack picked up this copy of the Tell-Tale on the street this afternoon soon after he and I left Aunt Amaryllis. She had a few revealing facts to tell me. All of which you might have told me. Should have. But I am to blame here. I scared you half to death, being so damned focused on warding off the curse.

  Christ. I asked you to be honest with me then acted like a child afraid of ghosts.”

  Felice stared at him.

  “I know. Hard to imagine I am a man of reason, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Read your column.”

  Her eyes took in the words with growing surprise and increasing haste.

  “The episodes here printed have been lies, fabrications…”

  “…Outlined by Miss Proper, true. But edited by the publisher of this paper…”

  “The malicious intent of the publisher to ruin the life and reputation of the Honorable Lord Adam Stanhope, M.P., is one I shall attest to here and in a court of law.

  Affirmed this twentieth day of June, 1809. William Bundy, typesetter. Formerly of Howell Publishing.”

  She let the paper drop to her lap. “I cannot believe it.” She skimmed the piece once more.

  “How did this happen?”

  “That Howell allowed that to be printed?”


  “Yes! My god, Adam, yes, how?” She gaped at him, her eyes dancing over his features with delight, alarm and curiosity.

  “Your man Bill Bundy tells me he is very grateful to you for freeing him of the yoke of Drayton Howell.”

  “You spoke with Bill?”

  “I did. Jack and I found him at work, cleaning his type and his presses right after we bought this. Howell had left for the evening after reading of Ulmsly’s demand for my resignation.

  Bill told Jack and me how Howell abused your words, changed them, forced Bill to edit them and made Miss Proper into a waspish witch out to destroy me.”

  “And Bill composed this himself?”

  “He did.” Adam thrilled to the look of excitement on her face.

  “Wrote it and typeset it to expose Howell in his own broadsheet?” she blurted. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “Bill Bundy is most grateful for you securing the job for him at Collins’s. He starts tomorrow. He could not see you suffer any longer under Howell’s yoke. Just as you could not see him suffer any longer with Howell.”

  “My heavens! I meant to cripple Howell, put him out of business if I could by taking Bill from him. I knew Bill yearned for his freedom from the blackguard. He could not bear what he was forced to print. By contrast, my father was such an honorable man.”

  “So is his daughter,” Adam whispered and lifted her chin to kiss her lips.

  “But Ulmsly urged you to resign! How did you refuse him?”

  “I showed him this issue of the Tell-Tale and told him the story. I took Bill Bundy with me, too. Afterward, Ulmsly and I called upon Paul Crammer who told us of his proof that Howell was holding goods in his storehouses to drive up the price of goods for the Army in the Peninsula. With all that, there was no reason to ask me to resign. My reputation was restored. Or it will be, when Ulmsly himself addresses the Commons tomorrow and puts the doings on the record.”

  She recovered herself after few minutes. “I think this is an ending fit for a good novelist.”

  He drew her close. The urge to comfort her and keep her was a steady wave of desire in his blood. “I want our happy ending.”

  “You could want me?” she asked him, stunned.

  “Want you always,” he told her as he kissed his way down her throat.

  “You could forgive me?”

  “Forgive you this and more,” he affirmed as he began to undo the buttons at her bodice. “Is that not what good marriages are made of?”

  “And the curse?” she asked him as her gown dropped to the floor and Adam lifted her petticoats then drew them over her head.

  “That old fable?” he asked her as he cupped her breasts and kissed each gossamer nipple.

  “What power can it have over commitment and true love?”

  About the Author

  Cerise DeLand believes great romances match feisty women with one—or more—men who cannot live without them. And Cerise knows men—all types of them from living in Italy, England, Japan, New York, Washington—and wild west Texas! She blends that intimate knowledge with a passion for European and Chinese art and travel to delightful lands she loves to write about.

  An award-winning author, Cerise has also penned 18 print romances and mysteries (under another name), many of which have been selections of The Doubleday Book Club and The Mystery Guild. And what does this prolific author do when she’s not writing? Ah. She is an excellent cook. To taste and prepare a few of her delicacies, do come to her blog, especially on Thursdays for her Afternoon Delights, elegant simple refreshments to serve after your rendezvous! http://cerisedeland.blogspot.com

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten