A Scandalous Proposal

by Julia Justiss

  Well, she’d simply have to retrench. She’d not survived long bitter months in that Portuguese village watching Andrew die by inches, then a year of painting aristocratic portraits across the length and breadth of Spain, only to succumb to despair a few bare months after returning to England.

  Somehow they would earn enough to pay Drew’s tutor and save for his eventual tuition at school. Drew, the best and most beautiful reminder of her life with Andrew. The image of her son’s face, mischievous light glowing in green eyes so like his papa’s, warmed her troubled heart and sent the gray tide of grief and worry receding. A bittersweet backwash of longing followed.

  With resignation she quelled it. Having him here with her was impossible, she knew. An aristocrat’s son who would one day return to an aristocrat’s life could not live over a shop. Reminding herself of that fact each Sunday as she left after a too-brief visit at the genteel home of his tutor, Father Edmund, did little to ease the ache of loss.

  Best, she told herself briskly, that she cast off maudlin thoughts and concentrate on her task: ensuring their survival, stockpiling funds and keeping Drew hidden from the threat that would rip from her even those precious few hours with him.

  The tinkling of the entry bell interrupted her. Though she’d neglected to bolt the door, ’twas past regular business hours, and she wondered which tardy customer was paying her a visit. Hopefully one with pockets full of sovereigns, she thought as she summoned a welcoming smile.

  Before she could exit her office, a burly figure entered. Her smile faded.

  “Mr. Harding,” she said in a chilly voice. “Your employer requires something? The next rent payment isn’t due for a sennight.”

  “’Afternoon, ma’am.” Short, stocky, with hulking shoulders and a barrel chest, Josh Harding ambled toward her. She stepped away from his advance across her cramped office, until he had her backed up against her desk.

  His insolent leer as he deliberately looked her up and down made her fingers itch to slap his face. “No, it ain’t rent time, but being a business lady—” he gave the word scornful emphasis “—ya musta’ learnt there’s other expenses to keepin’ a shop healthy. Like makin’ sure ya gets protected from the raff ’n scaff what might try to rob honest folk.”

  Emily thought of the cash bag on the desk behind her. “Indeed? I was assured ’twas a fine neighborhood. The high rent certainly supports that conclusion. Did your employer dissemble when he assured me ’twas so?”

  Mr. Harding grinned, showing a gap between uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. “Even in fine neighborhoods, ya needs protection. My boss means to see ya gets it—for a small fee, a’ course. He figures annuder ten pounds a month should do the trick.”

  “Ten pounds a—!” Emily gasped. “’Tis preposterous! Rather than pay such a price, if protection is truly needed, I shall unearth my late husband’s pistol and provide it myself! Thank your employer for his kind offer, but I couldn’t possibly afford it.”

  “Mayhap ya can’t afford to be without.” Harding stepped to her worktable, reaching out to stroke the satin and velvet of an incomplete hat. She bit back the command that he keep his grimy hands off it.

  “Things…happen sometimes, to them what don’t get protection,” he was saying. “Didya hear about that dress shop over on Fiddler’s Way? Burnt to the ground last week. Lost ever’thin, poor wench what owned it. Thought protection come at too dear a price, she did. Deal of a lot cheaper than starting over, though, I ’spect.”

  Emily stiffened. “I believe what you’re suggesting is called extortion.”

  Mr. Harding shrugged. “Never much on book learnin’.” He stared directly into her eyes. “Best remember that dress shop, little lady.”

  Emily pressed her lips together. She could barely meet her expenses now—raising another ten pounds a month would be impossible. Besides, this was clearly illegal. How dare this bully try to intimidate her?

  She straightened and turned to Mr. Harding. He lounged against the table, watching her, the trace of a mocking smile on his full lips. She felt anger flush her cheeks.

  “Tell your master I cannot avail myself of his—protection. Advise him also that such threats are illegal, and I shall go to the authorities should he persist.”

  To her fury, Harding’s grin widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t advise ya t’do that, ma’am. Knows a powerful lot a’ folk, does Mr. Harrington. How ya think he got to buy up so many lots hereabouts where all the nobs spends their blunt?”

  His small eyes beginning to shine, he approached her again. “Now, ya needn’t fret, little lady. For special cases like yourn, old Josh here’s got another answer. Be nice to me, an’ we can talk about that ten pounds a month.”

  Licking his lips, he seized her with one beefy arm. Foul panting breath descended toward her.

  Bracing herself against the desk, she thrust him back. “Take your hands off me, Mr. Harding. Go peddle your threats amongst the streetwalkers of Covent Garden.”

  He held on, his look turning ugly. “Think yerself too good for the likes a’ Josh Harding? Fancy one of them fine gentlemen as is always sniffing ’round yer skirts? Well, I been watchin’, an’ ain’t none of ’em stayed ’round to keep ya company. Nor will any, once they cast their peepers on this.” He showed her the bunched fist of his free hand. “So ya best be nicer, little lady.”

  He yanked her roughly against him and plastered his heavy wet mouth on hers. His tongue probed her firmly closed lips and one hand fumbled at her breast, fingers groping the nipple.

  Outraged, she shoved at him with all her might, managing to push him back enough to prepare a stinging slap.

  He caught her hand and held her motionless. His eyes gleamed brighter, his breathing quickened and he laughed, the sound low in his throat like a growl. “Sweetheart, ya don’t even know how.” Before she could think to struggle, with one burly fist he backhanded her across the mouth.

  The blow spun her into the desk, smashing her hip against its oaken surface. A hot trickle dripped from her stinging lip. Frightened but furious, she groped with trembling hands for some sort of weapon. Seizing the heavy glass inkwell, she moved it behind her and straightened to face Harding.

  Utterly nonchalant, he was walking away. After two steps, he paused to make her an exaggerated bow. “Ya think about them offers. Both of ’em. ’Cause I can promise ya, little lady, yer problems is just beginnin’.”

  A man strode in, then halted. “Madame Emilie?”

  Hand clenched on her weapon, she whirled toward the door. In that first instant she saw not one of Harding’s cohorts, but a figure whose fashionable attire proclaimed him a gentleman even as her mind registered the cultured tone of his speech. In the next moment, she recognized Lady Cheverley’s son. Relief coursed through her.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t realize you had a customer,” he said, his dubious gaze fixed on Mr. Harding.

  Averting the injured side of her face, she released the inkwell and tried to gather her composure. “N-not at all, Lord Cheverley. The man was just leaving.”

  After subjecting the nobleman to a careful inspection, during which he must have noted his superior height and obvious strength, Harding defiantly curled one hand into a fist. “When I gets ready, little lady. When I gets ready.”

  Cheverley glanced coldly from Harding’s hand to the man’s swarthy face. “I believe the lady asked you to depart. Immediately.”

  For a moment, the two men’s gazes locked. Then Harding shrugged, letting his fingers fall open. “Makes no matter. Just remember, when all the fancy toffs be gone, Josh Harding’ll be here.” He sauntered to the doorway and tipped his hat mockingly. “Ya got my word on it, little lady.”

  “Was the ruffian disturbing you?” Lord Cheverley walked toward her as the shop door closed behind Harding. Two paces away, he must have caught sight of her bleeding lip, for he stopped short. “That villain struck you? By God, I’ll cut him down!” He spun on his heel.

  Emily grabbed his sleeve. “Pleas
e, my lord, ’tis not your concern. Let him go.”

  Lord Cheverley paused. Emily could feel the tension in the coiled muscles beneath her fingers. The scent of shaving soap and warm male filled her nostrils. She had a sudden, dizzying perception of the leashed power within the body towering over her, and for an instant she felt almost—safe. Like with Andrew.

  Bitter memory flooded her, and her grip on his sleeve slackened. Giving her head a shake, she pushed the surging emotions back and fumbled for some rational comment. “Y-you wished something else? Did the bonnet not suit?”

  “You must allow me to pursue him!” Cheverley pulled away from her hand. “I cannot permit the blackguard to get away with such an insult.”

  “He was only delivering a message—rather crudely, I admit—from his employer. But my trivial affairs cannot concern you. With what can I assist you, my lord?”

  “Should I not rather ask you that?”

  Emily opened her lips to explain, then closed them. She had carried her own burdens for so long, ’twas vastly tempting to pour out her troubles to this seemingly strong, intelligent and interested stranger. But he is a stranger, she reminded herself. He is not Andrew.

  “Is the man’s employer threatening you over some matter of business?”

  Emily hesitated. The Earl of Cheverley could have no real interest in her…except, she thought, as she remembered the blatant admiration on his face earlier, of the same sort Harding had so crudely expressed. She pushed the degrading notion aside. Then again, his lordship might well serve as magistrate for his county. Perhaps she might chance requesting legal advice. She looked up to find him smiling.

  “Come, after so distressing an encounter, you must sit.” Tentatively, he took her arm. With a sigh she let him lead her to the chair.

  “Now, please allow me to help.” There being no other perch in the tiny office, he indicated a cleared space on the desktop. “May I?”

  At his continued solicitude, her scruples collapsed. Nodding acquiescence, she let him seat himself, and briefly recited the facts of her encounter with Mr. Harding.

  “I cannot be sure he really spoke for his employer. It could be that he works this game on his own, to augment his income, and Mr. Harrington would be shocked and disapproving should I inform him of it.”

  “Perhaps.” Lord Cheverley frowned thoughtfully. “He’d probably express outrage in any event. But if this Harrington is indeed in collusion, confronting him might bring down immediate harm of the sort you’ve just suffered. You must not risk that.”

  “I shall have to risk it. I cannot pay, and I certainly don’t wish to—well, I shall have to settle it sometime. Better sooner than later.”

  “Have you no family, preferably broad of muscle and deep of pocket, to take care of this matter?”

  In her rattled state, that simple question shredded the ragged bonds restraining memory. A tide of hurt, betrayal, pain and grief flooded forth. She struggled to stem it, for a moment unable to utter a word. Despite her efforts, one tear escaped. “No one,” she managed to whisper.

  “Dear lady, you mustn’t distress yourself!” Cheverley leaned forward, his forehead puckered in concern. “I shall look into this personally. My solicitor will check out the gentlemen, and I’ll have him round up some off-duty runners to keep an eye on your shop. I doubt that ham-fisted coward would dare make a move if he sees able-bodied men on guard.”

  When she started to protest, he waved her to silence. “No disagreement. We cannot have brigands going about menacing honest citizens. Besides, my mother would insist, for she holds you in the highest regard. As do I.”

  “But you barely know me.”

  “Everything I needed to know, I learned the moment I looked into your eyes.”

  His low voice vibrated with emotion. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she turned away. “Don’t misunderstand, I don’t wish to appear ungrateful, but I…” She flushed. “I simply cannot afford to pay your solicitor, much less hire runners. As Mr. Harding well knows.”

  Cheverley made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t trouble yourself. I shall take care of it.”

  “Oh, but you don’t understand!” Humiliation deepening, she forced herself to add, “I’m afraid the profits of shopkeeping are vastly overrated.” She managed a weak smile. “I cannot even predict when I should have sufficient funds to repay you.”

  He smiled back. He had, she noted despite her distress, a singularly engaging smile that dimpled the skin beside the lean mouth and brought that devilish sparkle to his deep blue eyes. “Ridding the streets of such vermin constitutes something of a civic duty. And, as you doubtless know, I’m a wealthy man. Think no more of it.”

  “But I could not be under such an obligation—”

  “Please.” He put one finger to her bleeding lip. “I should consider protecting you a very great honor.”

  She ought to protest further, but his touch seemed to tangle her already tattered thoughts. As she sat speechless, he slowly traced his gloved finger around the circumference of her swollen lip.

  The soft brush of chamois against her stinging skin mesmerized her, sent little ripples of sensation throughout her body. Her startled gaze flew to his.

  His finger stopped its tracery. He drew in a sharp breath and met her eyes with a glance so intense she felt herself drawn almost physically closer. The steady pulse of his warm finger quivered against her lip.

  When at last he removed his hand, the only thing she could think to stutter was, “Y-you have soiled your glove.”

  Cheverley looked at the bloodstain on the fawn surface. He raised his finger and kissed the spot. “I shall treasure it. Don’t worry, Madame, that villain will trouble you no more. You have my word on it.”

  Evan whistled as he walked back down the street, a bounce in his step. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils still filled with the enchanting scent of lavender, his senses still heightened by the heady euphoria of holding that slender arm, touching those delicate lips.

  He’d roust his solicitor from the tea table and ensure the runners were dispatched immediately. The mere thought of that slimy little villain putting his foul hand on Madame Emilie’s perfect face sent a blistering rage through him. He would check back personally to make sure guards were posted this very day.

  But he shouldn’t be too angry at the fellow who had provided him such a perfect opportunity to act the rescuer, he reminded himself as the rage cooled. Surely the divine Madame would look kindly on him for intervening. Be she ever so virtuous, surely she could imagine a way to repay his concern, one that might be immensely gratifying to them both.

  Not that he would so much as hint such a thing. Indeed, doing so would relegate him to the same crass category as the unspeakable Mr. Harding. The Earl of Cheverley normally had only to express interest, and the chosen lady hurried to do his bidding. The impossibly beautiful Madame, however, seemed reluctant to accept even protective assistance from him, despite the real danger in which she stood.

  Vividly he recalled that sizzling glance, her smoldering touch. She was aloof, and yet undeniably responsive.

  Winning her would not be easy, he recognized, his instincts piqued by the challenge. Once she was won, however, he could imagine no more enjoyable a task than lifting every burden from her slim shoulders and sheltering that exquisite body close.

  A discreet little house in Mayfair, perhaps? With furnishings in the first stare of elegance, a loyal staff, gowns, jewels, carriages, whatever she wished. He would move heaven and earth to grant her every whim. He imagined dressing her in amethysts and deep plum satin to match those incredible eyes. Imagined even more vividly undressing her….

  Excitement tingled in his veins, and something else tingled lower. Not for months had he felt so alive, so buoyed with anticipation.

  He would ensure her safety, of course, whether she smiled on him now or not. But sooner or later, he vowed, she would.

  Chapter Two

  Emily saw the man immediately after she u
nbolted the shop door the next morning. As she stared through the fog-wisped air, shocked into immobility, the burly figure lounging in a doorway opposite snapped to attention and gave her a jaunty wave. The bright red waistcoat under his buff frieze jacket proclaimed him a runner, apparently detailed, as Lord Cheverley had promised, to protect her.

  Her immediate rush of relief was succeeded by a worry that gnawed at her all morning as she fashioned her bonnets and waited on customers. His lordship was obviously a man of his word. Could he, as he claimed, construe it his public duty to ensure private citizens such as herself were not molested in their homes and businesses? And the wages of the watchman now loitering on the street outside—did she truly, as he insisted, have no need to concern herself over the matter?

  Her thoughts went round and round, but always returned to the same point. Despite his lordship’s promises, she could not deem it prudent to permit him to fund her protection.

  For one thing, the very thought of accepting so great a boon from one entirely unrelated grated against every principle upon which she’d been raised. More ominously, as bitter experience had taught her twice over, rich and influential men like my lord of Cheverley did nothing without calculation. Debts owed would be called in sooner or later, generally when most advantageous to the lender. Worse yet, she thought with more than a touch of annoyance, the earl’s immediate, high-handed action—taken without any consultation as to her preferences—had stuck a spoke in the wheel of Josh Harding’s game, a curb that villain was unlikely to forgive or forget.

  She recalled the strength of the bully’s rough hands jerking her close, the stench of his wet tongue assaulting her mouth. An involuntary shiver skittered down her spine. She had few illusions as to what sort of vengeance he would choose if he could get her once more in his power.