A Scandalous Proposal

by Julia Justiss

  His eyes closed again and a sigh shook his fevered frame, as if a great weight had been lifted.

  Evan’s mother, whose presence he’d totally forgotten, startled him by coming to lean over Richard.

  “Is he…?” she whispered, her eyes wide with anxiety.

  “No! Just sleeping.”

  His mother exhaled sharply. “Thank God! I’ll fetch Andrea.”

  The three of them kept vigil through the night. Evan managed to coax Andrea into resting for a few hours on the pallet and persuaded his mother to take a bed in another chamber, but true to his pledge, he remained at his friend’s bedside. And as the first birds began to carol in the faint glimmerings of a new morning, with Andrea holding one hand and Evan the other, Richard’s soul slipped away.

  Andrea sensed it, as he did. She looked up at Evan, her expression bewildered, as if unable to comprehend such a catastrophe could actually occur. Then she laid her head on her brother’s chest and for the first time since the messenger arrived, she wept.

  As he’d promised, Evan rode back to London in the carriage beside the body of his friend, Andrea, once again stone-faced and silent, at his side. From time to time he reread a part of the letter the surgeon had given him, apparently the last Richard had written before the attack in which he was wounded.

  “Damn and blast, Ev, half the boxes in last shipment were empty when we got them! What do those halfwits in Horse Guards think we can fire at the Frogs, pebbles? If we don’t get resupplied before our next engagement I’ll be down to a handful of shot per man.”

  Evan refolded the letter and gazed unseeing out the window. The fighting had been confused, one of the other wounded men told him. As usual, the riflemen of the 95th attacked first, harrying the arriving French columns, while the infantry, Brown Besses on their shoulders, waited for the enemy to come within range. But before the distance narrowed enough for the infantry to fire, the riflemen seemed to pause. Misfires were exploding all over, the soldier told Evan, many more than normal. When unexpectedly the French column wheeled and charged into them, the riflemen’s fire nearly ceased. The French mowed through them like a scythe through tall grass.

  Had their ammunition been defective, as the misfires seemed to indicate? Had they run short? Did Richard die because some venal public servant abused his trust, selling off the powder and shot that could have saved his life and the lives of many others fallen that day?

  I will find out, Richard, Evan vowed silently. If that is what happened, I’ll find out—and the guilty will pay.

  The next two days passed in a blur. With the methodical precision for which he was justly famed, Evan notified friends and family, organized the funeral service, consulted with the solicitors and stood by a stoic Andrea as she received calls of condolence. She greeted mourners with cool calm, and only Evan knew what it cost her fragile strength to present a brave face to the world.

  Evenings he spent at the office gathering every detail he could find on the ordering and shipment of ammunition for the Baker rifle, abstracting a dossier of names and contact points. The day of Richard’s funeral he dispatched his friend and colleague Geoffrey Randall to Portugal with orders to quietly gather information about each man on that list. “No heroics, now,” he warned Geoffrey in a gruff attempt at humor. “Gather intelligence only. I can’t afford to lose another friend.”

  He had time only to send a brief message to Emily, telling her of Richard’s death and promising to call as soon as possible. He drove himself to exhaustion as much to prevent himself reflecting on the implications of his new promise to Richard as to keep at bay his trenchant grief.

  Andrea wished to leave London, so he must take her home. He could not depart without seeing Emily again, that also was absolute. Beyond those two constraints, he had neither leisure nor heart to think further.

  A drizzly rain fell the day of the funeral, for which Evan was grateful. Brilliant blue skies and sun would have grated against the raw wound of loss. The swirling, spiraling mist suited his mood and cloaked the ceremonies in proper solemn dignity. Though Clare broke down in his weeping mother’s arms, and he wiped away tears himself, Andrea endured it all dry-eyed, shoulders squared and head erect, her attention never wavering from her brother’s coffin. Among the mourners a scarlet slash of coat caught his eye, and he saw Captain Winstead beside his sister, his somber gaze fixed on Andrea.

  But when they reached the town house after the service, Andrea fell going up the stairs. As Evan rushed to assist her, the enormous weight of loss finally cracked her calm. Sagging limply in his arms, she began to weep, and no comfort or soothing could reach her. She clung to him, sobbing, as he carried her to her chamber, where he held her sobbing still until at last she subsided to hiccups. As he eased her, barely conscious, onto the pillows, his mama sent him off for food and strong drink while she and her maid stripped Andrea and put her to bed.

  Though the food was tasteless in his mouth, he appreciated the sharp, warming bite of the port. A bottle Richard had brought back on his last leave, he remembered with another raw wave of pain. An urgent, desperate desire to be with Emily swept through him, to apply the healing salve of her passion and nearness to the ragged gash Richard’s death had ripped in his life. Though he needed sleep, and a shave, he could wait no longer.

  He drained the glass and walked out. As he reached the entry to call for his coat, Lady Cheverley appeared on the landing. “Evan, my dear. Can I speak with you?”

  Much as he loved her, nearly the last thing he wished at the moment was a cozy chat with his mama.

  “Could this wait, ma’am? I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “I shall not require you for long. As you are so busy of late—” she emphasized the word “—I should very much appreciate your speaking with me immediately.”

  Inwardly gnashing his teeth, he gave her the only reply possible. “Very well. I’m at your disposal, madam.”

  “Are you?” Her face grave, she surveyed him up and down. “We shall shortly see.”

  With those unencouraging words, she beckoned him up to the sitting room.

  He strode in and hesitated before the Louis XV sofa.

  “Sit, please.” She walked to a side table where tea had been set out. “Should you like a cup?”

  “No, thank you, Mama.”

  She halted, her hands in the process of pouring a cup, then set down the pot. “Very well.” In a swish of skirts, she came to sit beside him. “I had hoped never to see the day when you were too busy to take tea with me.”

  “’Tis hardly that,” he protested, irritated. “I’ve just supped, you will remember. And I am busy, so if you could tell me what you wished to say?”

  She sighed. “I expect it’s not a good time, but of late there hasn’t been a better one. I shall just state it baldly, then, without roundaboutation. Do you intend to keep your promise to Richard regarding Andrea?”

  The question caught him off guard. “W-what?”

  “Your vow to marry her. I was present when you promised Richard, you will remember.”

  He hadn’t remembered. Not sure yet himself how he would reconcile that pledge with his need for Emily, he had no ready answer; exhausted both physically and emotionally, he was ill-equipped to reason it out on the spot. Irritation deepened to anger.

  “I shall arrange something. I’ve always told her if she found no other man to her liking, I would marry her.”

  “If she is set upon leaving London, she’s unlikely to meet anyone else. You know how she avoids society—”

  “She’ll be taken care of,” he snapped. “I should see to it even if I’d not promised Richard. Sorry, Mama, to be so abrupt, but I’m fatigued and I have pressing business. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Another moment, please!” She held out a hand to stop him as he rose from the sofa. Fuming, almost out of his skin with impatience to be off, with great reluctance he sat.

  “I know you’re tired—we’re all tired. And I hate forcing you to a ma
tter you obviously don’t wish to discuss, but ’tis important. Indeed, ’tis crucial.”

  She paused, as if gathering her thoughts. Too weary to attempt anticipating them, he gritted his teeth and waited.

  “This ‘pressing business’ that’s been so occupying you these past months…it’s a woman, isn’t it? A woman unworthy of you.”

  Totally unprepared for the attack, he found the words leaving his lips before his overwrought mind could judge their wisdom. “She is the equal of me or anyone!”

  Damn and blast, he swore under his breath. He should have ignored the statement, pleaded ignorance. Emily was the last topic he wished to discuss with his mother, even when in full possession of his wits, which he was definitely not at this moment.

  “Unworthy of you,” his mama repeated. “If she were not, you’d have brought her to me long ago.”

  He stared at her, fiercely resenting her prying, resisting her words, but unable to counter them. How could he explain to her his Emily—her courage, her endurance, her charm and fire?

  “This is none of your concern.”

  “Oh, don’t bristle up! I realize you are a man grown, with a life that does not wait upon my approval. Nor, must you admit, have I ever before questioned your…little affairs. But this is different, I can feel it. This is…serious.”

  She paused, as if waiting for him to speak. Having nothing he wished to say, he remained silent.

  Lady Cheverley sighed. “You will not make this easier, will you? I am sorry to meddle in a matter you obviously consider none of my business, but I must ask. Just what are your intentions in regard to this…lady?”

  Having no clear answer to that question himself, he held on to his rapidly fraying control with an effort. “No disrespect, Mama, but I repeat, this is not your concern.”

  “You can hardly argue that the welfare of our family and your sister’s future are no concern of mine.”

  He stiffened. “And you, madam, can hardly believe I do not keep a watchful eye over both.”

  “Do you, Evan? Have you, these last three months? Tell me, this lady whom you so admire—would she be deemed your equal in the eyes of the world?”

  “The world is a shallow and cynical place, Mama. In any arena that judges true merit she would.”

  His mother sighed deeply. “Oh my son, I wish we lived in such a place. But we must deal with the world as we find it. Can you be considering—marriage?”

  When he made no immediate denial, she drew in her breath sharply, her eyes widening in alarm. “Then it is more serious even than I feared. Oh, my dear son!” She leaned over and imprisoned his hands between her own. “Can you not see what effect such a dreadful misalliance would have on your family? On Andrea? On your innocent sister?”

  “Mother, I think this has gone far enough—”

  “You must listen! You will listen!” She hung on to his hands as he attempted to pull away, waiting until, anger raging so fiercely he could barely prevent himself from jerking free and stomping out, he at last reluctantly met her gaze.

  “Speak your piece, then, and have done with it.”

  “Andrea would make you an unexceptional wife, though I am not set on her, should you prefer another of your own rank and station. Despite her limp and lack of fortune, I feel sure we could fulfill your pledge to Richard by contriving another suitable match. But if you were to disgrace the family with a misalliance such as you seem to be contemplating? Oh, Evan! For myself, I care nothing. But what of Andrea and Clare—what would happen to their prospects were you to make us outcasts from polite society?”

  He tugged at the hand she still held, struggling to contain his fury. “I believe I know enough what is due my name not to make a misalliance. Nor do I see at present any need to marry at all. I’m hardly in my dotage, Madame.”

  “Let’s suppose, then, that you maintain an informal but long-term…alliance with this lady. What if there should be a child?”

  He felt a flush hotter than anger stain his cheeks. “How irresponsible do you think me?”

  “Oh, Evan, no protective measures are completely effective! Just consider—should your…precautions fail, could you stand aside and see your babe by a woman for whom you obviously care deeply born out of wedlock? Can you swear to uphold your duty to the family even then?”

  For the first time he thought of Emily bearing a child. A child to displace her fixation on the soldier, his child of her body, the body he worshipped every night they lay together. His son.

  And realized with unshakable certainty he could never give up such a child, never allow him to be born a bastard.

  The conviction must have been written on his face, for his mother shook her head silently. “You see how it would be. Oh, my darling, I am sorry it will cause you pain, but you must break with her. You must! Now, Evan, before something…irreversible happens.”

  That she was correct, that she was forcing him to face the full implications of an undeniable, unpalatable truth he’d never before considered, made his guts churn with impotent fury. Break with Emily? The very notion sent a lance of agony to the core of him.

  First Richard, now Emily? One could lose only so much of one’s self and go on. Writhing inwardly, he tried to twist out of the dilemma.

  “Have I not always done what is necessary?”

  “Then you must break with her and form an attachment elsewhere—with Andrea or another, it matters not as long as she’s suitable. Only a formal betrothal will prevent your resuming…inappropriate bonds. My darling, I know this is the worst possible time, with us all still in agony over Richard, but later you’ll be grateful you took the proper course.” Her eyes pleading, she squeezed his hands.

  Hardly able to bear her touch for the rage churning in him, he jerked away. Speaking softly, lest the howling beast within break free to rant at her, he said, “Dare you presume to instruct me in my duty?”

  She flinched at the harshness of his tone, tears starting at the corners of her eyes, lips trembling. But she held his gaze, implacable.

  “If you know your duty, then do it.”

  With a growl he flung himself to his feet. “Very well. If I must marry someone suitable,” he snapped, giving the word savage emphasis, “then it might as well be Andrea. I’ll propose as soon as she’s recovered enough to hear me. You shall have your socially approved wedding. But ask me nothing more.”

  She grabbed at his arm. “Dearest, I didn’t mean—”

  “Unhand me!” he barked, ripping his sleeve free.

  Weeping openly now, fingers to her mouth, his mother nodded. Without a backward glance he stalked out.

  Chapter Ten

  Despite his bone-deep weariness, instead of riding or summoning a hackney Evan set out for Emily’s town house on foot. He needed time to sort out his ragged emotions and decide what to do.

  A few blocks of pacing were enough to convince him, much as he frantically tried to devise some rational alternative, that his mother was indeed right.

  He couldn’t marry Emily. Doing so would irreparably damage his sister, for no family of stature would wish to align itself with one so lost to what was due its name and lineage. Andrea would likely not marry, either, unless he wed her. There was no other way to preserve honor, to honor his vow. Ah, Richard, he thought, bleeding inwardly, how could you ask this of me?

  How could he wed Andrea and not lose Emily?

  They could remain friends, could they not? He could stop by, consult with her, share hopes and plans….

  It wouldn’t be the same. He would no longer be free. And their time, their precious time together would be even more restricted than it had been since Andrea’s arrival.

  Marrying Andrea was the right, the only honorable course. Since there was no acceptable alternative, he would do so. Why, then, did it all feel so wrong?

  Once he did his duty, he would be more at ease, lose this sense of impending catastrophe. Andrea would make it easier—they had always been friends. That in his current fram
e of mind he had to struggle not to view even the innocent Andrea with distaste he would not dwell on. He pushed the whole detestable vision of a forced marriage from his mind.

  For the short, sweet infinity of the next few days, until Andrea recovered enough to entertain his proposal, their relationship could continue as it was. He could watch Emily at tea, curving her little finger over her cup as always; tease her into that throaty gurgle of a laugh; fence with her sharp wit; cherish the touch of her hands and lips, the deep satisfaction of their intimate joining.

  Before he lost the privilege forever. That stark realization sucked the breath from his lungs.

  It was unthinkable. It was inescapable.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, marshaling the remains of his waning strength. Extinguishing further thought of so unspeakable a future, he forced his weary mind to a scarcely more palatable problem.

  How was he going to break the news to Emily?

  He toyed with the notion of delaying the announcement. After all, as Andrea was prostrate with grief, he could hardly rush her with a proposal for several days at least. That she would accept his proposal was nearly certain, he knew, swiftly extinguishing a flare of hope.

  Could he not savor these last few days with Emily?

  It would be unfair to conceal his imminent change of status, he concluded reluctantly. Emily had the right to know, to prepare herself—and to help him think of a way to salvage as much as possible of their life together.

  That last thought was the only faint glimmer of hope he could glean out of this whole dreadful business.

  He halted before her door, awash in yearning for what could never be. Then, chastising himself not to waste another second, he mounted the steps.

  As he’d never mentioned Andrea, the news he would shortly deliver must come as a shock. Would Emily greet it with tears, pleas that he not marry another, vows of devotion? Or the cool pronouncement that to all things there is a season?

  Raising his hand to knock, he took a deep breath. One way or another, he was about to find out.