An Infamous Proposal

by Joan Smith

  Nick gave a bah of disgust.

  “Don’t flatter yourself it’s you she has in her eye. She is in love with Nick,” Emma said. “She asked me a dozen questions about you this afternoon, Nick. The sort of subtle questions a lady asks when she’s interested, but doesn’t want to reveal it. She supposed your family must be eager to see you settled, and wondered about when you might be likely to oblige them, and that sort of thing.”

  “A fellow could do worse,” James advised his cousin. “For a wife, I mean. Well to grass and not pretty enough to cause any scandal. Once she was settled in at Waterdown with a parcel of brats, you could enjoy your flirts during the Season in London.”

  Emma listened and began to think James was not at all the sort of husband she wanted. Nick glanced at Emma and saw the disenchantment on her lively face.

  “Very edifying, James,” he said.

  James looked aghast. “I didn’t mean that was the way I would carry on! Good God! I only meant—As if Emma would be content to sit at home. Naturally you shall come with me to London every Season. I shall insist on it, my pet.”

  “Will you, Master Jackanapes? I doubt very much you will ever be in a position to insist upon anything, where I am concerned.” She rose and flounced from the room.

  “What a gauche thing for me to say,” James exclaimed, crestfallen. “And just when things were going so well. I shall rush off and re-enchant her.”

  Nick sat on alone a few moments, pondering the muddle of romance. Then he recalled that he was to have the next set with Emma and went chasing after her. He found her in the ballroom, sitting in a corner, looking sullen. He joined her.

  “Sit down. I’m hiding from James,” she said. “I’ve come to a decision. Nick.”

  His heart clenched like a fist. Following her gaze, he noticed it was Sanichton she was looking at. She had decided to accept him, then. “I see,” he replied, in a tolerably calm voice, considering the state of his emotions.

  “Yes. I shall definitely not accept James. His character is too unsteady. He’s a lecher, and he has no notion of giving up his ways after marriage. No one is perfect, of course. One must choose the lesser imperfection. I should prefer Sanichton’s prudishness—and it will be easier to change,” she added.

  “So you have decided to accept Sanichton?”

  “I didn’t say that! I said I shall definitely not accept James. I shall tell him so when we get home. It is only fair.”

  “Fair—but is it wise, when he’s already arranged his Ares costume to match your Aphrodite?”

  “You’re afraid he’ll make a scene?”

  “I’m afraid he’ll use the excuse of a broken heart to fall into some wretched hobble, while he is under my roof.”

  “He’s already been carrying on with a light-skirt and had his eyes darkened by her husband. What worse can he do?”

  “That is what I don’t care to find out.”

  “I’ll be gentle with him. He doesn’t really love me, you know. He merely likes the idea of a lady who isn’t terribly ugly or ill-natured and has a fortune besides.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Hansard asked, in a rhetorical spirit.

  “I can think of one gent who didn’t,” she said, with a pert, meaningful smile. Then she rose and took his arm to join a set on the dance floor.

  As they drove home after the party, Emma wondered what it was in her that Nick disliked. Her head reeled with compliments from the other gentlemen she had stood up with. Derek, James, and Sanichton had been smitten from first glance. She knew her fortune and estate were a part of her charm, but the estate should be of particular interest to Nick, as it marched with his own acres.

  The feeling was growing in her that no other gentleman would suit her so well as Nick. He was good and kind and honorable without being strait-laced. She could talk to him freely without fearing he would either try to seduce her or read her a lecture.

  When she had proposed to him, she hadn’t felt this way at all. She hadn’t really cared what he thought of her then. He simply was a good parti and a good neighbor, who would have made a good-natured husband to keep Aunt Hildegarde at bay. Now she would no more propose to him than she’d go calling on the queen. She wished with all her heart that she had never made that foolish offer, for she felt that was at the root of her problem.

  And to have said to a gentleman who needed an heir that she only meant a marriage of convenience on top of all the rest—why, he must think her a complete idiot!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emma asked Hansard to leave her and James alone a moment when they reached Berkeley Square. “I want to get this over with, or I shan’t sleep all night,” she whispered.

  “I’ll be nearby, in case he turns violent.”

  Nick went to his office and waited, listening for the breaking of china and crashing of chairs that would indicate Emma had turned James off.

  James, as was only to be expected, refused to take any blame for her decision. It was the fault of that prosy old bore, Sanichton; of Hansard for having presented the fossil to Emma; of Emma herself for being so easily swayed. When Nick heard the first crash, he went darting to the saloon, afraid the crockery might have been aimed at Emma.

  “There is no need to carry on as if you were heartbroken, James,” Emma said blandly. “You’ll find another girl.” She turned to Nick. “Sorry about the vase, Nick, but it was only that ugly old blue one from the mantle.”

  “I don’t want another girl! I want you!” James cried.

  Nick picked up the shattered remains of a Chinese ginger jar and dumped them in the grate.

  “Next time you set out to con a lady, I suggest you behave yourself until you have the ring on her finger,” Emma said. “Late hours and black eyes are not attractive, James.”

  James reached for a silver candlestick. Nick removed it from his fingers as he took aim at the mirror.

  “Go out and get drunk,” Nick suggested. “It’s easier on the knickknacks. That was a valuable Chinese vase you destroyed.”

  “Papa will repay you,” James said stiffly. “And who is to repay me for my suff—agony?”

  “Rubbish. You’re enjoying yourself thoroughly,” Emma said. “The next best thing to pretending you’re in love is pretending you have a broken heart.”

  “What would you know of love?” James asked grandly. “At least the gods will be happy. Plato tells us they enjoy a good joke.” On this speech he stalked from the room.

  “Well, it’s done,” Emma said. “Sorry about the vase, Nick. I shall replace it. His juvenile behavior makes me appreciate Horatio. I really am dreadfully sorry that this occurred in your home.”

  Nick poured two glasses of wine and handed Emma one. She sat down, and he sat beside her.

  “It’s I who should be apologizing. I had no idea James was such a fool when I sicced him on you. The family manages to keep his folly under wraps. It must be a full-time career for them.”

  “It was kind of you to try to find me a husband. It’s the thought that counts. I hope you won’t think it horrid of me, Nick, but after John’s death—after the shock of it wore off, you know—I used to imagine what it would be like, being free to go about with other gentlemen. I never had any beaux at all before my marriage. I missed all that—romance,” she said, tossing her hands vaguely. “I thought it would be so lovely, but it’s really difficult. It seems everyone wants something from me. Not Sanichton! I’m not disparaging him. You asked me before if I had decided to have him, and I said I wasn’t sure. Now I’m sure. He’s the best of the lot.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Nick agreed. “But don’t you feel you’re rushing things? You ought to give yourself a Season.”

  She drew a deep sigh. “I should love it of all things, but I don’t have any relatives who could sponsor me. I’m getting rather old to try to masquerade myself as a deb, and besides, Papa would never sit still for it.”

  “I daresay Aunt Gertrude would act as your sponsor, now that she’s g
ot her own daughter launched. You’re a little older than the debs, but hardly hagged,” he said, studying her youthful face. He read the yearning in her eyes and the softly curving lips, drawn into a half smile.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “Papa would be on the doorstep within twenty-four hours if he ever heard of such a thing. And there would be no keeping it secret. The papers publish lists of the ladies being presented. Aunt Hildegarde simply devours all the court news. Papa thinks London quite wicked, you must know. Besides, I’m too provincial. I always say the wrong thing and do the wrong thing. With Sanichton and Lady Margaret to watch out for me, I shall do better.”

  Nick thought a lady about to accept an offer should look happier. Emma wore a sad, resigned face, like a child on her birthday who’d been expecting a bright, new doll and had to settle for a pair of stockings. He felt an odd twisting in his chest that he ascribed to pity. He was quite sure of one thing. Emma didn’t love Sanichton. She was just determined to marry. He felt sorry for her, and frustrated. It seemed hard that a young lady couldn’t have even one real romance in her life. Emma might be a hoyden, but there was no vice in her. He had misjudged her.

  Before he could reply, Emma said, “It’s strange James hasn’t left. I didn’t hear the door slam, did you?”

  “He went abovestairs.”

  “I wonder what he’s up to.”

  Nick felt a frisson of alarm himself. “I’ll find out,” he said, and went darting upstairs. He returned in a few minutes. “He’s gone to bed,” he said.

  “That’s odd.”

  “He asked the butler for a sleeping draft.”

  “Good God! He’s letting on he’s committing suicide. He might take the wrong dose and kill himself.”

  “Simms gave him only a small dose, so we needn’t fear he’ll lumber us with a corpse.”

  “Then I suppose we might as well retire, too.” Nick rose and gave her his hand to help her up. “Once again, I apologize, and thank you for all your help, Nick.”

  On an impulse she reached up and placed a light kiss on his cheek. The brush of her velvet-soft lips against his cheek set off a buzzing in his ears. A warmth grew within him, softening his insides until he felt weak. The delicate scent of a flowery perfume wafted over him—feminine, alluring. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. A warm kiss brushed her hand.

  “Good night, Emma,” he said softly. He watched as she walked away, with a gentle swaying of her hips. She wore her hair up that evening. Tendrils of raven curls had escaped to nestle against her ivory neck. He stood watching until she disappeared through the door. Then he raised his fingers and drew them slowly over his cheek, still warm from her kiss. He wore a puzzled frown, as if trying to figure out a difficult problem.

  In the morning Lord James had resumed his modest clerical attire and manner. “Good morning Lady Gertrude, Miss Foxworth, et al,” he said, bowing to the company assembled at the table. “Sorry I’m late. I slept poorly last night.” A darkly accusing gaze swept over Emma, but he said no more.

  “What are you up to today, James?” Lady Gertrude asked.

  “I am calling on Dean Stanton, a friend of Papa’s, to ask his opinion on a certain matter.”

  This was assumed to indicate he was about to resume his interrupted career. Emma, studying him, expected to see a faux-noble mien and was dismayed to discover a sly light in his eyes as he peered at her. Dean Stanton my eye, she said to herself. He’s up to something.

  She mentioned her fear to Nick, after the older ladies had left to raid Hatchard’s in search of new novels.

  “I noticed,” Nick said. “I fancy he’s trying to win you back by the role that originally attracted you— hardworking, noble cleric.”

  “He must think me a simpleton to fall for the same stunt twice.”

  “He doesn’t suffer from any excess of brains. Is Sanichton calling for you this morning?”

  “No, he mentioned some business at the House. Lady Margaret is taking me to call on her aunt this afternoon.”

  “Being vetted as the future Lady Sanichton, eh?” Nick asked, trying for a cheerful tone.

  “I expect so,” she said glumly.

  Nick excused himself and had his curricle brought around. He didn’t believe for a minute that James was calling on Dean Stanton. The whelp had some trick up his sleeve, and he must scotch the plan.

  Nick was curious, but not entirely surprised, to see James’s rig stop in front of Sanichton’s house. Nick drove around the corner and returned to Manchester Square when he saw James’s carriage leave. Had the pup issued a challenge to Sanichton? Nick was happy to learn from Margaret that her brother had already left for the House.

  “Lord James wasn’t calling on Sanichton,” she said, smiling archly. “It was me he was calling on, actually. What a rogue he is! He asked me to save him the waltzes at your masquerade, Hansard.”

  “Did he mention Emma?”

  “Yes, I told him we were going out this afternoon. He didn’t offer to join us when he heard it was Lady Sefton we were to call on. She is on nettles to meet Horatio’s lady. We all adore Lady Capehart,” she added. “Such a treasure, and completely unspoiled. Not like the jaded ladies one meets in London.”

  Nick stayed chatting for fifteen minutes to see what else he could glean, then he left. It was unsettling to learn James was trying to discover where Emma was spending the day. He felt in his bones that James was bent on revenge, but a visit to Lady Sefton left little room for misbehavior.

  When Nick returned a note from James awaited him. It said that he was taking lunch with Dean Stanton and would be there for most of the afternoon as they found they had so much to discuss. Since James hadn’t called on Stanton, Nick knew his fears were well founded. He’d have to follow Emma when she went to call on Lady Sefton. He didn’t envy Emma her afternoon. The dame was a formidable bastion of propriety.

  Emma did indeed look wilted when she came out of the house, but of James there was no sign.

  When Nick inquired later at Berkeley Square how the visit had gone, Emma said, “I passed muster. I could see Lady Sefton thought me gauche and provincial, but the estate won her over. She called me ‘well behaved.’ “

  James continued his righteous ways over the next days, wearing his subdued vestments and sitting with a book of sermons propped up before him, while the others went about their business.

  Between Lady Margaret and Sanichton, Emma was kept hopping. Sanichton regaled her mornings with trips to the historical hot spots of London, an amazing number of which featured deaths and violence. The afternoons were more pleasant. Lady Margaret took her visiting and shopping.

  Nick watched as the girl physically wilted, from either fatigue or boredom. He felt still that unsettling feeling that he ought to do more for Emma, but what more could he do? She had decided on Sanichton, and all he could do was help her.

  He hadn’t much time to think about it. James was behaving much too well to please him. Nor was he doing it to impress Emma. Emma, in her blunt way, had told him to stop behaving like a gudgeon and go out and enjoy himself, for he was not impressing her by acting like a minister and dressing like an undertaker.

  “It will astonish you to learn, Lady Capehart, that I am no longer leading my life to suit you,” James said nobly.

  “You never were. If you think running about with the muslin company and getting into brawls suits me, you are very much mistaken.”

  James regarded her pale face with satisfaction. “Odd that finding your true love has put you in such a black humor, Lady Capehart.”

  “It is you who puts me out of sorts. I wish you will not loaf about, pretending you’re reading sermons. I know very well you have a book of poetry hiding under that black tome. The cover is peeping out.”

  When Nick discovered that it was the poetry of John Donne that was being read in secret, his alarm soared to new heights. This was the mood when the day of the masquerade party arrived. James had abandoned his
idea of dressing as Ares. He was to go as a coachman instead, like Nick.

  “It was the only costume they had to fit me,” he said sulkily. “It robs you of your originality, Hansard, but that won’t bother you as you never strove for originality in anything else.”

  In an effort to please Sanichton, Emma had added a shawl to her Aphrodite costume and decent kidskin slippers, in place of the sandals that revealed her toes.

  “If you haven’t the courage of your convictions,” James said, staring disparagingly at her outfit when she came down that afternoon for a preview, “you ought to have gone as someone else. Benedict Arnold, the infamous traitor, perhaps,” he sneered.

  Emma peered in the mirror. “It does look horrid,” she said, looking to Nick for his opinion.

  “Not horrid, just—”

  James supplied the word. “A hodgepodge, neither flesh nor fowl. They had a rather nice lady’s Italian Renaissance costume at the shop when I was there. Something along the line of the outfit Juliet wore in the play the other night. A free-flowing gown and a copotain.”

  “What on earth is that?” Emma asked.

  “You recall Juliet’s headpiece, with a high, conical crown and a lacy thing suspended from it. Very romantic. If you hurry, it might still be there. The gown has sleeves,” he added, glancing doubtfully at Emma’s arms, which were naked below the shawl.

  “Perhaps I should hire the outfit,” she said, again looking for Nick’s opinion.

  “Suit yourself. My carriage is free, if you want to go and try it on.”

  “I shall. This girdle pinches my waist.”

  James resumed his reading, and Emma went abovestairs to change into a street dress. Nick went to call the carriage for her. He was relieved that James hadn’t offered to take her. Miss Foxworth had volunteered to accompany her. The butler was just admitting a visitor when Nick entered the hall. Nick took him into his study, as Gertrude was in the saloon, and, so, he could not notice that James slipped quickly out of the saloon.

  Chapter Eighteen