A Viscount's Proposal (The Regency Spies of London Book 2)

by Melanie Dickerson

  He knew she disliked him as much as he disliked her, and he must have guessed that she never would have accepted him. The two of them were completely incompatible. It would have been one of those cold, loveless marriages that Lord Withinghall might have been satisfied with, but she could not bear to live that way.

  No, she would never have accepted him, and he must have known this.

  “That is not sound reasoning, Leorah.”

  She looked up, startled. Had she been thinking aloud? “What do you mean?”

  Felicity had finally left off fanning her younger sister, who still looked pale but was sipping her tea as if it were a life-giving tonic.

  “You said you had no notion that he expected you to accept him. But almost anyone would have. I can’t believe he would ask you if he hadn’t felt something for you. He is famous for his abhorrence of adultery, for his righteous indignation at the immorality of married couples in England, especially of the upper classes, who are rarely faithful to each other. Would he have asked for your hand if he hadn’t been sure of your character? I think not.” She eyed Leorah over the rim of her teacup.

  “Now you’re being silly. You know he thinks me reckless and irresponsible. Besides, it’s all settled that his soon-to-be fiancée, Augusta Norbury, is coming to stay, and he shall become engaged to her, and no one will even know that he asked me to marry him.” Leorah widened her eyes and pretended to shudder. “To save us both from the evil gossips.”

  “It is nothing to make sport of, Leorah. You cannot deny that the gossip could ruin your reputation forever. He is willing to marry you. And you might never get another offer of marriage, especially if this becomes a widely known scandal.” She stared sadly down at the carpet, which still had a damp spot in the middle from Elizabeth’s spilled tea. Quietly but with a significant look in her eyes as she focused again on Leorah, she said, “Perhaps you should accept him.”

  Leorah set her teacup down harder than she had intended to, rattling it alarmingly. “How could you even say such a thing?”

  “Perhaps he isn’t so bad.”

  “You have seen him. You know how he looks at me, his reaction to me. He disapproves of me greatly, and I’m sure he could never love me. Don’t you remember the things he said?”

  “But, Leorah, only consider.” Felicity grabbed Leorah’s hand. “He is a viscount and very rich. You could certainly do worse, and his home is not that far—how far did you say? Only fifteen miles? You could come here to visit your family, your mother, anytime you wished.”

  Elizabeth picked up the fan and began fanning herself. “Felicity,” she said, as though out of breath, “don’t encourage her to marry someone she doesn’t love after she has already refused him. It is too horrible. Lord Withinghall . . .” She took an audible breath and closed her eyes. “He is so severe.”

  “I am not afraid of him.” Leorah sat up straighter. “I simply do not wish to be disapproved of all my life. Only the most passionate love could ever induce me to marry. And I can’t believe Lord Withinghall capable of passionate love.”

  And that was the end of the matter. She would refuse to think about it anymore.

  The next morning, Leorah received a letter from Rachel Becker and read it in her room.

  Livvie was doing well after having a cold. Near the end of the letter, Rachel wrote, and “he” has had my landlord put all my belongings on the street. It is good that I had already given away nearly all of my furniture. Livvie and I are now living with the other unwed mothers, where at least I have plenty of company.

  Who was this fiendish Member of Parliament who refused to provide for his own child? Bad enough that he would seduce and keep a young girl as his mistress, but to despise his own child . . . He was worse than an unbeliever and did not deserve a seat in the House of Commons. But at least Rachel was where John and Sarah Wilson could watch out for her.

  Leorah left her room and went downstairs to the library. Where was that book she wanted to show Felicity and Elizabeth? They were still in their rooms but would soon be coming down to breakfast.

  Leorah turned to the left as she entered the dimly lit library and searched the shelves. “Where is that book?” she mumbled to herself, touching the spines with her forefinger as she combed through each title.

  She searched every shelf in that particular bookcase but didn’t see it. Undaunted, she moved to the next wall and continued examining the books, sometimes pulling them out to look at the covers when the spine did not reveal a title.

  “Where could it be?” She closed her eyes to think where she might have left it.

  “Can I be of help?”

  Leorah’s eyes flew open, and she spun around to see who was behind her. “Oh, Lord Withinghall. I didn’t see you there.” Her heart was pounding, and she pressed her hand against her chest. She tried to pretend he had not frightened her nearly to death.

  “I asked if I could help you, but in actuality, I am bound to this chair. So I’m not sure what assistance I can lend you.”

  Sitting in a wheeled chair by the window, his hair was tidy and even somewhat fashionable in its controlled waviness—not at all the way he had worn it when he’d been in London last Season. His features looked less angry than usual too—more youthful in the morning light that was streaming over him from the window.

  Strange that she should note his youth when he was only a few years older than she was. It was merely his usual manner of speaking, his severity of expression, and his unfashionable clothing that made him normally seem older than he was.

  But his confinement to the wheeled contraption, with his right leg elevated and wrapped in many layers to keep it immobilized, actually stimulated a pang of sympathy for him. Then she remembered his cold, impersonal marriage proposal of the previous day. But if he didn’t mention it, neither would she. She would be glad to forget all about it, as well as what had brought it about.

  “You might be able to help me, Lord Withinghall. I am searching for a book to lend to my friends, Felicity and Elizabeth Mayson.”

  “A particular book, I presume?”

  “Yes. I read it only last winter, and I remember putting it away at Easter. The title is Sense and Sensibility.”

  “A book of essays?”

  “Oh no. It is a novel.” She had her back to the viscount, and she continued searching the shelves for the book. She imagined the look of disapproval that was probably settling over his face. “A first-rate novel. Even you might enjoy it.”

  “I never read novels.” His voice was even.

  “That is a pity, since novels can be quite interesting and can teach us many things about ourselves and about human nature.”

  She continued searching, very aware of the man behind her, and finally he replied, “You may be right.”

  That almost sounded respectful of her opinion. She thought about asking him if he would like to read it but was afraid that was pushing things too far.

  “I can’t ride my horse,” Leorah said, “so I suppose I must read. And entertain my guests, of course. Speaking of guests . . .” Leorah turned around to face him, forcing herself to look pleasant. “My brother, Mrs. Langdon, and I are happy to welcome your fiancée, Miss Augusta Norbury, to our home. I hear she is to arrive in a few days.”

  “Miss Norbury is not my fiancée.” His eyes locked on hers in an intense gaze.

  She wondered for a moment if she had made him angry, and she had been rather peevish to say Augusta was his fiancée when Leorah knew she was not. Why did she always have such an urge to provoke him? She had provoked him without intending to, indeed, the first two times she encountered him. She seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that she was able to annoy him. But now he was looking at her in such an intense way, she couldn’t tell if he was provoked or not.

  “But you do intend to make her your fiancée, or so I have heard,” Leorah went on, “and I imagine you are pleased she is arriving?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “I beli
eve I must be,” he said evenly. “For, with all the gossip floating about . . .” He continued to study her. “Since you have rejected my offer of marriage, it would be prudent if you invited your own suitor, someone you favor as a possible husband.” He emphasized the word favor.

  Leorah stood up straighter to hide her surprise—and distaste—at his suggestion that she should take such an action to fend off the gossipmongers. “I believe your Miss Norbury will be enough to quench the fiery darts of rumors and false reports about you and myself.”

  “Perhaps for me, but not for you. Miss Langdon, I do not wish to be the means of ruining your chances of happiness. I am at a loss, but I am willing to do whatever is necessary and helpful in preserving your reputation.”

  Leorah, in spite of herself, felt touched at his earnest expression. Could it be that he was truly willing to give up his perfectly matched wife in Augusta Norbury to marry Leorah, when she knew he disliked her, simply to save her reputation? It was incredibly sacrificial, and yet it made her insides squirm at the same time.

  “Do not be anxious for my welfare, Lord Withinghall. It was never very certain that I would marry, and my brother and our position in society shall keep me safe from dangerous predators of all sorts.” Rumors could ruin her chances at a happy marriage, but wealth and family could keep her from suffering any threat of evil. “I can be happy without a husband.”

  “Then I shall not renew my request for your hand. I can see it is distasteful to you.”

  His tone and face were expressionless, yet she couldn’t help but wonder if he had any feelings, whether good or bad, about not marrying her. He was an enigma. Regardless, he’d be engaged to Augusta Norbury soon, and that would be the end of it.

  Lord Withinghall picked up a book that was lying in his lap and showed it to her. “This wouldn’t happen to be your copy of Miss Hannah More’s Essays on Various Subjects Principally Designed for Young Ladies, would it?”

  Leorah stared at the book a moment. “It would.”

  “I only ask because I saw a passage underlined inside.”

  “Oh? I don’t remember underlining anything. But it has been a few years since I read portions of it.”

  “Yes, you underlined a passage where Miss More was speaking of the unprofitability of superficiality and said that young ladies were quite wrong to, and I quote, ‘act consistently in studying none but exterior graces, in cultivating only personal attractions, and in trying to lighten the intolerable burden of time, by the most frivolous and vain amusements.’”

  “Yes, I liked the way she said that. I daresay I agreed with her at the time.” She didn’t like admitting that she had even read Miss More’s book of essays, and even less that she had found anything of interest in it.

  “And you no longer agree?”

  “I suppose a young lady should occupy her time as productively as she can, but if she wishes to spend some of her time in frivolity and vain amusements, as long as she isn’t hurting anyone, I believe that should be her prerogative.”

  A flicker of something crossed his face—disappointment perhaps?

  She had a distinct urge to roll her eyes to the ceiling, a habit that had begun in her childhood whenever she disliked something her nurse or governess told her. Her governess had proclaimed it a very bad habit indeed, quite improper, but Leorah was still tempted to indulge in the rebellious act every now and again. It came as no surprise that Lord Withinghall brought out the temptation in her.

  “Truthfully,” Leorah began, unable to resist baiting him, “I don’t believe I ever finished the book. Whenever I would begin to read it, I always found myself falling asleep.”

  He gave her a little frown, but his expression was much too good-natured to satisfy her desire to see him become annoyed with her. She could almost believe he was amused.

  “Do you not have any reproach to make toward me, Lord Withinghall?”

  “Do you want me to reproach you?”

  The question caught her off guard for a moment. “Of course not. But just as you do not like novels, I do not like essays on piety for young ladies.”

  “I did not say I don’t like novels.”

  “I believe you did, a day or two ago when you disapproved of me reading Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.”

  “I will say only that I have never read one I particularly enjoyed.”

  “Oh, that is sad indeed. You are obviously reading the wrong ones. But I am surprised to find you reading essays for young ladies.”

  “I have read everything Miss More has ever published, but I was curious to see if you had read her book.”

  Why would he be curious about that? “I have read parts of Miss More’s books, but I find I need action and a plot to hold my interest. I find morality writings quite dull. Besides, I don’t like rules being forced upon me.”

  “It is rules you object to. I see. All rules? Or only some?”

  Leorah shrugged. “I don’t object to the Bible, of course. I have read it more than once, and the Ten Commandments are quite necessary. I don’t object to those.”

  “That is a relief to hear.”

  There! Was that a smile? Wonder of wonders, had she amused Lord Withinghall? But no, it was gone, if it had ever been there, and she was not certain it had.

  Lord Withinghall tilted his chin toward his chest, staring across at her. “So Hannah More’s writings are rules that are being forced on you?”

  “I believe I could accurately say, when anyone but God tells me I can or cannot, should or should not do something, I get a distinct desire to rebel. And just the thought of reading her latest book gives me that rebellious feeling. There, I’ve confessed, and now you must judge me as you see fit.” She couldn’t help smiling in triumph at having said exactly what she thought.

  She rather hoped Lord Withinghall would say exactly what he thought and not repress his own opinions in an effort to be polite.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Edward had great difficulty in keeping himself from smiling, and he twisted the corners of his mouth down.

  What an audacious girl she was. He couldn’t quite explain why this quality of hers should fascinate him so much. No doubt it was some pernicious state of his nature inherited from his immoral father. But in spite of her audacity, she had an innocence, even a sweetness about her, especially when she was with her friend Felicity, and her brother and sister-in-law. Edward had watched her the night before, when he’d finally been able to join the family for dinner. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Leorah Langdon.

  He should have been angry with her for refusing his marriage proposal. Actually, shouldn’t he be relieved that she had refused him, leaving him free to seek Miss Augusta Norbury’s hand?

  He found himself neither angry nor relieved. Rather, he felt a strange longing that he didn’t know how to explain. But the feeling would pass. In the meantime, he could stop fearing the worst—that she would in some way compromise his reputation—because the worst had already happened.

  He found himself saying, “And I have a distinct desire to prove you wrong about Miss More’s writings. She is not the ‘Mistress of Rules’ that you take her for.”

  “Oh?” Miss Langdon smiled now, a radiant glow about her as the morning sun lit her face, drawing out the color in her eyes. She looked most becoming in that shade of pale yellow as it contrasted with the warmth in her brown hair. A tug inside his chest felt as if it were a warning, but he couldn’t seem to look away. And he couldn’t walk away, confined as he was to his chair.

  “You think you can change my mind? I am skeptical.”

  He couldn’t remember what they had been speaking of. Oh yes, of Hannah More’s writings—and of rules.

  He found himself taking a deep breath and sighing. What had he done? After resigning himself to the prospect of marrying her, he had stirred up some strange sensations in himself. Dangerous. But she would not have him—which was a very fortunate thing for him, he was sure—and it was good that Miss Norbury was
to arrive soon.

  “But you did not come to the library to debate with me about Hannah More’s books. You came to find your novel. What was the title again?”

  “Sense and Sensibility. It’s written by a new writer, anonymously, but I am certain she is a woman of gentility. I wish you would read it, for I believe you would enjoy it.”

  He studied her open and honest expression. She was behaving in a most friendly way, though not flirtatiously. He had quite possibly been wrong about her when he thought her reckless and unbecoming in her independence and forwardness. Perhaps he had mistaken high spirits for recklessness. The former could be used for good, while the latter was simply imprudent.

  “We won’t find it unless we search for it.” He tried to turn the chair toward another bookshelf, as the doctor had shown him, but it was harder than it looked.

  “Allow me.” Miss Langdon walked behind him and turned the chair around. She pushed him closer to the bookshelves at the back of the room. “Is this good?”

  “That is very good, thank you.” How humbling to be so helpless.

  “I shall look over here.” She skimmed across the room to another wall of shelves and began searching the spines.

  He began searching as well, while his mind was full of Miss Langdon.

  Had he gone daft while lying in bed for a week? Certainly this wasn’t his usual reaction to a pretty, young woman. And she was so unsuitable, he shouldn’t think of her at all. The wife of a viscount and Member of Parliament should have a serious temperament, a mind uncluttered by frivolous things such as novels, and be devoted to working for the good of her husband’s career and of society. That was the sort of wife he needed, the sort of wife he intended to have.

  Why was he trying to talk himself out of Miss Langdon for a wife? She’d already rejected him. He was safe. She didn’t want him.

  “I found it!”

  He looked over his shoulder. She was holding the book up and smiling her triumph. “I knew it had to be here somewhere.”

  “Well done.”