When he pulled away, a light of hope shone in his eyes, a light that made her heart swell in reply until it bruised her ribs.
“You’ll pardon me,” he whispered. “I was never one for poetry or pretty words. So I’ll say it plain. I love you. I never expected to say such a thing to any woman, ever, but you are not just any woman. Might your response give me hope that one day you’ll feel the same?”
She pressed trembling fingers to her lips. Never since her downfall had she expected to hear those words from a man. “Not one day. Now.”
“Then I shall ask you for the last time. Will you marry me?”
The only reply she could possibly give him was her lips on his, her body to his, an anticipation of a far deeper surrender. After that, no further words were necessary.
EPILOGUE
Two months later
ISABELLE FLOATED through the long, gentle fall from the heights, eased back to earth by George’s kiss. She snuggled into his embrace, rubbing her cheek through the rasp of his chest hair. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat slowed.
Very unfashionable of them to share a bed every night, but if fashion meant spending the long, dark hours apart, she’d happily call herself rustic and move on.
The bed was wide, the mattress thick, the sheets crisp beneath her naked body. Overlaying the clean scent of rich cottons and wood polish was the musk of their joining.
George stirred beneath her, dipping his head to brush a kiss to her hairline before inching himself upright.
“Mmmm, must you leave just yet?” she murmured.
The rumble of his laughter vibrated through her. “Not even married two months and already you’ve become a sluggard?”
How her life had changed in those two months. Polite society, naturally, would never accept her back as one of their own, but Isabelle didn’t need them. Not as long as she had George and his circle of friends. Sophia and Julia, their husbands and extended family had gathered round them in support on her wedding day. Even George’s mother was coming around, helped, no doubt, by a long conversation held behind closed doors between mother and son. Isabelle had not been privy to the content of that discussion, but her mother-in-law had emerged from George’s study white-faced, tight lipped, and apparently chastened.
Isabelle pushed herself up on an elbow, swiping a handful of curls from her eyes. “I’m normally up before you are.”
“Correction, my dear. You climb out of bed before I do, but you’re never up first.”
She gasped. Had he just insinuated … He had.
“Rogue,” she said through a smile before dissolving into a girlish giggle. How unlike her, but George never failed to lighten her heart.
He rose from the bed, the morning sunlight gilding his naked skin, and thrust his arms through the sleeves of a green velvet banyan. “A pity to have to say so, but you may want to cover yourself.”
She stretched herself across the mattress, languid and satisfied, smiling as his gaze traced her form. “You cannot be concerned I’ll shock the maid.”
“The maid? Hardly. But have you forgotten what day it is?”
“Day? Oh!” She groped for her chemise, hastily discarded the night before.
He was right, of course. Jack might come bursting into the bedchamber at any moment, already dressed and demanding they hurry through breakfast. George had promised to take the boy back to Kent to visit Revelstoke. But the real reason George had declared a holiday from tutors and lessons and most especially mathematics was their plan to pick out a pony. Riding lessons in Hyde Park were soon to become a feature of Jack’s upbringing, all in preparation for the day they’d send him off to school.
At the thought, Isabelle ducked her head. Once he was away at school, she’d have to accept not seeing him for weeks at a time. She’d have to settle for letters, but knowing Jack’s fondness for writing, those would be scarce as hen’s teeth, as Biggles would say. A few years yet remained, but she suspected they’d fly by as quickly as Jack’s first six years. Biggles was constantly remarking on the phenomenon.
“Here now.” George tipped up her chin. “You’re not going broody on me again, are you?”
“A little,” she admitted. “Before I know it, my boy will be grown and gone.”
“He’s only six.”
“Six and far too wise for his age.” She twisted her hands in the cotton of her chemise. “I feel like it was only yesterday he learned to walk, and I had to keep a constant watch so he wouldn’t toddle into the fire. Now you want to put him up on a horse?”
“A pony.” He ran his palms down the backs of her arms. “Best he learn while he’s young so he doesn’t end up like me.”
“How’s that?”
“Unable to cope with the Buttercups of the world.”
She wasn’t sure who Buttercup was, beyond surmising one form of equine or another, but she refused to let that question distract her. “You’ll have him galloping about, jumping five-foot fences.”
“If he has a mind to, I’m not sure how you’ll stop him.”
She swatted at him. “You are not helping. You’re supposed to tell me it’ll be all right and not frighten me half to death.”
He caught her by the waist and pulled her close. “It’ll be all right, five-foot fences and all. If I wasn’t positive Jack was about to burst in here, I’d take you back to bed.”
“And how would that help?”
He grinned, a woman’s downfall wrought in a simple stretch of his lips. It was her downfall, certainly, her personal undoing because she never saw the expression outside their private chambers. It was her exclusive domain and never failed to turn her knees wobbly.
“I should be insulted, having to explain this, but the temptation to demonstrate is too great.” He pulled her flush with his body and pressed his lips just beneath her ear. “Pay close attention now. These are the proper uses of conjugal relations.”
He nipped at her earlobe. “Distraction. You can’t worry if I drive the thoughts from your mind.”
“Mmmm.” The tactic was working already and all too well. Heavens, one would think he hadn’t been near her in a week the way her body responded.
“Seduction.” With his tongue, he blazed a trail along her neck. “You’re far more open to suggestion in this state.”
“Suggestion?” she breathed, tipping her head back. “What can you possibly ask of me now?”
He chuckled against her throat, and the vibrations rippled through her awakening body. “Give me time to think on it, and I’ll come up with all manner of ideas. But now you’re distracting me, darling, and we can’t have that.”
He skimmed a hand up her waist to cover her breast. Her nipple hardened into his palm. The hard length of his erection pressed into her belly. She’d only just had him, and she wanted more.
“Last use—gestation.”
“Gestation?” How had he guessed? She was only just beginning to suspect herself.
“If I give you another child, you’ll be too occupied to worry about Jack so much.”
“Rather I’ll have two to worry about, but I suppose we’ll find out for ourselves in a few months.”
He set his hands on her shoulders and pulled back to study her. “Really?”
“I’m more certain with every day that passes.”
A different sort of smile spread across his features. Not devious, not promising pleasure, but in its own way just as seductive. This was his face etched into the contours of joy so pure it sent a pang through her midsection. Not heat, but an answering contentment that pulled at her own lips until her cheeks ached.
“If your son is anything like you,” she said lightly, “I believe I’ll run more than the usual course of worrying.”
His smile did not falter. “You can always pray for a daughter.”
“Whether it’s a boy or a girl, I want you to promise me something.”
“Anything.” So unreserved, that one word. She really could ask anything of him, and he’d do all within
his power to give it.
“If your child shows a talent for music, you will not deny it.”
“That will be a very easy promise to keep.” He slipped his hands to her cheeks, framing her face before he brushed his lips against hers. “No child of mine shall be forced to hide his true nature.”
Warmth bubbled inside her. A vow, just as he’d made when Jack was missing, just as he’d made on their wedding day. “Then I shall worry somewhat less.”
“Only somewhat?”
“There’s always the chance he’ll want boxing lessons.”
George’s grin turned wolfish. “Or lessons in seduction.”
She attempted a scowl, but she wasn’t certain how well she succeeded. Her lips wanted to mirror his. “I’m afraid I’ll have to draw the line there.”
“He won’t need them. If he takes after his father, those things will come naturally.”
“Scoundrel!” She swatted at his shoulder and tried to duck away from his embrace, but he caught her about the waist. She squealed as he spun her back against him, his lips seeking hers. The clatter of youthful footsteps echoed through the corridor, announcing their imminent interruption.
George pulled out of the kiss but kept his palms planted firmly against her back. “I’m afraid we’ll have to pick up this discussion later, if you’re amenable.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, savoring the last few seconds of peace. “Always.”
To Kathleen—
you helped me out of a jam on this one
in more ways than one.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without a great deal of help and occasional nagging, this book would still be a figment of my imagination (or, to paraphrase a girl I knew in high school, I might be a figment of this book’s imagination). I owe a debt of thanks, as well as possibly chocolate and wine to the following:
To my critique partners, Caryl, Kathleen, Wendy, Tessy, Renee, Sam, Averil, and Deborah—without you, this book would be riddled with confusion, errors, repeated words, and extra spaces all over the place.
To Marian, Matan, Lizzie, Clemence, and Carina for being the best cheerleaders ever.
To Tracy Brogan for her help and suggestions on the first draft.
To the Lalalas once again for your continued support and occasional ass-kicking.
To Anne Barton, Valerie Bowman, Erin Knightley, and Sara Ramsey, thank you for being there and putting up with my occasional freak-outs. Thanks even more for understanding.
To the Dashing Duchesses for general awesomeness.
To my chapter-mates, both local and strictly online—the Ottawa Romance Writers Association, Hearts Through History Romance Writers, and the Beau Monde—thank you for all your help, whether or not you knew it at the time.
To all the readers who bought my debut and who have continued to support my writing by purchasing this book. I hope you liked George’s story.
To Sara Megibow for her perpetual enthusiasm, advice, and support.
To Junessa Viloria for talking me through revisions and helping me to realize I can fix things the easy way.
To my husband and daughters, because, nope, the house still isn’t clean. Why can’t I be like my characters and employ servants?
BY ASHLYN MACNAMARA
A Most Scandalous Proposal
A Most Devilish Rogue
Read on for a preview of Ashlyn Macnamara’s
A MOST SCANDALOUS PROPOSAL
Available from Ballantine Books
CHAPTER ONE
April 1816, London
William Ludlowe wagers five thousand pounds that Miss Julia St. Claire will become the next Countess of Clivesden.
Benedict Revelstoke reread the lines in White’s infamous betting book. What the devil? His fingers constricted about the quill, just shy of crushing it. Right. He’d been about to sign on his friend’s wager. Some idiocy, no doubt—hardly worth the bother now.
The book’s most recent inscription was scrawled, for all the world to see, in gold ink, no less. How fitting. Gold ink for Ludlowe, whom many of the ton’s ladies dubbed their golden boy. The man’s lack of a title did nothing to diminish their opinion.
Upperton nudged him. “What’s the matter? Your feet coming over icy all the sudden?”
Lead blocks would be more accurate, but Benedict was not about to admit to that. He laid the quill aside and jabbed a finger at the heavy vellum page. “Have you seen this?”
The page darkened as his oldest friend peered over his shoulder. “Clivesden? Thought he was married. Ludlowe’s a jumped-up bacon brain. And what’s Miss Julia got to do with either of them?”
“I’ve no idea, but I intend to find out.” He released a breath between clenched teeth. “Appalling how so-called gentlemen will lay bets on young ladies of good reputation.”
“Young ladies in general or Miss Julia in particular?”
Ignoring the gibe, Benedict turned on his heel and strode down the steps to the pavement. A glance at his pocket watch told him it was ten minutes past eleven, still early by the ton’s standards. That was something. At least he knew where he’d find Julia at such an hour.
He sighed at the prospect of dodging a passel of marriage-minded misses. But he’d be damned before he let some idiot besmirch her reputation.
JULIA stiffened her arms, but her dance partner refused to take the hint. Dash it, he held her too close for propriety’s sake. Hang propriety—on that last turn, he’d actually tightened his grip so much her breasts grazed the front of his tailcoat. Too close for her comfort. So she did what any self-respecting young lady would do and trod on his toes.
“I do beg your pardon, my lord.” The lie slid easily from her lips.
Lord Chuddleigh’s smile faded, and his grip slackened along with his jowls. “Not at all.”
Thankfully, the final notes of the waltz rose to the high ceiling of Lady Posselthwaite’s ballroom a moment later, and Julia backed out of her partner’s greedy embrace, stopping short when her skirt brushed against a dancer to her rear. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Chuddleigh eyed her up and down, before his red-rimmed gaze halted at a spot several inches below her chin. “Are you engaged for the next set?”
What could he be thinking? The roué. He was forty if he was a day, and a strong hint of brandy surrounded him like a cloud.
Julia made a show of consulting her dance card. “No. I actually find I’m rather exhausted,” she added before he could ask her for the next dance.
“It’s the crowd. Dreadful crush as it is every year, of course. Perhaps a turn on the terrace?”
Drat. The man was relentless. Julia cast a swift glance about the ballroom. Unfortunately, Lord Chuddleigh was right about the crush. So many members of the ton packed into one spot, the men in starched linen and intricate cravats, the ladies in pastel ball gowns, it was a wonder anyone could move at all. Attendees wove past one another with polite smiles and quick pardons, intertwining like maypole dancers.
Convenient for Lord Chuddleigh, though, if he wanted an excuse to brush against her a bit more. Not that he had to expend much of an effort the way his paunch preceded him. She should never have agreed to the first set, but he’d seemed a safe enough choice when he asked. At his age and still unattached, she’d expected he wouldn’t turn into a serious suitor.
Apparently, Chuddleigh had formed other ideas.
The crowd made it impossible to pick out a convenient means of escape. Her father was too occupied in the card room to concern himself with her dance partners. The ballroom—the marriage mart—that was her mother’s exclusive domain. Papa was all too happy to leave Mama with the responsibility of landing wealthy, titled husbands for Julia and her sister, while he gambled to increase the family’s meager earnings. Alas, for Mama aimed high in the hopes of giving her daughters what she had never had—social standing and influence.
In short, power. But such power came at the price of keeping up with fashion and maintaining a house in Town.
/>
“I think a lemonade would be quite sufficient,” she finally replied with a weak smile.
Lord Chuddleigh pressed thick lips together but acquiesced with a nod. “Do not move from that spot. I shall return anon.”
The moment he disappeared behind Lady Whitby’s bright orange turban, Julia elbowed her way in the opposite direction. She’d left her older sister amid a group of twittering hopefuls in their first season. With any luck, Julia could use them and their mamas as a shield against any further unwelcome advances.
She discovered Sophia next to a potted palm, deep in conversation with the dowager Countess of Epperley. Between the plant’s fronds and the matron’s ostrich plumes, Sophia was well camouflaged.
On Julia’s approach, the dowager snapped a lorgnette to her face and eyed her from her sleek, honey-colored coiffure to the tips of her silk-clad toes. A frown fit to curdle new milk indicated Julia had passed muster.
“Oh, Julia.” A rosy glow suffused Sophia’s normally pearl-white complexion.
Julia pasted on a smile, knowing she was in for at least half an hour’s worth of gushing, and that was just in public. Depending on what time they made it home tonight, Sophia could easily chatter away the remaining hours before dawn in her ebullience.
As long as she didn’t end up sobbing herself to sleep, as had happened all too often in the past. So full of affection, Sophia. If only she hadn’t bestowed her heart on a man who only occasionally acknowledged her existence. On such evenings, the urge to pull her sister into a hug warred with the desire to give Sophia a stern talking-to.
Tonight, apparently, was one of those evenings.
“My lady,” Sophia breathed, “you simply must repeat to my sister what you’ve just told me.”
The dowager pursed her lips and subjected Julia to a second inspection, as if she might find evidence of Julia’s unworthiness to hear the latest gossip. Defensively, Julia spread out her fan and held it in front of her bosom, before Lady Epperley concluded her gown revealed too much.
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