A Most Scandalous Proposal (13 page)

“Forgive me, Mama, Papa. I’m afraid I’m feeling rather ill.”

Lady Wexford harrumphed. “No wonder. You’ve barely eaten enough to keep a bird alive. Sit down and have a proper meal. You’ll feel better in no time.”

Sophia stared at the chunks of quail swimming in rich sauce, and her stomach lurched. “If you’ll excuse me, I really think I ought to lie down.”

“Nonsense! In my day, young ladies were brought up with better manners.”

To Sophia’s left, her mother puffed up, but before she had a chance to explode—in as mannerly a fashion as possible, of course—Highgate intervened.

“That will do.”

He pronounced the words quietly, but with such an understated command, Sophia froze in place while an odd shiver crept up her spine. Then he turned back to her, pinning her once again with that fathomless gaze. “Go if you must. Don’t let my sister stop you.”

Sophia’s slippers scarcely made a sound on the risers as she climbed to the library. The tense twitter of the conversation in the dining room faded. Without a doubt, she’d given them a new topic to discuss, or perhaps another reason for her mother and Lady Wexford to continue their dispute.

She breathed in. Even the air, free now of the sickly-sweet scents of overly rich sauce, smelled fresher away from the scrutiny of her family.

The handle turned easily in her hand, and the door’s creak echoed through the empty room. At one time, her father’s collection of learning lined three walls of shelves. New leather and parchment had filled the room with
their distinctive odor. Gilt titles embossed the works of Plato, Aquinas, Shakespeare—anything that might indicate education and culture.

Not that her father had ever cracked the spine of a single volume. At any rate, the shelves lay mainly empty now, the books sold to make up the expenses of several seasons’ worth of ball gowns.

Sophia passed them by, experiencing a pang of regret for the loss of Linnaeus’s
Species Plantarum
. The pang was fleeting. Tonight she needed to escape, both her family and the reminder that Ludlowe would never look her way.

Padding to the fourth wall, she reached for her copy of
Sense and Sensibility
, its pasteboard covers well thumbed. Even in their reduced circumstances, the Dashwood sisters had managed to find happiness. If only Sophia could hold as much hope for her future.

A sob escaped before she could catch it.

Behind her, hinges groaned. She whirled. A man stood silhouetted on the threshold, his profile singularly unimposing. Highgate. Why must he invade her solitude? Could she not have a moment of peace to cry over Ludlowe?

“What are you doing here?” Her voice wavered, but she pressed onward. “You said it yourself not two days ago—we need to be careful not to put ourselves in a spot where we cannot call things off.”

He advanced into the room and shut the door. With the latch’s sharp click, the darkness deepened.

Sophia let out a gasp. The sheer and utter gall. She was trapped. If she raised a fuss, the entire household—Ludlowe included—would come running. She and Highgate would be well and truly caught.

“We need to have a discussion.” He advanced, his boots thudding closer and closer. She no longer held a clear idea
where he was. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a branch of candles? On closing the door, he’d cast the library into darkness. The only source of light came from weak moonbeams filtering through the window.

“We already had one before dinner.”

“We need to have another.” His booted feet thumped to a halt. Heat radiated from her right. If she breathed in deeply, she might scent sandalwood. She tamped down the urge to shrink away. “It is past time you got over your feelings for Ludlowe.”

Her fingernails bit into her palms. “That, my lord, is none of your affair.”

“I’ve chosen to make it my affair.” A quiet authority laced his tone.

Once more, she shivered. “Why? What does it signify? In two weeks or so I shall cry off our arrangement, and we’ll never see each other again. What could you possibly care about my feelings for another man?”

“That man does not deserve your feelings.” Such certainty. Such finality.

She attempted to penetrate the shadows to catch a glimpse of his face. “What could you possibly know about it?”

“I know a great deal about Ludlowe, a great deal of which is unsavory.” He paused and drew a breath. “Consider what he’s done to you. He could have helped extricate us from the situation, but has he acted?”

“He … He told me he’d do what he could. He said I could count on him.”

“Hmmm.” Another pause during which she imagined him nodding. “And have you been able to?”

“I’ve no way of telling, do I?”

“Convenient, isn’t it? I could tell you more, but I see you will not listen. You will not wish to believe the truth.”

He pronounced each word with a clipped finality that stole her breath and made her heart quake. A cold foreboding settled into the pit of her stomach. Thank goodness she’d merely picked at her supper. He knew something awful about Ludlowe. No. She thrust the idea aside. She was not ready to admit she’d frittered the last five years away on a sugar-spun fantasy. If she gave up on Ludlowe, she would have to accept spending the rest of her life on the shelf, faded and forgotten, as Mama often reminded her.

She hugged the book to her chest. “I’d rather not hear it right now, if you don’t mind.” Her voice wobbled horribly on the words.

“Will you accept it on trust then?” His tone softened into a rolling resonance that surrounded her like an old blanket. It conjured a vivid image of a warm, crackling fire on a cold night, of reclining on a settee, her head cradled upon a masculine pair of thighs, listening to that voice read poetry. She could almost feel his fingers sifting through her curls.

No! She had no business imagining him this way, especially not when the fantasy was attainable. All she had to do was refrain from crying off. But she knew nothing about him. Hadn’t the last five years taught her the futility of existing in a world of fancy?

Shaking her head, she pressed the novel to her skin.

“What have you got there?” Somehow he’d caught the motion in the low light.

Wordlessly, she gave up her shield.

He moved to the window, and beneath the pale filter of moonlight, his shadow-self coalesced into flesh and bone. “What is this? I cannot read the title.”

She swallowed.
“Sense and Sensibility.”

“You’d do better to put more value in sense than sensibility.”

“What do you know of it?”

“Perhaps more than you realize.”

His words bore little substance, yet his tone was fraught with meaning, as if he were hinting at a past emotional entanglement.

“Is that your answer then? Rely on sense alone? On cool logic to govern your entire life?”

“Isn’t that what Elinor Dashwood did? And come to think of it, Ludlowe reminds me of Lucy Steele, although he’s not after any particular fortune, only respectability.”

She stared at his profile. The moonlight softened its harshness until even his scar faded. “You read novels?”

“I believe in putting a thing to the test before I consign it to feminine frivolity.”

“Have you read any other such works? I greatly enjoyed
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

She made her way back to the shelves, where leather-bound volumes had once stood in rank after rank like soldiers. Able to locate it in the dark, she reached for another much-thumbed book.

“I think you ought to give it a try. You might even recognize your sister in Lady Catherine.” In the process of handing the novel to him, she hesitated. “Unless you’ve drawn the conclusion such occupations are indeed frivolous.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Never let it be said that I backed down from a challenge.” He took the book, his fingers brushing hers as the exchange took place. “Perhaps we can discuss it once I’ve read it.”

She snatched her hand away. “You mean if you don’t find it too frivolous.”

“Miss St. Claire, I never proclaimed the other a frivolity. If that is the conclusion you drew, you were in error. And now if we wish to avoid further difficulty, we
really ought to rejoin the others, painful as the notion may be. I shall go first. Wait a few minutes and follow.”

With a sweeping bow, he turned and left the library, leaving Sophia alone with her thoughts. A third shiver passed through her. How on earth had she managed to challenge this man?

“M
ISS
Julia, if I might have a word.”

Julia turned on her heel, but a glance in the direction of the drawing room showed her mother and Lady Wexford already seated, studiously ignoring each other. Thank goodness. Neither had overheard Ludlowe’s whispered request.

The silence emanating from the room was so deafening, the prospect of conversation with Ludlowe was nearly tempting. Nearly.

She turned back to him. “Aren’t you going to drink port with the gentlemen?”

He grinned. “Highgate’s already taken himself off somewhere and your friend Revelstoke doesn’t seem to care for my company.”

Julia sent him a pointed stare. If the man could discern Benedict’s dislike, why couldn’t he pick up on her lack of enthusiasm? For that matter, he ought to have noticed Sophia’s affection long since. “Would you like to join us in the drawing room, then?”

“I was rather hoping I might speak with you alone.”

Thinking of her sister’s predicament, she narrowed her eyes. Sophia had mentioned his presence that night. If Ludlowe sought to win her by placing her in a compromising situation, he’d best make other plans. “We are barely acquainted, sir. What could you possibly have to say to me that you cannot say in front of my mother and Lady Wexford?”

He reached out and placed a hand on her forearm. “It would only take a moment of your time.”

Arching a brow, she pulled back. “Then, whatever it is, you may state it here.”

“Please, I realize this is highly unusual, but it is a most urgent matter.”

“Most urgent?” She waved a dismissive hand, the gesture bordering on rudeness. Not that she cared, as long as he cottoned on to the idea she was not interested in his attentions. “Before the Posselthwaite ball, you barely addressed two words to me in your entire life. I cannot imagine what has changed in the days since, as you keep cropping up.”

“My station, if I may speak plainly. That is what has changed.”

“Ah, yes, the earldom. Have you received word from the Lord Chancellor?”

He shook his head. “It’s far too soon. As your friend Revelstoke was so eager to point out the other evening, there’s still the matter of the widow.”

Julia studied him carefully. While his mild expression barely flinched, his voice had taken on an edge at the mention of Benedict. “Still, I fail to see what that has to do with me.”

“My dear, it has everything to do with you. As Clivesden, I shall have a responsibility to assure the future of the line. I shall require a countess.”

Even though she had known this was coming, the contents of her stomach churned. The second helping of syllabub threatened to put in a reappearance all over Ludlowe’s impeccable tailcoat and embroidered waistcoat. That would be taking rudeness a bit too far.

While she didn’t care much for Ludlowe, she took pity on his valet, and swallowed hard. “Surely any number of young ladies out this season might fulfill your requirements. Why, my own sister—”

“Is already betrothed. In any case, I have already made up my mind.”

“And the young lady in question?” Julia couldn’t help goading. “Is she to have any say in the matter?”

“That is what I wish to determine.”

She clutched at her bodice. “You cannot possibly—”

He cocked his head. “Why can’t I? You’re of good family.”

“Not that good,” she broke in.

He gave a small cough. “Good enough. Your reputation is spotless. Come now, it is a splendid match.”

For her, yes, and she must consider the family’s finances. If her mother insisted on pushing her in Ludlowe’s direction, he must have the blunt to go along with the title. But was she to be responsible for her father’s gambling debts? She was not the one at the card tables night after night, wagering money she didn’t have.

And Ludlowe’s presumption that she should simply fall into his arms! She inhaled and prayed he would attribute the heat rising in her cheeks to a virginal blush. “I’m afraid I must decline. My sentiments are not engaged.”

He laughed, actually laughed, and she stole another glance in the direction of the drawing room. The last thing she needed was her mother’s interference. Fortunately for Julia, but perhaps unfortunately for Mama, conversation had renewed between the two ladies. From the looks of things, they had returned to their dinner discussion. Lady Wexford leaned in, quite red in the face, and her finger jabbed the air as she drove a point home.

“You, Miss Julia?” Ludlowe’s reply brought her attention back to the matter at hand. “You worry about your sentiments being engaged?”

“It has always been my hope to make a love match,” she lied.

His eyes glittered, and he raised a skeptical brow. “A love match? Surely you’ve had ample opportunity to make one by now. That baronet who offered for you two years ago. What was his name?”

“Brocklehurst,” she supplied mechanically.

“Yes, that Brocklehurst fellow. He was utterly taken with you.”

Precisely the reason she’d refused his suit. “I had no idea you paid such close attention to my doings.”

“Oh, not at the time, certainly, but one hears things.”

She dropped her hand from her throat and hid it in her skirts to mask its shaking. Keeping her voice steady became a concerted effort. “What sort of things?”

“Only that certain women have a tendency to guard their hearts and not open them to any man. And you, my dear, you trump them all.”

“And men accuse ladies of gossiping,” she said faintly. Well-bred young ladies didn’t shout, after all. “I suppose you believe yourself to be the man to win such a vaunted prize.”

He let out another bark of laughter. “Your heart doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”