A Most Scandalous Proposal (16 page)

In the ensuing silence, Julia pressed her lips together. What her sister had left unsaid—that Ludlowe was unlikely to ever claim a kiss from her—rang loudly in her consciousness.

“Julia,” Sophia said as if she might not like the reply, “did someone kiss you tonight?”

“Benedict,” she whispered.

“Oh, Julia, he
is
in love with you!”

She turned to find Sophia grinning from ear to ear. “I’d rather he wasn’t.”

“Whyever not? You’ve known each other forever. You
already get on famously. Oh, you must tell me, what was it like?”

“Unexpected.” Dark, unsettling, and yet oddly delicious. Not that it would happen again. Not that he would try after her cold dismissal. But surely she could not have acted otherwise. Surely a young lady of good breeding did not demand more.

Not that she wanted more. Oh, no.

Sophia gave her a playful slap on the arm. “Pooh, you’re no fun. Now that you’re an experienced woman, you could at least advise me on what to expect.”

Julia sank onto the bed. “I do not know that I could possibly describe it. Why don’t you ask Highgate to kiss you? Then you’ll know.”

Sophia shook her head. “I could never betray William like that.”

Words leapt to Julia’s mind and jammed in her throat. Awful, cruel words like, “How could you betray him when he’s never truly looked in your direction?” In short, the truth.

But Sophia didn’t want the truth. She never did.

Eyes wide, she stared at Julia, expecting encouragement in her fantasies, but tonight Julia could not find encouragement within her. Not in regard to Ludlowe, and not after the vile way he’d attempted to propose. But Julia could never tell Sophia about that.

“No, of course you couldn’t betray William like that,” she replied in a near monotone, like a pupil reciting a lesson long since learned by rote.

“What if he proposes?”

An awful jolt pierced her stomach, and she snapped her gaze back to Sophia. “Who?”

“Why Benedict, you goose. You could not think I meant William, could you?”

“Please stop.”

Sophia raised her eyebrows. “What’s the matter?”

“I cannot marry Benedict, and you know it.”

Sophia waved a hand. “Mama will get over his lack of a title.”

His lack of a title was the least of Julia’s concerns, but she’d rather not discuss those matters with her sister. They cut too close to both their hearts. They were part of a past she’d worked so hard to bury. And there it would remain, safely interred. “I’m not sure she will.”

“So far as she knows, I’ve landed myself an earl. She’s over the moon about that. Perhaps she’d be willing to overlook Benedict.”

“Just how long are you planning to wait before crying off?” Julia swallowed. “Not that it matters. He hasn’t offered.”

God willing, he never would.

R
ICH
amber liquid swirled in the glass, the movement mesmerizing until it ceased. Benedict tossed back the brandy. It burned a path to his stomach, and for a moment, the buzz of surrounding conversation faded. So much the better. He’d chosen this corner of the club because he’d rather avoid the usual insipid observations about the weather and endless political debate. After yet another unsuccessful day looking at horseflesh, a mere glass wasn’t sufficient.

And that wasn’t taking into account the disaster kissing Julia had brought about. Three days, and he still couldn’t erase the memory of her scent, her curves pressed against him—at least until she pushed him away. Raising a finger, he hailed a footman. He’d need an entire bottle before he’d forget the kiss they’d shared.

For, after her initial hesitation, she
had
shared it with him for a few moments—all too brief, but enough to fuel his imagination at night. Enough to conjure images of her pliant body responding to a far more intimate
touch than his lips on hers. He could nearly taste the salt of her skin on his tongue.

He drummed his fingers on the table. Where was that footman?

“You know, you’ve become downright maudlin these days.”

His hand froze mid-drumroll. Upperton stood at the table, his cravat carelessly askew and his hair tousled, as if he’d come straight to the club from his mistress’s bed.

“If you ask me,” he went on, “it’s some bit of muslin that’s got under your skin.”

Benedict flattened his palm against the table. “I didn’t ask you. And how dare you refer to her as some bit of muslin?”

Upperton pulled back a chair and settled himself, arms folded over his chest and his long legs stretched before him. “Perhaps if you told me her name, I mightn’t dare.”

“I’m barely in my cups as it is. I’d have to be ape-drunk before I’d tell you that.”

The footman reappeared with a full bottle of Hennessy and a second glass, which Upperton lost no time claiming.

“Shall we make a game of it?” He poured two fingers into each of the glasses. “I shall name a young lady. If I’m wrong about her identity, I shall take a drink. And if I guess it right, you shall drink. Whichever of us is thoroughly foxed first wins.”

“What does he win? Unless it’s something useful like a broodmare, I’m not interested. I can manage on my own without playing games.” To emphasize his point, Benedict downed his measure in one swallow.

Upperton tapped his fingers on his untouched glass. “You realize you’re going to wake up tomorrow with the devil dancing on your head and a craving for something vile like kidney and kippers for breakfast?”

“At least I’ll have slept.”

Arching a brow, Upperton sipped at his drink. “Is it that bad? Let’s say we make a wager. I get one guess. Five hundred pounds says I’m right.”

Benedict’s glass hit the table with a resounding crack. “A wager? Damn you and your wagers. That’s what got me into this mess in the first place.”

Upperton inspected his nails. “Indeed. And have you let Miss Julia know of your affections?”

Benedict blinked at his friend.

“Don’t look so shocked.” Upperton leaned forward in his chair. “How could you ever think you were hiding anything with that display the pair of you put on—?”

“What display?”

“When I pulled your leg about making a go of things with her. At the musicale. You cannot be so far gone to have forgotten that. My tone-deaf sisters? Doing horrible injustices to Herr Mozart and various other composers?”

Irritation prickled through the beginnings of a respectable fog of brandy. “Yes, yes. What of it?”

“Well, of course you would not have noticed. You were too busy studying the wallpaper. You could have fried an egg on Miss Julia’s face, it was so red.”

Benedict fingered the brandy bottle. “Such a poet you are with those images. You ought to give Lord Byron a few lessons. Show the man how it’s done.”

“Ah, sarcasm. The final refuge of the desperate. I see you’re not bothering with denials. That’s always a step in the right direction.”

“Your point, Upperton, before I give in to the urge to find out what color your hair will turn if I upend this bottle over it.”

“You’d never commit the sacrilege of wasting such superior brandy.”

Benedict closed his fingers about the bottle’s neck. “We can always order another.”

“Right,” Upperton hurried on, “my point. How does one put this delicately?”

Benedict snorted. “You’ve no more an idea how to put things delicately than your sisters have an ear for music.”

“Conceded.” Upperton raised his glass in salute. “I shall barrel straight through it then. You weren’t the only one uncomfortable with my teasing. Miss Julia was just as ill at ease. If you want my opinion, she might well accept your suit.”

Benedict leaned forward. “How would you like to wager on that?”

“Well, damn.”

“What?”

“If you’re that confident, I know I’ve lost ahead of time. What happened?”

Benedict eyed his friend. While they’d certainly passed many agreeable hours—God only knew they’d both nursed the headaches afterward—discussing females, he had never said a word about this particular woman. He refused to consider her alongside opera dancers and actresses and the sorts of women Upperton frequented. In his mind, Julia stood apart from even the higher born daughters of the
ton
. She always had and bloody likely always would. Only, since their kiss, the nature of that distinction had changed. Discussing her with Upperton, as if she were some opera singer he lusted after, was unthinkable.

And yet the brandy warmed his veins and loosened his tongue. “I kissed her.”

Upperton’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his shaggy fringe. “Indeed? And?”

“Her reaction was not what I’d hoped.”

Upperton’s laughter earned him a glare from a gentleman a table or two over. “She slapped you, didn’t she?”

“No.” If only she had. He suspected anger would have been easier to endure.

It was her icy demeanor—understandable, of course, given the secret she’d revealed—that had sent him back to his original purpose of acquiring horseflesh. He recalled too many times they’d laughed together in the past. He wanted the old Julia back.

“Then what?” Upperton prodded.

“She kissed me back.”

“And
that’s
driven you to this state?”

Benedict lowered his brows. “I’m not in a state.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“Hang it all. She came to her senses.”

Upperton tossed back the remainder of his glass. “There’s a simple solution to your problem.”

Benedict glared at his friend, knowing in advance he was not going to like what Upperton was about to say. “What?”

“Make sure she loses her senses next time.”

He studied his glass for a moment before raising it to his lips. “There will not be a next time. She’s made that clear enough.”

“Where is your courage, man?” Upperton slammed a hand down on the table, drawing more glances from those seated nearby. “You have affection for the girl. You need to bound in and sweep her off her feet. Don’t give her time to stop and think. Keep her so occupied, she doesn’t realize what’s hit her until she wakes up in your bed one morning, and by then she’ll be so thoroughly satisfied, it will not matter.”

Benedict set his glass down with a thud. “Are you quite through? I cannot believe you’ve just suggested I seduce a well-bred young lady of an upstanding family.”

Upperton slanted him a look. “Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”

“You are assuming the young lady in question is amenable. I can assure you, she is not.”

Upperton tipped the bottle and poured them both another glass. “At least things do not bode so well for Ludlowe in that case.”

Benedict swallowed his full measure without pause. “He’s already proposed.”

Upperton’s face turned purple as he spluttered and coughed. “Good God, man,” he wheezed once he got his breathing under control. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? And, more to the point, what are you planning on doing to stop it?”

Benedict made no reply. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned. Shoulders hunched, the candlelight reflecting off his pate, Mr. St. Claire descended the staircase from one of the upper rooms.

Benedict narrowed his eyes. “What do you think he’s doing here?”

Following the direction of Benedict’s gaze, Upperton perked up. “Speak of the devil.”

“We weren’t speaking of St. Claire.”

“No, but Ludlowe’s name came up.” Upperton nodded toward a figure strolling in Mr. St. Claire’s wake. A tall, impeccably dressed figure, whose walking stick tapped each riser as he advanced. With him was another man, quite average in both height and looks, with only a rather impressive nose to distinguish him.

Before Benedict could react, Upperton pushed himself from his seat and strode toward the elegantly carved curve of the stairs. Benedict groaned. While Upperton hadn’t imbibed enough to be even halfway to foxed, he’d consumed sufficient brandy to lose his sense of caution—just enough to make him dangerous.

Benedict scrambled to find his footing. The floor beneath his Hessians listed like a beleaguered ship in a
Channel storm, and he grasped at his chair for support. He’d swallowed more liquor than he’d intended, enough to make navigating the maze of tables and chairs to the door an inhuman feat.

And that was not even negotiating the steps down to the ground floor.

“Where are you off to, Revelstoke?”

Too late. Upperton was back, a gleam of mischief in his eye, Ludlowe and companion in tow. The first time Benedict had ever seen that particular gleam, they’d been first-year students at Eton. After the resulting caning, Benedict had resolved to heed that gleam and run in the opposite direction, but then he’d never been much good with resolve.

“Don’t mind Revelstoke,” Upperton went on, as he ushered Ludlowe into a chair. “He’s had a stroke of bad news and could use a spot of cheer.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” Ludlowe’s companion pulled a pack of cards from his coat. He proceeded to shuffle them in a flamboyant manner that did nothing to set Benedict at ease. A man that dexterous might easily stack the pack with no one the wiser. “What’s your game? Piquet? Vingt-et-un?”

Benedict had not drunk enough to be tempted. He lifted the brandy. “I’ve got all I need right here, thanks.”

Ludlowe eyed the bottle of Hennessy and grinned. “Perhaps you’d like to help me celebrate.”

Benedict flopped into his seat, torn between the urge to guzzle the remainder of the brandy and pray for oblivion, or to break the bottle over Ludlowe’s thick skull. Either way, it would waste perfectly good brandy, but he was too drunk to care.

“Oh?” Upperton raised his eyebrows. “And what is it we’re celebrating tonight?”

Ludlowe’s smile widened. Seizing Benedict’s glass, he
poured himself a measure and raised it. “A toast, my friends.”

Upperton clinked his glass against Ludlowe’s. “Cheers! What is it we’re drinking to?”

“A successful courtship.”

Benedict watched in horror as Ludlowe downed the contents of his glass. He couldn’t possibly swallow another drop. As it was, the quantities he’d already taken in were threatening to put in an imminent reappearance.