A Most Scandalous Proposal (21 page)

He took a step back, the line between his brows becoming more pronounced. “If the girl were in love, as you say, with Clivesden, why’d she accept Highgate’s suit?”

She gritted her teeth to hold back the first words that sprung to mind—words she’d overhead Benedict mutter when he pulled her out of scrapes, words her father would certainly not appreciate. “She had no choice. They were caught alone. It’s a convenience to avoid scandal.”

She clamped her mouth shut before she blurted out the rest—that Sophia planned to cry off. With Papa so bound and determined to marry the pair of them off, no doubt he’d find a way to force Sophia in front of a vicar before she knew what was happening. Most especially if he discovered Highgate might be worth some blunt.

Papa rubbed his chin. “She could not be that much in love with Clivesden, then, if she let herself get into such a situation. No matter. She will be settled, with an earl no less, and so shall you. Your mother is over the moon, and I refuse to let either of you disappoint her after all the heartache she’s gone through due to your dithering. I will see the pair of you settled before the season is over, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Papa, you cannot—”

“I most certainly can. Two titled men, earls no less, have agreed to take you and your sister on and with little dowry to speak of. You will never see another such chance again.” He picked up his spectacles, hooked them over his ears, and eased himself back into his chair. Stretching out an arm, he pulled the ledger closer. “Off with you now.”

Julia gaped at him. Just like that, he’d dismissed her. He was not going to take her feelings or Sophia’s into consideration, as long as they married well and were off his hands. As long as Mama could boast to society that both her daughters were countesses.

Countesses!

“I refuse to marry Clivesden. You cannot force me.”

He looked up from his ledger, his mouth working while his cheeks flushed a dull red. “You shall marry him. You owe me that much.”

“
Owe
you?” She raised her arms and let them flop to her sides. “In what manner can I possibly owe you such a debt?”

“Do you know how much the pair of you have cost me over the past few seasons? The gowns, the bonnets, the town house?”

“And how much did your latest hand of vingt-et-un cost you?”

He went pale. His hand curled into a fist, and his jaw worked. She’d gone too far. She’d never had cause to hand her father such cheek, mainly because, much of the time, he preferred to let Mama deal with his wayward daughters, while he hid himself in here and pretended his finances were in a better state.

“I did not wish to mention this, but you leave me no choice.” He spat each syllable. “I owe Clivesden five thousand pounds.”

“Five thou—”

He slammed his fist onto his desk. “Five thousand, I might add, that I do not possess. Clivesden could see me in debtor’s prison. And then where would the rest of you be, without the protection of husbands?”

The floor listed beneath Julia’s feet, and she clutched at the desk. A husband’s protection. A fine job Papa had done protecting his own wife. If he went to debtor’s prison, she, Mama, and Sophia would find themselves on the street. “Does Mama know?”

“She does not know the full extent of my debts, and I’ve arranged to keep it that way.”

“How?” Her fingers dug into the wood until they ached. “How could you possibly keep such a matter from her?”

“I’ve an agreement with Clivesden. He has agreed to overlook the marker if I provide him with a suitable wife.”

Julia opened her mouth and closed it again. Her hands turned to ice. For a moment, she could not summon a word for lack of breath. “And you chose
me
?” she asked faintly. “Me? Why not Sophia?”

“It’s quite simple. He asked for you.”

He asked for her. Of course he had, and she knew why, but was her reputation so widely noised about that her father had heard? And if he had, would he even bother to put the rumormonger in his place? “Did you ask yourself why that was?”

He glared at her from behind his spectacles. “The why does not signify in this matter. Clivesden provided me with a solution, and I took it. Sometimes, we must make sacrifices for the good of all.”

Sacrifices. The word echoed through her mind. He wished to sacrifice
her
for a situation of his making.

J
ULIA
made it as far as her bedchamber before giving in to her anger. Her arguments had left her father unmoved.
The more she protested, the more adamantly he insisted she do her duty as his daughter.

In four strides, she crossed the chamber—one, two, three, turn; one, two, three, turn—and at each turn she dug her nails into her palms. By the tenth trip across the room, blood welled from little half-moons. She was going to have to do it. She was going to have to accept Clivesden’s suit and hang her sister’s feelings. And all over five thousand pounds. How appalling.

Her father had as good as sold her.

The backs of her eyes pricked, and she stared across the room to stave off the impending flood. She needed a plan, not tears.

Her gaze lit on the miniature of her and Sophia as children. They were so young then, so innocent. So ignorant of the ugliness of life. She couldn’t stand to look at those smiling children another moment.

She marched over to the bedside table, snatched the portrait and hurled it against the wall. The wooden frame splintered with a crash. That time in her life was just as irreparably damaged as the miniature, as the relationship with her sister would ever be.

She choked on a sob that suddenly blocked her throat. Sophia would never forgive her for going through with the marriage, not when her sister would have Clivesden thrown in her face at every turn.

In the end, that was what her choice boiled down to—her sister or her irresponsible wastrel of a father. If he ruined himself, it was through his own folly. Why should she have to pay the price? Why should Sophia and Mama?

Julia drew in a puff of air, and her shaking subsided. She could pay the money back, somehow. Not all at once, of course, but she might manage installments. And if she married, she could manage to secure Mama’s and
Sophia’s futures. But first she needed to find a way out of her betrothal.

Papa wanted her settled, did he? If she was honest with herself, being settled was the least of her concerns, but if she must marry, then she would—as long as it was not to Clivesden.

J
ULIA CLUTCHED
at her cloak as she huddled in the servants’ entrance. Outside, rain poured in sheets, buffeted by an icy wind. She’d have to go out in it and soon, even if it meant catching her death of cold.

One ear cocked in the direction of the kitchen, she listened for sounds of impending doom, or in her case, Billings’s precise march. Servant or no, he’d haul her straight above stairs and turn her over to her mother if he caught her running off.

Footsteps echoed along the corridor that led to the back stairs. Closer, closer. Nothing for it now. Gathering her courage, she plunged into the weather.

A howling gust whipped stinging droplets of rain into her face and tore the air from her lungs. In spite of a heavy woolen cloak and bonnet, she’d be soaked to the skin in minutes. Ladies did not venture out in such weather, not without a ready carriage and a footman to hold an umbrella and stand as a shield against the elements.

Today, Julia was no lady. Today instead, her behavior was scandalous. Today, she was taking her future into her hands.

Skipping to avoid ankle-deep puddles scattered about the cobblestoned alley, she darted into Boulton Row, headed fast for Curzon Street in the hopes of finding an unoccupied hackney.

What little daylight remained was fast fading. In spite of the deserted streets, she lengthened her stride. Though she might live in the heart of Mayfair, footpads were not unknown, and a lady alone was simply unthinkable.

The clatter of wheels barreling along the cobblestones made her scramble to one side. Her foot sank to the ankle in an icy puddle, while the carriage rumbled past. Her heart leapt into her throat as she caught sight of a crest emblazoned on its doors—for an instant, she was afraid she’d recognized Clivesden’s arms.

She hurried on. At the rate the rain was soaking into her cloak, it would soon not matter whether or not she found a hackney. Even if she walked the entire way, she could hardly arrive at her destination any more miserable and bedraggled.

Half an hour later, she arrived, wet to the skin, teeth chattering and her fingers frozen about the strings of her reticule. Letting out a relieved breath, she sloshed up the steps to the imposing oak door, raised the brass knocker and let it fall once. Then she hugged herself in a vain attempt to retain warmth, while praying the butler would not take one look at her and run her off for a ragamuffin.

“Please hurry. Please be home.” She muttered the litany between clenched teeth while the wind tore at her wraps.

She was about to reach for the knocker a second time when the door opened. Phipps loomed on the threshold, peering down at her from over his beak of a nose. His brows lowered. “Yes?”

“Please, is Lord Benedict at home?”

“I shall have to inquire. And who might I say is calling at such an odd hour?”

From beneath her cloak, she produced a dripping card. Phipps accepted it with a sniff. A moment later,
his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Miss Julia. Forgive me. I did not recognize you in such a state. But alone? This is highly irregular.”

“Please, Phipps, if I could at least get out of the rain.”

“Of course, miss, of course.”

He stepped aside and allowed her to wade into the foyer of Benedict’s town house. Or rather, the house belonging to his older brother, the Marquess of Enfield, who had opted to remain in the country this season.

Phipps’s dark eyes went round at the sight of the ever-widening puddle at Julia’s feet. “I hardly know what to say, miss. You really ought to put on something dry before you fall ill, but …”

“But there’s no lady in residence to lend me anything,” she completed. There. She’d acknowledged what she was doing—paying a call, alone, on a bachelor. “A warm fire must suffice for the moment.”

“I shall send a maid with tea straightaway. Or perhaps Cook can roust up something more bracing. I’m afraid Lord Benedict spends far more time at his club these days than he does here.”

Julia’s heart gave an awful lurch. “Is he not at home then?”

Half a second’s blink and a slight darkening of the butler’s cheeks were the only signs that betrayed the man’s discomfort. Anyone unfamiliar with the family might have passed the indication by without a second thought. Not Julia. Not when she’d grown up as Benedict’s neighbor and been in and out of his house nearly as often as her own.

“I shall inquire. Please wait in the parlor.”

Mindful of the thick Persian carpet in that room, Julia cast a rueful glance at her feet. True to form, Phipps’s expression remained implacable as he reached for her sodden cloak. “Be off and warm yourself, miss.”

The moment Phipps disappeared down the hall, Julia hurried up to the parlor. Standing as close as she dared to the dancing flames, she allowed their warmth to seep into her. Slowly, she began to feel a bit more human and slightly less like an icicle.

But while she thawed, a gale of worries blew about her mind. What if Benedict had already gone out? What if he refused to see her? But then it occurred to her: Her presence here might well be sufficient. If only she could contrive for word to get out. A difficult prospect when the very weather that had provided the perfect cover for her to sneak out of the house also conspired to keep most sensible people indoors and not in a position to catch her.

Sensible.

She’d always thought of herself as a sensible person. Sensible, practical, mindful of her reputation. She’d been all those things up until the moment her father announced her betrothal to a crowded ballroom.

Now she was merely desperate and perhaps even insane. One had to be to venture out in such weather.

The thud of approaching footsteps echoed in the hall. Certain it was a maid arriving with sustenance, she kept her gaze trained on the fire. Booted feet tramped closer. Odd, she heard nothing to indicate a tea cart.

The thumps came to a halt. She turned her head to find Benedict standing on the threshold. His brows lowered as his gaze raked her from head to foot.

“What the devil possessed you to come here?”

At his cold words, Julia whirled, her soaked skirt clinging to her legs.

Benedict propped an elbow against the jamb, his stance casual, his manner dismissive. His black hair flopped onto his brow, more becomingly disheveled than any dandy’s whose valet spent hours on artful arrangement. He hadn’t bothered with a topcoat or waistcoat. His
shirt hung slack, unbuttoned at the neck, displaying a fascinating wedge of skin. The notch at the base of his throat lay shaded by an overhang of unshaven chin.