A Most Scandalous Proposal (25 page)

Her eyes drifted shut, and she listened to the blood rushing in her ears and let herself experience. Let herself open. Let herself go.

Over the pounding of her heart, a whisper of movement told her he’d shifted, inched closer, his presence bright and compelling.

She gravitated toward it as a flower turns its face to the sun. His breath floated over her lips, and she parted them. His lips brushed against hers softly, easily, as light as their first kiss was hard. He pressed, and she pressed back, such a simple give and take.

She sighed into his mouth, and he slipped a hand to the nape of her neck, exerting a gentle pressure, angling her head for a deeper probing of his tongue. She responded to his every move as if they were once again waltzing. He led, and she followed until her head spun like yet another whirl through a ballroom, only this time, instead of dodging other couples, they were completely alone.

He pulled back for an instant, and her heart fluttered with fear he’d stop. Leaning forward, she reached for him. Her fingers dug into the rough wool of his lapels, as she tugged him back to her.

He feathered eager lips to her cheek and temples, swift, joyous little kisses that drew forth a bittersweet burst of emotion. At last, he rested his forehead against hers. For several moments, the only sound was their ragged breathing.

“So sweet a response,” he whispered. “How you tempt me to do more.”

She raised her hands, and placed them on both sides of his face. His breath hissed through his lips, and she waited for his eyes to flicker open. “I think … I know I want more.”

He closed his eyes. A tremor seemed to pass through him. She felt the flutter of movement beneath her fingertips, as fleeting as the shiver of a horse’s skin as it shakes off a fly. “You are making my resolve to behave like a gentleman extremely difficult to maintain.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a single word, he placed a finger across it. “Don’t say it. Don’t tempt me further.”

“What was I about to say?” she teased, in spite of the finger.

“That you don’t want me to behave like a gentleman.”

He knew her too well. She’d wanted to issue a challenge, just as she had so often during the course of their childhood. “Perhaps I don’t.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her away. “You do not understand. If I give into my passion in this moment, I would take you here and now, and you deserve so much more than a quick tumble on a cold floor.”

“Strange, I do not feel the least bit cold.” She didn’t—not in Benedict’s arms.

The corners of his mouth edged into a grim smile. “You might change your mind once it’s too late.” He settled back on his heels, placing distance between them. “Best we puzzle out how we’re to get a fire started. Tomorrow, I’ll show you about the place.”

“I
DO NOT
understand this insistence on a public spectacle, when the matter of this marriage could just as easily be solved in private.” Mariah tugged at a glove. “Away from curious eyes.”

Across from her, Mrs. St. Claire puffed herself up, no doubt to retort—as politely as possible, naturally.

Rufus trained his gaze out the window and attempted to ignore them, an impossible feat the way they sat. This was the carriage ride from hell. Not only was he crammed in with his sister, a captive audience to her ongoing—but oh-so-proper—argument with his future mother-in-law, but the crowds on Bond Street had slowed the horses to a standstill. Passersby paused to gawk for a moment or two at the crest emblazoned on his barouche before continuing on their way, at a much greater clip on foot.

Next to her mother, Sophia shifted her weight, flapping one hand ineffectually in an effort to stir the stuffy air. She glanced at him, and he caught himself wishing she would smile, not that she had reason of late.

Julia had been gone for two days; no doubt, her absence would be noticed soon. Clivesden had burst in on the family yesterday evening with some wild notion of going after Julia and her lover. No matter how much the St. Claires and even Clivesden himself might want to keep that information secret, it would get out and make the rounds under cover of raised fans from one ear to
the next. Part of Sophia, at least, must agree with Mariah—and Mariah remained blissfully ignorant of the latest developments. The family need not draw attention to itself in the face of the impending scandal.

“Mama, perhaps we ought to go home.”

Mariah gave a firm nod. “Finally, the chit has said something sensible. I never thought she had it in her.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. St. Claire broke in before Rufus had a chance to leap to Sophia’s defense. “You are to be married. If you’re not seen purchasing your trousseau, people are bound to speculate why not.”

Sophia caught his eye and paled. If Mrs. St. Claire wasn’t careful, Mariah might start asking difficult questions.

He cleared his throat. “I believe we’d arrive at our destination more quickly if we walked.”

Sophia sat up a bit straighter. “What a splendid notion.”

“Young lady, you will remain right where you are.” Mariah leaned forward until her face hovered mere inches from Sophia’s. “It is unseemly for you to be seen in Highgate’s company unchaperoned, and I most certainly shall not walk.”

Rufus turned to her. “Ah, yes, such a danger a man might pose to impressionable young misses in the midst of a crowded street. It isn’t as if I’m proposing to spirit her off into the side lanes at Vauxhall.”

He tapped on the roof, an absurd action, perhaps, since they’d stood on the same spot for the past five minutes, but it signaled the footman to let down the steps.

Rufus leapt from the carriage to the teeming thoroughfare. “I intend to take some air. Would you care to join me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mariah began, but Sophia ignored her.

She laid a hand in his extended palm and alit. Her smile strained slightly at the corners, as if it knew it only existed as a façade to show the world everything was perfectly fine. “Thank goodness,” she murmured. “I couldn’t bear those two another moment.”

“I can’t blame you there.” He tucked her hand inside his elbow and set off, leaving the barouche where it stood, stalled in the middle of the street.

“I ought to thank you for the outing, but your sister is probably correct. We’d be best staying home.”

Rufus touched his hat to a pair of passing ladies. They glanced his way and then turned for a second glimpse. It was the scar, of course. They viewed it as a symbol of his tragic first marriage. “I think the outing will do you good. Better than staying home and worrying over … things you cannot change.”

She nodded in reply. It was the only possible response on a crowded Mayfair street where any number of eager ears strained to overhear. But he knew what thoughts turned in her mind—concern for her sister and apprehension for the future.

The notion that he could gauge her thoughts on a mere expression and inclination of her head warmed him through. He’d never before reached such a level of sympathy with any woman.

“I still wonder if a shopping expedition is the best idea. Once we reach the milliner’s, Mama is certain to forget herself.”

He slanted a glance at her. He knew little of ladies’ fashions, but even his untrained eye could pick up the air of shabbiness that hung over her costume, the fraying about her hem, the lack of crispness to her spencer, the sagging lace edging her bonnet. She deserved much better than her family could offer. “Should you see anything you’d like, I shall charge it to my account.”

She stopped in the middle of the pavement, two spots of rose springing into bloom below her eyes. The river of strollers continued to swell around them.

“I cannot allow you to do that.” She kept her voice pitched low, but each word floated distinctly over the rumble of carriages.

“It would be my pleasure. Consider it a gift for the trouble our arrangement has caused you.”

The pink in her cheeks darkened, and she bit down on her lip. An image jolted through his mind. She might look just like this under more agreeable circumstances—in his bed, her pleasure spent. Blood pulsed to his groin at the thought of her lying sated in a tangle of white linen sheets, naked, her breathing shallow, and that lovely flush gracing more than her cheeks. It would cover her neck, her breasts …

He held her gaze, and her blush deepened. “We … we ought to be on our way.”

“Yes, we ought. At this rate, your mother and my sister will arrive before we do. I’m sure there’s something scandalous to that, although I can’t imagine what.” Well, beyond his wanton thoughts.

“Your sister might claim you lured me off into some den of sin.”

He blinked at her, and a grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “And what do you know of dens of sin?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Surely that wasn’t a tinge of disappointment he heard tainting her tone. Surely not.

She turned away before he could be certain. They strode off down the street once more, making fast for the milliner’s. More passersby cast him speculative glances. He touched his hat to a young lady who looked as if she ought to still be in the schoolroom. The chit’s eyes went round, and her frowning governess chivvied her along.

Sophia’s fingers curled into his elbow, and their shoulders brushed, as she leaned close to speak in confidence.
“Why is everyone gaping so? It’s enough to make me think I’ve suddenly burst out in spots.”

“They’ve heard news of our betrothal, my dear, and they’re wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“All manner of things that are none of their affair. Whether we’ll suit. How much I might have paid your father to take you off his hands. How long after the vows are spoken before you’ll cuckold me.”

She stopped once more. “But none of that is true. We’re not—” She broke off, mindful they stood in an overly interested crowd, but he didn’t need her to voice the rest of her thought.

“It’s the way they think. They love to imagine the worst of people. Just like my sister. She’s forever drawing the worst possible conclusion and embellishing from there. It makes her feel superior.”

“What …” She glanced around before dropping her voice. “What will she make of me once I’ve cried off?”

He tamped down a rush of annoyance that she’d brought the subject up and managed to inject a degree of mildness into his response. “She’ll be overjoyed at the news. She thinks you quite beneath me. I, however, rarely share her opinions. In fact, I prefer as often as possible to take a contrary view.”

There. He’d drawn more color to her cheeks. She looked quite fetching in her shabby bonnet with her complexion aglow. He must remember to compliment her more often.

She cleared her throat. “I believe we’ve arrived.”

They entered the shop, which, for the moment, was blessedly free of his sister. Bonnets, fans, lace, and all manner of ridiculous feminine accoutrements dripped from shelves. The air was tainted with a mixture of heavy perfume, dust, and flecks of feathers.

“My goodness, if it isn’t Miss St. Claire.” Rufus watched a dark-haired young lady make her way between displays.
The scent of perfume increased, and he searched his memory. Something familiar about her.

In the midst of fingering a length of blue ribbon, Sophia stiffened. “Good afternoon.”

Her tone lacked its usual warmth, but the newcomer ignored it. “I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to your … Well, I suppose this is your betrothed, isn’t it?”

“This is the Earl of Highgate,” Sophia murmured, eyes narrowed. On guard.

“My lord.” The brunette dropped him a curtsey.

He nodded an acknowledgment, but as Sophia had neglected to tell him the young lady’s name, he could not make more of a reply.

At any rate, she turned her attention back to Sophia. “How is your sister? I hope she’s well. I haven’t seen her at any of the usual gatherings in days.”

The color drained from Sophia’s cheeks, and her fingers tightened on Rufus’s arm. “I … Julia …”

“I’m afraid she’s been ill these past days,” Rufus supplied.

“What a pity. I heard the oddest rumor about her.” The brunette made a show of straightening the lace cascading from her cuffs. “Someone told me she’d left Town altogether. And she didn’t go alone.”

Sophia started. “Who told you that?”

The brunette threw back her head and emitted a high-pitched twitter of laughter, the awful keening enough to set any nearby dogs to baying. It triggered a memory. Clivesden’s companion from the Posselthwaite ball. His fingernails bit into his palms until the skin stretched tightly over his knuckles.

“Now, now,” the brunette replied. “I cannot give away such information. While I’m sure he’s in a position to know, the notion is simply too ridiculous. Why should she elope with a younger son when she might have a title?”

Sophia placed a hand to her throat. “Indeed.”

Poor thing. She’d give up the truth in another minute. He grasped Sophia’s arm. Her shoulders squared, her bosom expanded, and the flesh beneath his fingers firmed, taking confidence from his presence.