A Most Scandalous Proposal (30 page)

At Julia’s scream, he hesitated but only for a second as he recalled all of the reasons he was here—the wager, Julia’s lost reputation, Amherst’s oft-bloodied nose and blackened eyes. No, he couldn’t stop. Not now. Again and again his fist smashed into Clivesden’s overly pretty, if unshaven, face.

A pair of strong arms halted his next blow and pulled him away. “Stop, man.” Upperton’s voice sliced through the roar of blood and anger in Benedict’s head. “Don’t kill him. You don’t need that on your conscience.”

“Where the hell did you come from?” Benedict unclenched his fist and shook out his hand. His knuckles ached from repeated collisions with Clivesden’s face,
just enough payment for his inaction as a schoolboy in the face of Amherst’s bullies. “For that matter, where the hell did he come from?”

He waved at Clivesden. The bastard slumped against the wall, eyes half-lidded and glassy. Blood poured from his nose, which now sat at an odd angle. The bone and cartilage had yielded to Benedict’s blows with a satisfying crunch.

“It seems to me you asked me to come,” Upperton said grimly. “I can’t say much for the reception.”

Too late, Benedict recalled he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Neither, for that matter, was Julia. God, what a spectacle. But a quick glimpse of her showed she’d managed to retrieve her chemise from the tangle of sheets. One hand clutched at the coverlet she’d wrapped about her shoulders. The other twisted in the fabric of his banyan—she must have pulled it from the clothespress while he was pummeling away at Clivesden.

“Here.” Round-eyed and red-cheeked, she tossed the deep red brocade at him.

With a nod, he covered himself before turning back to Upperton. “You still haven’t told me how the devil he found us.”

“They must have followed me. I’m sorry, mate. I thought I’d been careful.”

“They?” cried Julia. “Who else is with you?”

Upperton flicked a glance in the direction of her corner, but he was careful not to look full on. Just as well. Even if she had covered herself, Benedict didn’t want to beat another man for ogling his intended.

“Your father came along with Clivesden. I convinced him he’d rather wait outside, but I’ve no idea of his patience.”

Benedict ignored Julia’s squeak. Clivesden was stirring. With a shake of his blond head, he raised his fingers
to probe at a rapidly rising knot on his jaw. When the tips came away red, his brows lowered, and his gaze focused on Benedict, narrow and malevolent.

Clivesden heaved himself to his feet, and Benedict lurched forward, fists balled, ready to wade in once again. Arms outstretched, Upperton stepped between them.

“You can call off your lapdog,” Clivesden spat. Blood now stained the once pristine whiteness of his cravat. “I’ve no intention of settling this matter now.”

“You always were afraid to face a man’s fists, weren’t you?” Benedict grated. “It was easier for you to prey on the weaker.”

“I’d call you out for that, only I’d rather not have the gossips twist the story and have us facing each other over a trollop.”

The absolute scoundrel. Benedict lunged, only to meet with the implacable barrier of Upperton’s shoulder.

“Trollop?” Julia let out a screech of outrage. “Between you and my father, you would have turned me into one!”

Benedict had no chance to react to this pronouncement. Beyond Upperton’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Clivesden’s battered face. The cad might have worn a smirk, only the swelling twisted the expression into a leer. But then his bloodied mouth rounded into shock.

Out of nowhere, another pair of fists seized him by the lapels and bore him backward into the wall. “What did you just call my daughter?”

“Papa!”

Somehow St. Claire had squeezed himself into the crowded bedchamber.

“I called her what she is.” A sneer managed to etch itself across Clivesden’s ravaged face, as arrogant as he’d ever been at school while taunting the weak. “A trollop. A whore.”

St. Claire’s belly heaved, his face and pate blotched with red. “Mind your language in front of a lady.”

Clivesden straightened and shook off the older man’s grip. “I see no ladies present. Only a common trollop. She could improve herself by servicing men in alleyways.”

No. He hadn’t. The bastard simply hadn’t. Pulse pounding in his ears, Benedict thrust himself at Clivesden, but once more, Upperton held him back.

“I swear to God, I’ll kill him,” Benedict growled. “Here and now.”

Upperton tightened his grip. “That’s my concern.”

A bead of sweat trickled behind the arm of St. Claire’s spectacles. “My daughter was perfectly right to run from you, if this is the contempt you show her.”

“I’ll see you in Fleet Prison.”

“I’ll do you one better.” St. Claire threw his shoulders back, and pinched each finger of his left glove. He yanked the bit of leather free and swatted Clivesden’s face. “For the insult to my daughter, I’ll see you at a dawn appointment.”

Clivesden glared at him for a moment, before a maddening semblance of a smile twisted his bloodied features. “And who would stand with you as a second? One of your creditors?”

“I will.” Benedict thrust Upperton’s arms aside. “If Mr. St. Claire cannot fulfill his role, it would give me the greatest pleasure to blast you to hell.”

A gleam came into Clivesden’s eye. “My second will be in touch. Pistols, I presume.”

“Naturally,” replied St. Claire.

Clivesden nodded, but he kept his gaze fixed on Benedict. If pure hatred might be encapsulated into a single glance, Clivesden had succeeded. After a moment or two, he swept from the cottage.

“Papa!” Julia’s cry broke in on Benedict’s string of mental curses.

Benedict turned. Her cheeks blazed with heat, more than might be explained by their recent activities, although he caught the telltale wash of pink on her shoulders and neck. The flush of a well-satisfied woman.

Except she was glaring at her father while biting her lip at the same time, the expression an odd mixture of irritation and embarrassment. Hardly the picture of a woman basking in the afterglow.

Damn that bloody idiot Clivesden for spoiling the most perfect moment of his life.

“Papa, you cannot fight a duel over this. I will not have it.”

“I most certainly can,” he replied. “I’ll not stand for a man saying such things about you. Most especially when you were perfectly correct to lay the blame on me.”

Julia’s face crumpled, and she took a step toward her father, only the bed blocked the way. “I never asked for this outcome.”

“Get yourself dressed. Both of you.” St. Claire’s voice hardened as he addressed Benedict as well. “Any discussion can wait for the ride back to Town.”

St. Claire then stalked from the chamber, Upperton in his wake. Julia waited until the door closed behind them before saying anything further. “You have to do something to stop this.”

Crossing to the clothespress, Benedict reached for his shirt. “Whether you like it or not, a duel was probably the inevitable outcome of today. I expected he’d challenge me.”

She let out a whimper but just as quickly cut the sound off.

“You could not possibly have imagined Clivesden would stand aside and wish us well. Not when—”

He clamped his mouth shut. Damn, he’d nearly blurted the truth. Hoping to cover the moment, he pulled on his trousers.

“Not when what?”

In the midst of tucking in his shirttails, he paused. “No matter. I want to know why you said to him what you did.”

She stopped in the midst of shaking out several yards of pale blue muslin. “Said what?”

“When he called you—” His throat constricted with anger. God, he couldn’t even bring himself to repeat it. “When he called you a whore. I’d have strangled him for that alone, but you agreed with it. And you blame your father?”

She looked down at the pile of fabric, and twisted it in her hands. “Papa sold me to settle a debt. Apparently, I’m worth five thousand pounds.”

“Five thousand?” The exact amount of the bet. His mind whirled. Had Clivesden suspected St. Claire might never pay him back and sought to recoup the loss through the wager at White’s? Such assuredness, such confidence, such utter arrogance.
“Five thousand?”

“I know. It’s ridiculous.”

“Five thousand.” He couldn’t fathom it. “The same as—” Damn it, he’d done it again. Blast him and his mouth.

“Same as?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing.” She accompanied her words with a slashing gesture. “It cannot be nothing. I want to know why, of all the eligible ladies of the
ton
, he settled on me. You know something. It isn’t right you’ve kept it from me.”

“Didn’t he answer that question when he proposed?” He stared hard, silently pleading with her not to make him repeat any of that vile proposal. It ought to stick in her memory more, at any rate. She’d been a party to the scene.

“There’s got to be more to it than that. Why’s he so dashed relentless about the whole thing? He could have any chit he wants without lifting a finger. He could have had my sister, for goodness’ sake.”

Benedict’s fingers fumbled with his cravat. Blasted thing. He’d never got the hang of tying it properly without help. “I think he saw you as a challenge. He could’ve had any number of chits, as you say, but so could most of the other men of the
ton
. I think he wants to be able to claim he’s landed the one woman they cannot have.”

“Contrary idiots, the lot of you.” She pressed her lips into a line and stepped into another of Henrietta Upperton’s ruffled confections. Wordlessly, she presented her back, while holding her hair in a pile on her head.

After a moment’s confusion, he realized she wanted help with her buttons. His fingers trembled as he pulled the sides of her bodice together and fastened one tiny clasp after the next. His knuckles grazed the warmth of her skin that penetrated the negligible barrier of her chemise. The memory of that skin’s softness tingled through him.

He gritted his teeth and thrust the images aside. As much as he’d love to tear off this gown and take her back to bed, now was not the time with her father and his closest friend waiting on the other side of the door.

“You know,” she said as he fastened the final closure, “I do not believe you ever told me how you knew that idiot would pursue me in the first place.”

He stepped back. “Oh, I’m sure I must have.” A blatant lie. He never wanted her to find out she’d been the subject of a wager at White’s.

“No, you didn’t.” She turned to face him. “I distinctly recall you telling me Ludlowe had set his sights on me, but never where that information came from.”

An expectant pause ensued. He blinked. She blinked
back and folded her arms. With a growl, he raked a hand through his hair.
Think, man
. But no plausible explanation sprang to mind. In another moment, she’d probably tap her foot.

Fine then. “He wagered five thousand pounds on you.”

“He
what?
”

Benedict nodded. “Five thousand pounds that you’d become the next Countess of Clivesden. I did not realize the full import until he told us he was in line for the earldom.”

Her lips disappeared ominously into her mouth. “I dearly, dearly hope you had the decency not to sign on that wager.”

“Of course I didn’t sign. What do you take me for?”

“Someone who hangs about the likes of George Upperton.”

Heat crept up the back of Benedict’s neck, and he suppressed an urge to tug at his collar. Thank God, he’d never managed to knot his cravat. “Upperton may have, er, signed on that wager.”

Julia clapped her palm over her mouth. Then her ruffled bosom gave a mighty heave as she drew in air. Several stitches protested the movement with loud pops.

Benedict held up a hand, hoping it would be sufficient to impede the impending explosion—or prevent her from marching into the next room and confronting the man himself. “I said
may
have. I haven’t seen the evidence for myself. I’m only going on a few things he’s said.”

“I should think those are the sorts of suspicions you’d want to verify.” Her tone was as glacial as yesterday’s wind—and today’s, no doubt.

“Right. We might do that now.”

Her glare unwavering, she crossed her arms. The way she was glowering, he’d be fortunate if she allowed him to seduce her again sometime within the next decade.
For that matter, Upperton might well worry about his own possibilities for future progeny. Lucky thing he was in the next room.

He heaved a sigh. “Yes, well, pack your things. And then we’ll see about getting this sorted.”

B
ENEDICT
was wrong. They didn’t get the question sorted, not in the cottage and not halfway through the journey back. Not when a silence reigned in the carriage, so weighty it dulled the clop of the horses’ hooves on the road and the clatter of the wheels.

“Bloody great idiot,” Benedict grumbled.

Upperton raised his brows.

“I will not refer to him by his title. I find the one I’ve bestowed on him preferable.” Benedict tried to catch Julia’s eye, but she refused to meet his gaze. Let him try to wheedle a smile out of her. She was not about to play his games. Let him stew.

“Oh, quite.” Upperton stared out the window for a moment. “I say, I’m sorry for this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I reckon if he found you so quickly, it’s my fault. Thought I slipped out of Town on the sly.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope he’d lose time checking the routes to Scotland,” Benedict said.

Next to her on the squabs, Papa held himself rigid, his presence more substantial than ever before in her life. He preferred to ignore his daughters in favor of more masculine companions, companions who drank with him and wagered. Companions who fleeced him until he was willing to sell his own children to extract himself from debt.

“You didn’t think we’d know who to watch?” His outburst sounded unnaturally loud in the tense air. “The pair of you, thick as thieves. And don’t think for a moment
you’re square with me, young man. Just because you’ve agreed to step into this duel, doesn’t mean we don’t have business of our own to take care of.”