A Most Scandalous Proposal (35 page)

“He’s betrothed to that strumpet.”

Julia looked as if she might laugh at that, but really, what could she possibly laugh about under the circumstances? “Truly? I wonder what he knows about Clivesden.”

“I’ve no idea, but Highgate knows a great deal. But why do you ask about Keaton?”

Julia’s forehead wrinkled, an expression Sophia recognized as an indication her sister was turning something over in her mind. A plan of some sort. A plan that might well mean trouble—for somebody. “Keaton was there the night Papa lost all that money. And now you tell me Highgate knows something.”

“They have a great deal of history together, it turns out. It’s not pretty.”

“Then you’d best tell me everything. Perhaps we can stop the proceedings.”

R
UFUS
just happened to be passing through the corridor that bisected the town house from the foyer to the conservatory when Hastings replied to a knock. He didn’t even need to glance at the case clock to realize the hour was unfashionably early for callers.

Curious, he slipped closer. Hastings seemed to be in serious discussion with somebody—somebody too small for Rufus to make out over the butler’s stocky frame.

“This is highly irregular.” Hastings infused his tone with the censorious manner of his employer. No doubt, Mariah had chosen him for the ability.

“But—”

At the sound of the feminine voice, Rufus froze. Sophia stood on the doorstep, alone from all appearances.

“Miss,” Hastings went on, “it is simply not done.”

Right, then. Time to intervene. Rufus strode into the foyer, his Hessians thudding sharply on the parquet. “Whatever isn’t done, an exception can be made.”

Sophia shivered on the threshold, clutching a midnight-blue cloak about her shoulders. A broad-brimmed bonnet shadowed her face, but not enough to hide her rounded eyes or her pallor. At the sight of him, the tension about her lips eased.

Those lips. He’d tasted them last night, merely sipped
from them, but not enough to quench his thirst for her—not when his fingers tingled at the recollection of her body melting about them, contracting in shuddering release.

“My lord.” Hastings’s protest broke in on his memory. “The young lady is alone.”

“The young lady is my betrothed, and furthermore, my sister’s presence in this house fulfills the requirement for an appropriate chaperone.”

He stopped just short of ordering Hastings off, but the butler took the hint all the same. With a sniff that bordered on insubordination, he turned on his heel and stalked down the corridor. No doubt, Mariah would have a full report before the hour was out.

“Fortunately,” he added once Hastings was out of earshot, “my sister is still abed. With any luck, she will not disturb us. Now what has led you to risk your reputation in coming here?”

She laid a gloved hand on the superfine sleeve of his coat, and he fancied warmth seeping into his forearm at four precise points, each the exact size of her fingertips. His heart gave a thump. Perhaps she’d come to a decision about their future.

“Oh, Highgate.” Her voice trembled on his name. “Might we talk somewhere a bit more private?”

His heart gave another thud. Something in her tone hinted at ominous news. In spite of all that had passed between them, in spite of all she’d learned of Clivesden, would she refuse him in the end?

“Yes, of course,” he replied mechanically, while his mind searched for the ideal venue. He didn’t want to take her to the morning room and risk his sister interrupting Sophia’s set-down. Mariah would be as insufferable as ever about the entire situation. He didn’t want to deal with her gloating on top of his disappointment over not marrying Sophia.

He led her along the corridor to a little-used room. The late Lord Wexford’s study had stood untouched since his demise, a masculine space enclosed with dark-paneled walls and heavy wooden furnishings. Draperies of heavy velvet shut out the morning’s feeble sunlight. A fitting scene for the end of Highgate’s renewed hope for the future.

He took up a spot by the window and watched Sophia out of the corner of his eye. Her teeth tugged at her lower lip as she surveyed her surroundings.

“I’ve come to ask your help,” she said at last.

He snapped his head about to face her. “Help?”

“Yes, please. You must agree. We cannot do this without a man’s perspective.”

He arched a brow, as relief flooded his body. Best to appear intrigued than to reveal his concern that she’d come to cry off. “I think you’d better start at the beginning.”

“There’s to be a duel, you see. Papa has challenged Clivesden.”

Rufus straightened his spine. “Your father and Clivesden? Not Revelstoke?”

“No,” Sophia said. “Julia knows better how it all came about, but that’s not what’s important. We must discover when and where it will be held.”

He opened his mouth to ask why she wanted such information and just as immediately closed it again. He knew why. Sophia, or perhaps her sister—or, worse, the pair of them—were scheming to stop the proceedings. “No.”

“No?” She stepped toward him. “You cannot mean that.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“But—”

“You cannot stop this. It’s a matter of honor.” He put
his hands on her shoulders. “Once honor has been satisfied, everyone will get back to their lives.”

“Those who survive, you mean. And what if it’s Papa who gets shot?”

He allowed his thumbs to trace the ridges of her collarbones. At least she wasn’t pulling away. “These things rarely end in an actual injury.”

Sophia lifted her gaze to the ceiling for moment. There was nothing she could say to that. Nothing whatsoever. “Why do men have to be so stupid about things?”

“Pride, my dear, pure and simple.”

“But …” She paused. “You had very good reason to call Clivesden out, and … you never did.”

S
OPHIA
watched him run a hand through his hair, causing it to stand out in spiky disarray. It made him look boyish, somehow, endearingly so. She wanted to smooth it back into place.

“My wife was already gone, so what was the point? Shooting Ludlowe, as he was known then, would not have brought her back, and it would not have changed her feelings. Besides, she was more at fault than Ludlowe ever was. He was convenient for her. If she hadn’t chosen him, she’d have chosen another.”

A sudden chill passed through her, and she clutched her cloak about her throat, seeking warmth. She wanted his warmth, she realized, wanted his arms about her, one hand smoothing along her back. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder, to breathe him in and forget everything else.

No, that was not quite true, either. In reality, she wanted to make
him
forget, to erase his past and leave him with a future. “You’ve given this a great deal of consideration, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t had a great deal else to think about in the
last few years. In a way, it’s been convenient. Whenever Mariah started badgering me about my duty to my title, I merely had to remind her of my past scandal. What good family would want someone with my past staining their reputation?”

“And yet you came to Town this season.”

A mirthless smile tugged at his lips. “Mariah can wear you down after a while. She started claiming people will have forgotten after ten years. I partly came as a means to shut her up, reckoning the
ton
’s daughters would take one look at my face and shun me. That would only prove my point.”

“And instead you’ve become embroiled in our affairs.”

He shifted his grip to place his hands beneath her cloak. Long fingers curled about her waist. The simple warmth of his ungloved palms through the thin muslin of her day dress radiated from the point of contact to pool deep within. The recollection of those knowing hands on her body set that liquid heat to simmering.

“I’ve weathered worse. I reckon it’s been worth it, if only that I’ve been permitted to touch your purity and innocence for a few brief moments.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” His whispered words hung in the air, fairly echoed off the paneled walls. Then he leaned closer.

Heavens, what he could do with that mouth of his. Before meeting him, she’d never have expected such thin lips to be capable of such sensuous kisses. She shivered at the recollection of their easy slide over hers, coaxing, demanding that she open to him.

He was about to do so again. Oh, how she wanted him to. But she couldn’t. He’d already flustered her into nearly forgetting why she’d come.

At the last moment, she tipped her chin down and
ducked away. “No, I’ll not let you distract me from my purpose.”

His darkened gaze focused on her lips. “Did you have a purpose in coming here then?”

“Yes.” His hands still held her by the waist, and she twisted out of their grip. The longer she remained in physical contact, the greater the chance she’d surrender to temptation. “Please, Highgate … Rufus …”

At the use of his given name, his breath hissed between his teeth. Sophia blinked. Could something as simple as his name affect him so?

“Rufus, you must tell me.”

“What?” The question emerged in a hoarse whisper.

“I need to know where the duel will take place.”

He reached out and curled his fingers about her jaw. “You and your sister cannot stop this.”

“We must try.” Taking courage from his reaction, she closed the distance between them and placed her hands on his chest.

Beneath her palms, muscles quivered. “Sophia.”

“We must try.” She let her voice drop until she barely recognized its register. “If not to stop the duel, then at least to stop Clivesden.” She held his gaze. “You cannot deny me that.”

T
HE
frosty ground of Hyde Park crunched beneath Arthur’s hooves. Beyond a fitful breeze that set naked branches creaking and stirred the threads of mist into ghostly swirls, nothing else moved in the predawn air.

Benedict squinted into the twilight ahead. No one else had arrived yet, not even Clivesden’s second. With a click of his tongue, he urged his mount onward.

He might have taken a more fashionable conveyance to the meeting place and arrived by carriage, but it would not have felt right. Arthur had always accompanied him
to battle. Together they’d survived Boney’s worst. Now that the stakes were merely personal, Benedict saw no reason to change tradition.

Sensing his master’s tension, Arthur snorted and danced sideways off the path. A squeeze of Benedict’s thighs brought his mount under control. He shifted his weight back and reined Arthur to a halt, straining his eyes toward the trees ahead.

A figure materialized out of the fog. At the newcomer’s approach, Arthur ducked his head and pawed the ground.

“Still determined to go through with this?” Upperton’s voice reached his ears, riding the back of a sharp gust.

Benedict gave a curt nod in reply and dismounted. “I have no choice. I gave my word.”

“I know that, man. I mean the rest of it.”

“One way or another, I’ll see it through.”

Upperton threw him a glare of disapproval. “If it were me—”

“It isn’t you. Have you taken care of St. Claire?”

“I tipped some laudanum into his drink last night and brought him home. Told the butler he’d had all that was good for him. By the time he wakes up, the gossip might even have died down.” Thank God St. Claire was such a creature of habit. Sending Upperton to find the man at his club had been a simple enough matter.

“Although …” Upperton shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other and eyed him. “Are you sure you want to start your marriage on an off note? St. Claire won’t be happy his own son-in-law cheated him out of his chance to redeem himself. People will say he was a coward.”

Perhaps, but Benedict would find a way to return himself to St. Claire’s good graces later. “Have you brought the pistols?”

“Right here.”

Upperton produced a dark wooden case from beneath his arm. He flicked the brass clasp to display a brace of guns. Their polished wood and metal barrels gleamed dully in the low light. Benedict took one in his hand to test its unfamiliar weight, imagining his fingers curled about the hilt of his cavalry saber. He missed its balance and the lethal whoosh as he swung it.

Much more subtle a weapon, his saber. With careful handling, it killed silently.

“Sure you know how to fire one of those?” Upperton asked.

“I know well enough.”

“But can you hit anything?”

Benedict returned the pistol to its mate. “It will not matter. Clivesden shall have his satisfaction, and we shall all move on with our lives.”

“Indeed. And what of Miss Julia?”

“Much will depend on today’s outcome, won’t it?” He’d rather not think of Julia right now. He didn’t need the distraction.

The rumble of carriage wheels saved Upperton the need to reply. Benedict turned in time to see a fashionable barouche shudder to a halt. A liveried footman leapt from the back to lower the steps.

Clivesden, impeccable in a hunting jacket and starched linen, strolled from the conveyance, followed by a familiar figure. Keaton, according to the signature on the messages Benedict had exchanged with Clivesden’s second—a second Clivesden had apparently been cuckolding. Keaton, surprisingly adept with a pack of cards. Suspiciously so. Keaton who had been a party to that infamous card game the night St. Claire lost five thousand. Benedict might turn the situation around yet, but only once honor had been satisfied.

Upon catching sight of Benedict, Clivesden’s expression
hardened to granite. He might have narrowed his eyes, except they were already swollen from the beating he’d taken the other morning.

A chill passed through Benedict. He’d seen such grim determination on the faces of Napoleon’s troops—the expression of men who were ready to kill lest they be killed, men who had nothing left to lose.

Upperton nudged him. “You sure about this?”

“Nothing we can do to stop it now.”

At their approach, Clivesden studied Upperton as if he were some ragged pauper come to call on the Prince Regent. “What is he doing here? And where is St. Claire?”