A Scandalous Proposal (10 page)

Moving her to arm's length, he smiled, enthusiasm glowing in his face. “I've had all the figures checked and re
checked. As a business decision, you won't regret it. And speaking of business, Madame, your primary stockholder thinks you'd best get back and tend to it. I expect a handsome return on my investment.”

He began to walk her across to the door, but before he opened it, she stayed his hand. “Thank you, Evan. For believing in me.” And leaned up to kiss him.

It was long, sweet, gentle. As her lips left his and she stepped away, he caught her chin and tilted her face back up, gazing at her with an expression so infinitely tender her breath caught in her throat.

He parted his lips as if to say something, hesitated, then whispered, “My Emily.”

 

Whistling, Evan stowed a few more items into the armoire in the bedchamber adjoining Emily's. He surveyed the handsome room, from the brocade hangings to the Chippendale sofa and armchairs, to the imposing canopied bed, and smiled. Even the starchy Baines couldn't fault this dwelling.

Pride swelled in Evan's chest as he recalled Emily quietly assuming command of the small staff Francesca had assembled. 'Twas not the surface courtesy of an employee to his employer they'd extended her; rather, from the very proper butler down to the youngest housemaid, they recognized born-in-the-bone Quality just as he had, and accorded her the deference she deserved.

Yes, the move had been a brilliant idea. Although she'd permitted him to come and go at the shop as he wished, the necessities of running a business had limited his lingering. There'd be no such impediments here.

In fact, were he to install a few volumes from his library in the small study opposite, he could use their town house as a sort of second office. 'Twas closer to Horse Guards, and with Emily gone during the day, 'twould be quieter and
less subject to interruption than his own home. An excellent notion, he concluded.

As he placed the last shirt in the cupboard, some of his euphoria dimmed. Emily had greeted his entrance into her fashionable new bedchamber last night with all the warmth he could have wished, and only a slight raise of her eyebrows indicated her surprise when, for the first time in their relationship, he'd joined her for breakfast this morning. Still, he was uncertain how welcome he would be to run tame in the new home into which he'd maneuvered her.

Which was why he'd waited until she departed for work—in the small gig he'd cleverly made sure was part of the bargain—to have Baines bring a week's supply of his things.

It wasn't as if he were taking up residence, after all. It was just so much more—practical to have some necessities here. And 'twas natural for best friends to wish to spend as much time together as possible. She would acknowledge the truth of that, surely.

He dismissed a niggle of unease. If only she weren't so maddeningly independent. He didn't wish her to think he was trying to crowd or dictate to her.

He pulled the last item out of the portmanteau and grinned. Even his prickly, independent Emily couldn't object to a housewarming box of Gunter's finest comfits. Besides, he'd volunteer to eat most of them.

After a moment's reflection, he decided to tuck the box among her lingerie. Let it be a sweet surprise to remind her of him when she dressed next morning.

He walked to her wardrobe and reached in the drawer to push aside the delicate underthings, his hand stilling as the delicious vision of Emily wearing these pale whispers of silk and lace flamed in his mind. That incredible, unquenchable desire only she could evoke suffused him.

It being hours before he could expect to turn that vision
into reality, he'd best depart. A bit more forcefully than necessary, he thrust the box into a corner.

A sharp clink sounded from the lingerie-strewn recesses. Drat, had he shattered some favorite keepsake? Impatiently he pawed aside the underthings until something glinted up at him.

The soldier's miniature.

His breath stopped, then whooshed out. Teeth clenching, he slammed the drawer shut.

E
van paused on the threshold at White's. 'Twas time for luncheon, and a snug meal might settle his unease.

That Emily still retained her husband's miniature shouldn't be upsetting. One did not just—dismiss such deep attachments. No, he reassured himself, a person of sensibility did not forget so near a relation after the passage of a few paltry years.

He saw Brent Blakesly by the fireplace and his spirits lightened. Chatting with Brent over good food and better wine would quell this restlessness. Smiling, he beckoned.

“Ev?” Brent extracted his quizzing glass and made a great show of inspecting him as he walked over. “Well met, my friend!” Grinning, he held out a hand. “Haven't seen you in so long, thought you must have turned monk or gone off on some secret mission.”

Evan felt a flicker of annoyance. “Fustian. I've been—” he waved a hand “—working a great deal, I suppose. Besides, one social function seems very like the next.”

“Unchivalrous, but alas, true.” Brent laughed and took his elbow. “Come, while we find something to tempt your jaded palate, you can tell me what you've been up to.”

At Evan's noncommittal mumble, Brent looked over.
“Should I not ask?” He surveyed Evan's face. “Ah, the affair progresses?”

Despite his current unease, Evan couldn't hold back a smile. “Wonderfully.”

“You've been off to the country, then.”

“Country?” Puzzled, Evan frowned at him.

“Haven't you been down to Wimberley to fetch Andrea? I thought—your mama said at the Cunninghams' dinner last month she expected you to do so momentarily.”

An unpleasant pang struck him. Vaguely he remembered his mother pressing him about the matter, but he'd been so…preoccupied of late, he'd scarcely noted the weeks passing. In truth, he realized with a jolt, the Season
would
start soon.

“You are bringing her to London?” Brent asked.

“Yes, of course. Before he joined the army I promised Richard I'd take care of his sister, didn't I? Besides, it's time she stopped hiding herself away.”

“Indeed. She has such a sunny disposition and charming manners, after a while one scarcely notices the limp.”

“I'll count on you to help me convince her of that.”

“Delighted. When
do
you leave for Wimberley, then?”

Damn and blast. He'd have to move quickly if he meant to give Andrea time to order up gowns and such. He recalled recently discharging a number of bills for his sister Clare, who was also making her come-out.

But how to tell Emily he must leave, and why?

“Zeus, what a frown! Did I say something wrong?” Brent's question recalled him.

“Not at all. Thank you for the reminder. I've been…neglectful. I shall have to depart within the week, I suppose.”

Brent laughed. “Now, that's a new one! ‘Organized Evan' neglecting something?” As comprehension grew, his grin faded. “Ah. The, um, other lady still occupies you?”

Evan made a noncommittal noise and glanced away.

“And that's who—where you've been hiding away these two months,” Brent said quietly, almost to himself. “Thunder and turf, Ev, in all the time I've known you…” An expression akin to shock illumined his face, and the sentence trailed off. “That does make things a bit…sticky.”

“Nonsense,” Evan replied, more sharply than intended. “There's no connection. Mama will shepherd Andrea and Clare through their debut. I'll merely be called upon to escort them to some very dull parties.”

“Naturally,” Brent agreed a little too heartily. “Best to have your fill of—other diversions before thinking of getting leg-shackled. Besides, Andrea's known you since the cradle. None of that white-knight, fair-damsel rubbish females seem so fond of. Doubtless she'll turn up some other chap to marry.”

Evan found he had nothing to say. Suddenly the idea of a cozy meal, Brent nattering on about matters he'd prefer not to consider at the moment, seemed totally unappealing. “Don't suppose I have time for lunch after all. Capital to see you, Brent.”

He turned to leave. Brent put a hand on his arm. “Sorry, Ev. Didn't mean to meddle in your business.”

Evan barely refrained from shaking off Brent's hand. “No apologies necessary. Sorry, but I really must go.”

“Meet me for dinner later?” At Evan's negative shake of the head, Brent finally withdrew his hand. “Soon, then. I've missed your company.”

“Soon,” Evan promised, burning to make his escape.

Brent's gray eyes swept Evan's face, concern in their depths. “Take care, old friend.”

Evan gave him the edge of a smile and bowed. He felt Brent's gaze follow him all the way to the exit.

 

Bending over the book, Evan strove to concentrate on the ledger entries. A kaleidoscope of images kept distracting
him. Andrea at Wimberley last Michaelmas saying she trusted him to advise her during Richard's absence. Brent in the Member's Room of Whites, shock in his eyes. The devil-may-care grin of a red-coated soldier.

He gritted his teeth at that last. Emily had adored her late husband. Exactly what did she feel for
him?
He pushed the question aside.

He must honor his pledge to Richard and coax Andrea to town for the Season she'd been avoiding. She could find no reasonable objections this year: there'd be his sister and her friends to chatter with, his mama to support her, and himself to oversee and protect them.

Though he would of course fulfill his vow, he had no intention of abandoning Emily. Juggling his personal and family priorities would take a dab of scheduling, but he was a master at that. He meant to enjoy the incredible, unbelievable gift of Emily's body and friendship for however long their affair lasted.

As for Season's end, much could happen in a few months. His fevered passion for Emily Spenser could burn itself out—passion had always done so before. Or, as Brent predicted, some discerning gentleman could look past Andrea's limp to discover the sweet, gentle lady beneath. Some
other
discerning gentleman.

And if not?
You can always marry me, Andy.

An unpleasant mix of anxiety and foreboding churned in his gut at the memory.

Resolutely he ignored it. His course of action was unequivocal: he must sponsor Andrea and he must see Emily. There being nothing else he could do to affect it, he'd not spoil the present worrying over the future. Doubtless everything would work out.

First, he needed to fetch Andrea, and soon. How best to break the news?

This afternoon was Emily's last in the salesroom, he recalled. Upon the morrow, she would retreat to her design office in the converted quarters upstairs while her newly hired staff of seamstresses began to turn her sketches into the first complete “Madame Emilie” toilettes.

He should bring flowers to celebrate the occasion. Yes, and set Francesca fixing a special dinner. Afterward, when they were both relaxed and replete, he'd inform Emily of the upcoming trip. So calm and independent was she, surely she'd not be upset at his leaving to fulfill a…family obligation. In any event, he'd be back within a few days.

The idea of being away from her even that long brought an unexpected tightness to his chest.

Since go he must, he'd best advance his business at the office. Dismissing a lingering unease, he set to work.

 

Several hours later, bouquet in hand, he quietly entered the shop. Emily stood at the far corner fitting a bonnet on a customer. As always, the sight of her warmed and soothed him. Not wishing to interrupt, he settled against the wall to wait.

The entry bell tinkled behind him, and a young, smartly dressed matron entered. He watched her idly, the plume on her hat nodding at the corner of his vision as she studied the bonnets on display.

A bobbing jerk of the feather caught his attention even as she shrieked and clasped a hand to her chest.

“Auriana!” the woman cried in accents of delight. “My dear Auriana, it
is
you!”

It appeared she would run Emily over in her eagerness to reach the customer to whom her remarks must be addressed. Before he could pull her out of the impetuous matron's path, Emily turned to the woman and, to his astonishment, extended her hands in a welcoming gesture.

“Dearest Cecelia,” Emily said as the woman fell into her embrace. “How wonderful to see you again.”

Halted in midstride, he stood immobile as the newcomer pushed Emily to arm's length and inspected her avidly.

“You're as lovely as ever, I see! And how wonderful it
is
to see you, Auriana! When you left us to take Andrew away we lost all contact—no one in the regiment seemed to know where you'd gone—oh, and we were so saddened to hear…” She paused to take a breath, swallowing hard. “Well, you know. Roger has never quite gotten over it. Wherever did you go to after—but, no matter! Now that I've found you, you must come have tea and tell me all your news!”

Before Emily could reply, the customer, who had been regarding Emily and the newcomer with an air of increasing indignation, cleared her throat loudly. “Madame Emilie, however delightful it may be to greet your—acquaintances, I must insist you finish with me first. I have several calls to make this afternoon and cannot wait upon your chatter.”

For a moment Emily stood very still, while the newcomer looked from her to the client and back, brow knit in evident confusion. Gently Emily disengaged her fingers from her old friend's grip.

Then, apparently for the first time, she noticed Evan standing just inside the entry. A slight flush mounted her high cheekbones.

He couldn't seem to get words of greeting past the constriction in his throat. Quickly her gaze returned to the newcomer.

“I should love to chat later, Cecelia. Will you not give Francesca your direction so I may call? I'm afraid now I…I must tend to business.”

The matron gaped at her. “You—Madame Em—? Oh!” Evidently piecing together the facts, the friend blushed as
well. “Yes, you must continue with your w-work. I'll…I'll just speak with Francesca.”

The maid appeared at those words, as if she had been lurking near the doorway. Murmuring in Portuguese, she beckoned to the matron. With a final, wondering glance at Emily, the newcomer followed Francesca out.

Head held high, Emily walked back to the client. “Now, Lady Baxter, are these ribbons satisfactory?”

Perhaps it was the shock of seeing her embraced by a stranger calling her a name he'd never heard, or the outrage of Lady Baxter—herself offspring of a merchant who had purchased a titled husband for his daughter—trying to put Emily in her place, but suddenly Evan was blazingly angry.

“Madame Emilie.” He strode over and swept her a deep bow. “My mother sends her compliments and wishes to express her delight with your latest creation.”

Instantly the client's aggrieved expression turned appeasing. “Lord Cheverley, such an honor!”

Evan inclined his head briefly. “Lady Baxter.”

“I'll be with you in a moment, my lord,” Emily said, avoiding his glance.

“Silly creature, you mustn't keep Lord Cheverley waiting!” Turning her back on Emily, the client smiled up at Evan. “Pray, do discharge your business first, my lord. I'm in no hurry, none at all!”

“Kind of you, ma'am.” Evan accorded Lady Baxter another infinitesimal nod. “But I wouldn't dream of disrupting the work of such an artist as Madame Emilie. I'm quite content to wait. Please, Madame, do proceed.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Still not meeting his glance, Emily curtseyed.

“I'll wait in your office, if I may.” At Emily's murmur of acquiescence, Evan gave her another elaborate bow. “And Lady Baxter.” Acknowledging the mushroom's daughter
with so insultingly brief a glance the woman's cheeks reddened, he strode from the room.

Still trembling in the wake of strong emotion, he halted by the desk. Then it occurred to him he should continue to the kitchen and intercept Emily's caller. The woman had already yielded up the name of Emily's late husband—information the widow herself had not let slip in all their months together. Mayhap the friend could tell him more.

Before he could move, the bang of the kitchen's back door informed him of the guest's probable departure. Francesca reentered the office alone.

“Tea, my lord?”

“Yes, please.” The maid bobbed a curtsey and withdrew as, frustrated, he dropped into the chair behind the desk.

Auriana.
The lovely name echoed in his head. Was the woman who so captivated him, his Emily, really named Auriana? If so, how could she not have confided to him so basic a fact as her true name? It recurred to him more disturbingly than ever how little he knew about her. Not her family name, nor her father's profession, nor who or where she had been before becoming an army bride.