A Scandalous Proposal (11 page)

Tea to soothe his rattled nerves would be most welcome. Even more welcome would be some answers.

He listened impatiently for the momentarily cowed Lady Baxter to finally take her leave. Even after the tinkle of the shop bell heralding her departure, Emily did not join him. He was about to fetch her when at last, with lowered head, she entered the office.

A few paces from the desk she stopped and looked at him, scanning his face as if to judge his mood. What she saw caused her lashes to flutter down, once more masking her violet eyes. With a deep sigh she walked to the workbench and carefully set Lady Baxter's unfinished hat on the stand. Her fingers were trembling.

“Is Francesca bringing tea?” she asked at last, her back to him.

He could stand it no longer—the need to touch her, to physically snatch her back from another life in which he had played no part, impelled him out of the chair.

With one stride he reached her. “Come, sit. You must be tired.” She murmured but did not resist as he urged her to the chair, then seated himself on the desk beside it.

For a few moments after Francesca returned with tea they occupied themselves with that small ritual. Then silence fell once more.

Uncertain how to break it without shouting out the questions clamoring in his head, he turned instead to the half-forgotten bouquet. “I—I brought you something.”

He held out the flowers. The action of taking them compelled her to glance up. Her eyes seemed sad, shadowed, he thought with a stab of concern.

“They're beautiful,” she murmured. “You shouldn't spoil me so.”

“Yes, you're such a greedy, mercenary lady, I might encourage you to extravagant demands—market vegetables, perhaps, or a side of beef.” She gave his witticism a brief smile, but did not reply. Forging on, he continued, “I thought the occasion—the retirement of Madame Emilie from the showroom—merited some small celebration.”

She bent her head to inhale the sweet violets' scent. Still she said nothing.

He could refrain no longer. “‘Auriana'—it's lovely. And it suits you.”

Pain flitted briefly across her face. “'Twas like a voice from another life, hearing it. Seeing Cecelia. I've not encountered anyone from my…my days as a military bride since I…” Her words trailed off.

Finally she looked squarely at him. The distress he saw
in her face muted the harsh edge of his affront. Instinctively he gathered her into his arms.

For a long moment she rested against his shoulder. Her eyes were moist as she pulled away.

“When my husband died, I had to choose. To turn my back forever on who—what I had been, accept the opportunity offered me and survive, or cling to my pretensions and starve. I chose survival. I thought a new livelihood merited a new name, so I changed mine. Though Emily is my real name, too,” she added with a touch of defensiveness. “I was christened ‘Auriana Emilie,' after a French relative.”

She had not been concealing her past. She had simply made a clean break with a life she could no longer support, that was all. The explanation poured soothing balm over his chafed emotions.

“Will you call on your friend?”

“Yes, I shall call, though I doubt she'll receive me.” She took a deep breath. “I am ‘Madame Emilie, Shopkeeper' now, no longer the wife of a fellow officer.”

The idea of her disdained by one to whom she had once been an equal cut deep. “You are as worthy, nay, worthier than she,” he said angrily. “A lesser woman—any other woman—would have expired in Spain, destitute and forgotten. You not only survived, you are flourishing.”

“At a cost.”

The words were a whisper. And so indisputable, he had no reply to soften the harsh truth of them, fervently as he wished to do so. He drew her closer, offering the warmth and strength of his arms, the only comfort he could give that would not be a lie.

Much later, after they'd shared wine and one of Francesca's flavorful paellas, Emily seemed recovered. When she asked whether he might advise her on some alterations the workmen at the shop were to begin in a few days, he recognized a perfect opportunity to impart his news.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to keep his voice light. “I'm afraid I must leave London the end of the week. Not for long, sweeting.”

Did the startled glance she fixed on him contain disappointment? He hoped so, but her cool voice gave no clue. “I see. That mysterious business you do not discuss, I expect. Shall I not see you again before then? I must wish you a good journey.”

Not sure whether to be cheered or piqued by her calm, he continued, “I shall be able to join you every night before I go, but my evenings once I return will be more…occupied. My sister embarks on her debut, you know.”

“Yes. You must escort her, of course.”

He grimaced. “I'm afraid so, though I'd rather sit through a hundred dull political dinners than dance a single evening at Almack's.”

He opened his lips to continue, then paused. Need he tell her about Andrea? After all, as he'd remarked to Brent, the two were entirely unconnected, occupants of different worlds whose paths he could insure would never cross. Besides, if he tried to explain, she might misinterpret his care of Andrea, leap to erroneous conclusions—

“Are you sure you will not be—too busy?” Her question recaptured his attention. “I should not wish to intrude upon your family duties. I expect I've pulled you away all too often already. Perhaps it would be best if we—”

“No!” he cried, alarm streaking through him. “No,” he repeated more calmly, wiping suddenly sweating palms on his trousers. “My time will be more encumbered, but not impossibly so. I've no intention of sacrificing the company of my…dear friends, just to support my sister's debut.”

“You are sure?” she asked quietly.

“Definitely. Now, could you not have the workmen delay? I should return within four days at most. What alterations are they to make?”

As he steered her conversation back to the shop, he damped down the panic that had seized him at her inference of curtailing—or even more unthinkable, ending—their liaison. Later, perhaps. But now? Absolutely
not!

Still shaken, craving the reassurance of her closeness, he drew her into his arms. “Enough shop talk,” he murmured against her forehead, then kissed her. Driven by urgent need too complex to explain, he deepened the kiss, hungry, seeking. Her immediate flame of response reassured and steadied him.

He could do nothing to settle the uncertainty of the future, but the present belonged to them. He would make the very most of it. Gathering her to his chest, kissing her still, he carried her up the stairs.

 

A few days later, Emily descended from her bedchamber to the dining room. Evan having left on his trip, she was experiencing the now unusual sensation of breaking her fast alone.

He'd already departed when she returned home two nights ago. Dinner had become a dull affair without his amusing conversation, and the evening duller still.

Was it just three months she had known him? Recalling his strong arm around her, his lazy grin, she had to smile. He'd added such a dimension of enjoyment to her hitherto humdrum existence she could almost not remember how she had gone through her days without him.

Or her nights. She'd slept fitfully, missing the warmth of him beside her, missing the lulling aftermath of passion when she sank, sated, to sleep on his shoulder.

Without her quite knowing how, they had become close friends. To her initial surprise she'd discovered they enjoyed many of the same things, from strong tea to Restoration poets to chess. Moreover, a wordless, intuitive communion seemed to link them. Often one knew the other's thoughts
before they were uttered, layering over the fiery fusion of passion a comforting bond of camaraderie. Having Evan with whom to ponder, laugh over and puzzle out the events of the day enriched even the most commonplace happenings. As with Andrew.

That casual conclusion stabbed at her breast, driving the complacent smile from her face. How could she have compared this…illicit, temporary arrangement with what she'd shared with Andrew?

Good that Evan had gone away, if she were at the point of drawing similarities that would never be. Even better that he'd evidently not be visiting so often when he did return. Their end was inevitable. Best that she begin sooner rather than later to wean herself from the too-tempting weakness of depending upon him.

Somehow that pragmatic conclusion stole away her joy in the fresh new morning.

Francesca, entering with her tea, caught her expression and frowned. “By the saints, 'tis pining for his lordship you be, and no wonder. But he'll not stay away long,
querida.
Such a sigh as he rode off, like 'twas his soul he was leaving. And his contentment too, eh?” She gave Emily a knowing wink.

Still unsettled, Emily replied more sharply than she intended. “Rubbish. We're neither of us pining. I've my shop to manage and he has business to tend.”

Francesca shrugged, clearly undaunted. “Business or no, he will not tarry. For you he has the
amor grande.
'Tis in his eyes, that look.”

Was the earl developing a tendre for her? A thrill darted through her before she angrily squelched that improbable, and ultimately pointless, speculation.

“Ah, you say nothing.” Francesca smiled. “But your eyes, too, they tell me of—”

“Hush, Francesca! You talk nonsense.”

“Ah, soft,
querida.
There's no shame in opening your heart to another. 'Tis time and more you should do so.”

Alarmed at the very thought, she shook her head vehemently. “Even were I ready for such a bond—which I assure you I am not!—'twould be the height of folly to form an attachment to Lord Cheverley. I will never be more to him than his…” Unable to voice the word, she fell silent.

“Me, I think you wrong. Many men have I seen in our travels, mistress,
soldados,
townsmen, great lords. He does not look at you as a man looks at his woman, with lust. No, there is a tenderness, here.” She tapped her eye. “Me, I think in a very little, he may claim you for his lady wife.”

His wife. A sizzle of excitement seared her at the vision of walking proudly, openly at his side. Sober reality dashed that happy vista.

“Don't be daft, Francesca!” she cried, angrier still at herself for having even momentarily entertained so preposterous a notion. “The great Earl of Cheverley offer marriage to a shopkeeper? No imaginable quantity of tenderness in his eyes—if such in fact exists, which I take leave to doubt—could ever blind him to the impossibility of such a match!”

“How impossible? Where could he find another with beauty like yours? Fine words—do they not flow sweetly from your tongue like wild honey? Graceful you are as a
cavalo
galloping the
plain,
and—”

“Enough!” Putting her fingers to the maid's lips, Emily had to giggle, the absurdity of the whole idea easing her agitation. “Lest, like Narcissus, I fall in love with this paragon myself.”

Brushing Emily's hand aside, Francesca smiled back. “You make the joke, but 'twill happen. I feel it.”

Emily's humor evaporated. “No, 'twill not. Ah, Francesca, you are not English, how can I make you understand? Even were I to possess every charm you describe and more, 'twould never erase the taint of the shop. To marry so far
beneath him—and despite your ‘feelings,' he's given no sign of entertaining such a notion—would mean scandal and ruin for his family. Be assured it will
not
happen.”

Francesca patted her hand. “And if there were a child? That would change this business of ‘matches,' no? The great lord would surely—”

“Don't even think it!” Too agitated to remain still, she jumped up and began pacing. “We've been careful, oh so careful. Lord Cheverley cannot marry me and I would rather die than curse a babe with the shame of bastardy.”

An equally humiliating thought brought her to a halt. She turned to point a warning finger at Francesca. “Don't you dare hint of marriage to him! I'll—I'll ship you back to Portugal!”

Francesca held her ground. “You are not so poorly born, eh? Such a match could happen, if you but tell him—”

“We tell him nothing!” Truly alarmed now, Emily seized Francesca's arm with both hands. “You mustn't tell him anything, ever, do you understand? What if he took it in his head to—intervene? We could lose everything! How could you even dream of risking all we hold most dear?”

The very possibility was so awful, so reminiscent of her worst nightmares, that she tasted fear raw and bitter on her tongue.

After the episode at her shop, she'd briefly considered revealing more of her circumstances to the Earl. And swiftly concluded to do so would be dangerously unwise. 'Twas no less so now. She fought panic, a familiar sick, helpless feeling in her gut. Tears welled in her eyes.