A Scandalous Proposal (13 page)

The ramifications of that conclusion were so daunting he refused to think further on it. Cursing himself for a fool, he picked up his pace.

 

A few days later he assisted Andrea, becomingly garbed in one of her new gowns, up the steps to attend her first party. A dinner given by one of his mama's friends, it would be followed by an informal dance and attended only by a limited number of close acquaintances, to ease Lady Cheverley's shy charge into society.

Despite those precautions, Andrea was unusually silent as they made their slow way up the stairs. She'd been subdued
ever since her arrival in London, displaying none of her usual animation even when Clare teased her into showing off some of her lovely new wardrobe. And her limp was more pronounced than ever, a sure sign of distress.

A flurry of activity at the office and repeated demands by his mother to escort them to visit various relations before the official presentations began had occupied all his time since his return to London. He'd managed only that fleeting visit with Emily the morning he'd met her son. All the disturbing, unresolved questions raised by that event still roiled uneasily beneath his surface calm, exacerbating his frustration in not being able to break free to see her. His teeth were already on edge at the prospect of sitting through this interminable dinner and a portion of the dancing to follow. At which time, he vowed, come what may, he would go to Emily.

But Andrea needed him now, so once more he buried his own concerns. “Lean harder on my arm and spare your knee, Andy,” he murmured. “And don't worry. That shimmery blue gown brings out the bluebells in your eyes and the gold of your hair so well, if I didn't remember the scrubby schoolgirl underneath, I'd think you a princess. So will everyone tonight.”

She gave him a brief, strained smile, her face unnaturally pale. “Until I clomp across the floor like some crude mechanical toy. Oh, why did I promise Richard I would do this? I know I'm a coward, but either I shall render them all uncomfortable, like the poor squire and his wife at home who can never think of anything to say when we meet, or they will laugh. Not to my face perhaps, but behind my back. Like the Wimberley village children who throw pebbles when I pass.” Her voice hushed to a whisper with the threat of tears. “I'll embarrass you all.”

“Those urchins should be switched,” he replied, appalled
by the casual cruelty she'd encountered. “I daresay here no one will disdain you.”

She squeezed his hand, her smile brightening to a pale imitation of the sunny glow he remembered. “Not with my champion at my side, perhaps.” The smile faded. “But you can't be with me every moment.”

“I don't need to be. Once people know you, they'll love you for yourself. How could they help it?”

But even as he delivered that heartfelt encouragement, his mind furiously searched for ways to reduce her anxiety. One occurred as they reached the top of the stairway.

If walking in front of everyone distressed her, why should she? “Andy, once we've greeted our hostess, I'll help you to one side. Nothing says we must stroll about—I'll bring the guests over to you. The ones worth meeting, of course,” he added with a wink. “And when dinner is announced, we'll bring you in toward the last. As most everyone will be at table, your entrance will scarcely be noticed. Agreed?”

The unshed tears in her eyes made them appear even bluer as she looked up at him. “Yes. You are so kind and clever, Evan. No wonder Richard trusts you so.”

Uncomfortable under her worshipful scrutiny, he looked away. “It's settled, then. I'll alert Mama and Clare. With my sister's giddy friends around, you'll have time to think of nothing but how silly they all are.”

Accordingly, after a quick word to his mother, he busied himself ferrying friends and acquaintances over to the Cheverley party. Actually, he thought wryly, requiring guests to come to
her
only increased Andrea's consequence. After half an hour, he noted with satisfaction, she appeared more relaxed, regaining her color and some of her normal animation.

Just before dinner, as he arranged with a political friend to escort Andrea to table, he noticed a commotion in the group clustered about the Cheverleys. Concerned, he walked
over to find his sister enthusiastically embracing a young woman with dancing brown curls and large green eyes.

“Evan,” Clare called to him. “Come, you must meet Delia Winstead—quite the best of my school chums! Delia, this is my brother Evan, Earl of Cheverley, but as you can see he's not the least puffed up with his own consequence.”

“A remarkable feat for so ancient a fellow,” he replied with a grin as she made her curtsey. “Charmed, Miss Winstead. You've met my mother's ward, Miss Marlowe?”

“Oh yes,” Andrea replied for her. “We've called several times, and Miss Winstead has been everything kind.”

Evan noticed the lone soldier standing stiffly by the wall, half-hidden by a knot of guests, just as Miss Winstead gestured to him. “I've brought someone I especially wanted Miss Marlowe to meet—my brother, Captain Giles Winstead. Giles…”

The green-eyed girl cast a look of appeal. As the soldier, with obvious reluctance, turned toward them, Evan saw that the left sleeve of his uniform coat hung empty. His face was pale and rather drawn, pain lines still etched at his eyes, mouth and brow, as if his injuries were quite recent.

“I must seize the opportunity while I can,” Miss Winstead confided as the soldier, body rigidly erect as if on parade, approached them. “Giles only came tonight because our hostess's son is one of his closest Oxford friends. Usually I have no luck at all persuading him to accompany me.”

After introductions were made, bows and curtseys exchanged, their hostess called them for dinner. “We'll be separated at table, no doubt, but you must talk with Miss Marlowe after dinner, Giles,” his sister urged. “Her brother Richard is with the 95th Rifles.”

A flicker of interest flared in the dead gray eyes, swiftly extinguished. “A gallant unit, Miss Marlowe. My compliments to your brother.”

‘I would very much enjoy speaking with you,” Andrea
replied. “Richard's letters are fascinating, but so full of fantastical stories I believe half what he writes must be sheer invention. Perhaps you could—”

“I shan't be staying.” He flashed his sister an angry look. “I don't dance.”

He turned to leave. Andrea reached out and caught his sleeve—the empty one. He froze, then looked pointedly at the white glove grasping the bloodred cloth. Andrea's cheeks pinked, but she did not release it.

“I don't dance, either,” she said softly. Looking up at him, she smiled that brilliant, angelic Andrea smile Evan remembered so vividly from before the accident. “Could you not stay? I miss my brother so dreadfully. It would be great comfort to talk with someone who knows—what he faces.”

“Giles, please,” his sister added in an urgent undertone.

For a moment the soldier was silent, a muscle ticking in his hollowed cheek. If he could resist Andrea's smile, Evan thought, the man had lost more than an arm.

“Very well,” he said curtly. “I suppose I could stay a few moments.”

“Lord Cheverley, if you please?” His hostess called him to escort in her highest-ranking female guest. As Evan walked off to perform that duty, he glanced back to make sure Andrea's escort had arrived and understood his instructions. He noticed the soldier also waiting with his sister, perhaps employing the same delaying tactic for reaching the table unnoticed he was using to protect Andrea.

After he'd seated his elderly dowager, he looked back a second time to see the soldier halted, an arrested look on his face as he stood aside to let Andrea, leaning heavily on the arm of her escort, limp past him.

A few hours later, aflame with impatience, Evan escorted the Cheverley ladies home. “Yes, Mama, a delightful dinner,” he responded as the women handed over their cloaks
to the butler. With a raised eyebrow, his mother watched him wave Billingsly away as the man turned to take his coat.

“You are going out?” she asked.

“I imagine you ladies will want a comfortable coze at which to dissect the costume and character of all the guests present. An activity, I'm sure you will agree, you can carry out much more expeditiously without my assistance.”

“He's probably going back to that dreary Horse Guards office,” Clare said with a groan. “Whatever he can find to occupy himself there for so many hours, I can't imagine. I think he must be doing penance for the crime of remaining safely in England while Richard had to go back to the mud and heat of the Peninsula.”

At least part of that assessment struck home with such painful accuracy that Evan grimaced. Before he could reply, though, Andrea spoke up.

“For shame, Clare! You know Evan would have gone, too, had it been possible. Besides, someone of intelligence must remain in England to support the army. Richard says in his letters that Evan's work with the munitions department is perhaps the most important civilian job here. And he's been neglecting it sorely these last few days to squire us about.” She smiled at him, that wistful, sweet Andrea smile. “Don't let us detain you any longer, Evan. And thank you again for—well, you know.”

She gave him a conspiratorial wink and took Clare's hand. “Come, help me up the stairs. And you must tell me about that young man, Captain Winstead's friend, who seemed to find you so fascinating.”

That earned her a giggle. In a moment the two girls had their heads together as Clare gave Andrea her arm. Evan's mother lingered a moment, however, her keen eyes resting on him.

He stood silent, unwilling to confirm or deny Clare's prediction that he was headed for his office, his desire to quit
the house and reach Emily an almost physical ache. Finally his mother said simply, “Good night, my son.”

“Good night, Mother.” He bowed and turned on his heel, murmuring in an undertone to the butler as he passed not to keep a footman waiting up for him. As the heavy front door closed behind him, his mother was still at the stairway staring speculatively after him.

 

With a sigh Emily laid aside the book she'd not been reading for the last hour. It was after midnight, well past the time a shopkeeper who must be up before dawn should be sleeping. Yet an edgy restlessness kept her from slumber.

Evan had not called for four days now, not since the morning he'd arrived to find Drew here. He'd seemed affronted, almost furious at her for failing to confide in him about her son. Was he still angry?

Or was that anger merely a catalyst for the beginning of the end? Or the end itself? Having never indulged in one before, she had no idea how an affair ended. If she'd considered the matter at all, she'd supposed Evan's visits would gradually become less frequent and finally cease, probably with him attempting to give her some sort of lavish farewell present she would firmly refuse.

But mayhap that wasn't so. Mayhap it just—ended, abruptly, with no warning. 'Twas the nature of an affair, after all, that there were no formal ties binding the couple together. And therefore none to sever.

She might never see him again, feel his touch, hear the engaging warmth of his laughter. A wave of bleakness swept over her, so unexpectedly strong it robbed her of breath.

“Emily.”

She gasped at the sound, at first thinking she'd only imagined his voice. Then he stepped into the candlelight. With a little cry, she jumped up and ran to him, the book falling forgotten to the floor.

He caught her in his arms and crushed her close, then cradled her cheek in one hand as he kissed her hair, her forehead. “Emily, sweeting,” he sighed against her brow. “I'm sorry, my darling. If I'd known how much blasted trouble this business of come-outs was going to be, I'd have fled the country.”

His caressing fingers touched the wetness at the corner of her eye and stopped abruptly. Drawing back a bit, he tilted her chin up. “What is it? What's troubling you?”

She swiped impatiently at the tears. “Nothing, now. I'd been thinking you were still angry. That perhaps you wouldn't—come here again.”

He stared at her a moment as if her words were incomprehensible. Then his eyes lit with tenderness and his lips curved into a smile. “Ah, sweeting,” he whispered. “I'll never leave you, never. If ever we part, it will be you who sends me away.”

 

Dawn was but the faintest promise of light at the east window when an insistent rapping brought Emily out of deep sleep. “Lord Cheverley! It's Baines! Please, my lord, you must come!”

Alarm shocking through her, she shook Evan's bare shoulder. As his eyes opened groggily, Baine's knock sounded again. “Please, my lord, I've an urgent message.”

Comprehension dawned and his eyes snapped open. “I'll be right there, Baines. Give me a moment.”

Evan leaped out of bed, pawing among the tangle of clothes on the bedside chair for his breeches. As he struggled into them, Emily found flint and lit a chamber candle. With a nod of thanks, Evan took it and strode to the door, opening it just a little so that his body shielded Emily from the servant's view.