A Scandalous Proposal (19 page)

Sometimes she asked him to stay for breakfast after their rides, and twice she'd accompanied him to the theater. Struggling as she was to contain her sadness and desperate longing, she could not help but appreciate his steady, un-demanding presence.

She was quite sure she'd not agreed to ride this morning. What else would bring him here at so unfashionable an hour? Good friend that he'd been, if there were some trouble she should help. Despite her physical and mental exhaustion, she pushed aside the bed linens.

“Tell Mr. Blakesly if he can wait a few moments, I will join him. And bring tea, please, Francesca.”

Brent was standing by the fireplace when she walked in some moments later—exactly, she recalled with a pang, where Evan, bathed in moon glow, had stood last night. She felt the fraying threads of her control loosen again and jerked herself from memories she must never again indulge.

“Good morning, Brent. This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you here—no trouble, I hope?”

He turned then and studied her face. “Should I not rather ask you that?”

She gave her head a tiny shake. Her wits were so scrambled this morning, it took her a moment to puzzle out his meaning. “W-why should you think there was trouble?”

He said nothing for a time, continuing to subject her to close scrutiny, as if searching for—what, she couldn't fathom. Finally he said, “I brought a new mare to town yesterday for you to try.” He uttered a short laugh. “As a surprise. I brought her by early this morning, knowing you are usually awake, and…and saw Evan leaving.”

Shame, embarrassment and regret swirled in her. She wanted to explain, to apologize, but how could she excuse the raw truth he had seen?

“I can't imagine what you must be thinking of me. All I can say is—”

“Please, don't!” He captured one hand and kissed it. “I think you the most beautiful, talented, courageous woman I've ever known. Nothing, absolutely nothing could happen that would change that opinion.” He looked away. “'Twas my belief, however, that Evan had—relinquished his claim.”

“We parted weeks ago. But last night he stopped by unexpectedly, and we—” She broke off, flushing.

“He forced you? The blackguard, I'll—”

“No, you mustn't think that of him! 'Twas my fault as much as his.”

Shame heated her cheeks, but remembering that night ig
nited flames of another sort all over her body. Curse her for a fool, she still wanted him. She still missed him.

She closed her eyes, fighting the insidious longing. Then opened them and made herself continue. “'Twas only last night. I knew 'twas wrong, but…”

“Do you love him?”

She mustn't, couldn't love him. “No. But he is still…very dear to me.” The truth, surely. “Regardless of that, our…association is over, quite finally. I do not expect ever to see him again.”

The heaviness that descended on her chest as she spoke those words was merely fatigue, she assured herself.

“You are certain that is what you want?”

Want? No, but conscience permitted no other course. “Yes.”

Brent released a long, slow sigh, almost as if he'd been holding his breath. “Then he will never bother you again. I give you my word on it.”

A stab of foreboding pierced her. “You mustn't—oh, please do not speak of me to Evan! There's no need, I assure you. I would not wish to sow discord in your friendship.”

“Hush, now.” Smiling, he put his finger against her lips. “If there be discord, 'twill not be you who is the cause. You…you do still wish to see me?” Though his tone was casual, his body tensed as he awaited her answer.

He really did forgive her. More than that, though she had just given him ample cause to despise her, for some reason he still wanted her for a friend. She blinked back a prickle of tears.

“Should I not rather ask you that?”

His eyes lit and his smile turned brilliant. “Then I believe we are scheduled to ride tomorrow. Perhaps if I'm especially witty you'll ask me to stay for one of Francesca's marvelous breakfasts. But now you must get to the shop.”

“Yes. I shall see you tomorrow, then.”

He took her hand, but rather than brushing it with his lips, he turned it over and placed a lingering kiss on her palm. He raised to her violet eyes dark with emotion. “Thank you.” After a brief bow, he walked out.

She didn't deserve Brent's fidelity, she thought guiltily as she watched him leave. But the soothing balm it offered was immense.

 

He really ought to forget her, Evan mused as he stared up at the little landscape. In a fit of anger upon his return after their bitter parting, he'd yanked the painting from above his library mantel.

Later that day he'd rehung it. Her words had been meant to wound, to rip a final breach through their accord and cauterize it beyond hope of mending. He understood that intuitively, once the blindness of hurt and outrage faded, understood why she had spoken thus.

But he could not believe her. To some resonant note deep within him she still played the resolving chord, a harmony beside which disdainful words were as the thunder of a passing storm outside an unbreachable fortress, irrelevant, unable to cause harm.

Her resolve to remain parted he did believe. She was right; 'twas for the best to uphold honor and fulfill duty. If behind that facade of fortitude the inner self suffered, he must be man enough to endure.

He would bury himself in work and think on her as little as possible. And if late at night he drifted back to the library to gaze at her landscape and cherish their memories, should he not be allowed some small reward for soldiering through yet another endless day?

The sound of a throat being repeatedly cleared finally pulled him out of meditation.

“My lord, Mr. Blakesly to see you.”

He'd been so busy upon his return to town, he'd not seen
his friend since Richard's funeral. With pleasure he extended his hand to the tall figure entering the library.

“Brent, good to see you! It's been too long.”

Brent halted a pace away. His face unsmiling, he glanced at Evan's outstretched hand and, arms held stiffly at his sides, made him a short, stiff bow.

“I've not come for a visit,
my lord.
” He gave the courtesy scornful emphasis. “I've but a message to deliver.”

Surprise at the rebuff held Evan speechless for a moment. “Message?”

Eyes narrowed and jaw set, Brent leaned until his face was but a few inches from Evan's. “You call yourself a gentleman? You celebrate your engagement—notices in the press, small elect gatherings among the ton. Then under cover of darkness slink away to treat Emily as your
whore!
” Face contorted with anger, he spat out the word.

Shocked, shamed, Evan could think of no reply.

Brent exhaled an explosive breath. His voice, when he continued, was cool, his face deadly calm. “Well, no more. Sooner or later I intend to marry Emily, if she'll have me. And married or not, as God is my witness, if you ever go near her again I'll kill you.” He made an elaborate bow. “Your servant, my lord.”

Brent turned on his heel, began to walk away. Finally finding his voice, Evan strode after and halted him with a hand to the shoulder. “Marry Emily? How can you? 'Tis impossible!”

Jerking free, Brent whirled toward him. “I'm not the mighty Earl of Cheverley, with duties owed a portrait gallery of ancestors long dead. To think I used to envy you that title and wealth.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “My family may squawk, but duty in the Blakesly line falls on Cousin Edward. If they wish to see me and my children, they'll treat Emily with the respect due my wife. And should it come to a choice between her and the cut direct from the ton, I swear
to you I'd have the ring on her finger faster than you could blink.”

Brent to marry Emily?
His
love,
his
secret joy? Corrosive jealousy and anger born of weeks of repressed longing fired to instant rage. “You cannot marry her. I forbid it!”

Brent tensed as if to throw a punch, then relaxed. “You
forbid
it?” He laughed shortly. “You forfeited the right to say anything months ago. This time, see that you remember that fact, for I assure you, my warning is no idle threat. Stay away from her, Evan.” He bowed again, curtly. “My regards to your mother and Andrea.”

Before Evan could remonstrate further, Brent strode from the room. Fuming, Evan followed, but at the door, reason returned and he halted.

There was nothing he could or should do. Brent was a good man; he'd take care of Emily. She deserved that, deserved someone fine enough to recognize her excellence, someone willing to brave the scorn of the ton to claim her.

Why did the mere thought of someone else touching her burn in his gut like acid?

Perhaps because their shared memories were his most precious possession. The idea of yielding her to another, even a man as worthy as Brent, was like having the most cherished part of himself ripped out.

Yes, he wanted Emily comfortable, appreciated and cared for. He just could not kill the hopeless longing that he be the man to do so.

 

A few days later, Emily sat over her portfolio at the desk in her old office. In the wake of that disastrous night with Evan, a lingering depression bore down her spirits, from which even Brent's quiet, thoughtful companionship couldn't entirely distract her.

Dear Brent, whose words still spoke of friendship but
whose assiduous attention and increasingly ardent glances were growing ever more like a courtship.

With a pang of guilt, she couldn't help wishing, bruised as she was in body and spirit, for a continuation of their straightforward camaraderie. Anything more was beyond her just now.

At least here at the shop, adding detailed notes to her sketches, she could accomplish something useful. She did find solace in perfecting her designs, directing the busily stitching seamstresses, did feel satisfaction watching what began as visions in her head turn into gowns whose sale would buy a safe future for herself and her son.

She heard the entry bell ring. Francesca was in the kitchen fixing her soup and tea, so the newly hired shop girl met the customers at the door. From the corner of her eye as she studied a sketch Emily noted them enter, heard the murmured greetings.

She had but to add a few more instructions and the riding dress would be complete. Long, slender, its cap-sleeved pelisse trimmed with epaulettes and gold braid, the gown was a feminine interpretation of Andrew's army uniform. She smiled, remembering the stir she'd created the first time she'd worn a similar garment out riding in Portugal. “Daughter of the Regiment,” some of Andrew's fellow officers had said, teasing her.

Ah, Andrew. She rested her head on her hand as shame swirled up to color the old familiar burden of grief. Praise God you cannot see me now….

A shadow fell across her, followed by two hands that seized hers hard. “Auriana! Blast it, woman, I've been the length and breadth of Spain hunting you!”

Fear shot through her and she looked up so sharply little stars of light marred her vision. Not until a moment later did her eyes focus enough for her to recognize a dearly familiar face: her brother-in-law, Major Robert Alan Waring-Black.

“R
ob!” she cried joyfully. “Whatever are you doing in England? And out of uniform? I thought you still with Wellington's staff!”

“No. I took a hit a few months after Andrew was wounded—but 'tis a long story. Ah, Ari, how good it is to see you!” He wrapped her in a hug.

She hugged him back, then grasped his hands. “'Tis wonderful to see you, too, Rob.”

“Robert?” A tall blond woman entered the little office. Her startled gaze went from Emily's face to the hands her brother-in-law still held, and lingered there.

After giving her fingers another squeeze, Robert released them, but left one hand resting on her shoulder, as if to reassure himself she was truly found. “Natalie, my dear, only see who I've discovered. Auriana, may I present to you my wife Natalie. Nat, this is my brother's elusive widow, Auriana.”

Andrew's wild, carefree scapegrace of a brother married? 'Twas hard to conceive. “Delighted to meet you, ma'am—and congratulations.”

“Thank you.” The tall woman nodded but did not smile. Her eyes returned again to her husband's hand at Emily's
shoulder. “So you are the lady we've been tracking over dusty roads in every manner of poorly sprung conveyance for half a year?”

“You've been searching for me?” she echoed, astonished.

At his wife's frosty tone, Rob only laughed. “'Tis a good thing I was forced to sell out. I'm afraid my Nat would never have made a soldier's bride. And how could you not expect me to hunt for you as soon as I was able, dear friend, my brother's wife, the woman who tended my wounds and pulled me back from death?”

He released her shoulder and his tone lightened. “You'd covered your tracks well, though. We'd only just begun to make progress, but I'd given Nat my word after six months I'd bring her home.”

“Mistress,
que barulho,
” Francesca said as she backed into the room, heavy tray in hand. She turned, spied Robert, and her face lit. “Roberto,
meu amor! Como está?
”

“Francesca!” Robert sprang over, dispensed with the tray and enveloped the maid in a hug. In a rapid spate of Portuguese the two exchanged greetings. Then, wrapping one arm about Francesca, he walked the maid over and put his hand back on Emily's shoulder.

“Come to the town house for tea. You must send for your things and stay with us. And where is my imp of a nephew?”

The town house? Chill foreboding dampened her joy. “We cannot! Your papa would never…where
is
your papa, Rob?”

A look of bitterness passed over his face. “Papa? You do not know? Indeed, we do have much to discuss.”

At that moment the new sales girl came to the door, her hands full of hats. “I fetched these bonnets from the window, Lady Maxwell. Would you like to inspect them? And his lordship?”

Slowly Emily turned toward Robert. “His
lordship?
”

Robert gave her a rueful flicker of a smile. “At your service. Papa and your dear eldest brother-in-law both died of the same fever last winter, God rest their black souls. And as Alastair's wife never managed to pop out a son, the honors of the estate fell upon lowly me.” He laughed shortly, the sound not pleasant. “Is that not rich? They are both writhing in their graves, I'm sure.”

Too surprised to utter a word, Emily merely stared. Her father-in-law dead. Dead, no longer a threat to her.
He cannot take Drew.
Her son was safe.

While her rattled brain tried to absorb that incredible information, Robert's austere face softened to a grin. “But enough of that—I'm hungry for my tea. Pack up the tray, Francesca. In the carriage you can begin to tell us all your news. And explain how I spent seven months scouring every alley and byroad in Spain only to find my precious lost sister-in-law in a London shop.”

 

A week later Emily reclined upon a satin-striped settee in the sitting room of an elegant guest bedchamber at Maxwell's Rook. In true military fashion, Rob had overridden her protests that she could not possibly leave London with her collection incomplete, and had carried all of them—herself, Francesca, Drew, his tutor and the tutor's family—off to the Earl's country estate. She needed rest and fresh air, he insisted, and they all needed time to become reacquainted.

She'd barely had a day to turn over her sketches to the chief seamstress, gather clothes and scribble a note to Brent before Rob packed them up and bore them off.

With staff officer efficiency, Rob arranged for every comfort—baskets of food and pots of tea for the carriage, hot bricks for their feet, warm meals and heated private chambers at every stop. Sometimes, when she'd catch a glimpse
of him in profile, he reminded her so keenly of Andrew that her heart turned over. She wasn't sure whether it was balm or torture to be living in his house.

Aye, his house now. 'Twas the first time she'd seen the inside of Maxwell's Rook, but she vividly remembered her only previous glimpse of the crenellated fortress set high on a hill, the mullioned windows of its Elizabethan wings gleaming like feral eyes in the near darkness.

Andrew had left her at the gatehouse, the gatekeeper and his wife fussing over the intended bride of their forbidding master's much-loved youngest son, while Andrew went to inform his father of their upcoming marriage.

She would never forget the look on his face, cold and scarred as those ancient stone towers, when he returned with his father's refusal. After scarcely a word, he'd ridden off with her. Neither had ever looked back.

'Twas a moment before she realized Rob must have entered, for he stood at the foot of the sofa gazing at her.

“Thinking how much has changed?” he asked softly.

“Y-yes. How different it was six years ago.”

“Aye. We were both on the run from Papa, fellow outcasts—he for marrying you, me for buying us commissions in Wellington's army. Disowned for fighting the French instead of dutifully hunting heiresses to swell the family coffers. We swore a blood oath the night after your wedding, Andrew and I—did you know?”

She shook her head. “We vowed to watch out for each other—and you,” he continued. “All for one, and such.” His amused voice grew serious. “I mean to honor that vow.”

“Rob, I'm enjoying my holiday, and 'tis wonderful for Drew to be part of a family at last, but I cannot remain here, hanging on your coattails. You know what I've become. 'Tis not fitting for a shopkeeper to be living with the Earl of Maxwell.”

“You are family, Ari. Come, I know how difficult it is to accept, especially for you. Going from your father's household to the catch-as-catch-can atmosphere of an army on the march, and then—” He took a deep breath. “I cannot imagine how you scraped along after Andrew was wounded, after he…But wait a moment.”

Holding up a hand in a restraining gesture, he walked over to rummage in the drawer of the nearby desk.

Remembering the days of short rations, haphazard shelter, odd dinners concocted of army grain, foraged fowl and confiscated French wine, she had to smile. She'd been sometimes terrified, occasionally hungry, but never bored during her vagabond life with Andrew. Whatever happened, she'd had his voice to tease her out of annoyance, his arms to snuggle in at night, his unfailing love to give her courage, to make every sacrifice, every hardship worthwhile.

Her smile faded as Rob handed her an object he removed from a large leather portfolio.

“Andrew's pistol! Where did you get it?”

“From the local lord near the village where he's buried. Don Alvarez would have nothing to do with me until I convinced him I had no ties to Papa. I bought back several items.”

Assailed by memories of the last time she'd seen it, with shaking hands she took the weapon. “Thank you, Rob. I'll save it for Drew.”

Close her eyes and she could hear it still—the shallow huff-pant of Andrew trying to draw breath into his damaged lungs. She'd hoped to carry him to medical treatment, but by the time they'd reached the village nearest where their party had been ambushed it became evident to move him further would be to kill him outright.

So they'd stayed. Sometimes the villagers, sympathetic to the plight of the English soldier and his lady, would leave
food on their doorstep—eggs, milk, once a chicken tied by a cord on its leg to the door knocker.

Despite that her small store of funds was soon exhausted. She'd sold her jewelry first, then Andrew's horses and rifles. Then the pistol.

Tears welled up and she swiped them away. “He complained so little, though I knew he was in constant pain. One day he begged me for this that he might end his life and release us all. I was so glad I'd already sold it.”

Silently Rob took several other items from the satchel and laid them on her palm.

“His insignia,” she whispered, touching the glittering bits of braid, gold and silver lace with a reverent fingertip. Each pin and ribbon, epaulette and fastener had meant food, blankets, fuel for their tiny fireplace. “I sold the last gold button from his tunic to pay for his funeral,” she murmured.

“There's one thing more,” Rob said, his voice strained as he handed it to her. A thin gold wedding band.

Her vision blurred as she took it, held it up to read again the familiar engraving: “Today and forever—Andrew.”

“I didn't want to sell it, I swear! But it's all we had left.”

“I know that, Ari! I'm not blaming you. I know you had to be one meal from starvation to have parted with his ring.”

Still she felt a need to explain. “I used the money for paints for Don Alvarez's portrait. Later, when I…I had more funds, I tried to buy it back, but the goldsmith said some purchaser, a stranger, had already taken it away, he knew not where.”

“Don Alvarez had an agent purchase all Andrew's things, apparently. I suspect he wanted to give them back to you for Drew as a wedding gift but you…didn't fall in with those plans. Only by insisting Andrew's son should rightfully have them did I convince him to sell them back.”

Slowly she slid the ring on her finger. “Thank you, Rob. For finding it. For f-forgiving me.”

“Damn, there's nothing to forgive!” he exploded. “You should never have been reduced to that! 'Tis all Papa's fault, and your hard-headed father's. Well,
I've
the money and power now, and I mean to see you have everything that should have been yours from the beginning. Wealth, comfort, your proper place in society—

“Don't even say it!” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “I care not if you mucked out stables and serviced the whole French army. Andrew would have wanted you restored to society, to the place you abandoned for him. He would have insisted. Can you deny it?”

That being unanswerable, she gave him none.

“I know how you feel,” he continued, his tone coaxing now. “How I felt myself at first. As if it were somehow a betrayal of all we'd fought for, a capitulation to Papa, almost, to enjoy being comfortable and wealthy. But such reservations are silly. We are what our character shows us to be—fine clothes, elegant dwellings and deep pockets are not the true measure of a man. Is that not one of the principles over which we fought with Papa?”

“I suppose. But the world is more likely to share your father's opinion of me than yours.”

“We'll just have to change it then, won't we? Because I won't give you up, Auriana. I've lost Andrew. I won't lose you as well. You and Drew are my family, and you stay.”

A family. A place to belong. How long had it been since she had known either? While she had Andrew the lack had not mattered.

She recalled happy days in Portugal and Spain, Rob talking and laughing, sharing their frugal meals. She thought of bringing Drew permanently into such a community of caring. Rob was offering what despite her deepest love she could not otherwise provide for her son.

Emotion clogged her throat as Rob held out his arms. Tears blinding her now, she came into them.

After a moment he released her. Emily looked up—into the face of Rob's wife. From the unhappy expression on her pale countenance, Emily knew she had witnessed their embrace.

Rob casually draped an arm over his wife's shoulder. “Nat, I've been telling Ari she and Drew must make their home with us now.”

Was there a moment of hesitation? “Yes, of course.
Blood
relations—” Rob's wife stressed the word “—belong together.”

And Emily was a connection, linked to them only by marriage—was that what her sister-in-law was implying? Tempting as it was to accept Rob's offer, she'd not do so at the cost of his wife's hostility.

“Natalie, you must make him see that a shopkeeper—a
former
shopkeeper,” she acknowledged, at Rob's immediate protest, “does not belong in the household of an earl. 'Twould cause no end of comment and embarrassment.”

Her sister-in-law opened her lips, then closed them. “I'm sure Robert knows what he wants,” she said at last.