A Scandalous Proposal (21 page)

“Military men! They ever know what is right upon every occasion. I swear, if this presentation turns to disaster and my blameless sister-in-law finds herself ostracized because of me, I shall never forgive Rob!”

“Your blameless sister-in-law would never forgive herself were she not to stand beside you.” Natalie's voice came from the doorway. Her blond hair shining, her face serene, she came swiftly to give Emily a hug. “Stop worrying! I predict you'll be
un succès fou,
and your only regret will be the ballroom isn't large enough to contain more of your admirers.”

While Emily sniffed in patent disbelief, Brent replied, “I
must be happy for the small stature of the room, then. Once she's besieged by men of larger rank and fortune, I fear ‘Lady Auriana' will no longer have time for those who knew her as plain ‘Emily.”'

The wistful note in his tone brought her up short. Impulsively she put a hand to Brent's cheek. “Not have time for those who befriended me when I was but a shopkeeper, rode with me, dined with me? I will always be Emily to my friends—how could you imagine otherwise?”

Brent covered her hand with his own, pressed it into his cheek. Heat flaming in his eyes, he whispered, “How glad I am to hear it.”

Uncomfortable under his ardent gaze, she lowered her own. Behind her, Natalie cleared her throat and the now-familiar mischievous expression sparkled in her eyes. “I'll leave you two. Don't forget you're coming to dine before the ball, Brent. And wait until you see Emily's dress! Her design's exquisite—she looks not like a duchess, but a princess! Well, I've a thousand things yet to do. See you at dinner.” Blowing them a kiss, Natalie walked away.

“I should help.” Emily tugged gently at the hand he still held. “But before I rush off, please let me emphasize again, if I haven't yet made it sufficiently clear, how much your kindness and support have meant. Thank you, Brent. You shall have my friendship always.”

He placed a light kiss on her hand before releasing it. “I hope for a good bit more, you know. But for now, 'tis enough that you'll promise not to forget me in the flood of suitors who will shortly be vying for your attention.”

Emily smiled wryly. “Once the gentlemen discover that I not only designed hats and waited upon customers in a shop, but intend in future to continue at least the designing, I doubt there will be a trickle, much less a flood of suitors. Especially once I return to my own house. I've been humoring Rob by remaining here until the presentation, but
I've been mistress of my own establishment for too long to live in another household, even with my family. In any event, I've no interest in marrying again.”

Grinning, Brent released her hand. “We'll see about that. But no more now. How does Rob feel about your maintaining the business?”

“Rob?” She chuckled at the memory. When she'd warned Rob she would not have her creative efforts relegated to the genteelly acceptable ones of china painting and needlework—perhaps secretly hoping the fact would dissuade him from presenting her—he'd surprised her by agreeing. “He's ever been the rebel, even more so than I. His first response was that Lady Auriana Spenser Waring-Black of Suffolk can do what she damn well pleases. His second was that he hoped I'd earn enough from the enterprise to support expanding his stables.”

Brent laughed. “Don't you know? Shabby-genteel Mrs. Emily Spenser could be cut for wearing the wrong style of dress, but Lady Auriana, the Duke's daughter, could dance in her petticoat and be called merely ‘eccentric.”'

“We shall see. 'Tis by no means sure the ton will believe me to be Lady Auriana. After all, even Great-aunt Augusta doubts my veracity. But enough hand wringing.” She lifted her chin. “I am who I am, and so be it. Whatever happens, I just hope Natalie will not be hurt.”

“Until this evening. Promise me at least one waltz.”

“If I'm snubbed, I expect you shall have them all.”

“I may hold you to that.”

She shook her head at him and turned to go. He caught her hand, though, and a little reluctantly she let him kiss it again.

She watched Brent thoughtfully as he strode out. He'd hinted his intentions long before the fickle shift of fate had set her on a path to possibly regain her birthright. She had
no doubt his regard and his desire for a closer connection stemmed from sincere affection alone.

If only she could return that affection. He was kind, attractive, witty, devoted. But though she treasured his friendship, her heart was still fixed on another.

Who must be thinking heavens knows what about her. And intelligent as Evan was, he had by now undoubtedly pieced together the stories and determined that the scandalous impostor—or long-lost relative, depending upon which version of the story one favored—was her.

She had almost sent him a note describing the circumstances that had brought her from the design studio above the Bond Street shop to a bedchamber in the Earl of Maxwell's town house on St. James Square. Almost, but after their bitter parting, she couldn't be sure he would be interested enough to read it. Besides, he was soon to be married, and she had no right to intrude upon his life.

But the shivers that set her trembling when she thought of standing in the receiving line tonight came not from worry over possible rejection by the ton, but from wondering whether a certain nobleman would put in an appearance. And what she would do or say to him if he should.

W
ith each turn of the carriage wheels as they crept along with the crowd approaching the Earl of Maxwell's town house, Evan's spirits sank lower. 'Twas all he could do not to snap at the ladies, who were attempting to enliven the tedium of the slow journey with some conversation.

Had he been able to manufacture an excuse to avoid going this evening, he would have done so. However, with all London clamoring for admittance, to have refused to escort his mother, Clare and Andrea to the ball that, whatever its outcome, was sure to remain the most talked-about event of the Season, would have been thought extremely odd.

Even more so since Lady Cheverley knew he was acquainted with the lady, having collected bonnets from her at the shop on several occasions. To have expressed no interest whatsoever in seeing the former shopkeeper in her vastly changed circumstances would have engendered more speculation than he wished anyone to entertain.

Paradoxically though, much as he dreaded it and as fiercely as his anger at her still burned, he probably would not have been able to stay away. He had not seen her since the morning of their bitter parting. He was willing to sus
pend all his grievances just for a chance to gaze for a few moments upon her face.

How pathetic, he thought savagely. After all this time, while she went on with her life without even the courtesy of a note of explanation, he still ached for her.

“How well did you know the young lady who claims to be Lady Auriana?” Andrea was asking his mama.

Groaning inwardly at the unwelcome shift in the conversation, Evan turned his face into the corner and tried not to listen.

“Rather well, actually. Strikingly beautiful and a wonderful designer. You've seen me wear several of the bonnets she fashioned—the pale blue velvet and the pheasant-feathered shako?”

“Why, yes. How lovely they are, and so flattering. Do you think she can truly be the Duke of Suffolk's daughter?”

His mama laughed. “I think that more likely than some of the other absurd rumors I've heard—that she is the
chère amie
of Lord Maxwell, or an impostor hired to try to claim some of the late Duke's wealth.”

“Did you never suspect she might be—other than she seemed?”

“Not really. Though she did ever possess an air of elegance and the presence of one used to command. I attributed it to her having fended for herself as a soldier's wife and widow. Of course, I knew her as a shopkeeper, and I suppose we all accept what we see.”

“Do you really think the Patronesses will cut her? Lady Barbara's daughter told me the reason most of the guests are coming is to see whether Lord Maxwell's consequence is sufficient to win her acceptance, or whether she'll be publicly humiliated.”

Humiliated? Would it come to that? Jolted from his resentment, Evan didn't notice the carriage had finally halted until a footman let down the step. Emily's story was so
clearly true he had not considered the possibility that she might be rejected. All his protective instincts were roused.

They took their places in the long line winding up the stairs to the ballroom. Here in the brighter light of the candles, Evan tried to keep his face turned away from his mama's sharp eye, and blessed the babble of several hundred voices, which made it easy to avoid conversation.

They were halfway up the stairs now, almost within sight of the figures in the reception line. How would she look? Serene, cool, self-possessed as ever despite the threat of social disaster?

Over the wrench of his heart, he had to smile. The valiant Emily he knew, who'd withstood Josh Harding's bullying and earned her bread in a foreign land, would hardly quail at facing down a passle of idle aristocrats.

He saw the painting before he saw her. Above the landing behind the reception line hung a large oil of two men in uniform. He recognized at once the black-haired, green-eyed man on the left as her late husband. The soldier standing beside him, his hair lighter but his features unmistakably similar, must be the brother, the new Lord Maxwell. Though a portrait, the painting was most unconventional, for the figures were not posed formally against a heroic backdrop, but lounging against the railing of a verandah, pelisses unfastened, a breeze from a brilliantly blue sky disordering their hair.

The style was unmistakably Emily's—the same vivid pure colors, sharp contrast and casual positioning used in her husband's miniature. And in her landscape of the lavender garden hanging in his town house library.

The guests behind him were murmuring. He realized the line before him had advanced while he stared, transfixed.

As his mama was still.

Lady Cheverley's eyes were riveted on the large oil, a look of incredulous dismay growing on her face. Before he
could think to turn away she glanced over at him. “God forgive me,” she whispered.

He jerked his head toward the limping Andrea, concentrated on assisting her up several more steps. Until he could no longer avoid looking upward.

At the head of the line stood the brown-haired man from the painting, a lovely blond lady beside him, and in profile beyond them—Emily.

She was aglitter in silver, like a midnight star. His gaze rose from the dazzling dress to her slender neck, her pale cheek—and froze, all other details ignored.

Her throat and ears bare of jewels, the only ornament she wore was a comb supporting a gauzy lace mantilla that whispered over her dark hair. The diamond-studded comb and mantilla he'd given her the first weeks they were together.

He didn't remember ascending the rest of the stairs, nor what reply he mumbled to his host and hostess's welcome. Then he stopped before her.

“Miss Marlowe, Lady Cheverley,” she said, extending her hand to his mama. “How good to see you.”

“How good to see you so well, my dear. And what a beautiful comb. 'Tis Spanish, is it not? A gift of your late husband?”

“No.” For the first time she turned and looked at Evan directly. He felt it as always, that immediate connection, the little thrill darting through every nerve. Her glorious wood-violet eyes scanned his face as she murmured, “'Twas a gift from my dearest friend.”

Did her gaze hold the same hungry intensity he knew his must? His heart accelerated, the noise of the party faded to a hum as if only the two of them were standing there, a bare touch apart.

“Lord Cheverley.” She said his name in her low-pitched voice. And she smiled. All his anguish, heartache, anger melted away in the brilliance of that smile.

“You'll save me a waltz, Lady Auriana?” he heard himself asking.

She nodded. The press of waiting guests forced him on.

He was halfway across the ballroom before his mind began to function again. Whatever had possessed him to ask her to dance? He'd intended to do his duty by his mama, Andrea and Clare, and after the inevitable greeting, scrupulously avoid Emily. 'Twas idiotic to torture himself by holding her casually in front of a roomful of people.

Nonetheless, as he made himself go through the familiar ritual of escorting the ladies to a chair, arranging refreshments, greeting acquaintances, all he could think was that in a very few moments she would be in his arms.

 

Every nerve vibrated with awareness. He had come. She hadn't been sure he would, wondered if he would somehow avoid meeting her again.

She had to force her glance from following his slow progress through the crowd as he escorted his party off.

Was he still angry, as he had been the morning she'd sent him away? Hurt that she had kept her past secret?

But she had revealed nearly everything save only her name and birth. He must know that, when the whimsy of fate had taken her life and spun it upside down, she had not dared contact him. And if he hadn't, he should now. She'd worn the comb for him.

When his mama asked about it, had anything like understanding dawned in those stark eyes? She could not tell, but…he'd asked her to dance. A waltz, where under cover of the movement, he could hold her close. Would he take that opportunity to congratulate her good fortune, or chastise her for not confiding in him?

Rob introduced another arriving guest to her, and she dragged her attention back to the receiving line. The ballroom was already crowded, and if the success of an evening
were judged by how much of a “crush” it became, this ball was certainly successful.

However, the greetings of the assembled guests had been cautious. Though they acknowledged her title as introduced, the speculation in their glances—and the overly familiar gleam in the eyes of some of the supposed gentlemen—made it clear their initial approval was qualified.

Who is she really?
Emily could almost hear them thinking.
Shopkeeper or duke's daughter? Lost relation or impostor? Widow or whore?
She clenched her teeth.

An almost palpable atmosphere of anticipation hung in the air, the attendees obviously waiting to see the reactions of those high-born leaders of the ton whose approval was essential to her success. None of whom had yet appeared.

If those doyennes of society stayed away, 'twould not matter how many others attended. Her presentation would fail and the Maxwells' social position suffer accordingly.

The thought made her indignant. She cared naught for herself, but how dare those haughty women slight Natalie?

Nearly an hour later, Rob insisted she leave the receiving line. As he waited for the eager officer he had called over to take her in to dance, he patted her hand reassuringly. “I'll summon you when the Dragons arrive. Chin up, the evening's just begun.”

She was not so sanguine. But though a part of her mind simmered with outrage and another part made polite conversation with the officer, every nerve hummed with anticipation that soon the hand at her waist, the voice murmuring in her ear, would be Evan's.

The dance ended. Her partner remained to chat as the orchestra struck up the next selection. A waltz.

Out of the throng she spied Evan walking toward her, his face grave, his deep blue eyes mesmerizing hers until at last he reached her side.

A mumble of words, a bow, and he offered his arm. As
she laid her hand on his sleeve the spark of contact made her heart skip a beat. A tingle of flame raced from her fingertips up her wrist, her shoulder, her neck.

Neither spoke as he led her out. One hand slid up her arm to clasp her wrist, his other encircled her waist and drew her close as he swept her into the rhythm of the waltz.

Though he seemed rigidly unresponsive, the burn of his hands upon her, the arousing heat of his torso brushing hers, the solid presence and achingly familiar scent of him intoxicated her. Right, wrong, duty, obligation—all fell away as she abandoned herself to the embrace of the dance. With a deep, shuddering sigh, for just an instant she allowed her head to rest against his shoulder.

His hands on her clenched. Then he brushed his lips against her hair and she felt more than heard him whisper, “Oh, Emily.” His hand on hers twisted, splayed her fingers apart and intertwined them with his own.

He swung her into ever-faster spirals. The velocity of the turns flung her against him the whole length of her body, from leg to hip to chest. She leaned into him giddily, but 'twas his nearness rather than the circles that made her dizzy.

After the upheavals of the last few weeks, reclaiming a role she'd abandoned so long ago it felt foreign, as if she were a ghost resurrected in the wrong body, this was solid and familiar and
right.
Here, in his arms, moving as one with him, she'd come home. She clung to him and wished the waltz would never end.

But of course it did, although they danced until the very last note, earning a spatter of applause from the laughing couples around them. Once more offering her his arm, he led her off the floor.

But not immediately back to the chairs. Rather, he made a circuit of the room, as if searching for a particular party. She was about to question him when at last he spoke.

“Why, Emily? Why did you never tell me who you were?”

He was still angry, she thought with a pang of sadness. “What difference would it have made?”

“What diff—” He sputtered and halted to look at her. “All the difference in the world, as you must know!”

“How so? Oh, Evan, if Rob had not chanced to return, I'd still be Madame Emilie working in her shop. Even now, 'tis highly doubtful I'll be accepted. I'd not even have attempted it had it not—”

“Evan, well met! I see you've stolen the belle of the evening. You'll hand her over for the next dance?”

A smiling young man with slightly protuberant eyes, his gaze on her offensively familiar, blocked their path. “Not to you,” Evan replied baldly. “Sorry, Axelrod, she's promised elsewhere. If you'll excuse us?”

Evan bore her away before the man had a chance to dispute the matter. “We can't talk here. Meet me. Green Park tomorrow morning at seven.”

She bit back an immediate acquiescence. “I doubt that's wise. My status may be—altered, but yours is the same. You're still the Earl, still engaged—”