A Scandalous Proposal (7 page)

Evan knew he was beaming; he couldn't help it. “Completely.”

Brent whistled. “Congratulations, then! Come—” he motioned to a waiter “—let's have some champagne! Though I can hardly credit it—Willoughby was so sure she'd not go down for anyone.”

Evan jerked back the hand his friend was enthusiastically pumping. “Dammit, don't you dare describe her in such terms.”

Shocked into immobility, Brent simply looked at him. “Sorry, Ev,” he said at last. “I meant no disrespect.”

Shocked himself by the depth of his outrage, Evan made himself smile and motioned Brent back to his chair. “I don't want this to become common knowledge about London—not a hint of it. If you take my meaning?”

Brent straightened, looking mildly affronted. “I'm hardly
one to go gossiping about my friends. As I thought you'd know.”

“Yes, yes, I do know. Just a reminder.”

“Mrs. Spenser worries for her reputation?” Brent guessed.

“No, I do. I don't want some idle fool getting the wrong idea and bothering her.”

Brent stared at him searchingly, then shook his head. “The lady must have made quite an impression.”

Evan let his mind play over the images of Emily in all her guises, and of their own volition his lips curved into a smile. “She did indeed.”

The champagne arrived, and with a flourish, Brent presented him a flute. “To you,” he raised his glass, “the luckiest bastard in London.”

After they downed the wine, Evan put a restless hand to his pocket and frowned. “Blast, I seem to have left my watch. What o'clock is it?”

Brent squinted at the mantel clock across the room. “Near on five, best I can see. How about a few hands of piquet before you leave me for the divine Madame? Mayhap I can fleece you of enough blunt to assuage my jealousy.”

So strongly did the thought of Emily pull Evan, even the prospect of several hours spent over good wine in the company of his best friend didn't appeal. He knew where he most wanted to be. So why not just go there?

“Another time, perhaps,” he replied, deciding on the spot. “I think I'll stop by the shop and make sure the runner is still on duty.”

Brent grinned. “Righto, better check. Runners are such an inefficient lot.” He ducked Evan's mock punch. “Give the widow my regards—you lucky bastard.”

Already halfway across the room, Evan only nodded.

Q
uietly entering the salesroom half an hour later, Evan saw Francesca by the office door, Emily bent over her worktable in the room beyond. As the maid's face lit in a welcoming smile, he put a warning finger to his lips and beckoned her.

“Don't disturb your mistress,” he whispered when she reached his side. “Will she forgive me if I invite myself to dinner?”

“You honor us, my lord,” the maid whispered back.

Grinning, Evan handed her a pouch. “You'll need to make some purchases. I doubt you usually cook enough to feed a healthy man's appetite.”

She shook her head sadly. “Not for years.”

“Do so tonight. And if there's a special dish your mistress particularly likes, prepare it.”

“I know just the one!” Francesca pocketed the pouch, her dark eyes shining. “Ah tonight, such a meal I cook!”

“If 'tis anything like last night's, I may sack my chef and steal you away. Before you go, could you take this upstairs?” He handed her the tissue-wrapped package.

He tiptoed to the office door. Lost in concentration, Emily toiled away unawares. Vases of flowers scattered about the salesroom wafted the subtle but pervasive scent of violets
and pansies. Within the small workroom every available surface but the table itself was covered with bouquets. The spicy fragrance teased his nose.

Though he'd not expected her to hide his tributes, he was absurdly touched to discover she'd placed them all around her, some even in public view. Surely she could not be bent on pleasing him only out of gratitude, could she?

Despite the maid's friendliness, he was unsure enough about her mistress's reaction to his unannounced and uninvited arrival that he delayed making his presence known. Silently he settled against the wall, curious, and content to watch her.

A sketchbook sat open on the worktable, a half-finished velvet bonnet on a stand beside it. From time to time she glanced at the book as her long fingers deftly fashioned rosettes of braid and added them to the hat. After completing a final flower, she lifted the bonnet and placed it carefully on her head.

Before he realized what she was doing, she walked to the mirror to inspect it—and saw him behind her in the reflection.

She gasped and spun around. “Lord Cheverley!”

Once again, her beauty seen face-to-face took his breath away. For a long moment, he merely stood, tongue-tied and awkward as an infatuated adolescent.

Quickly she replaced the bonnet on its stand. “I wasn't expecting you this early, my lord.”

All the gallant, polished phrases he'd practiced deserted him. “I couldn't stay away.”

Groaning inwardly at such gaucherie, he strode toward her. “But I don't mean to interrupt. Please, complete whatever you intended to finish by evening.” He halted a foot away, conscious of a strong desire to pull her into his arms. Barely a minute close to her, and already he was lost. He
settled for kissing the fingers she extended, savoring the scent, the touch of her skin.

She smiled slightly. “I'm not sure it's possible for me to work with you so near. But Lady Wendfrow expects this tomorrow, so I'm obliged to try.”

Could she feel the attraction, that magnetic pull between them, as strongly as he? Evan fervently hoped so.

He stepped toward the table, forcing himself to focus on something other than her intoxicating proximity. “You work from your own designs?” At her nod, he indicated the sketchbook. “May I?”

“If you wish.”

To distract himself while she finished, he opened the book, intending to flip idly through the designs. The first image facing up at him riveted his attention. “Why, that's Lady Wendfrow to the life!”

“'Tis easier to design a bonnet that flatters my client if I work from a detailed sketch of her face.”

“If you can fashion something to flatter Lady Wendfrow, you're a wizard.”

She made a little gurgle of a laugh, the sound so enchanting it momentarily distracted him. “She does tend to wear plumed hats that only emphasize her narrow face, in shades of black that do nothing whatsoever for her coloring.”

“You intend to rectify those errors?” He pointed to the half-fashioned bonnet.

“Yes. The frame is mourning black, on which she insists, but I've lined the brim and trimmed the sides with peach satin. That soft tone beside her face will warm her skin to cream. And I shall drape the plume more to the horizontal, to broaden her face.”

“By heaven, it might work. Mama said you were a genius. May I look at the other sketches?”

“If you like. I'll be just a few more moments.”

She took up needle and thread and set to work.

While she stitched, he flipped through the book, pausing to study several sketches of the ladies familiar to him. He had to marvel both at how well she had captured their images and at how skillfully each bonnet she'd designed emphasized their best features.

Then he reached the last page and froze.

Emily had caught the sitter at a pensive moment, one hand to her chin as she gazed into the distance. The pale ivory of her hair, the turquoise of her eyes and the wistful, half-smiling expression were so vividly rendered he felt as if his mama might at any moment speak to him from out of the sketchbook.

“This is extraordinary!” he burst out. “Please, I must have it. May I buy it from you?”

She glanced over, her hand with the needle momentarily stilling. “The sketch of Lady Cheverley? Take it, if you like. That bonnet is already finished.”

“I must pay you for it.”

“Nonsense, 'tis only a pastel. Besides, you've already expended far too much for me. If the likeness pleases you, I should be honored for you to have it as a gift.”

He hesitated, about to argue the point, but the oblique reference to her indebtedness and the slight lift of her chin alerted him that her pride was at issue.

Give in gracefully, he decided. He could repay her in ways she'd not discover—through Francesca, who, unlike her mistress, seemed cheerfully willing to accept his largesse.

“Thank you, then.” He took a knife from the worktable and carefully cut free the sketch. That task accomplished, he looked back to see her hunched over the bonnet, peering at the dark velvet in the rapidly fading twilight.

“Emily, stop. You can't possibly see black thread against black velvet any longer.”

‘A few more stitches, and 'twill be finished.” While he
watched in exasperation, she stubbornly bent closer, her nose nearly buried in the bonnet as she attached a final ribbon. At last she knotted off her thread.

“Enough,” he said, and put his hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her from the worktable. But at the feel of her flesh under his fingers, he found all his banked passion surging back. He shuddered and went still, resisting the sudden, sharp longing to enfold her against him.

She'd gone motionless as well, and he could feel her muscles tense under his hands. Without thinking, he began to massage her stiff shoulders.

“Ahh,” she sighed. “That feels lovely.”

“No wonder your shoulders ache, standing in front of that worktable all day,” he chided, extending the massage to her neck and upper arms.

“You scold just like Francesca,” she said with a giggle. 'Twas so infectious a sound, he found himself laughing, too. She rotated to face him. He looked down into those wide pansy eyes and caught his breath yet again.

Slowly her smile faded. When, helpless, compelled, he lowered her mouth, she raised on tiptoes to meet his kiss.

He kissed her long and longingly, battling the immediate urge to slide his hands to the tempting, tilt-tipped breasts brushing his chest. At last he reluctantly released her. “I've been waiting a century for that.”

Her charming bubble of a laugh sounded again. “Indeed? 'Twas nearly six when you left this morning.”

“Couldn't have been. It seems an eternity.”

She lifted her gaze to his, her velvet eyes holding the slightly startled look of a wild thing disturbed. Then, to his surprise and utter delight, she closed them again and leaned back into his embrace.

 

“Another glass of wine, my lord?”

Emily had poured half the glass when the hot dish Fran
cesca was carrying in caught her attention. Her eyes narrowing, she gave the maid a sharp look.

“Paella? How delightful,” Evan said.

“'Tis Madame's favorite,” Francesca confirmed, ignoring Emily's pointed stare. “Also the beef with rosemary, potatoes and minted peas, and the fine rioja.”

“Francesca, I'll want a word with you later.”

“Aye, mistress.” With a curtsey and a saucy wink at Evan, the maid withdrew.

“You mustn't scold her,” Evan said. “I asked her to fix your favorites this evening.”

“You gave her money,” Emily said flatly.

“Of course. I would rather dine with you than anywhere else in London, but I can hardly expect you to regularly feed one large, overgrown male.”

“If you are my guest, I can provide for you. Perhaps not paella, rare beef and the finest of riojas.”

“Please, Emily, don't pull caps with me. You do a wonderful job providing for your household. Your company gives me such—” he caught himself before uttering the word
joy
“—enjoyment, I wanted to do a little something to express it.”

“A
little
something?” she echoed, exasperation in her tone. “My lord, you've already chased away an abusive villain and saved me from being blackmailed a tidy sum monthly for the indefinite future. I think that's quite enough.”

“Do you place limits on the gifts you give a friend?”

Lips open as if to pursue her argument, she paused. “No, I suppose not,” she admitted after a moment. “Unless necessity compels it.”

“Then will you not permit me the same luxury? Please. You have worked diligently for so long. How can it be wrong for a friend to indulge you?”

Seeing that wary look coming back in her eyes, he changed tack. “As for work, I'm impressed by the exceptional quality of your sketches. Did you not say you'd painted portraits while in Spain? Why did you choose not to continue painting here?”

She took a sip of wine. For a moment, he thought she'd ignore the question. Finally, looking away from him, she said softly, “'Twas different in Spain, among strangers. My father was a—a wealthy man. He sent me to an exclusive school. Some of those who would commission portraits here might be his colleagues or acquaintances. Or former classmates of my own.”

She didn't need to say more. All at once he had a searing vision of what her life must have been. Cast out of the privileged world of bourgeois wealth because of her runaway marriage, unacknowledged by her husband's apparently aristocratic family, upon that soldier's death far from friendly lines, she'd found herself utterly alone in a foreign land with nothing but her talent and wits between herself and starvation.

For an individual who had vanquished the dangers she must have faced to return and work as a servant for those who were once her equals would have been intolerable. Small wonder she'd chosen, despite her undeniable talent, to abandon portraiture.

That she had managed to amass enough capital to return to England and begin a business was nothing short of astounding. Stirred initially by her beauty, he found himself even more fascinated by the resourceful, courageous character beneath.

“Will you be offended if I express my admiration for how cleverly you've built a successful business?”

“How could I be? When one lives solely by her own
labors, she cannot help but feel gratified that a man praises those efforts rather than her sparkling eyes or raven tresses.”

He stowed that tidbit away for later use. “I cannot recall ever knowing a woman so completely in charge of her own life.”

She shrugged. “One does what one must.”

“Was your break with your family that complete?”

“It was absolute.”

“Do you not think they might reconsider, were they to know you are home now, and widowed?”

She laughed shortly. “My father could not tolerate being crossed. When he realized I had defied him and run away, he was—ungovernable. He forbade my mother to contact me, had my letters to her returned unopened. That he disowned me is certain; I don't doubt he left orders in his will that even after his death, no member of the family attempt to communicate with me. Though, quite typically, he rendered such an order superfluous.”

Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “I chanced upon a distant connection in Lisbon a few years ago, and she was astonished to see me. It seems my father told everyone I'd died of a fever the summer I turned sixteen.”

For a moment she stared sightlessly past him. Her voice, when at last she spoke, was a whisper. “I would have starved in the streets of Lisbon before I would have begged him to reconsider.”