A Scandalous Proposal (8 page)

Then the intensity left her and she smiled faintly. “But enough of that. Can I not pour you some port while I…get ready?”

Instantly the image that phrase conveyed sent the blood pounding to his temples and set his body aflame. Desperately he tried to reel back the passion he'd been riding all evening on the tightest of checkreins. “Th-there's no n-need to r-rush,” he stuttered.

Her purple eyes deepened to smoke. “Is there not? I find myself rather—anxious.”

She leaned up, and the rest of his noble intentions shattered at the first touch of her lips. With a groan, he gathered her close and tangled his fingers in her satin hair, combing out the pins as he deepened the kiss. Her tongue met his, mated with it, then pulled away to caress every surface of his mouth. His hands slid down to her back, to the buttons on her gown, and jerked frantically at them. The soft sound of renting cloth finally stopped him.

Heartbeat thundering, his breathing a harsh gasp, he made himself push her away. She looked up at him, her lips still parted and her eyes so passion glazed he almost lost control again.

Hands gripping her shoulders tightly to hang on to his dissolving willpower, he dredged up a ragged smile. “S-sorry! I'm about to take you again like the gr-greenest of saplings. I expect you can't credit it, but I used to account myself a rather slow and skillful lover.”

She smiled, smoky, intimate. “Oh, but you are.”

“Don't!” He cupped her startled face with both hands. “Don't say pretty things you think I want to hear. Tell me what you truly think and feel, or nothing. Promise me?”

“All right.” A little warily, she drew back. “Do you wish me to change now?”

“If you want to spare Francesca sewing back on all your buttons.” He managed a lopsided grin. “And would you wear this, please? For me?”

He retrieved the package Francesca had brought upstairs for him. After a moment, Emily took it. Some emotion crossed her face and she seemed to withdraw a little.

Had he offended her? “Not that your own gown isn't lovely!” he hastened to assure her, eyes glued to her face. “But I saw this, and couldn't help but envision you…your
eyes…the color….” He was babbling, he realized. Shutting his lips firmly, he took a deep breath. “Please?”

“Of course. I'll only be a moment.” With a brief smile she gathered up the parcel and walked away.

He hoped she wasn't offended. Later, next time, he would want to undress her himself, placing kisses upon each inch of slowly revealed flesh until she was as hot, as eager, as panting for him as he was for her. But this time, he wanted her to walk out to him as she had last night—wearing his gown.

When she did, the vision was all he'd hoped for. Purple silk framed her shoulders and cupped the lower curves of her breasts like a lover's hands. Cream lace, but a pale imitation of her glorious skin, half concealed, half revealed the swelling mounds themselves and the dark, rigid nipples. The gown overlapped and tied beneath her left breast, then parted along the smooth line of her left thigh and leg as she walked.

She reached him and twirled around. The skirt parted as the light material fluttered in the breeze of her pirouette, revealing the pale skin of her calf, knee and thigh. “Does it please you, my lord?”

“Evan,” he gasped, his voice nearly caught in his throat. “Call me Evan.”

“Evan,” she breathed as she lifted her face to his.

He'd never unwrapped so beautiful a gift.

Taking her mouth hard, he moved one hand to the ties beneath her breast, pulling them free, skimmed the other under the open edge of the gown and down across her satin belly to cup the springy nest of curls. She parted her legs to his insistent fingers and moaned when they entered her.

He slid them in and out, moving his thumb up to caress the small nub hidden above. Flipping the untied gown back
over her shoulder, he broke the kiss and moved his mouth to one naked breast.

She shuddered when he filled his mouth with its fullness, sucked deeply on the nipple. Her arms curved around his head, holding him there, and she moved her hips urgently into the steady rhythm of his fingers.

“T-take me t-to b-bed,” she gasped. “Please…Evan.”

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispered against her breast. She reached one hand, feeble, fumbling, toward his trousers, but he caught it, placed it back about his neck. “Later, my darling,” he said as he transferred his lips to her other breast and moved his free hand to grasp her tensed buttocks, pulling her more firmly against his fingers.

He quickened the pace, and her nails bit into his neck. With savage joy, he felt it the instant she shattered against him, her soft, gasping cries filling his ears. She sagged, and had he not caught her, would have fallen.

He lifted her into his arms. Her half-glazed eyes, still befuddled, gazed up at him. “Oh, Evan.”

He gave her a wolfish grin and kissed her hard, then carried her to the bed, the open, purple silk gown fluttering like fairy wings about them as he walked.

She'd recovered enough by the time they reached the bedroom to insist on undressing him. And got back her own as, after swiftly removing his jacket and boots, she slowed her pace, slipping off his neckcloth and pausing to kiss his neck, chin and ears, then unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt and tracing her lips down the furred skin beneath. Her tongue playing about his navel, she freed one by deliberate one the straining buttons of his breeches, then stripped the tight garment down to his knees.

He gave a startled cry when she fondled his bared buttocks. And a shock like bolted lightning erupted through him when she took him into her mouth. For a few blinding sec
onds, he knew only unbearably, unbelievably intense sensation before a series of powerful contractions catapulted him beyond consciousness.

 

They took it slowly the next time, talking, laughing, kissing between touches. Her caressing fingers never left his body; he explored languidly, tasting, stroking, memorizing every inch of hers, letting passion build until this time they reached oblivion together.

The motion of her arising from the bed woke him sometime later. She caught the hand he thrust out to pull her back and kissed it, nibbling on his knuckles.

“I'm starving,” she pronounced. “Francesca promised to leave something for us in the kitchen. I'll fetch it.”

“Let me. You shouldn't carry a fully laden tray.”

She chuckled softly. “I've carried heavier items, I assure you. No, rest.” Her hand stayed him when he would have clambered up. “You don't know where to look, and there's not room enough in that kitchen for us both. 'Twill take but a moment.”

Languidly, she stretched, her naked breasts outlined by moonlight through the balcony doors, then motioned toward the corner. “There's a necessary behind the screen.” Tossing on his gown, she tied it, blew him a kiss and walked out.

Evan lay back, watching the sway of hips beneath satin as she exited. He had to be the luckiest bastard in England, he thought with enormous contentment. No—the luckiest bastard in the entire world.

The luckiest full-bladdered bastard in the world. He got up to take care of that, then strolled over to peer at himself in the mirror on her dressing table. He grinned, giddy, and stuck a finger on the nose of his reflection. “You,” he told it solemnly, “are one lucky bastard.”

What a mooncalf he'd become. Laughing, he trailed his fingers down to the table's surface, tracing them over the embossed silver of her hairbrush, a small bottle that exuded the faint but pungent scent of the lavender she wore. How he loved the smell of it on her. He'd buy her gallons of the stuff, so she might wear it always. “For me,” he whispered.

Then he noticed a small picture on a stand, and without thinking, raised it to study. A laughing, black-haired, green-eyed man in a red officer's uniform gazed back at him.

H
is stomach muscles clenched as if someone had struck him. Fingers trembling, he set the picture down, nearly knocking over the easel.

Sapskulled idiot,
he told himself savagely. Whose miniature did he expect to find on her dressing table—the maid's? 'Twas ludicrous to feel this sense of—betrayal, almost, and as for jealousy, 'twas insane. The man was
dead,
for pity's sake!

He cast another sidelong glance at the miniature. “Well, soldier boy,” he muttered, “you may be the hero, but you're no longer here to protect her. I am—and I will. She's mine now, and there's nothing—”

He stopped abruptly. He couldn't believe what he was doing. Ranting. At a portrait. A portrait of a dead man.

He must be losing his mind.

The soft sound of a gasp finally penetrated his abstraction. He turned to find Emily at the doorway, her gaze going from his face to the miniature.

After a silent moment she walked past and set the tea tray on the dressing table. There she stood, her body between him and the table, while the clink of china and the trickle of pouring liquid indicated she must be fixing cups.

“You were right, the tray
was
rather heavy,” she said over her shoulder. “Would you like biscuits? And there's a bit of the paella left I thought you might enjoy.”

Smiling, she turned and approached him, a full dish of tea in one hand and the teapot in the other. “'Tis a bit cramped here. Shall we dine in the sitting room? I'll come back for the tray.”

He mumbled something and took the steaming cup she offered, then mutely followed her from the room. But in a backward glance as he exited the bedchamber, he noted the little easel now stood empty.

 

The tinkle of the shop bell interrupted them as they sat over tea in the office several weeks later.

“That should be Baines with my evening things,” Evan said, and sighed. “I must admit, I'm vastly tempted to cry off. I'd rather enjoy Francesca's cooking and listen to you read the next chapter of Miss Austen's novel. That Miss Bennett—” he winked at her “—seems just as saucy as you.”

“Indeed? I rather thought I might beat you at chess. Again.”

“You didn't last time,” he felt compelled to point out. “Though perhaps 'tis better to face you over a chessboard than be skewered by your violent opinions.”

“What is violent about insisting a sitting member of the Lords should know the facts behind the measures upon which he will vote? Or to point out the enclosure legislation, added to the high prices caused by war, will cause starvation amongst the yeomen farmers who depend upon common land to graze their herds?”

Grinning, he sighed elaborately. “And what should ladies know about enclosures and grain prices and shepherding?”

“Recall who takes care of herds and farms when husbands and fathers go off to war.”

That reflection sobered him. “Aye, womenfolk carrying burdens they should not have to bear, as you know only too well. Which is why I must go, despite having to suffer the harangues of dull old government men. Geoffrey leaves London soon and I must decide what to do about those supply figures. 'Tis a puzzle I've not yet unraveled.”

“As I recall, the only puzzle about supplies was how they never managed to arrive,” Emily said with a chuckle.

“There's that,” Evan acknowledged wryly, “but more troubling are the outlays that never seem to balance against supplies purchased.” He frowned. “I begin to suspect—but I shouldn't discuss it. Not even with you, my dear, whose opinion would be of much greater value than those of the octogenarians pontificating tonight.”

“I doubt my observations would be of much use. I saw only a tiny piece of the overall campaign, after all. Those who receive intelligence from sources throughout the country surely have a clearer view.”

“To be of much use, intelligence received must be intelligently analyzed.” Evan grimaced. “Aside from Old Hooky, whose comments are almost painfully incisive, I fear the civilian detachments spend more time peacocking about and vying for authority than thoughtfully discharging their responsibilities. And if our—problem—turns out to be from causes more venal than simple incompetence, the miscreants should go to the Tower.”

“I wish more in government felt as you! Andr—we always felt the gentry back in England were so far removed from the war they had little conception and less interest in the hardships faced by the troops.” She inclined her head to give him a measuring glance. “You are different.”

Her approval warmed him to his toes. “Not the idle, frivolous dandy you first thought me?”

She gave him a severe look and shook a finger. “Trolling for compliments, my lord?”

He caught the fingertip and kissed it. “Unashamedly.”

A mischievous sparkle danced in her eyes. “Then I must confess I'm fair astonished to discover you do a day's work now and again, when you're not sleeping until noon, visiting your tailor, gambling at your club or drink—”

His hand across her lips halted the flow of words. “Wretch. I should love to lie abed until noon, could I but induce you to dally there.” He pulled her closer.

She returned his lingering kiss, then gently pushed him away. “'Tis better I go to my work of a morning and let you tend yours. The country—and our army—need prudent and intelligent men. But I must go let Baines in, before the poor man's attitude sours any further.”

Evan glanced at her sharply. “Has Baines shown you any discourtesy? I'll sack him this instant!”

She turned her face aside, her ivory skin flushing. “No, you mustn't. I only meant that he—he tires himself, I'm sure, carrying out…errands for you. 'Tis only natural he seems sometimes out of sorts.”

As she started past, Evan caught her shoulder. “Stay, finish your tea. I'll take care of Baines.” He gave her a little push back toward her chair. “And if you receive any less than the most cordial of words from him in future, let me know immediately.”

“Oh, but—”

“Stay.” Softening the command by tracing his hand in a lascivious pattern over her derriere, he gave her another push. With an exasperated sigh, she returned to sit in her chair behind the desk.

Evan frowned again as he crossed the salesroom. Baines was well paid to wait upon him, whether at his town house in Portman Square or here. The fact that nearly every day the man had to bestir himself to bring to the shop a fresh change of day and evening clothes for his master was irrelevant. If the lackey had any complaints about the change in
routine Evan's new lady had caused him, he'd better get over them. Or find a new master.

After delivering a few terse words that had his employee avowing delight in serving his master however his lordship required, Evan dismissed the man. He dropped a kiss on Emily's forehead as he passed her and climbed the narrow stairs to her bedchamber.

Behind the curtained screen in the corner he struggled to pull off his coat. Why, he wondered for perhaps the hundredth time since beginning to spend many of his evenings here, did fashion require garments so tight one truly needed one's valet to get in and out of them? He certainly didn't want the man about, looking down his long nose at this modest dwelling—or its mistress—with that snobbery as engrained in the service community as it was among their employers upstairs. Even were there enough space for Baines to tender him a valet's service, which there wasn't.

Panting, Evan finally succeeded in stripping off the coat. He tossed on a clean shirt and struggled into his evening jacket, pushing hard to force his arm through the narrow opening. Suddenly his hand broke free, hitting the wall beyond with a sharp crack.

Cursing, he rubbed the offended knuckles. This changing alcove was just not broad enough for a man of his size, nor was the ceiling in the small chamber tall enough. Once again he thought longingly of moving Emily out of these cramped quarters and into a house more worthy of her. One spacious enough to accommodate him.

But how to get Emily to agree to it?

He had to smile wryly at his naive initial vision of settling her in an elegant town house with a discreet staff of servants, carriage at the ready to carry them to the Park or shopping or the theater.

Dazzled with euphoria their first heady week together,
he'd proposed just such an arrangement—and received a categorical refusal.

The portrait of injured dignity, Emily had drawn herself up and apologized for offering him accommodations so inferior to those to which he was doubtless accustomed. Though he was exceedingly kind to offer an alternative, the little shop was home as well as business, the best she could afford at moment, and she wouldn't dream of leaving. As for carriages, she needed none, being too busy to go traipsing about, and the theater—She'd stopped, blanching.

Cursing himself for stupidity, Evan had watched her almost physically recoil from the vision of herself on display in some theater box, the beau monde leveling their collective quizzing glasses and buzzing about the identity of Cheverley's latest filly. Before he could attempt to recover, she concluded in a cool voice that a businesswoman rose too early to make indulging in theater trips prudent, though of course she appreciated his thoughtful offer.

Icy calm replaced her initial agitation. It had taken two days and every trick and charm he could summon to finally bring back the teasing repartee and passionate fire he adored. Uneasy at the possibility of alienating her again, he'd not ventured such a suggestion since. Nor protested when, to his huge disappointment, she subtly but unmistakably made it clear she would not accompany him anywhere in public.

Without words, he understood, and without words, accepted that his very proper love could not tolerate being pointed out as his mistress.

A few weeks later he'd forgotten the lesson. Strolling down Bond Street, he'd chanced to see an exquisite silver-lace mantilla set on a diamond-studded comb, and thought immediately of Emily. Perhaps the soldier had bought her such a headdress while she followed him through Spain, but none so fine as this.

Evan's smug satisfaction evaporated the instant she unwrapped it and her fine eyes clouded with dismay.

“You shouldn't have,” she'd whispered, essaying a smile that didn't quite succeed.

“You don't like it.”

“No, 'tis exquisite. It's just…you have given me so much already.”

His irrational jealousy flared, and before he could think he retorted, “Did your husband never bring you gifts?”

She bent her head, fingers rewrapping the tissue about the comb as if the sparkling reflection of the diamonds were a live and threatening thing. “That…that was different,” she said at last. “Besides, 'twould look rather out-of-place in the shop.”

A pointed reminder she'd not wear it out anywhere—not with him.

Her lingering distress over the illicit nature of their affair was the only shadow in what had otherwise been the most glorious eight weeks of his life.

What a wonder she was! From the first day, she'd continued to amaze him with her talent and intelligence, to mesmerize with her depth and complexity. Nor had the pull of her beauty lessened. Indeed, if such a thing were possible, the attraction seemed stronger than ever.

So drawn to her was he that he'd several times forgotten to attend social engagements at which he'd planned to be present. Of late he'd evaded such entertainments, despite his mama's unspoken concern. Except for an occasional lunch or political dinner, he'd ceased to frequent his clubs. What attraction could some dull ton party, exactly like every other he'd attended a score of Seasons and more, exert compared to the rich delight of his world with Emily?

Beautiful, demure, devilish Emily. Even the thought of her made his spirits, and other things, rise.

Still, he concluded as he had to stoop to tie his cravat at
the dressing table mirror, the current situation was clearly inadequate. Not only did he need more room to change clothes without bruising his fists and damaging the plaster, it chafed him to see her living in tiny rooms above a shop—she who should be mistress of a stylish town house equipped with a staff to do her bidding and—without complaint or raised eyebrows—his.

True, he admitted, as her business grew she might well one day earn enough to purchase such accommodation herself, but for the immediate future—

The solution that flashed into his head was so brilliant he caught his breath, his hands stilling on the cravat. So brilliant, so perfect was it, even his proper Emily would not be able to find a flaw in his reasoning.

Excitement speeding his fingers, he swiftly finished the knot. There was, he thought with a giddy laugh, more than one way to move a lady.

 

Emily was at her worktable, absorbed as usual in the completion of a design, when she was seized from behind and two hands clamped over her eyes. After an initial terrified squeak, she caught at the imprisoning wrists. “Evan, stop! I've work to finish.”