A Scandalous Proposal (29 page)

Grayson and Emmaline exchanged looks as Helen wandered off ahead of them. “As my late brother said, Grayson, the woman has a tongue that runs on wheels, but only rarely engages with her brain box. She means well.”

“As you say, my lady. His...that is, your guest awaits you in the morning room.”

Emmaline hastened down the hallway, realizing that putting Helen within fifty yards of any young, handsome man was akin to setting a plate of sugar cookies within easy reach of a precocious child.

She stopped to take a settling breath, and then turned the corner and entered the morning room, just in time to see John bowing over Helen's hand.

Her sister-in-law turned to her with a wink and a smile. “Well, now, aren't you the naughty one? While the cat's away the mice will dance, hmm? Or did Charlton know about this...houseguest of yours?”

“Captain Alastair was there on the scene, just after the yacht sank, Helen. It is he who brought me the sad news.”

“And then decided to stay for the funerals? How accommodating of you, Captain. I may have to attend the services myself, after all,” Helen said, once more turning her back on Emmaline. “Alastair? John
Alastair
. Now why is that name so familiar to me, hmm?”

John shot a quick look past Helen, to where Emmaline stood. “John is a fairly common name, Your Grace.”

“Common as dirt, yes. But Alastair? No, I think I...oh, wait! I think I remember now. Not John Alastair.
Jonathan
Alastair. You're William's son. The sailor. How he loathed that you'd put the line in jeopardy, haring about on the high seas and all of that nonsense. Poor William, although Dame Rumor has it that he died quite happily.” Helen sank into a graceful curtsy. “It is so delightful, again, to meet you, Your Grace.”

Emmaline found that she couldn't breathe.

And Helen, who always noticed such things, noticed. “Emmaline, dearest? Are you quite all right? How could you have forgotten to tell me that the Duke of Warrington is your houseguest? Your Grace, you simply must return to River's Edge with me, as there is nothing quite so dull and dreary as a house of mourning. So sorry you won't be able to join us, Emmaline. What with your brother so newly dead and all.”

“Emmaline, I—Emmaline, wait!”

But Emmaline was gone, turning about so quickly she nearly tripped over the hem of her gown before running out of the room.

He caught up with her in the large foyer, before she could mount the stairs and lock herself in her bedchamber, where she would remain for the next hundred years, if possible.

“Grayson,” he said, his eyes on Emmaline, his hand holding tight to her arm, “if you'd be so kind as to keep Her Grace occupied elsewhere.”

“But...but how should I do that, sir?”

“I don't care if you tie her to a chair. And it wouldn't depress me if you included a gag. The woman is a feather-witted menace. Go, and everyone else—leave.”

“John, you cannot just go ordering the servants to—and let go of my arm.”

“I was going to tell you, Emmaline, I swear I was. This morning. I don't know why I didn't tell you immediately...but it all just seemed...easier if you thought me a more...a more simple man.”

“I thought we'd live in a cottage. And...and raise our children. I thought... I thought I would be your helpmeet, your companion.”

“And how does my being a duke change any of that? Granted, Warrington Hall is not a cottage, but as for the rest of it? Being duke and duchess does not preclude us from being loving parents. From loving each other, staying true to each other. We won't ever have to go to London at all, if you don't want to go. Is that it? Have you taken a firm dislike to London, to Society?”

She shook off his hand. “I'm not a recluse, John. Charlton refused to take me, that's all. I adore London, at least most of it.”

“Oh, good,” he said, relaxing slightly. “Because I really think we need to go there from time to time. That is, if you can love a duke even half as much as you could love a simple sea captain?”

Emmaline looked down at the floor. “I'm being silly, aren't I? I saw us as being so simple, our lives so uncomplicated. Being Charlton's sister was...very complicated.” She turned her gaze on the man she loved. “How did you know I felt that way?”

“I don't know. I felt that if I told you who I am, about the damned title, then you'd not relax your guard around me, tell me the sorts of things you told me yesterday. About your family, about your life.”

“Well, I wouldn't have, you're correct about that. I don't think I would have worried about how you'd pay for your room at the inn, either.”

“Darling, do you remember when I said we can't choose who we love, but we can choose who we like?”

“Yes,” she said, allowing him to take her hands in his.

“I knew I loved you the moment I first saw you. That was the easy part. But then I knew I liked you when you showed such concern for my welfare, when you were more worried for me than concerned with the suddenly altered circumstances of your life. Now, am I forgiven?”

“I don't know,” she said coyly—imagine, a twenty-eight-year-old almost-virgin, being coy! “I really believe I may have had my heart set on a thatched cottage near the sea.”

He slipped his arms more fully around her and brought his mouth down to nearly meet hers. “We'll work on that...”

EPILOGUE

T
HERE
WERE
TWO
musty old aunts in the second pew, a quiet and reserved-looking Charlotte Seavers and her father in the third, and only Emmaline and John sitting in the first pew as the vicar looked uncomfortable in the small chapel hung in black crepe but glaringly absent of coffins.

Helen Daughtry had not only sent her regrets, but had forbidden her twin daughters from attending the service. “Much too depressing for the young dears,” she'd insisted, which was, Emmaline knew, another way of saying, “If they're there, then I have to be there, and I don't want to be there.”

Last night, while the two of them were in bed together after the rest of the household was asleep, John had proposed a wine toast to Helen's absence. If it were possible to love him even more, she did, because he was so impervious to Helen's beauty and wiles.

The quickness of the memorial ceremony and the absence of the trio who would provide raucous entertainment for them had kept Charlton's friends firmly in London. As for George and Harold, they were the sort who had acquaintances, men to whom they either owed money or were owed money. Not friends.

It was a sad statement about three wasted lives, lives that could have been so rich as well as privileged.

Now Rafael Daughtry was the Duke of Ashurst, even if he was probably still unaware of his new title. His mother would drive Grayson and the other servants to distraction when she was in residence, and Nicole and Lydia would make them happy again, as all the staff adored the twins.

But Emmaline, who had thought she'd never leave Ashurst Hall, would be departing in the next few weeks to become the Duchess of Warrington. It was obscene, unheard of, for a woman in mourning to wed so hastily, but when she and John had realized that neither cared what Society thought, Emmaline had set her maid to bringing down trunks from the attic so that they could begin packing up her belongings.

“We mourn our brothers, Charlton, George, Harold,” Vicar Wooten droned on—he'd been droning on for nearly an hour and even he seemed fatigued. “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes...um, well, not perhaps in this particular case, begging your pardon.”

One of the aunts stifled a giggle and, for some reason she would never understand, that caused Emmaline to shed her very first tears for her brother and nephews.

Not in this case.
No, nothing was quite like this case. The deaths had been senseless, unnecessary and much too soon.

She dabbed at her moist eyes with the corner of her handkerchief, knowing her tears now were for what might have been, for the past that could never be changed.

And then John slipped his hand into hers, squeezed it, and she turned to look at this man she loved. Every question she'd ever had, any answer she'd ever sought. They were all there, in his eyes. She smiled through her tears as she saw her future.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
AN IMPROPER ARRANGEMENT
by Kasey Michaels.

“Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”
—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Nora Roberts

If you loved the banter and romance in
A Scandalous Proposal
, then don't miss the temptation and passion in the next thrilling installment of the
Little Season
series by
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bestselling author Kasey Michaels.

A Reckless Promise

Experience the drama of London's Little Season from the start with
An Improper Arrangement
.

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For more scandal, seduction and romance featuring dashing heroes, daring rogues and enchanting debutantes, don't miss these great titles by Kasey Michaels!

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The Taming of the Rake

The Beckets of Romney Marsh
Becket's Last Stand
The Return of the Prodigal
A Reckless Beauty
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Beware of Virtuous Women
The Dangerous Debutante
A Gentleman by Any Other Name

The Daughtry Family
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An Improper Arrangement

by Kasey Michaels

Prologue

Battle of
Champaubert
10 February 1814

G
ABRIEL
S
INCLAIR
HAD
talked his friends into many a wild start or dubious enterprise over the years, but the objectives always had been entertainment, adventure and, often, since they'd grown into manhood, willing women.

Which didn't explain why they'd followed him this time, as the only things certain were they'd be cold, bored and forced to miss their noon meal, not that the last could be considered much of a sacrifice.

There wouldn't be any more large battles, everyone said so, especially after the Allied Army's thorough trouncing of Napoleon's troops at La Rothière. Any day now, Boney would present an offer of abdication, hand back his crown and they could all go home.

“Tell me again why we're up here, Gabe, risking frostbite to our most treasured appendages,” his friend Cooper Townsend said, wrapping his greatcoat more tightly around himself. “Our Russian friend camped us in the wrong spot?”

“I think we've already agreed on that. They're all acting as if the war's already over,” Gabriel muttered as he studied the crude map he'd drawn a day earlier, while out reconnoitering on his own. It wasn't that he didn't trust England's ally; he merely trusted himself more. He was also partial to giving orders, not taking them, and hadn't been best pleased to be ordered to join with the Russians. “Look at this, Rigby,” he demanded, shoving the map under Jeremiah Rigby's nose. “Five thousand men, all but deserted by Blücher and stretched thin like pulled taffy. Our affable host, the dear General Olssufiev, has yet to set out half the needed sentries, and the few he did do nothing but hide in the bushes and snore their heads off.”

“Not the ones we kicked awake when we first got up here,” Cooper said, grinning. “Only real enjoyment I've had in days.”

Gabriel ignored him and continued making his point. “One sharp bite on the taffy and the French are through our lines, and with nothing at our backs but a half-frozen river.”

“Yes, yes, very pretty. You're quite the artist with words, Gabe. Not that I can decipher the thing.” Jeremiah Rigby pushed the offending map away. “Worse, now I'm hungry for taffy.” He winked at Cooper. “Wouldn't mind a rabbit, either, come to think of it. Since we've seen no French, what say you we scrap this ridiculous patrol you bludgeoned us all into, Gabe, and turn it into a hunting party?”

“Not yet, boys. Our doomsday prophet might yet be right. Shame, if true, but odd things happen all the time.”

They all turned to Darby Travers, who, for lack of anything else to do, had been lazily scanning the horizon with a spyglass.

“Give me that—it's mine. See? It's got my name inscribed right there, below my grandfather's. It was a gift to him when he represented England in the court of Russia's own Empress Elizabeth. We lived there for several years, and that's how Papa managed to— Well, I didn't give you permission to touch it.”

“Christ, Neville, you're worse than a nursery brat fighting over his toys,” Gabriel said as the last of their small reconnaissance party grabbed the spyglass and stood straight up before being pulled back down by his breeches. “Idiot beanpole—why not wave a flag while you're at it? What did you see, Darby?”

“Sunlight reflecting off metal, just as somebody else would see it bouncing off that spyglass. At least I think I did. Just inside those trees on the other side of the field. I'd call it three hundred yards. I saw flashes not once but twice, in two different areas.”

“It's probably one of our patrols,” Neville said, sticking the glass to his eye, then fighting to focus in on the tree line. “Where? I don't see anything.”

“Surprised he's looking into the correct end,” Darby said, rubbing his cold hands together.

“Oh, now that's harsh, Darby. Shame on you.” Rigby turned to Gabriel, whispering none too quietly, “Remind me again why you thought we needed to drag this fuzzy-cheeked halfling along with us?”

“It wasn't simply because he asked so prettily—I'll tell you that. I thought he might come in handy. An idea, when looked at in hindsight, that wasn't particularly brilliant. But he speaks Russian, remember? Only one of us who does, if we need to get a message to Olssufiev in a hurry. Otherwise, if you also recall, we were going to tie him to his tentpole so he wouldn't wander.”

Young Neville pushed his unruly black hair out of his eyes while looking momentarily nonplussed, but then seemed to come to a decision. “You want me to go tell the general, don't you? But what do I tell him? So far, all we've seen is some reflections. We can't know if it's one of our own patrols or Boney's whole army massing in those trees for an attack.”

“Remarkably, I believe I agree with the infant. He must have once read a book or something. Myles, there may be hope for you yet.” Gabriel spat on the ground beside him.

“Really? Um, yes...I'll be off, then, to, um, to...?”

“To put the general's staff on alert, collect Sergeant Major Ames, tell him to muster two dozen of our best, ready to spread out along the hilltop in roving patrols, and then lead them back to us here at double time to hear further orders,” Gabriel said wearily. “Start with Ames, and then the general. The sergeant major will have the lads ready when you come back for them. Do you have that, Myles, or do we need you to write it down?”

“Of course I've got it. I'm extremely intelligent. That's why my father was able to place me as adjutant to the general's staff, where I'd be safe and—never mind. Good English troops, that's what we need watching out for those damned Frogs. You'll have them in less than twenty minutes, on my word as a gentleman.”

“He won't be able to lay claim to gentleman until that damn valet his papa shipped over here with him sees a need to shave him more than twice a month. But he does show rather good speed when traveling downhill and possibly away from the enemy, with those long legs and all,” Cooper observed, watching Myles Neville take to his heels, their only spyglass tucked into his belt.

Gabriel also watched the beanpole, those rail-thin long legs oddly out of synch, although he managed to remain upright. “Fathers and their ambitions. He's the only reason our contingent of troops is here instead of remaining with the main army, to help babysit the infant. God, I loathe that man. Maybe we shouldn't have let Myles go off on his own. Clearly it wasn't his idea to leave England in the first place. If he comes home to his influential papa with so much as a sprained ankle, we'll probably all face charges.”

“Maybe the tentpole was a better idea. How long do we wait on him, Gabe?”

“Not long. Just until he comes back with our men. Look at it this way, boys. Even if it turns out to be one of our own patrols Darby saw, at least we're rid of Myles for now.”

Cooper grinned. “Always a pony in there somewhere, they say.”

With nothing else to do, and with even Darby beginning to doubt what he'd seen, they hunkered down to watch the line of trees.

Gabe knew his friends had followed him up here because he seemed to always take charge, ever since they were at school. Was that a good thing? They all held the same rank now, had commanded their own men until assigned to be with him in this combination of English and Russian troops. What if he was wrong? What if they'd all land in the briars for striking out on their own...which pretty well implied that their faith in the Russian general's military genius was limited? They weren't half-drunk friends out on a spree, using their military capes to dazzle a bull as if they were matadors; they were seasoned soldiers talking about a possible attack by a desperate enemy.

“What if I'm right?” he asked quietly.

“Right about what?” Cooper asked, yawning.

“Right about Bonaparte's desperate need for a victory. What if he really is out there?”

“Ah, I understand, Coop,” Darby said cheerfully enough. “Our good friend is doubting himself. I suppose there's a first time for everything in this world. Don't fret like an old woman, Gabe. We're all in agreement here. Besides, what else is there to do in this godforsaken place?”

“Thanks, Darby, for that faint praise. But we still wouldn't have much of a head start if he's really out there, hiding in the forest.”

Cooper patted Gabe on the back. “Those trees on the other side of the field are a long way away. Remember your Shakespeare. ‘I will not be afraid of death and bane till Birnam Forest comes to Dunsinane.'”

Gabe chuckled softly. “Yes, and look what good that sort of bravado did Macbeth.”

Finally, Rigby lifted his head, probably to help prick up his sadly prominent ears. “Don't talk Shakespeare, for God's sake. If Darby hadn't taken my exam for me, I'd still be buried in plays and sonnets, and missing all the fun. Not that we're all having a jolly good time at the moment.”

Cooper stretched out his legs on the cold ground, as if settling in for the duration. “And there you have it, Gabe. Let's just go back to blaming the dastardly Earl of Broxley, who remains, after all, the reason we're here halfheartedly playing at nursemaids to his heir in the first place.”

Everyone was quiet until Rigby fell to his back, holding up his leg and fiercely rubbing his calf. “Cramp, damn it all. I'm telling you, Gabe, this isn't exactly the best time you've ever shown us.” He pulled himself up and peered toward the tree line once more. “Haven't seen a thing, not even a rabbit for our pot. What's the time, Darby old man?”

“Nearly ten. We've been cooling our heels for more than twenty minutes.”

Gabriel had been eyeing the sweep of landscape to his left, his right, mentally positioning the soldiers Neville would bring with him. Every hundred yards should do it, and there was ample cover. “He should have been back by now, or at least alerted the general and sent Ames along to relieve us.”

Rigby snorted with laughter. “Probably stopped to change his drawers, the thought of a battle scaring the piss out of him.”

“Listen. Have you noticed—Rigby's appreciation of his own wit notwithstanding—how quiet it is? No birds, no small animals scuttling through the undergrowth. We're not the only ones holding our breath, waiting to see what's going to happen next.”

“That damn eerie quiet before all hell unleashes on us,” Cooper said, raising his head as if to sniff the air. “Time to go?”

“Time to go,” Gabriel agreed.

“Didn't somebody already suggest that?” Rigby grumbled. “I know I was thinking about—”

Anything Rigby may have added was blotted out by the short blast from a bugle as a double line of battle-seasoned French cavalry burst from the trees in a near-instant gallop, followed hard by a seemingly endless number of infantry marching double time, their bayonets already fixed. Hundreds of birds that had been nesting in the treetops took to the sky, almost as if they were part of the charge.

What commander sends cavalry first? A desperate man? Or an insanely clever tactician, one unafraid to adjust his attack order to the situation. It had to be Bonaparte himself coming at them. Gabriel cursed himself for not considering every last alternative. He'd put his friends in danger well above what they'd have had if they'd stayed with their troops.

“Do you know how much I hate it when you're right!” Darby yelled at Gabriel. They threw off their cumbersome greatcoats and shouldered their packs as they headed down the hill toward the thin line of trees standing between them and the snakelike line of tents along the river, the camp that now seemed so far away.

There were no English soldiers marching toward them to give them cover until they could reach their own lines. No Sergeant Major Ames, no Russian troops falling into formation in front of their tents, weapons at the ready. And no Myles Neville to be seen anywhere. Only the smoke from thousands of small cooking fires rose up to meet them, that and the smell of borscht.

Behind them and closing rapidly came the sound of thundering hooves and shouting Frenchmen.

* * *

W
OULD
AN
EARLIER
warning have altered the outcome that day? Probably not. Napoleon knew he badly needed a victory to rally the French people, and although not all his infantry might be well trained or even well armed, they did outnumber the Allied troops nearly four to one.

In less than an hour, the easy triumph of La Rothière became the embarrassing debacle at Champaubert, with morale swinging back in Napoleon's favor, giving him the will to fight on. After all, he'd lost only two hundred of his men, while the Allies' casualties numbered over four thousand, with many more taken prisoner, including Olssufiev.

By some miracle, Gabriel and his friends survived the rout, but not without consequences. Cooper Townsend had taken a ball in his side, and Jeremiah Rigby was occupied guiding Darby Travers along the rough track that ran beside the roadway; the man's eyes were covered with bandages.

“Move aside! Move aside!”

The command, issued in guttural French, warned the seemingly endless line of prisoners to stumble into the slush and mud at either side of the roadway as yet another equipage rolled by.

Gabriel looked up in time to see the Russian general and several of his senior staff being driven past the long line of marching prisoners in a horse-drawn wagon. Rank had its privileges, even in defeat.

“Where's Broxley's brat?” he shouted, knowing the man couldn't understand a word of English but not really caring at the moment. He chased after the wagon, hauling Cooper along with him.

“I can't go on, Gabe,” Cooper gasped out as exhaustion stopped their pursuit. “Did you see him? I didn't see him.”