A Scandalous Proposal

Chapter Seven

Evan paused on the threshold at White’s. ’Twas time for luncheon, and a snug meal might settle his unease.

That Emily still retained her husband’s miniature shouldn’t be upsetting. One did not just—dismiss such deep attachments. No, he reassured himself, a person of sensibility did not forget so near a relation after the passage of a few paltry years.

He saw Brent Blakesly by the fireplace and his spirits lightened. Chatting with Brent over good food and better wine would quell this restlessness. Smiling, he beckoned.

“Ev?” Brent extracted his quizzing glass and made a great show of inspecting him as he walked over. “Well met, my friend!” Grinning, he held out a hand. “Haven’t seen you in so long, thought you must have turned monk or gone off on some secret mission.”

Evan felt a flicker of annoyance. “Fustian. I’ve been—” he waved a hand “—working a great deal, I suppose. Besides, one social function seems very like the next.”

“Unchivalrous, but alas, true.” Brent laughed and took his elbow. “Come, while we find something to tempt your jaded palate, you can tell me what you’ve been up to.”

At Evan’s noncommittal mumble, Brent looked over. “Should I not ask?” He surveyed Evan’s face. “Ah, the affair progresses?”

Despite his current unease, Evan couldn’t hold back a smile. “Wonderfully.”

“You’ve been off to the country, then.”

“Country?” Puzzled, Evan frowned at him.

“Haven’t you been down to Wimberley to fetch Andrea? I thought—your mama said at the Cunninghams’ dinner last month she expected you to do so momentarily.”

An unpleasant pang struck him. Vaguely he remembered his mother pressing him about the matter, but he’d been so…preoccupied of late, he’d scarcely noted the weeks passing. In truth, he realized with a jolt, the Season would start soon.

“You are bringing her to London?” Brent asked.

“Yes, of course. Before he joined the army I promised Richard I’d take care of his sister, didn’t I? Besides, it’s time she stopped hiding herself away.”

“Indeed. She has such a sunny disposition and charming manners, after a while one scarcely notices the limp.”

“I’ll count on you to help me convince her of that.”

“Delighted. When do you leave for Wimberley, then?”

Damn and blast. He’d have to move quickly if he meant to give Andrea time to order up gowns and such. He recalled recently discharging a number of bills for his sister Clare, who was also making her come-out.

But how to tell Emily he must leave, and why?

“Zeus, what a frown! Did I say something wrong?” Brent’s question recalled him.

“Not at all. Thank you for the reminder. I’ve been…neglectful. I shall have to depart within the week, I suppose.”

Brent laughed. “Now, that’s a new one! ‘Organized Evan’ neglecting something?” As comprehension grew, his grin faded. “Ah. The, um, other lady still occupies you?”

Evan made a noncommittal noise and glanced away.

“And that’s who—where you’ve been hiding away these two months,” Brent said quietly, almost to himself. “Thunder and turf, Ev, in all the time I’ve known you…” An expression akin to shock illumined his face, and the sentence trailed off. “That does make things a bit…sticky.”

“Nonsense,” Evan replied, more sharply than intended. “There’s no connection. Mama will shepherd Andrea and Clare through their debut. I’ll merely be called upon to escort them to some very dull parties.”

“Naturally,” Brent agreed a little too heartily. “Best to have your fill of—other diversions before thinking of getting leg-shackled. Besides, Andrea’s known you since the cradle. None of that white-knight, fair-damsel rubbish females seem so fond of. Doubtless she’ll turn up some other chap to marry.”

Evan found he had nothing to say. Suddenly the idea of a cozy meal, Brent nattering on about matters he’d prefer not to consider at the moment, seemed totally unappealing. “Don’t suppose I have time for lunch after all. Capital to see you, Brent.”

He turned to leave. Brent put a hand on his arm. “Sorry, Ev. Didn’t mean to meddle in your business.”

Evan barely refrained from shaking off Brent’s hand. “No apologies necessary. Sorry, but I really must go.”

“Meet me for dinner later?” At Evan’s negative shake of the head, Brent finally withdrew his hand. “Soon, then. I’ve missed your company.”

“Soon,” Evan promised, burning to make his escape.

Brent’s gray eyes swept Evan’s face, concern in their depths. “Take care, old friend.”

Evan gave him the edge of a smile and bowed. He felt Brent’s gaze follow him all the way to the exit.

Bending over the book, Evan strove to concentrate on the ledger entries. A kaleidoscope of images kept distracting him. Andrea at Wimberley last Michaelmas saying she trusted him to advise her during Richard’s absence. Brent in the Member’s Room of Whites, shock in his eyes. The devil-may-care grin of a red-coated soldier.

He gritted his teeth at that last. Emily had adored her late husband. Exactly what did she feel for him? He pushed the question aside.

He must honor his pledge to Richard and coax Andrea to town for the Season she’d been avoiding. She could find no reasonable objections this year: there’d be his sister and her friends to chatter with, his mama to support her, and himself to oversee and protect them.

Though he would of course fulfill his vow, he had no intention of abandoning Emily. Juggling his personal and family priorities would take a dab of scheduling, but he was a master at that. He meant to enjoy the incredible, unbelievable gift of Emily’s body and friendship for however long their affair lasted.

As for Season’s end, much could happen in a few months. His fevered passion for Emily Spenser could burn itself out—passion had always done so before. Or, as Brent predicted, some discerning gentleman could look past Andrea’s limp to discover the sweet, gentle lady beneath. Some other discerning gentleman.

And if not? You can always marry me, Andy.

An unpleasant mix of anxiety and foreboding churned in his gut at the memory.

Resolutely he ignored it. His course of action was unequivocal: he must sponsor Andrea and he must see Emily. There being nothing else he could do to affect it, he’d not spoil the present worrying over the future. Doubtless everything would work out.

First, he needed to fetch Andrea, and soon. How best to break the news?

This afternoon was Emily’s last in the salesroom, he recalled. Upon the morrow, she would retreat to her design office in the converted quarters upstairs while her newly hired staff of seamstresses began to turn her sketches into the first complete “Madame Emilie” toilettes.

He should bring flowers to celebrate the occasion. Yes, and set Francesca fixing a special dinner. Afterward, when they were both relaxed and replete, he’d inform Emily of the upcoming trip. So calm and independent was she, surely she’d not be upset at his leaving to fulfill a…family obligation. In any event, he’d be back within a few days.

The idea of being away from her even that long brought an unexpected tightness to his chest.

Since go he must, he’d best advance his business at the office. Dismissing a lingering unease, he set to work.

Several hours later, bouquet in hand, he quietly entered the shop. Emily stood at the far corner fitting a bonnet on a customer. As always, the sight of her warmed and soothed him. Not wishing to interrupt, he settled against the wall to wait.

The entry bell tinkled behind him, and a young, smartly dressed matron entered. He watched her idly, the plume on her hat nodding at the corner of his vision as she studied the bonnets on display.

A bobbing jerk of the feather caught his attention even as she shrieked and clasped a hand to her chest.

“Auriana!” the woman cried in accents of delight. “My dear Auriana, it is you!”

It appeared she would run Emily over in her eagerness to reach the customer to whom her remarks must be addressed. Before he could pull her out of the impetuous matron’s path, Emily turned to the woman and, to his astonishment, extended her hands in a welcoming gesture.

“Dearest Cecelia,” Emily said as the woman fell into her embrace. “How wonderful to see you again.”

Halted in midstride, he stood immobile as the newcomer pushed Emily to arm’s length and inspected her avidly.

“You’re as lovely as ever, I see! And how wonderful it is to see you, Auriana! When you left us to take Andrew away we lost all contact—no one in the regiment seemed to know where you’d gone—oh, and we were so saddened to hear…” She paused to take a breath, swallowing hard. “Well, you know. Roger has never quite gotten over it. Wherever did you go to after—but, no matter! Now that I’ve found you, you must come have tea and tell me all your news!”

Before Emily could reply, the customer, who had been regarding Emily and the newcomer with an air of increasing indignation, cleared her throat loudly. “Madame Emilie, however delightful it may be to greet your—acquaintances, I must insist you finish with me first. I have several calls to make this afternoon and cannot wait upon your chatter.”

For a moment Emily stood very still, while the newcomer looked from her to the client and back, brow knit in evident confusion. Gently Emily disengaged her fingers from her old friend’s grip.

Then, apparently for the first time, she noticed Evan standing just inside the entry. A slight flush mounted her high cheekbones.

He couldn’t seem to get words of greeting past the constriction in his throat. Quickly her gaze returned to the newcomer.

“I should love to chat later, Cecelia. Will you not give Francesca your direction so I may call? I’m afraid now I…I must tend to business.”

The matron gaped at her. “You—Madame Em—? Oh!” Evidently piecing together the facts, the friend blushed as well. “Yes, you must continue with your w-work. I’ll…I’ll just speak with Francesca.”

The maid appeared at those words, as if she had been lurking near the doorway. Murmuring in Portuguese, she beckoned to the matron. With a final, wondering glance at Emily, the newcomer followed Francesca out.

Head held high, Emily walked back to the client. “Now, Lady Baxter, are these ribbons satisfactory?”

Perhaps it was the shock of seeing her embraced by a stranger calling her a name he’d never heard, or the outrage of Lady Baxter—herself offspring of a merchant who had purchased a titled husband for his daughter—trying to put Emily in her place, but suddenly Evan was blazingly angry.

“Madame Emilie.” He strode over and swept her a deep bow. “My mother sends her compliments and wishes to express her delight with your latest creation.”

Instantly the client’s aggrieved expression turned appeasing. “Lord Cheverley, such an honor!”

Evan inclined his head briefly. “Lady Baxter.”

“I’ll be with you in a moment, my lord,” Emily said, avoiding his glance.

“Silly creature, you mustn’t keep Lord Cheverley waiting!” Turning her back on Emily, the client smiled up at Evan. “Pray, do discharge your business first, my lord. I’m in no hurry, none at all!”

“Kind of you, ma’am.” Evan accorded Lady Baxter another infinitesimal nod. “But I wouldn’t dream of disrupting the work of such an artist as Madame Emilie. I’m quite content to wait. Please, Madame, do proceed.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Still not meeting his glance, Emily curtseyed.

“I’ll wait in your office, if I may.” At Emily’s murmur of acquiescence, Evan gave her another elaborate bow. “And Lady Baxter.” Acknowledging the mushroom’s daughter with so insultingly brief a glance the woman’s cheeks reddened, he strode from the room.

Still trembling in the wake of strong emotion, he halted by the desk. Then it occurred to him he should continue to the kitchen and intercept Emily’s caller. The woman had already yielded up the name of Emily’s late husband—information the widow herself had not let slip in all their months together. Mayhap the friend could tell him more.

Before he could move, the bang of the kitchen’s back door informed him of the guest’s probable departure. Francesca reentered the office alone.

“Tea, my lord?”

“Yes, please.” The maid bobbed a curtsey and withdrew as, frustrated, he dropped into the chair behind the desk.

Auriana. The lovely name echoed in his head. Was the woman who so captivated him, his Emily, really named Auriana? If so, how could she not have confided to him so basic a fact as her true name? It recurred to him more disturbingly than ever how little he knew about her. Not her family name, nor her father’s profession, nor who or where she had been before becoming an army bride.

Tea to soothe his rattled nerves would be most welcome. Even more welcome would be some answers.

He listened impatiently for the momentarily cowed Lady Baxter to finally take her leave. Even after the tinkle of the shop bell heralding her departure, Emily did not join him. He was about to fetch her when at last, with lowered head, she entered the office.

A few paces from the desk she stopped and looked at him, scanning his face as if to judge his mood. What she saw caused her lashes to flutter down, once more masking her violet eyes. With a deep sigh she walked to the workbench and carefully set Lady Baxter’s unfinished hat on the stand. Her fingers were trembling.

“Is Francesca bringing tea?” she asked at last, her back to him.

He could stand it no longer—the need to touch her, to physically snatch her back from another life in which he had played no part, impelled him out of the chair.

With one stride he reached her. “Come, sit. You must be tired.” She murmured but did not resist as he urged her to the chair, then seated himself on the desk beside it.

For a few moments after Francesca returned with tea they occupied themselves with that small ritual. Then silence fell once more.

Uncertain how to break it without shouting out the questions clamoring in his head, he turned instead to the half-forgotten bouquet. “I—I brought you something.”

He held out the flowers. The action of taking them compelled her to glance up. Her eyes seemed sad, shadowed, he thought with a stab of concern.

“They’re beautiful,” she murmured. “You shouldn’t spoil me so.”

“Yes, you’re such a greedy, mercenary lady, I might encourage you to extravagant demands—market vegetables, perhaps, or a side of beef.” She gave his witticism a brief smile, but did not reply. Forging on, he continued, “I thought the occasion—the retirement of Madame Emilie from the showroom—merited some small celebration.”

She bent her head to inhale the sweet violets’ scent. Still she said nothing.

He could refrain no longer. “‘Auriana’—it’s lovely. And it suits you.”

Pain flitted briefly across her face. “’Twas like a voice from another life, hearing it. Seeing Cecelia. I’ve not encountered anyone from my…my days as a military bride since I…” Her words trailed off.

Finally she looked squarely at him. The distress he saw in her face muted the harsh edge of his affront. Instinctively he gathered her into his arms.

For a long moment she rested against his shoulder. Her eyes were moist as she pulled away.

“When my husband died, I had to choose. To turn my back forever on who—what I had been, accept the opportunity offered me and survive, or cling to my pretensions and starve. I chose survival. I thought a new livelihood merited a new name, so I changed mine. Though Emily is my real name, too,” she added with a touch of defensiveness. “I was christened ‘Auriana Emilie,’ after a French relative.”

She had not been concealing her past. She had simply made a clean break with a life she could no longer support, that was all. The explanation poured soothing balm over his chafed emotions.

“Will you call on your friend?”

“Yes, I shall call, though I doubt she’ll receive me.” She took a deep breath. “I am ‘Madame Emilie, Shopkeeper’ now, no longer the wife of a fellow officer.”

The idea of her disdained by one to whom she had once been an equal cut deep. “You are as worthy, nay, worthier than she,” he said angrily. “A lesser woman—any other woman—would have expired in Spain, destitute and forgotten. You not only survived, you are flourishing.”

“At a cost.”

The words were a whisper. And so indisputable, he had no reply to soften the harsh truth of them, fervently as he wished to do so. He drew her closer, offering the warmth and strength of his arms, the only comfort he could give that would not be a lie.

Much later, after they’d shared wine and one of Francesca’s flavorful paellas, Emily seemed recovered. When she asked whether he might advise her on some alterations the workmen at the shop were to begin in a few days, he recognized a perfect opportunity to impart his news.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to keep his voice light. “I’m afraid I must leave London the end of the week. Not for long, sweeting.”

Did the startled glance she fixed on him contain disappointment? He hoped so, but her cool voice gave no clue. “I see. That mysterious business you do not discuss, I expect. Shall I not see you again before then? I must wish you a good journey.”

Not sure whether to be cheered or piqued by her calm, he continued, “I shall be able to join you every night before I go, but my evenings once I return will be more…occupied. My sister embarks on her debut, you know.”

“Yes. You must escort her, of course.”

He grimaced. “I’m afraid so, though I’d rather sit through a hundred dull political dinners than dance a single evening at Almack’s.”

He opened his lips to continue, then paused. Need he tell her about Andrea? After all, as he’d remarked to Brent, the two were entirely unconnected, occupants of different worlds whose paths he could insure would never cross. Besides, if he tried to explain, she might misinterpret his care of Andrea, leap to erroneous conclusions—

“Are you sure you will not be—too busy?” Her question recaptured his attention. “I should not wish to intrude upon your family duties. I expect I’ve pulled you away all too often already. Perhaps it would be best if we—”

“No!” he cried, alarm streaking through him. “No,” he repeated more calmly, wiping suddenly sweating palms on his trousers. “My time will be more encumbered, but not impossibly so. I’ve no intention of sacrificing the company of my…dear friends, just to support my sister’s debut.”

“You are sure?” she asked quietly.

“Definitely. Now, could you not have the workmen delay? I should return within four days at most. What alterations are they to make?”

As he steered her conversation back to the shop, he damped down the panic that had seized him at her inference of curtailing—or even more unthinkable, ending—their liaison. Later, perhaps. But now? Absolutely not!

Still shaken, craving the reassurance of her closeness, he drew her into his arms. “Enough shop talk,” he murmured against her forehead, then kissed her. Driven by urgent need too complex to explain, he deepened the kiss, hungry, seeking. Her immediate flame of response reassured and steadied him.

He could do nothing to settle the uncertainty of the future, but the present belonged to them. He would make the very most of it. Gathering her to his chest, kissing her still, he carried her up the stairs.

A few days later, Emily descended from her bedchamber to the dining room. Evan having left on his trip, she was experiencing the now unusual sensation of breaking her fast alone.

He’d already departed when she returned home two nights ago. Dinner had become a dull affair without his amusing conversation, and the evening duller still.

Was it just three months she had known him? Recalling his strong arm around her, his lazy grin, she had to smile. He’d added such a dimension of enjoyment to her hitherto humdrum existence she could almost not remember how she had gone through her days without him.

Or her nights. She’d slept fitfully, missing the warmth of him beside her, missing the lulling aftermath of passion when she sank, sated, to sleep on his shoulder.

Without her quite knowing how, they had become close friends. To her initial surprise she’d discovered they enjoyed many of the same things, from strong tea to Restoration poets to chess. Moreover, a wordless, intuitive communion seemed to link them. Often one knew the other’s thoughts before they were uttered, layering over the fiery fusion of passion a comforting bond of camaraderie. Having Evan with whom to ponder, laugh over and puzzle out the events of the day enriched even the most commonplace happenings. As with Andrew.

That casual conclusion stabbed at her breast, driving the complacent smile from her face. How could she have compared this…illicit, temporary arrangement with what she’d shared with Andrew?

Good that Evan had gone away, if she were at the point of drawing similarities that would never be. Even better that he’d evidently not be visiting so often when he did return. Their end was inevitable. Best that she begin sooner rather than later to wean herself from the too-tempting weakness of depending upon him.

Somehow that pragmatic conclusion stole away her joy in the fresh new morning.

Francesca, entering with her tea, caught her expression and frowned. “By the saints, ’tis pining for his lordship you be, and no wonder. But he’ll not stay away long, querida. Such a sigh as he rode off, like ’twas his soul he was leaving. And his contentment too, eh?” She gave Emily a knowing wink.

Still unsettled, Emily replied more sharply than she intended. “Rubbish. We’re neither of us pining. I’ve my shop to manage and he has business to tend.”

Francesca shrugged, clearly undaunted. “Business or no, he will not tarry. For you he has the amor grande. ’Tis in his eyes, that look.”

Was the earl developing a tendre for her? A thrill darted through her before she angrily squelched that improbable, and ultimately pointless, speculation.

“Ah, you say nothing.” Francesca smiled. “But your eyes, too, they tell me of—”

“Hush, Francesca! You talk nonsense.”

“Ah, soft, querida. There’s no shame in opening your heart to another. ’Tis time and more you should do so.”

Alarmed at the very thought, she shook her head vehemently. “Even were I ready for such a bond—which I assure you I am not!—’twould be the height of folly to form an attachment to Lord Cheverley. I will never be more to him than his…” Unable to voice the word, she fell silent.

“Me, I think you wrong. Many men have I seen in our travels, mistress, soldados, townsmen, great lords. He does not look at you as a man looks at his woman, with lust. No, there is a tenderness, here.” She tapped her eye. “Me, I think in a very little, he may claim you for his lady wife.”

His wife. A sizzle of excitement seared her at the vision of walking proudly, openly at his side. Sober reality dashed that happy vista.

“Don’t be daft, Francesca!” she cried, angrier still at herself for having even momentarily entertained so preposterous a notion. “The great Earl of Cheverley offer marriage to a shopkeeper? No imaginable quantity of tenderness in his eyes—if such in fact exists, which I take leave to doubt—could ever blind him to the impossibility of such a match!”

“How impossible? Where could he find another with beauty like yours? Fine words—do they not flow sweetly from your tongue like wild honey? Graceful you are as a cavalo galloping the plain, and—”

“Enough!” Putting her fingers to the maid’s lips, Emily had to giggle, the absurdity of the whole idea easing her agitation. “Lest, like Narcissus, I fall in love with this paragon myself.”