Читать книгу A Scandalous Proposal - Julia Justiss - Страница 13

His hands holding the ends of the untied neckcloth, Evan gazed again at the note propped on his dresser. “Lord Cheverley, I would be most pleased if you would honor me with your presence at dinner this evening at eight of the clock…Mrs. Emily Spenser,” he repeated to himself, though he had no need to look at the paper to recall the words.

Closing his eyes as he worked the knots, he could see her again as she’d looked that afternoon in the tiny garden behind her shop: thick, glossy black hair pinned in simple curls atop her head, a plain lavender gown that emphasized her elegant figure, the long fingers as fine as the bone china teacup she held.

In less than an hour he would present himself. A whirlpool of desire, anticipation and excitement spiraled in his gut at the thought. The maid would admit him and Madame would receive him, probably in some upstairs room.

Would she be wearing that proper lavender gown, or a shimmering sweep of satin night rail? At the image, his breath caught, his heart pounded and his fingers clutched at the linen cloth.

Get hold, he told himself, taking a deep, calming breath. She asked you to dine merely. Probably she just wishes to thank you, quite properly, for your kind intervention.

Ah, but if she intends more… After all, a virtuous middle-class lady didn’t ask a man to dine alone with her. And a widow, if discreet, might allow herself liberties forbidden a wife or unmarried girl.

How would he get through dinner without touching her? If she made him no offer, how could he compel himself to leave without taking her?

He looked down at his clenched fists and realized he’d just ruined another neckcloth. With an oath, he pulled off the crumpled linen and tossed it on the heap with the other failures. Already he’d dismissed his valet, insolent lad, who’d laughed after he’d hopelessly wrinkled his fifth attempt. If the fellow hadn’t been with him since Oxford, he’d have boxed the man’s ears.

Lord, he thought in disgust, Brent was right, he was behaving more like a green sapskull enamored of his first wench than a seasoned man of eight and twenty. He’d enjoyed the favors of a number of women, appreciated their company and paid cheerfully for services rendered. Even with his mistresses, he’d dallied in their beds and forgotten them the moment he’d left. Why should this be different?

With mercurial speed, his irritation faded and he grinned. Because I feel like the greenest sapskull, for the first time truly enamored of a woman. He’d been distracted and out of sorts ever since her note arrived, consumed by a fierce desire to be with her again. Ah, what a woman!

In just a short while he would see her once more. Somehow, he would restrain himself, concentrate on exerting all the charm a bevy of ladies had previously found irresistible. And then, this very night, she might be his….

If he ever got his bloody neckcloth tied. With a growl, he took another cloth from the stack and set to work.

“Excellent dinner,” Lord Cheverley complimented Francesca as she poured his coffee.

“Obrigado, my lord.”

“Have you set out the port?” Emily asked. At the maid’s nod, she continued, “You may go, then. Thank you, Francesca. My lord, if you please?”

With a smile, she indicated a small settee poised beside a woven floral carpet that adjoined the dining area. Lord Cheverley carried his cup and placed it on the side table. She followed him and took the adjacent armchair.

So far, so good, she thought, her nerves on edge but under control. Dinner had been excellent, one of Francesca’s best, and conversation had flowed with no awkward pauses.

Over the meal she’d drawn out her noble guest about his family and interests. He’d remained in town through the winter, he informed her, because of his work for the Army Department, something to do with the always-tangled supply routes for Wellington’s forces. She learned he was the sole protector of a mother and a younger sister soon to make her come-out, that he had estates in three different counties, that he loved riding and hated peas.

“You’ve discovered all my secrets,” he remarked, taking a sip of the strong brew, “and yet I know almost nothing of you. Your late husband was with Wellington, I understand?”

Careful, her inner voice warned. “Yes. He fought in almost every peninsular battle.”

“And you followed the drum?”

“Yes.”

“You must have been very young when you married.”

That brought a smile. “Indeed. I was but sixteen.”

“Sixteen! I’m astonished your family permitted you to marry and hie off to the Peninsula at such a tender age.”

Her smile faded. “Neither family approved the match. We eloped. After our scandalous runaway marriage, my father cut me off completely, so I had no choice but to follow the drum. Though never did I regret it, I assure you! I cherished every moment with—” Biting her tongue, she stopped herself before she made any rash disclosures. “More coffee, my lord? Or can I pour you some port?”

“Port, if you please.”

She took a glass from the tray and poured the deep cherry liquid. “What sort of work do you do at Horse Guards, my lord? Or are you not permitted to discuss it?”

He smiled when she handed him the glass, as if amused at her diversionary attempt. “I don’t discuss it. Though my silence has more to do with avoiding boring you to death than any real need for secrecy.” He took a sip. “Did your father never forgive you?”

“No. He’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter.”

“And your husband’s family?”

She suppressed the urge to return a sharp answer. Better to respond pleasantly than reproach his curiosity or attempt to evade, she knew. “My husband’s father was just as autocratic as mine. His plans for his youngest son did not include soldiering in the Peninsula with a child-bride, especially one in disgrace who brought him not a groat of dowry. Even when I contacted him that his son lay d-dying—” she choked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice “—he did not relent. Where he is, and what he is doing now, I neither know nor wish to know.”

She realized she was gripping her cup so tightly the fragile handle was likely to break, and she loosened her hold. A demand that she give up her son had been her father-in-law’s only reply to her frantic message, but his Inquisitive Lordship didn’t need to know that. The less he knew of her, the less he might divulge in careless gossip at his club.

Cheverley was gazing at her thoughtfully. “Have you been in London long? I wonder I’ve not met you before.”

“I returned to England only a few months ago.”

“But—that means you remained abroad for years after your husband’s death! How did you manage?”

“When he was wounded I took him to the closest town, a small Portuguese village. He’d taken a ball in the lung and there was no doctor to remove it. He lingered for a time before…Well, I had done some painting, and after…it was over, the local lord, Don Alvero, commissioned me to do a portrait. It pleased him, and he was kind enough to recommend me to other nobles. Eventually I amassed sufficient funds to return to England and open my shop.”

“Alone, unprotected, a new widow in a war-torn country?” Cheverley shook his head in wonderment. “Madame, I’m appalled! ’Twas exceeding dangerous, was it not?”

She smiled at the dismay on his face. “On, no! The villagers were wonderful to us. As the widow of an English hero who died fighting the French invaders, I was everywhere treated with the utmost respect. And I wasn’t alone. Francesca has been with me since I arrived as a bride.”

“You are the most courageous woman I’ve ever met,” he said flatly, awe and respect in his voice. “The English lady who stayed behind to nurse her dying husband. I expect you became nearly a legend.”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “Hardly that.”

“A legend,” he repeated softly. “And no wonder. I have trouble myself believing you’re real.” Slowly, as if he couldn’t help himself, he reached a hand toward her. “You are so very beautiful.”

She forced herself not to flinch from the warmth of his gloveless fingers when they touched her cheek. “Be assured I am quite real,” she replied somewhat unsteadily. “And safe, thanks to you.”

She thought for a moment he might kiss her, and swallowing hard, closed her eyes. But he removed his hand, and relieved, she looked back at him.

His fingers were trembling, as if he were holding himself under rigid control. “And so you shall remain. I spoke with Mr. Manners late this afternoon, and he’s already amassed quite a dossier on the, ah, enterprising Mr. Harding. Indeed, so full was his account of that gentleman’s activities that I’m told the man was moved to book passage on a ship leaving next week for the Americas.”

Before she could thank him yet again, he waved her to silence. “His master is under scrutiny as well. Even if Mr. Harrington is indeed involved, I doubt he’d be foolish enough now to find another tool to implement his illegal designs. Though we plan to continue the surveillance another few weeks, to be sure all danger is past, I think you may feel safe in truth.”

“I cannot adequately express my thanks for all your efforts. Indeed, your consideration quite overwhelms me! You must allow me to reimburse your expenses. I could not cover them all immediately, of course, but—”

“Out of the question!” He held up both hands, as if warding off the suggestion. “Dear lady, under no circumstances whatsoever could I take your money. Knowing you are safe is reward enough.”

He would not take her money. As the full implications of those words sank into consciousness, Emily barely heard the rest. Could she not leave it at that? Oh, how the thought tempted! Mayhap he’d never press for repayment. Mayhap he’d smile, and leave, and ’twould be the end of it.

Mayhap he’d be back next month or next year with a proposition she was in no position to refuse.

No, she mustn’t risk it. Conjuring up the image of her son’s face, she took a deep breath. Her heartbeat accelerated and she felt light-headed.

You can do this. You will do whatever you must to keep Drew.

Tentatively she put her hand on the Earl’s arm. She felt his muscles tense, heard his rush of indrawn breath even as she spoke, her voice near a whisper. “To express my gratitude in any way that pleases you would be my greatest honor.”

She looked up into his eyes, praying he understood, that she would not have to utter words any more explicit. Her heart thudded in her chest and a flush of shame and anxiety heated her cheeks.

His eyes searched hers. She forced a smile, though her lips trembled.

He placed his hand over hers and gripped it tightly. “There is no compulsion.” His eyes glowing brighter, he made a move with his other arm as if to embrace her, then dropped it back to his side. “I don’t wish you to think—”

“I don’t. I know you would never force me.”

Though he retained her hand, he sat back a little, his eyes dimming as if affronted. “Of course not!” He gave her a twisted smile. “You cannot help but know it is my fondest hope to establish a more…intimate connection, but I would have you do so from desire, not out of—gratitude.” He almost spat out the word.

Though the statement nearly choked her, she made herself utter the lie. “’Twould be my fondest hope as well.”

His body tensed again, his gaze so heated she felt she must go up in flames. “Are you sure?”

Unable to voice another affirmation, she merely nodded.

It was enough. He seized both hands and brought them to his lips, kissing them fervently. “If you truly wish it, you make me the happiest man in England.”

So the die was cast. She felt detached, as if observing the scene from a vast distance. What should she do now? She couldn’t bear the thought of coolly choosing a date and time for the assignation. No, better it begin tonight, lest she be tempted to renege on the bargain.

Gently she disengaged her fingers. “Let me pour you another port.” She was proud that her voice wobbled only a little. “Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment?”

Evan watched her as, with a sensuous sway of hip, she disappeared through the doorway across the hall from the little parlor. He moved the glass to his lips with shaking hands, then set it back down.

No, best not drink more of that mind-dulling liquid. He was already too close to losing control. When she’d touched him, it had taken every bit of restraint he could muster to avoid sweeping her into his arms.

But she’d just invited him to do so, hadn’t she? Normally he’d know just how to proceed, but now…With his body on fire and every nerve screaming at her closeness, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t misinterpreting her response, was only imagining she shared some part of the enormous desire that consumed him.

After all, if her story could be believed, and he had no reason to doubt it, she’d been a virgin bride and a faithful wife. Despite what must have been severe pressure to do otherwise, she seemed to have remained chaste even after her husband’s death. Certainly her rejection of the lures cast out by St. Clair and his set confirmed that assessment.

How she must have loved her soldier-husband, to leave what had obviously been a privileged home and follow him to the privations and dangers of war. Evan felt a swift, irrational flare of jealousy.

Well, she’d not rebuffed him. He’d given her every opportunity, reiterated his insistence that she owed him no additional thanks, but when he’d boldly admitted his desire, she’d avowed her own. What could be plainer than that?

He remembered the darting thrill yesterday when he’d touched her lip. He’d felt it in every nerve, and she’d felt it, too—he’d seen the shocked recognition in her eyes immediately after. Perhaps attraction didn’t burn in her as fiercely as in him, but she was hardly indifferent.

Mayhap, having been years without a husband and lover, she was as ready as he.

Well, she was unlikely to be that ready, he conceded. But she was drawn to him, he was certain of it, and he could build on that.

He would build upon it, court her until she welcomed him with anticipation as fervent as his own. Never, he vowed, had any woman been wooed as persistently, passionately and persuasively as he intended to woo Emily Spenser.

But to do so, he must finish his port and depart before her intoxicating closeness destroyed what little was left of his control. Before he did something rash.

He didn’t want this to be rash or hurried. He wanted their time together to be like her—perfection.

The door across the hall opened and Emily emerged. His mouth went dry and the glass slipped from his fingers. Smiling, she walked toward him clad only in a night rail.

’Twas not the flannel garment of a prim, virtuous middle-class matron. Oh no, the most skilled of courtesans would have delighted in how this gown of slithering, shining emerald silk swept from her shoulders over her full breasts to her narrow waist and past rounded hips to whisper about her thighs and calves as she walked. It clung to the taunting outline of pebbled nipples, the round of belly, the tempting fistful of curls at the junction of her thighs.

Beyond speech, he merely stared as she halted before him. Her violet eyes, enormous, caught his dazzled gaze as a drift of delicate scent, lavender and heat and woman, dizzied him.

“My lord?” she said softly.

Any reservations he may have retained crumbled. With trembling hands he drew her down beside him on the settee. His blood pounding in his ears, every sense knife sharp, he gently touched the faint bruise on her lip with one finger, then lowered his mouth over hers.

She tasted sweet, ah so sweet, of coffee and wine and Emily. Mindful of her hurt, he licked her lips gently, gently sought entry. She opened her mouth, and when her tongue met his, every iota of control dissolved.

With a cry he crushed her to him. Leaning her back against the cushions, he plundered the depths of her mouth, nibbling, sucking, voracious. With fevered impatience, he moved lower, tracing the satin length of collarbone, tasting the pulse at the hollow of her throat, then lower still, forcing the satin bodice beneath her breasts so it thrust them up and out to him, like trophies.

He cupped the warm, heavy rounds, licked their fullness, drew a nipple into his mouth. He thought she gasped when he squeezed the breast to take in yet more of its fullness, then withdrew to lave the sides and nibble the nipple’s rigid top.

He couldn’t seem to get close enough, kiss deeply enough. She tried to help, truly she did, struggling to pull off his neckcloth and unbutton his shirt as he carried her across the hallway and shouldered open her chamber door. She was fumbling with the buttons at his straining breeches when he laid her on the narrow bed, but impatient, he wrenched the cloth free. When his manhood sprang forth and she touched him, an explosion of heat and need shut down his brain entirely.

How he got her gown off without ripping it to shreds he couldn’t remember, but somehow she was lying under him, all warm, glorious naked skin. He managed to restrain himself long enough to tangle his fingers in the thatch of dark curls and part her, to briefly taste her fragrant womanhood. Then he was plunging into her, burying himself as she tilted her hips to take him deeper, and the whole world erupted in a searing fireball of sensation.

He must have passed out, or dozed, for when he came back to himself Evan lay sprawled against the pillows—alone. Sitting up with a start, he saw Emily at the doorway to a small balcony that overlooked the back garden.

Strong emotion washed over him, followed by guilt. So much for courting, for flowers, gifts, sweet words. He’d said nothing at all, then taken her too fast, like a callow youth with his first woman. He recalled the ladies who had sighed with satisfaction after his bedding, swearing him to be the most skillful of lovers, and almost laughed. There’d been no trace tonight of that vaunted technique.

’Twill be better next time, he promised her silently. Next time he would go slowly, slowly. Everything, each touch and taste and stroke, would be for her. Not until she writhed under him, clutching his shoulders and begging for release, would he sheath himself in her, and even then he would hold back until her cries of pleasure freed him to find nirvana again. He recalled the brain-melting, heart-stopping intensity of his response, and had to grin. Well, at least he would try to hold back.

Naked, he slipped out of bed and approached her. She must not have heard him, for she stood silent, still facing out to the garden. He halted a step away, savoring her incredible beauty and marveling at its powerful effect.

She’d put the night rail back on. Light from the streetlamp beyond shone in lozenged patterns on its shiny surface. Her lush hair, only a shadowy outline in the gloom, hung forward over her breasts. He bent to kiss her bared nape and suddenly realized what he’d taken to be patterns on the silken gown were, in fact, fold lines.

Peering more closely, he examined the evenly spaced repetition of the rectangular shapes. So sharply creased were the lines, so spicy and deep the clinging odor of lavender, that he was forced to conclude the night rail must have lain folded in tissue wrap for a very long time.

Had she welcomed her soldier back from battle wearing this? When he returned to her wounded, had she tenderly set it away, waiting for the day when he had recovered enough that she might wear it for him once more?

An unexpected and shockingly intense feeling of outrage engulfed Evan at the thought of her with another man. As if laying claim, he placed his hands on her shoulders.

She’d been trembling, even before his touch startled her. She turned her head toward him, and he saw star-spangled droplets clinging to the ends of her long lashes. She was, he realized with horror, weeping.

Remorse swamped him. He pulled her into his arms, grateful that instead of resisting, she rested her head against his chest.

After a moment, she moved away, swiping at her eyes. He stayed her hand and kissed the moist lashes. “Ah, sweetheart, you truly are a virtuous matron.”

She managed a glimmer of a smile. “I used to be.”

“You are.”

Some fleeting emotion crossed her face. Gently she pushed him back and walked to the bedside table, took a sip of wine from a glass left there.

Keeping her gaze averted from his unclothed body, she turned toward him. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t very good. It’s been a long time.”

“You’ve had the gown since…” He couldn’t complete the thought.

“Yes. Be assured, I’ve never worn it. After A—After he was wounded, I kept it as a sort of talisman for the time when he would be well. But you cannot wish to hear of it.”

She was right; he didn’t want to hear about it. At the same time, he was morbidly curious, and absolutely sick with jealousy.

She poured another glass of wine, spilling a little, and handed it to him. Then she lit a lamp, retrieved his shirt and breeches, and brought them over.

After he’d drained the wine, she held out the shirt. “Shall I help?” Her glance grazed his naked form, and she flushed. “I mean, are you…ready?” She smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

No, no, don’t let it end like this, his mind screamed. “Nothing,” he choked out. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Nonetheless, with another determined smile she assisted him into his shirt. Had she tenderly dressed her husband after loving, when he’d left her to go on duty? As she attempted to do up the buttons, Evan brushed her hand away blindly, stupidly furious.

Idiot, he castigated himself. Of course she isn’t a trollop, though you just treated her like one. Of course she bought this sumptuous, sinful, will-melting gown for her husband, the man she all-too-clearly adored—and adores still. He was her husband, dammit! ’Tis only right she loved him.

He gave the last button a savage twist. “Just don’t regret this,” he said gruffly. “I couldn’t bear that.”

Her violet eyes looked up in surprise, their puzzled depths trapping him. Helpless, he could not look away.

“I don’t regret it,” she said slowly after a moment. Squaring her shoulders, she straightened. “Truly, I don’t regret it.”

“I wish I could believe that. But you needn’t worry, I’m leaving. I don’t, as a rule, rape grieving widows.”

He reached for his breeches. Her hand caught his, and with the other, she turned his chin so that she could look once more into his eyes.

He tried to jerk away, sure his face mirrored all his roiling emotion and stupid, little-boy hurt. But she held on and gazed up searchingly.

After a long moment, she whispered, “I don’t regret it.” And kissed him.

She was right—this was better, so very much better than before that any thought of leaving expired on the spot.

This time her tongue sought out his, circling and stroking it, teasing him deeper. As she alternately sucked and nibbled at his lips, he groaned and yanked up her gown to knead the soft roundness of her buttocks and mold her torso against his. She pressed herself higher and, still teasing his tongue, rubbed her springy curls against his rapidly hardening shaft.

He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs about his waist and thrust down, taking him inside. One arm about his neck, she brought his mouth to one taut, silk-encased nipple. She moaned as he tongued her, tensing the muscles inside her hot, slick canal about his burgeoning manhood.

Gasping, he wrapped his arms around her and carried her back to the bed. With each step, she rocked her hips to take him deeper. By the time he eased her against the pillows and settled himself over her, he was already throbbing for release.

He managed to hold himself back this time. Driving in as deeply as he could, he stilled and bent to bare her breasts. Slowly he sucked and nipped each nipple in turn while she quivered under him, straining to rock her hips. He rested his weight against her, pinning her motionless while he savored her skin. When her breathing turned to shallow gasps, when a fine sheen dewed her chest, only then did he shift his weight and slowly draw himself out to the very tip, then slowly ease himself back in. She moved her hips urgently, her hands clutching his shoulders. “Please,” she whispered, “please!”

Digging his thumbnails into his hands to slow himself, gradually he increased the rhythm. She lay back, her hair streaming over the pillows, her eyes closed, and arched into him. He bent to suckle again her full, taut nipples, and she cried out, nearly destroying his disintegrating control.

“Evan,” he gasped as he drove harder, “call me Evan.”

“Evan,” she whispered, and then “Oh, Evan!”, until finally she sobbed out his name and he let her exquisite, sweet convulsions set off his own.

Afterward, he cradled her close, loving the feel of her sweat-drenched skin against his own. “Emily, sweetheart, don’t ever regret this,” he murmured as he slid his hands over the slick satin of her hips, her breasts. She cuddled into him and he massaged her shoulders and back, reveling in the sheer sweet pleasure of touching her.

She stretched out, languorous as a cat, one soft leg draped over his. After a few moments, her relaxed, even breathing told him she slept.

Though there was no need, he continued to gently stroke her. He felt a deep satisfaction that, this time, he had undeniably given her pleasure, and a sense of awe at the intensity of the pleasure she gave him.

He ought to wake her, let her dress him, take his leave. He never spent the night with his mistresses; once the loving was finished, he was usually eager to be off.

It seemed in this, too, being with her was different, for he had not the slightest desire to stir from her bed. There was utter contentment in holding her silken body close, watching moonlight play across her face.

She looked peaceful now, and happy. That was how he wanted her to be when she was with him: safe, content and satisfied. ’Twas his last thought before he, too, drifted asleep.

When later he woke, pink dawn painted the sky beyond the balcony. Emily, clad in a dressing gown, sat beside him on the bed.

Seeing him stir, she smiled. “Good morning, my lord. Should you like coffee before you go? Francesca has some ready, as it’s almost time for us to be in the shop.”

He nearly groaned with frustration. Though ’twas not much later than he sometimes returned from a night’s ramble, she was a businesswoman, and must rise early. Her subtle hint warned him ’twas too late for any further dalliance.

She seemed matter-of-fact now, both sadness and contentment gone. “No, I suppose I’d best be going,” he replied, still strangely reluctant to leave. Nonetheless, he let her help him into his shirt. As she buttoned it, he bent and pressed his lips against the softness of her neck.

“Oh, Emily,” he whispered.

She stilled. Then, somewhat awkwardly, she put her arms around his neck and drew him close.

After he’d dressed, she walked him downstairs, through the office and out to the front door.

“Lock it well,” he admonished as she slid the bolt open. “Shall I see you tonight?”

She angled her head to look up at him. “If you wish.”

“You know I do. Emily, sweetheart, I can’t dissemble about how much I want you.” He laughed shortly and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I expect that’s only too painfully obvious.

“It may be foolish,” he continued, “but I would wish for you to want me, too. If you do not, I can respect that.” He managed a grin. “I cannot like it, but I’ll respect it. Unless you truly wish it—” he forced the words through reluctant lips “—I’ll not return.”

Despite that show of nonchalance, his pulse stampeded and sweat broke out on his forehead as he awaited her response.

She smiled faintly, and he began to breathe again. “I wish you to return as often as you like, for as long as you like.”

An upsurge of joy brought the grin back to his face. “Rest assured, I shall thoroughly enjoy coming at every opportunity! But be cautious what you wish for. Were I to visit as oft as I’d like, you’d have me underfoot constantly.”

She merely smiled, and he bent to give her a lingering kiss, which she returned, he thought, with some enthusiasm. “Until this evening, then.”

Before he could pull away, she stopped him with a touch to his cheek. “I’d forgotten how beautiful loving can be,” she said softly. “Thank you…Evan.”

His spirits soared to the rooftops. “Call upon me at any time.” Giving her one last kiss, he forced himself to exist. A few steps down the sidewalk, he turned to look back. She gave him a little wave, closed the door, and he heard the bolt slam home.

’Twas all he could do not to run back and knock.