An Infamous Proposal (2 page)

“Did you remember my silk?” she asked.

“Certainly I did. I gave it to Soames.”

The silk evinced an interest that was sorely lacking in more serious matters. “I would like to see it. I hope you didn’t get a dark green, Nick. It washes my color out entirely. I wanted a pale, minty shade.”

Nicholas called Soames, and the parcel was brought in for inspection.

“Lovely!” she exclaimed, fingering the rich stuff. “I’ve already chosen a pattern from
La Belle Assemblée.
I might have known I could trust your judgment,” she added, with one of her careless smiles that brought a dimple to the corner of her lips. Just so had she deigned to compliment John when he spoiled her.

“Would you care for a glass of wine, Lord Hansard?” Miss Foxworth offered. The widow, of course, was too wrapped up in her new silk to tend to the civilities.

“A cup of tea would be welcome,” he replied, and Miss Foxworth ordered it.

While they took their tea, Hansard amused the ladies with tales of London fashions and gossip. He had met Lord Byron at a party and gave a much expurgated account of the poet’s romantic doings.

“How I should love to meet him!” Emma sighed.

“If he knew it, he would be here in a flash,” Hansard said, not entirely facetiously. What a meeting that would be, between those two beautiful, spoiled young darlings. The reverberations would be heard in America.

Emma smiled at this confirmation of her desirability. Hansard, watching her, noticed that she seemed especially excited this evening. Her dark eyes sparkled with some suppressed emotion. Was it the silk that brought that gleam to her eyes, or was it his London tales? She used to pester John to take her to London.

When the tea was finished, he rose to take his leave. Emma said, “Would you mind coming into the study for a moment, Nick? There’s something I would like to ask you.” Away from Miss Foxworth she hoped some romance would develop. It seemed hard to crop out into a proposal with no preliminary flirtation.

“She’s off to London and wants me to sponsor her in Society,” he said to himself, and hardly knew what he would reply. Thank God the Season was winding down. He could put her off until the fall Little Season. It would be difficult to refuse outright, but he had no intention of making himself responsible for her. Perhaps he could recommend a socially prominent chaperon. Some noble dames in straitened circumstances enjoyed the Season without expense by sponsoring wealthy parvenus. He bowed to Miss Foxworth and followed Emma into John’s study.

Emma had set the stage for the proposal. The fire was lit, with two chairs drawn before it, but Hansard hardly glanced at all this. His eyes moved to the desk, where the estate ledger was open. Earlier Emma had been working on the accounts. Emma, surprisingly, had a head for numbers. He glanced at the neat rows of figures that filed down the page in enviable order. She even used John’s abacus, a tool Nicholas found confusing himself. One could not fault Emma on her management. Perhaps he had been a little hard on her. All pretty ladies were interested in their gowns.

“Have you encountered some problem, Emma?” he asked, with a note of genuine concern.

Emma moved toward the grate. She sat in one of the pair of rose bergère chairs drawn up before the fire. A decanter of wine and two glasses sat on a side table nearby.

She caught his note of concern and adopted a worried little frown that John could never resist. “A widow has many problems,” she said on a weary sigh.

“Especially a young, charming widow,” he said, in his usual chivalrous manner. That earned him a smile. “You can always rely on me, Emma,” he said. “I am at your disposal. What is it that troubles you?”

She indicated the empty chair, and he sat down. Her dainty white hand, hovering close to his, seemed to ask for reassurance. He seized her fingers and squeezed gently. He was relieved to notice she still wore the wedding band John had given her.

“It is being alone, trying to run this estate. Now that my mourning period is over, I—” She looked helplessly at him from below a fan of long lashes.

It is to be London! he thought, stiffening. “You are thinking of making a match?” he asked, his voice thinning in disapproval at her haste.

Emma construed his stiffening manner as jealousy and was convinced he loved her. “It would make my life easier, Nicholas,” she said softly.

“And mine,” he replied, thinking of the many estate matters he had been handling for her since John’s death. As John’s closest friend and neighbor, he had felt some responsibility for his widow, and she had never hesitated to seek his help.

Her eyelashes moved flirtatiously. So the idea didn’t come as a surprise to him! She wished that he would speak first. Now that the moment had come, she was strangely loath to put her proposition to him.

“Have you anything to suggest?” she asked, tightening her hold on his fingers.

He gazed into her eyes, trying to read her mood, then said, “A good marriage is the obvious solution.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and directed a coquettish smile at him. “I am happy to see we think alike, Nick,” she said. Odd that he chose this promising moment to withdraw his fingers. Was it her wedding band that had put him off? Or was he going to rise and take her in his arms? A warmth invaded her, then faded to disappointment as she realized he was just reaching to pour them a glass of wine.

“A toast?” she suggested, when he handed her a glass.

His jaw stiffened. Really the chit had no finesse, to be toasting her freedom, as if it were a triumph to have buried a husband. He lifted his glass and said coldly, “This would be to the termination of your mourning period, I collect?”

She made a moue with her full lips, then laughed forgivingly. “That is not very romantic, sir!”

“I fear I am not at all romantical, Emma. Do you expect me to rejoice that you plan to run off to London and set the ton on its ear with your husband hunting?”

“London! Oh, but you misunderstand me. I want to marry
you!”

Chapter Three

The words came out without thinking. Nick had misunderstood, and she was just setting him right, in her usual frank manner. She watched as his hand moved convulsively. Wine sloshed over the glass’s rim and onto his cream satin waistcoat. Three small red dots spread to form larger pink circles. “Is—is that not what you meant?” she asked in confusion. “I thought—I just assumed—”

He stared at her a moment, speechless with anger. When he found voice, Emma wished he had not. “Marry
you!”
he asked, his voice high with disbelief and heavy with irony. “Upon my word, you take a good deal for granted, Lady Capehart.”

“But you said—”

“I said you could count on me for any little matter about the estate that requires a man’s attention. My offer falls a good deal short of marriage.”

Emma found it hard to tell whether he was more astonished or outraged. She felt the sting of deep humiliation. When she realized her error, her humiliation was rapidly followed by a flash of anger. “There’s no need to pull your ears back like an angry mare, Hansard. You needn’t think I love you!”

“Then why have you just proposed marriage to me?”

“Because—because Papa is going to send Aunt Hildegarde,” she said, and clenched her lips to hold in a surge of tears, which were due more to Hansard’s rebuke than to the threat of Hildegarde. Anger and shame burned like acid inside her.

“And you are actually scatterbrained enough to marry only to avoid an aunt’s visit? I fear you and I have a vastly different view of marriage, ma’am. I don’t consider it a prank or trick to avoid some minor unpleasantness. When I marry it will be to a lady I love and respect.”

“Are you saying you don’t respect me?” she shot back. All fear of tears vanished, leaving behind undiluted anger.

“I find it hard to respect a lady who would offer for a gentleman who has given no indication of interest in her.”

“I didn’t offer! I thought that was what you meant! What else should a lady think when you are always underfoot. You just said I could rely on you, that you were always at my disposal.”

“That was mere courtesy,” he snapped, wincing at that “always underfoot.” She was always summoning him!

She tossed her head defiantly. “Is that what you call it? In any case, it would be an excellent match. Whitehern and your estate run side by side. I doubt you will find any lady better dowered or less demanding.”

“I see no reason to suppose you would be less demanding as a wife than as a neighbor. And you have omitted the other rather important factor. I don’t love you.”

She sniffed to cover her shame. But the two red flags burning on her cheeks betrayed her agitation. “Love has nothing to do with it. I had in mind a marriage of convenience.” This was not true, but her self-respect required some bolstering. She couldn’t let him walk away with the idea that she loved him. Indeed, at that moment she despised him thoroughly.

A gasp of astonishment hung on the air. “This goes from bad to worse!” he charged. “You are saying you don’t even like me, but you are willing—nay—eager to have me. I can only assume the advantage of adding my estate to yours is the real motive behind this extraordinary suggestion.”

“I only mentioned that because I thought it might appeal to your—vanity,” she said, unhappy with the last word, but unable to think of a better one. “I am not in the least eager to have you. I considered you marginally better than Aunt Hildegarde—and
she
is horrid.” She assumed an air of dignity and said, “I see now that I was mistaken. We should not suit in the least.”

“That is something we can agree on.” He rose stiffly and set down his glass. The astonishing, tumultuous nature of their meeting left him in a state of bewilderment. Yet despite all, he still felt some responsibility for Emma. Her performance that evening showed him she was in dire need of guidance. He braced himself to speak once more. “If you wish to marry, Lady Capehart, I suggest you set about it in the regular way. This sort of forward behavior will only disgust any gentleman of taste and refinement.”

“So I assume, when it even disgusted you,” she retorted childishly. “And how can I proceed in the regular way?” she asked angrily. “I have no one to arrange the matter for me. I cannot see Miss Foxworth handling it any better than I did myself.”

“It is hard to see how she could have done worse! You have a father—”

“We will leave Papa out of this, if you please. He is miles away.”

“I’m sure he would be willing to come, if necessary.”

“Yes, with Aunt Hildegarde. I have told you that is precisely what I wish to avoid.” Emma was now eager to terminate the visit. She rose and said, “How much do I owe you for the silk?”

He handed her the bill. She went to her cash box and extracted the sum. “Keep the change,” she said grandly. Nick counted out a few pennies and handed them to her with a lowering look.

“Thank you, Lord Hansard. I appreciate your fetching it for me,” she said. “I shan’t bother you in future. I didn’t realize I had been imposing so wretchedly on your good nature. You should have mentioned it sooner.”

“I was happy to do it, Emma,” he said, in a gentler tone. “Indeed, I did not mean to imply I resented any little assistance I may have rendered in the past. I hope you will call me if—”

Her sharp reply cut through his pretty speech like a knife through sausage. “You are too kind,” she said, but her cold tone said there would be icicles in hell before she applied to his kindness again. She lifted her chin and glared. “Good night, Lord Hansard, and, once more, thank you for your kindness.”

He hovered at the doorway, not wanting to leave with bad feelings between them, but not knowing what to say that would not set her off again. “Must we really begin ‘lord’ and ‘ladying’ each other, after all this time, Emma?”

“You’re the one who called me Lady Capehart first.”

“What you suggest would not do, you know.”

“Truth to tell, I hadn’t the least wish to marry you. I thought if I could tell Papa I had an offer, Hildegarde might not come. It need not have come to an actual wedding.”

This piece of chicanery did much to rekindle Hansard’s ire. He was to be jilted into the bargain! “Good evening, Lady Capehart,” he said through stiff lips.

Emma watched as he went out and slammed the door behind him. She had never seen such an eloquent back. Every inch of his broad shoulders derided her presumption. She buried her face in her hands and uttered a strangled cry of vexation. What a wretched botch she had made of it! She shouldn’t have blurted it out so suddenly.

Nick had no interest in her whatsoever. All these months she had been nothing to him but a pest. He hadn’t meant any of those compliments he used to shower on her. They were just to please John. Worst of all, the whole neighborhood would soon know what an egregious ass she had made of herself. She flew out the door after him.

Lord Hansard was still in the hallway, just donning his curled beaver as she arrived, breathless, at the front door. She dismissed the butler, who stood ready to see Hansard out, and spoke to Nicholas in a low tone.

“A gentleman, I believe, does not boast of his conquests,” she said, peering up at him with a beseeching look. Her bottom lip began trembling. Her childish expression made him regret his harsh attack. Emma was still young after all.

He shook his head and gave a rueful sigh. “Don’t worry, Emma, I shan’t boast of this night’s work. I fear we neither of us appeared at our best. Let us forget it happened and continue friends.”

She studied him for signs of irony or, worse, laughter. She saw only a worried gaze. “Thank you, Nicholas,” she said in a small voice.

He opened the door and left. His traveling carriage and team of four were standing outside, as he had planned to remain only a short while. As he was driven home through the darkness, it was the image of the worried young face at the door and the small, soft voice that went with him. Emma had often complained of her aunt Hildegarde, but it seemed impossible that Emma had proposed to him only to avoid the visit. No, that visit had been a mere pretext and so had that claim of a marriage of convenience.