Page 37 of A Scandalous Proposal

Brent laughed. "Don't you know? Shabby-genteel Mrs. Emily Spenser could be cut for wearing the wrong style of dress, but Lady Auriana, the Duke's daughter, could dance in her petticoat and be called merely 'eccentric.'"

"We shall see. 'Tis by no means sure the ton will believe me to be Lady Auriana. After all, even Great-aunt Augusta doubts my veracity. But enough hand wringing." She lifted her chin. “I am who I am, and so be it. Whatever happens, I just hope Natalie will not be hurt."

"Until this evening. Promise me at least one waltz."

"If I'm snubbed, I expect you shall have them all."

"I may hold you to that."

She shook her head at him and tamed to go. He caught her hand, though, and a little reluctantly she let him kiss it again.

She watched Brent thoughtfully as he strode out. He'd hinted his intentions long before the fickle shift of fate had set her on a path to possibly regain her birthright. She had no doubt his regard and his desire for a closer connection stemmed from sincere affection alone.

If only she could return that affection. He was kind, attractive, witty, devoted. But though she treasured his friendship, her heart was still fixed on another.

Who must be thinking heavens knows what about her. And intelligent as Evan was, he had by now undoubtedly pieced together the stories and determined that the scandalous impostor—or long-lost relative, depending upon which version of the story one favored—was her.

She had almost sent him a note describing the circumstances that had brought her from the design studio above the Bond Street shop to a bedchamber in the Earl of Maxwell's town house on St. James Square. Almost, but after their bitter parting, she couldn't be sure he would be interested enough to read it. Besides, he was soon to be married, and she had no right to intrude upon his life.

But the shivers that set her trembling when she thought of standing in the receiving fine tonight came not from worry over possible rejection by the ton, but from wondering whether a certain nobleman would put in an appearance. And what she would do or say to him if he should.

Chapter 15

With each turn of the carriage wheels as they crept along with the crowd approaching the Earl of Maxwell's town house, Evan's spirits sank lower. 'Twas all he could do not to snap at the ladies, who were attempting to enliven the tedium of the slow journey with some conversation.

Had he been able to manufacture an excuse to avoid going this evening, he would have done so. However, with all London clamoring for admittance, to have refused to escort his mother, Clare and Andrea to the ball that, whatever its outcome, was sure to remain the most talked-about event of the Season, would have been thought extremely odd.

Even more so since Lady Cheverley knew he was acquainted with the lady, having collected bonnets from her at the shop on several occasions. To have expressed no interest whatsoever in seeing the former shopkeeper in her vastly changed circumstances would have engendered more speculation than he wished anyone to entertain.

Paradoxically though, much as he dreaded it and as fiercely as his anger at her still burned, he probably would not have been able to stay away. He had not seen her since the morning of their bitter parting. He was willing to suspend all his grievances just for a chance to gaze for a few moments upon her face.

How pathetic, he thought savagely. After all this time, while she went on with her life without even the courtesy of a note of explanation, he still ached for her.

"How well did you know the young lady who claims to be Lady Auriana?" Andrea was asking his mama.

Groaning inwardly at the unwelcome shift in the conversation, Evan turned his face into the corner and tried not to listen.

"Rather well, actually. Strikingly beautiful and a wonderful designer. You've seen me wear several of the bonnets she fashioned—the pale blue velvet and the pheasant-feathered shako?"

"Why, yes. How lovely they are, and so flattering. Do you think she can truly be the Duke of Suffolk's daughter?"

His mama laughed. "I think that more likely than some of the other absurd rumors I've heard—that she is the chère amie of Lord Maxwell, or an impostor hired to try to claim some of the late Duke's wealth."

"Did you never suspect she might be—other than she seemed?"

"Not really. Though she did ever possess an air of elegance and the presence of one used to command. I attributed it to her having fended for herself as a soldier's wife and widow. Of course, I knew her as a shopkeeper, and I suppose we all accept what we see."

"Do you really think the Patronesses will cut her? Lady Barbara's daughter told me the reason most of the guests are coming is to see whether Lord Maxwell's consequence is sufficient to win her acceptance, or whether she'll be publicly humiliated."

Humiliated? Would it come to that? Jolted from his resentment, Evan didn't notice the carriage had finally halted until a footman let down the step. Emily's story was so clearly true he had not considered the possibility that she might be rejected. All his protective instincts were roused.

They took their places in the long line winding up the stairs to the ballroom. Here in the brighter light of the candles, Evan tried to keep his face turned away from his mama's sharp eye, and blessed the babble of several hundred voices, which made it easy to avoid conversation.

They were halfway up the stairs now, almost within sight of the figures in the reception line. How would she look? Serene, cool, self-possessed as ever despite the threat of social disaster?

Over the wrench of his heart, he had to smile. The valiant Emily he knew, who'd withstood Josh Harding's bullying and earned her bread in a foreign land, would hardly quail at facing down a passle of idle aristocrats.

He saw the painting before he saw her. Above the landing behind the reception line hung a large oil of two men in uniform. He recognized at once the black-haired, green-eyed man on the left as her late husband. The soldier standing beside him, his hair lighter but his features unmistakably similar, must be the brother, the new Lord Maxwell. Though a portrait, the painting was most unconventional, for the figures were not posed formally against a heroic backdrop, but lounging against the railing of a verandah, pelisses unfastened, a breeze from a brilliantly blue sky disordering their hair.

The style was unmistakably Emily's—the same vivid pure colors, sharp contrast and casual positioning used in her husband's miniature. And in her landscape of the lavender garden hanging in his town house library.

The guests behind him were murmuring. He realized the line before him had advanced while he stared, transfixed.

As his mama was still.

Lady Cheverley's eyes were riveted on the large oil, a look of incredulous dismay growing on her face. Before he could think to turn away she glanced over at him. "God forgive me," she whispered.

He jerked his head toward the limping Andrea, concentrated on assisting her up several more steps. Until he could no longer avoid looking upward.

At the head of the line stood the brown-haired man from the painting, a lovely blond lady beside him, and in profile beyond them—Emily.

She was aglitter in silver, like a midnight star. His gaze rose from the dazzling dress to her slender neck, her pale cheek—and froze, all other details ignored.

Her throat and ears bare of jewels, the only ornament she wore was a comb supporting a gauzy lace mantilla that whispered over her dark hair. The diamond-studded comb and mantilla he'd given her the first weeks they were together.

He didn't remember ascending the rest of the stairs, nor what reply he mumbled to his host and hostess's welcome. Then he stopped before her.

"Miss Marlowe, Lady Cheverley," she said, extending her hand to his mama. "How good to see you."

"How good to see you so well, my dear. And what a beautiful comb. 'Tis Spanish, is it not? A gift of your late husband?"

"No." For the first time she turned and looked at Evan directly. He felt it as always, that immediate connection, the little thrill darting through every nerve. Her glorious wood-violet eyes scanned his face as she murmured, '"Twas a gift from my dearest friend."

Did her gaze hold the same hungry intensity he knew his must? His heart accelerated, the noise of the party faded to a hum as if only the two of them were standing there, a bare touch apart.

"Lord Cheverley." She said his name in her low-pitched voice. And she smiled. All his anguish, heartache, anger melted away in the brilliance of that smile.

"You'll save me a waltz, Lady Auriana?" he heard himself asking.

She nodded. The press of waiting guests forced him on.

He was halfway across the ballroom before his mind began to function again. Whatever had possessed him to ask her to dance? He'd intended to do his duty by his mama, Andrea and Clare, and after the inevitable greeting, scrupulously avoid Emily. 'Twas idiotic to torture himself by holding her casually in front of a roomful of people.

Nonetheless, as he made himself go through the familiar ritual of escorting the ladies to a chair, arranging refreshments, greeting acquaintances, all he could think was that in a very few moments she would be in his arms.

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Every nerve vibrated with awareness. He had come. She hadn't been sure he would, wondered if he would somehow avoid meeting her again.

She had to force her glance from following his slow progress through the crowd as he escorted his party off.

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