Page 43 of A Scandalous Proposal

"I know that, nor should he. 'Twas just that I had never confided to him who I am, and he wished to know why. We d-discussed the change in my status that made it possible we might encounter each other at social functions. And agreed 'twas best to avoid meeting if at all possible."

"That at least makes sense. Emily, I hate it that he's come back to torture you yet again."

She essayed a ghost of a smile. "If it's any consolation, I imagine I am torturing him as well."

"Excellent," Brent returned flatly. "He should have broken with you for good after he decided to wed Andrea, having given up then any chance to make you an honorable offer. He's since seduced you into forgetting that on at least one occasion. I fear he may try to do so again."

"He will not."

"I'm not so convinced." He smiled wryly. "This only I will grant him—did I stand in his shoes, I'd find giving you up nearly impossible as well. But I've a simple solution to propose. Marry me, Emily. Marry me now."

Though he'd hinted of his intentions on several occasions, she'd not expected a formal declaration so soon. In her current state she was ill-equipped to deal with it.

"Brent, please—" she murmured.

"Only consider it, Emily. I hadn't meant to push you, but despite your best efforts and Evan's, 'tis likely you will chance to meet. My wife he will not dare offer more than the briefest of pleasantries. And should the brilliance of your presence temporarily blind him to that fact, I'll be there to deal with him."

A safe haven beyond temptation's reach. Where the seductive notion of somehow managing to find a way to be with Evan, a hope that even now she still seemed unable to completely kill, would die of slow asphyxiation. Where Brent could protect her from Evan—and herself.

Anger at her selfishness dissipated that chimera.

"Thank you, dearest friend. But if I am to salvage any shred of self-respect, the strength to do what is right must come from me. Besides, you deserve a wife who can match your passion and loyalty with her own. Oh Brent, I don't wish to wound you, but dear as you are to me I cannot promise you that. Nor could I live with myself were I to cheat you of it. In time, you would hate me for it."

"Is it not possible that, in time, you might come to care for me as I do for you?'' he countered. "Emily, I know you are distraught now. I don't want you to offer sham vows of love. You did say you care for me, didn't you?"

"Of course, but—"

"Then 'tis enough. I've been delaying going to my farm in Ireland to work this year's crop of yearlings. Marry me now and we can go together, be out of London the whole Season if you wish. By next fall or the following spring, 'twill be easier. You know 'tis so."

"I suppose, but—"

"And if we're to speak of being selfish..." He gave her a twisted smile. “When you were just 'Madame Emilie' of Bond Street I rated my odds of winning your hand pretty high, but Lady Auriana Spenser Waring-Black can look wherever she wishes for a mate. To talk you into marrying me now before you've a chance to entertain the better offers you're bound to attract is, I must admit, the height of selfishness. Given the odds, I'd count it a blessing to settle for affection and the hope of more."

"And if I never feel more?"

"I expect I love you enough for us both, darling Emily. I could accept that, as long as..." He hesitated, a slight flush coming to his face. "That is, you don't find my person— distasteful?"

He looked so like a bashful schoolboy that, despite the discomfort of this whole interview, she felt a flash of humor—and compassion. "Not at all. I think you quite handsome, actually."

He grinned. "That's a blessing. The only inexcusable compromise would be to wed you promising to leave you untouched. I won't pretend I could do that."

She remembered the touch of his thumb against her lips and similar small gestures. Never blatant enough to make her uneasy, they silently testified to a desire that now seemed more comforting than threatening.

To be starkly honest, she missed the intimacy of the marriage bed. Evan was lost, an inescapable fact. Would not an amicable union     with a friend for whom she cared, who cared for her, indeed be a comfort, especially if blessed with the joy of children? Was it not foolish to categorically reject a solution that might, some days or months later when the searing edge of her present pain had dulled, turn out to have been the wisest course?

Offering him friendship, however, was incomparably less than offering love. 'Twould be doing him a grave injustice, despite his brave words now.

Wouldn't it?

Her head was beginning to throb again and her chest tightened.

"Easy, sweeting, you needn't decide now," he soothed, sensing her increasing distress. “The last thing I want is to upset you further. Just promise me, when your mind is easier, you'll consider it. And that if you can't accept me now, you will remember my heart and hand are ever there, yours if you but speak the word."

With that, tentatively he drew closer. Too drained and confused to resist, she let him embrace her. And in truth, 'twas a great relief to lay her aching head against his shoulder and lean into his steadying arms.

After a few moments he released her. “You will consider it?" he asked softly.

"I'll consider it."

"Good." He smiled and squeezed her hand. She thought he meant to draw her up from the bench, but instead he leaned over and kissed her.

'Twas but a soft, lingering brush of his lips against hers, gentle rather than demanding. And tantalizing enough to leave her more confused than ever.

Chapter 18

He sat in a dark room lit by a single candle, writing notes on a bit of paper he'd taken from its hiding place inside his cuff. "Portugal heat, dust washed away by fine wine. J: tall, jolly, balding, overhearty laugh—concealing something? R: slim, immaculate, quiet. Competent or devious? Lt: weary, flushed from drink. Am billeted with them now." The candle flickered, went out.

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Scraps of whispered words in the corridor. Meeting. Midnight. Evan slid noiselessly from his chair, pressed his ear to the rough wooden wall. Muffled footfalls retreating. Ease open the door, peer through shuttered darkness. Was the shadow he saw slim? Portly? Topped with a flash of epaulette? Hands shaking, he slipped the blade into his boot.

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Sliver of moon lighting the swirling mist. Footsteps—his own?—echoing on the hard-packed earth of an alleyway. Another set, a ghostly echo following—or lying in wait? A prickling at the back of his neck, every tiny hair a watchman shouting the alarm. Rhythmic pounding—his heart, over the gasp of breath.

Out of the blackness came a point of light, a glitter of pewter that grew longer, leaner, descended in a shining arc like a silver arrow. As it plunged, the light exploded in a hail of red darts that gashed his face, pierced his shoulder, ran down his arm in brilliant crimson rivulets. Then, like the arrow, he was falling, falling through salt-laced air.

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He felt the trembling shudder, then the smash of a huge body being struck, heard low groaning. He was in the belly of the beast, on some sort of narrow cot with high sides that kept him from rolling out as the monster writhed from side to side in agony. An agony he shared, erupting in his head and shoulder at every blow dealt the beast, flowing down to the throbbing points of pain that used to be a hand. Until a great heaving higher than all the others slammed him into a wall of oblivion.

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He was being lifted out of swirling mist into stark cold light. He fought it, wanting only to fall back into the soothing shroud of gray. Brightness stabbed one eye as he opened it and saw Mama. Her face surprised—no, horrified, crumpling into tears. Andrea behind her, weeping. The engagement, honor—all upheld. Why was she weeping?

But he couldn't think, for the light had awakened the pulsing demon. It stretched, torturing his face into grotesque shapes, and growled, sending pulsating rumbles of torment down his arm into the hand that wasn't a hand. He snarled back, struggled to escape, to break free and recapture ephemeral mist. Caught it.

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Ebony blankness swirled, parted to form a lock of dark hair falling over a smooth, sun-browned brow. Bright green eyes mocked him, a thin-lipped mouth twisted in scorn. "Fool," said the red-coated soldier leaning over him, "fool. She's mine, she'll always be mine." Tongues of flame licked from the scarlet coat down to him, singeing his hair, dripping sparks on his face and chest. His body smoldered, ignited, the soldier's derisive laughter a wind whipping the fire to inferno. And then he was burning, burning, his skin crackling with heat, his breath scalding in his lungs.

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Emily checked the clock on the mantel once again before pacing to stare out the window. Brent was half an hour late, a most unusual occurrence. The Park would be clogged with vehicles by the time they arrived for the ton's afternoon game of see-and-be-seen.

Which she'd not mind missing, though Brent, with that lazy grin that had charmed her into attending far more social functions than her own inclination would have dictated, would probably insist on their making an appearance. Her "airing" he called the promenade, as if she were linen in need of refreshing.

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