Page 17 of A Scandalous Proposal

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.

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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.

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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.

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