A Scandalous Proposal (27 page)

His slow smile sent her stomach to doing a small flip inside her. “That sounds so very noble, doesn't it? Actually, I came here to deliver my news and then depart as quickly as possible. Until I saw you out there in the gardens and thought you the most exotically beautiful woman I'd ever seen. You've had the most immediate and remarkable impact on me, Emmaline. I am in no hurry to leave.”

“Oh.”

“Yes—oh. And, hopeful idiot that I surely am, I don't think you have taken me in disgust. Now do you understand? The proprieties must be adhered to, no matter the circumstances. I won't go far, unless you've now decided that I should, but I cannot remain here, the two of us beneath the same roof.”

“There are sixteen bedchambers under this roof,” Emmaline said, as if that meant anything to Society, that same Society that had condoned Charlton's behavior, George's and Harold's behavior, but would condemn her, a confirmed spinster, for the most minor infraction of their silly rules. “There's no need for you to be put to the expense of staying at the inn.”

His smile in response to that statement had her looking at him strangely, and she quickly attempted to explain what she'd said.

“Not that I'm intimating at all that you might be...that you cannot afford, um, that is— Oh, stop that! I'm not saying anything in the least amusing.”

He took her trembling hands in his and raised the right one to his lips, turned it over, and pressed a bone-melting kiss against her palm. Just for an instant, the tip of his tongue lightly stroked her sensitive skin. And then, holding her hands against his chest, he looked at her with those soul-destroying eyes. “Now, Emmaline? Now do you see why I need to take myself off to an inn tomorrow morning?”

“Yes... I rather suppose I do.”

CHAPTER FOUR

J
OHN
DIDN
'
T
KNOW
if Grayson's entrance into the main saloon to announce that dinner was being served had been fortunate, or if it had been the worst timing in the history of Affectionate Old Family Retainers. Probably the former, as John hadn't known what in bloody blazes he was going to do next, once he was looking so deeply into Emmaline's glorious eyes.

He had wanted to kiss her. No, he had needed to kiss her. He
would
kiss her before this night was over. As a man who had spent many years at war, he knew that opportunities were just that, and often fleeting. For too many years of his life, he'd put his own wishes aside in the name of the Better Good. Now it was time for him to think about what John Alastair wanted.

And he wanted Lady Emmaline Daughtry.

Curiously, knowing this, he was finding it best suited to his purpose to keep his true identity hidden just a little while longer. He wanted Emmaline to see him as Captain John Alastair, accept him that way...perhaps discover feelings for him that way; the simple man, the man she could be concerned about if he had to pay for his lodgings at the local inn.

He also wanted to know more about the late duke and his two sons, but would she find it as easy to confide in him if she realized his true rank? Emmaline had been shocked by the news of their deaths—anyone would have been shocked at the suddenness of it—but John felt certain he'd also seen a measure of relief in her eyes.

Having experienced much the same feelings when he'd opened the letter from Warrington Hall, informing him of his father's departure from this earthly coil by way of collapsing after a hard ride on one of the local tavern wenches, John wondered what sort of man the late duke had been. What sort of brother he'd been to Emmaline. Obviously not a beloved one.

John sensed that applying to Grayson for enlightenment would get him nowhere, but he had higher hopes of Mrs. Piggle, and planned to speak to the woman in the morning. In the meantime, he would not press Emmaline for details, not knowing how painful it might be for her to share them with him.

This decision left him free to concentrate on Emmaline herself, which was what he'd much prefer to do in any case.

He entered the cavernous dining room with Emmaline on his arm, only to see that their places had been set at opposite ends of a table that could easily serve as a bowling green. Once he'd assisted her to his chair and Grayson had withdrawn his disapproving face, John picked up his gold charger plate, utensils, serviette and wineglass and carried them all down the length of the table, placing them to Emmaline's right.

“This way we won't have to shout at each other,” he said as he sat down. “And I might add that I cannot think of more pleasant company than you in this, my first meal in months in which I won't have to worry about my wineglass sliding off the table as the ship cuts through the waves.”

“Grayson will not be pleased,” Emmaline told him as a young girl entered, two bowls of soup balanced on a tray. “He's quite the stickler for propriety.”

“Among other things, yes, I can see that propriety would be one of his sticking points. Does that worry you?”

Emmaline cocked her head slightly to one side, as if considering the question. “No. No, I don't think it does. Thank you, Mary. It smells delicious.”

“Yer fav'rit, milady. Cook remembered. All yer fav'rits tonight. All whats yer likes best, right here.”

“Yes, I believe you're right,” Emmaline said, sneaking a quick look at John from beneath her lashes, a delightful flush coloring her cheeks.

The soup was country thick and flavorful, or so John remembered it later, even though the rest of the courses were eaten without him tasting them. He was much too well-occupied answering Emmaline's intelligently probing questions about his service in the Royal Navy, much too enthralled by the way the candlelight danced in her golden hair, the grace with which she patted her lips with the snow-white serviette...the way she listened to him as if he was reciting words he'd brought down from some mountain on stone tablets.

He did remember the dessert course, because it seemed that Emmaline's favorite sweet consisted of a simple dish of strawberries and heavy cream. Whenever some of the cream clung to her upper lip, and she surreptitiously employed the tip of her tongue to swipe it away, John began to wonder if taking himself off to the inn the next morning could be seen as in the way of cruel and unusual punishment for a man who definitely had another destination in mind.

At last the meal was over, and John suggested they take a stroll in the gardens now that the rain had disappeared and a setting sun still lent enough light for a pleasant inspection of the grounds.

Good Lord, he sounded so stiff, didn't he?

“Emmaline—I want to be alone with you,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled out her chair for her. “And to hell with the posies.”

She looked up at him, her smile tremulous, and laid her hand on his as she got to her feet. “The herb garden is well away from the house at the bottom of the gardens. And fenced,” she said quietly. “With rather tall shrubbery.”

“I've always liked herbs,” he said as, together, they departed the dining room through the French doors conveniently placed there so that gentlemen could end their meals by stepping outside to blow a cloud, spit or relieve themselves over the railing of the stone terrace. John's father used to hold contests as to who could aim best and shoot farthest, much to his son's embarrassment. He pushed the memory from his mind.

“Rosemary is one my favorites,” Emmaline told him as they descended the flagstone steps into the gardens.

“Mine, as well. Along with parsley and sage and...”

“Thyme,” she finished for him. “I've always thought ‘Scarborough Fair' a most confusing poem. If you wish someone to be your true love, why would you then make impossible demands on that person in order to become that true love?”

John bent and broke off a perfect pink rose, stripped it of its thorns and then bowed as he handed it to her. “‘Love imposes impossible tasks,'” he quoted from memory, “‘though not more than any heart asks.'”

“Oh? And do you think that sounds as asinine as I do, John? Why should a heart that cares make demands?” Emmaline asked as she held the rose beneath her nose and sniffed. “Ah, nothing complicated about a rose, is there? It is pretty, it smells heavenly, and if you aren't careful in the way you handle it, it pricks your finger. Still, you can see the thorns, so it isn't as if you weren't warned, correct?”

They threaded their way along the curving brick path. “Am I being warned, Emmaline?”

She stopped, turned to look up into his face. “Someone probably is, but I'm not sure which one of us that person might be. John... I think you should know that I'm not a very...nice person.”

“Is that so?” He cocked one eyebrow as he offered her his arm once more and they continued down the pathway. “Do you abuse kittens? Snore in church? No, wait, I have it—you pull faces behind Grayson's back.”

“Well, sometimes—that last bit about Grayson. But I'm attempting to be serious here, John. I'm... I'm an unnatural sister, an unnatural aunt. I've been trying all day long to work up even a single tear over Charlton and the boys, and I simply can't manage it.”

“You didn't love them?”

“No, no, of course I loved them. One doesn't have much choice in that, seeing as we're related. The question is, did I like them? And I didn't.”

John kept moving toward the tall thick shrubbery that he was sure concealed the herb garden. “They weren't likable?”

“I suppose that would depend on whom you applied to for their opinion. Their friends seemed to like them well enough.”

“And did you like their friends?”

They stopped at a slatted wooden gate and John opened it. “No, I didn't. Why would you ask that?”

He ceremoniously bowed her through the entrance to the herb garden, where they were immediately cast in the shade of the towering evergreens. “I don't know. It simply occurred to me that, if you didn't care for the people who cared for them, then perhaps the only reason you cared for your brother and nephews at all was because of an accident of birth. We can't choose our relatives, Emmaline. Only our friends.”

“You're only trying to make me feel less guilty.”

“I know,” he said, leading her to a curved stone bench at the center of the small garden. “Am I succeeding?”

She sat down, gracefully arranging her skirts around her, and looked at him. “Why, yes, I believe you are. Charlton and his sons are dead, and I'm sorry they didn't lead better lives while they had the chance. I think I could weep for that.”

He joined her on the bench. “Now?”

Emmaline was slowly twirling the rose stem between her fingers, and looked up at him in some confusion. “Pardon me? Now what?”

“I was asking if you were going to weep now,” he explained, biting back a smile.

“Oh. Oh, no, I don't think so. But at the service it will be better if I don't disappoint Vicar Wooten. So then I shall think about what might have been.” She sighed. “What might have been is always so sad, isn't it? What we could have done, what we should have done. What we missed because we didn't dare to—”

John brought his mouth down on hers, cutting off any chance that either of them would ever look back at this moment and think, If only.

He pulled back slightly, smiling into her eyes. “I'm sorry, I couldn't seem to resist. In fact, I still can't...”

This time when he kissed her he also slid his arms around her, pulling her closer against his chest. She responded by sliding her arms around his back, signaling without words that she didn't dislike what he was doing to her.

What she was doing to him.

A kiss. A simple kiss. And yet his world was tilting on its axis. He prodded at her with his tongue, and she responded by opening her mouth to him, and the flame she had lit inside him the first time he'd seen her threatened to consume him.

He kissed her hair, her perfect shell-like ear, her throat. He heard her quick intake of breath as he moved his hands forward, to her rib cage...and then slowly slid them upward, to cup her firm breasts.

“John...” she breathed, but not in protest, as she still held him tightly, her head tipped back as he dared to press his lips against her bare flesh above the neckline of her gown.

Her mourning gown.

Christ!

He took her hands in his and raised her to her feet, not letting go of her as he looked deeply into her eyes. “I'm sorry. I had no right...”

“You were not lacking an invitation, Captain Alastair,” Emmaline told him quietly, shifting her gaze to the ground at her feet. “Shall we just put this down to an aging spinster feeling reckless, even desperate, on the event of her twenty-eighth birthday?”

“I don't think so, no. Not unless we explain my behavior with the notion that I've been too long at sea, and haven't seen a woman in months and months, so that any woman will do. You're not that old, Emmaline, and I'm not that young.”

She smiled weakly and pulled one hand free, turning so that they could retrace their steps to the house. “You've quite the way with words, or else I'm eager to be convinced.”

She shivered then, only slightly, as the setting sun had slipped behind a blanket of thick clouds, and John slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer beside him as they walked along the path.

“I had an idea as I dressed for dinner,” he told her as they approached the doors to the main saloon. “I've remembered the name of the brother of Josiah Coates, my steward aboard ship. Phineas. Yes, I'm positive that's it. Phineas Coates. He's with the Bow Street Runners, but Josiah told me the man is unhappy with his position, so that he's actively seeking employment as a valet. Josiah and his other brothers are all gentleman's gentlemen, in one form or another, you understand.”

“Not really, not yet,” Emmaline admitted as they stepped inside the main saloon, to see that Grayson had already ordered the evening tea tray, a not-quite subtle hint that he believed her ladyship should soon be saying her good-night to the captain. “But you'll explain?”

John availed himself of the well-stocked drinks table, pouring a glass of wine while Emmaline prepared a cup of tea for herself. He returned to the main seating area, but did not sit down.

“Josiah left for his home at the same time I was coming here, to Ashurst Hall. I know his direction, and I'm sure he'll be there by the time a letter from me reaches London.” He didn't add that Josiah had only gone to the city to visit his widowed mother before heading to Warrington Hall, as that was information best kept to himself for the moment.

“Ah, you're thinking this Phineas Coates might be the man who can find Rafe for me.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm thinking. You could go through the War Office, but the extremely busy people there might not consider the mission as important as you'd like.”

“And, since Mr. Coates is a Bow Street Runner, he should have no problem in running down Rafe if we tell him what we know, that my nephew is in Paris. He could even, considering the man's desire to leave the Runners, offer his services as the new duke's valet, and stay with him, accompany Rafe home to Ashurst Hall. All very neat and tidy.”

“Only if you're agreeable. I don't know Phineas, but I can vouch for Josiah.”

“Very well, then, that's what we shall do. I'll write to Rafe tonight, and you can include the letter along with your instructions? And, yes, I'd feel much more comfortable if this Mr. Phineas Coates stayed at Rafe's side until he's home safe. I might even suggest they stop in London for a few days, to do something about Rafe's wardrobe. The boy has been in uniforms for half a dozen years. Now he has to dress himself as befits a duke. Oh, dear, I wonder if he's going to like that. He left here a boy, but he's a man now. I wonder if he's going to like any part of this, to be truthful. He had no ambitions in this direction, and no training, when it comes to that.”