A Scandalous Proposal. Julia Justiss
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he left the breakfast chamber two plates of eggs, ham and sausages and three steaming cups of tea later, he must have missed half her conversation.
Deciding in his present fog of abstraction he would likely run his high-perch phaeton into a post or allow the highbred cattle to bolt, he waved away his groom and elected to walk to his Horse Guards office.
But during the stroll, instead of reviewing details of Wellington’s supply routes, his mind kept slipping back to the sounds and images of last night. The low velvet timbre of her voice. The curve of her little finger as she held her teacup. Her eyes, sometimes deep plum, sometimes the lighter veined lavender of a woodland flower.
Flowers. He halted, electrified. To the woman beautiful as a perfect, fragrant violet he would send every blossom he could find. Grinning, he hailed a hackney and instructed the jarvey to carry him to the closest florist.
Two hours and a good deal of blunt later, he had dispatched enough blooms, he calculated as he mounted the stairs to his office, to cover her desk and most of the dining table. Mayhap she could even strew some petals on the sheets.
An immediate wave of heat assailed him. No, he dare not start thinking of that. Besides, he wanted this evening to proceed differently. He’d promised himself to court and woo her, then had taken her like a street-corner strumpet. The very thought of it galled him anew. He would have been well-served if she’d kicked him down the stairs afterward and bolted the door.
Instead, she’d wept.
His stomach twisted and his chest tightened. Ah, sweetheart, he vowed, never again will I make you weep.
With a start he realized he now stood before the door to his office. Gathering his disjointed thoughts, he entered, extracted a supply ledger from the stack on his desk and sat down to review it.
He was gazing out the window, thinking of violets and amethysts rather than account totals, when his door opened and Geoffrey Randall, his college mate and assistant, strolled in.
“’Morning, Ev. Have you reviewed the ledgers yet?”
Evan glanced at the page he’d smoothed open at least half an hour ago, unable to recall a single total. “Not quite,” he mumbled.
“When you finish, could you check this report for powder and shot? I’ve added the columns three times, but the figures don’t make sense.” Frowning, Randall tapped the paper he held.
Ah, figures. With a private smile Evan called to mind one particular willowy, well-rounded form.
“Something doesn’t seem right,” Randall was continuing. “I’d appreciate your looking at it. If you would, Ev. Ev?”
His drifting attention recalled, Evan focused on the secretary. “Y-yes. You were saying?”
His assistant eyed him with some concern. “Seem a tad done-up this morning, old friend. Rough night? Surely you didn’t lose, for a change?”
A sudden vision of Emily in his arms, and he in Emily, warmed him like a candle flame. “’Twas a wonderful night, and I certainly didn’t lose.”
Raising an eyebrow, Randall laughed. “Ah, that sort of night. Why don’t you go get some sleep? You’re not doing any good here.”
“Thank you most kindly,” Evan replied with a grin. “But you’re correct—my mind isn’t on ledgers today. Shall we discuss the matter later?”
“Of course.” Randall grinned back. “And if the wench is even halfway deserving of that fatuous smile, you’re a lucky devil.”
As Evan neared home, the idea of another gift struck him with vivid clarity.
There must be no gown unfolded with memories tonight. No, tonight she should come to him in sheer purple silk and a whisper of cream lace. His woman, wearing his gown, making new memories that were theirs alone.
Proceeding immediately to the shop of one of the city’s most exclusive mantua-makers, he swiftly made his choice. However, when he informed Madame she need not deliver the garment, for he intended to take it with him, she protested she’d be happy to insure it arrived wherever he wished.
Catching the speculative gleam in her eye, he realized the seamstress was consumed with curiosity to discover the identity of his newest inamorata. Instinctively he knew his reserved, dignified Emily would not appreciate having her name bandied about. Cordially turning aside the dress-maker’s offer, he paid her well and left the shop.
To be truthful, he found the notion of revealing Emily to be his mistress strangely distasteful. Not that he’d ever flaunted his women, but Emily was different—a treasure he wished cloistered for him alone. He’d not have what they shared be the subject of vulgar speculation by Willoughby and those of his ilk.
What a many-faceted jewel she was, too: elegant and proper as the highest-born lady in that demure lavender gown the first day they’d met; siren last night, her ebony tresses flowing silken over her bare back and full, high breasts, her soft mouth and thighs promising sin and magic.
Just thinking of her hardened him to such urgent need he groaned. How many more hours until dark?
After avoiding his mama’s curious glances at tea, he dressed for dinner early and slipped away to his club. Surely he could find someone to get up a game of whist or piquet that would fill the hours until he could present himself back at her shop.
“Ev, well met!” Brent Blakesly rose to greet him as he entered the reading room. “Missed you at White’s last night. I take it that means your, ah, appointment was successful?”
Evan knew he was beaming; he couldn’t help it. “Completely.”
Brent whistled. “Congratulations, then! Come—” he motioned to a waiter “—let’s have some champagne! Though I can hardly credit it—Willoughby was so sure she’d not go down for anyone.”
Evan jerked back the hand his friend was enthusiastically pumping. “Dammit, don’t you dare describe her in such terms.”
Shocked into immobility, Brent simply looked at him. “Sorry, Ev,” he said at last. “I meant no disrespect.”
Shocked himself by the depth of his outrage, Evan made himself smile and motioned Brent back to his chair. “I don’t want this to become common knowledge about London—not a hint of it. If you take my meaning?”
Brent straightened, looking mildly affronted. “I’m hardly one to go gossiping about my friends. As I thought you’d know.”
“Yes, yes, I do know. Just a reminder.”
“Mrs. Spenser worries for her reputation?” Brent guessed.
“No, I do. I don’t want some idle fool getting the wrong idea and bothering her.”
Brent stared at him searchingly, then shook his head. “The lady must have made quite an impression.”
Evan let his mind play over the images of Emily in all her guises, and of their own volition his lips curved into a smile. “She did indeed.”
The champagne arrived, and with a flourish, Brent presented him a flute. “To you,” he raised his glass, “the luckiest bastard in London.”
After they downed the wine, Evan put a restless hand to his pocket and frowned. “Blast, I seem to have left my watch. What o’clock is it?”
Brent squinted at the mantel clock across the room. “Near on five, best I can see. How about a few hands of piquet before you leave me for the divine Madame? Mayhap I can fleece you of enough blunt to assuage my jealousy.”
So strongly did the thought of Emily pull Evan, even the prospect of several hours spent over good wine in the company of his best friend didn’t appeal. He knew where he most wanted to be. So why not just go there?
“Another time, perhaps,” he replied, deciding on the spot. “I think I’ll stop by the shop and make