A Scandalous Proposal. Julia Justiss
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pounds a month would be impossible. Besides, this was clearly illegal. How dare this bully try to intimidate her?
She straightened and turned to Mr. Harding. He lounged against the table, watching her, the trace of a mocking smile on his full lips. She felt anger flush her cheeks.
“Tell your master I cannot avail myself of his—protection. Advise him also that such threats are illegal, and I shall go to the authorities should he persist.”
To her fury, Harding’s grin widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t advise ya t’do that, ma’am. Knows a powerful lot a’ folk, does Mr. Harrington. How ya think he got to buy up so many lots hereabouts where all the nobs spends their blunt?”
His small eyes beginning to shine, he approached her again. “Now, ya needn’t fret, little lady. For special cases like yourn, old Josh here’s got another answer. Be nice to me, an’ we can talk about that ten pounds a month.”
Licking his lips, he seized her with one beefy arm. Foul panting breath descended toward her.
Bracing herself against the desk, she thrust him back. “Take your hands off me, Mr. Harding. Go peddle your threats amongst the streetwalkers of Covent Garden.”
He held on, his look turning ugly. “Think yerself too good for the likes a’ Josh Harding? Fancy one of them fine gentlemen as is always sniffing ’round yer skirts? Well, I been watchin’, an’ ain’t none of ’em stayed ’round to keep ya company. Nor will any, once they cast their peepers on this.” He showed her the bunched fist of his free hand. “So ya best be nicer, little lady.”
He yanked her roughly against him and plastered his heavy wet mouth on hers. His tongue probed her firmly closed lips and one hand fumbled at her breast, fingers groping the nipple.
Outraged, she shoved at him with all her might, managing to push him back enough to prepare a stinging slap.
He caught her hand and held her motionless. His eyes gleamed brighter, his breathing quickened and he laughed, the sound low in his throat like a growl. “Sweetheart, ya don’t even know how.” Before she could think to struggle, with one burly fist he backhanded her across the mouth.
The blow spun her into the desk, smashing her hip against its oaken surface. A hot trickle dripped from her stinging lip. Frightened but furious, she groped with trembling hands for some sort of weapon. Seizing the heavy glass inkwell, she moved it behind her and straightened to face Harding.
Utterly nonchalant, he was walking away. After two steps, he paused to make her an exaggerated bow. “Ya think about them offers. Both of ’em. ’Cause I can promise ya, little lady, yer problems is just beginnin’.”
A man strode in, then halted. “Madame Emilie?”
Hand clenched on her weapon, she whirled toward the door. In that first instant she saw not one of Harding’s cohorts, but a figure whose fashionable attire proclaimed him a gentleman even as her mind registered the cultured tone of his speech. In the next moment, she recognized Lady Cheverley’s son. Relief coursed through her.
“Excuse me, I didn’t realize you had a customer,” he said, his dubious gaze fixed on Mr. Harding.
Averting the injured side of her face, she released the inkwell and tried to gather her composure. “N-not at all, Lord Cheverley. The man was just leaving.”
After subjecting the nobleman to a careful inspection, during which he must have noted his superior height and obvious strength, Harding defiantly curled one hand into a fist. “When I gets ready, little lady. When I gets ready.”
Cheverley glanced coldly from Harding’s hand to the man’s swarthy face. “I believe the lady asked you to depart. Immediately.”
For a moment, the two men’s gazes locked. Then Harding shrugged, letting his fingers fall open. “Makes no matter. Just remember, when all the fancy toffs be gone, Josh Harding’ll be here.” He sauntered to the doorway and tipped his hat mockingly. “Ya got my word on it, little lady.”
“Was the ruffian disturbing you?” Lord Cheverley walked toward her as the shop door closed behind Harding. Two paces away, he must have caught sight of her bleeding lip, for he stopped short. “That villain struck you? By God, I’ll cut him down!” He spun on his heel.
Emily grabbed his sleeve. “Please, my lord, ’tis not your concern. Let him go.”
Lord Cheverley paused. Emily could feel the tension in the coiled muscles beneath her fingers. The scent of shaving soap and warm male filled her nostrils. She had a sudden, dizzying perception of the leashed power within the body towering over her, and for an instant she felt almost—safe. Like with Andrew.
Bitter memory flooded her, and her grip on his sleeve slackened. Giving her head a shake, she pushed the surging emotions back and fumbled for some rational comment. “Y-you wished something else? Did the bonnet not suit?”
“You must allow me to pursue him!” Cheverley pulled away from her hand. “I cannot permit the blackguard to get away with such an insult.”
“He was only delivering a message—rather crudely, I admit—from his employer. But my trivial affairs cannot concern you. With what can I assist you, my lord?”
“Should I not rather ask you that?”
Emily opened her lips to explain, then closed them. She had carried her own burdens for so long, ’twas vastly tempting to pour out her troubles to this seemingly strong, intelligent and interested stranger. But he is a stranger, she reminded herself. He is not Andrew.
“Is the man’s employer threatening you over some matter of business?”
Emily hesitated. The Earl of Cheverley could have no real interest in her…except, she thought, as she remembered the blatant admiration on his face earlier, of the same sort Harding had so crudely expressed. She pushed the degrading notion aside. Then again, his lordship might well serve as magistrate for his county. Perhaps she might chance requesting legal advice. She looked up to find him smiling.
“Come, after so distressing an encounter, you must sit.” Tentatively, he took her arm. With a sigh she let him lead her to the chair.
“Now, please allow me to help.” There being no other perch in the tiny office, he indicated a cleared space on the desktop. “May I?”
At his continued solicitude, her scruples collapsed. Nodding acquiescence, she let him seat himself, and briefly recited the facts of her encounter with Mr. Harding.
“I cannot be sure he really spoke for his employer. It could be that he works this game on his own, to augment his income, and Mr. Harrington would be shocked and disapproving should I inform him of it.”
“Perhaps.” Lord Cheverley frowned thoughtfully. “He’d probably express outrage in any event. But if this Harrington is indeed in collusion, confronting him might bring down immediate harm of the sort you’ve just suffered. You must not risk that.”
“I shall have to risk it. I cannot pay, and I certainly don’t wish to—well, I shall have to settle it sometime. Better sooner than later.”
“Have you no family, preferably broad of muscle and deep of pocket, to take care of this matter?”
In her rattled state, that simple question shredded the ragged bonds restraining memory. A tide of hurt, betrayal, pain and grief flooded forth. She struggled to stem it, for a moment unable to utter a word. Despite her efforts, one tear escaped. “No one,” she managed to whisper.
“Dear lady, you mustn’t distress yourself!” Cheverley leaned forward, his forehead puckered in concern. “I shall look into this personally. My solicitor will check out the gentlemen, and I’ll have him round up some off-duty runners to keep an eye on your shop. I doubt that ham-fisted coward would dare make a move if he sees able-bodied men on guard.”
When she started to protest, he waved her to silence. “No disagreement. We cannot have brigands going about menacing