A Most Improper Proposal. Molly Ann Wishlade
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you bump your head?’ The man reached down to her.
Isabella gasped as she caught his scent on the breeze. It was of horses, leather and something else that she did not recognise ‒ an aroma that was fresh, earthy and that stirred something deep within her. A blush rose in her cheeks as heat flooded through her like mulled wine. It was as if her body recognised him instantly and she was surprised and unnerved by its response.
‘Madam? Or is it Miss?’ His voice betrayed a trace of irritation now. ‘I asked if you are hurt.’
She shook her head and was about to reply when she heard a familiar voice.
‘Isabella! Are you all right, Isabella?’
She turned in the direction of the voice and the pounding of feet, then shook her head again in answer as Henrietta Pembrey arrived breathless at her side.
‘Oh my dear, dear Isabella…’ The words came out in between gasps and the young woman fluttered her hands above her chest. ‘Whatever happened? I only left you for a moment to retrieve my book and then I heard the most dreadful noise.’
Henrietta looked pointedly at the horseman, then crouched at Isabella’s side and rubbed her back in circles as if she were a small child in need of comfort. Isabella suddenly became aware of her position on the ground and felt acutely vulnerable. She fought the urge to shrug Henrietta’s tiny hand away and struggled to prevent the welling tears from falling.
‘Can you rise, dear?’ Henrietta took hold of her arm.
‘I can. Thank you, Henrietta.’
Isabella pushed herself up to her feet, suddenly conscious of the crowd of onlookers savouring the spectacle. She attempted to dust herself off and swallowed hard at the ache in her throat. Henrietta retrieved her parasol from where it had landed, then took a peek at the back of Isabella’s dress.
‘Oh no, your dress is quite ruined!’ Henrietta gasped. Then she whispered into Isabella’s ear, ‘You fell into horse muck and it is all over the back of your dress.’
Her blush deepening at this new revelation, Isabella backed towards the fence in an attempt to conceal her shame from the crowd. She could not believe that she could have such ill luck. She glared at the man responsible for her fall, eager to apportion blame. It was his fault. This stranger had nearly run her over with his horse; he was clearly careless and most irresponsible. He should have taken more care over the direction of his steed.
He moved towards her and she was now able to discern his features and to become fully aware of his height, because even when standing, she had to crane her neck to look up at his face. She studied his features.
Deep-set dark eyes were framed by shapely black brows currently formed into a heavy frown. His jaw was square and his cheeks featured wide sideburns that were as dark as his brows but flecked with rogue white hairs. Some might consider him handsome with his strong, masculine physique and those fathomless eyes, but he was not a young man and he had clearly spent much time outdoors.
She met his eyes and heat blazed in her cheeks. His gaze was unflinching and the sincerity she saw there unsettled her so that she felt as if she were hurtling towards something she did not yet understand. Something that scared yet excited that part of herself that she had tried to bury.
As Henrietta continued to fuss, fruitlessly attempting to wipe Isabella’s dress with a lace handkerchief, the horseman interrupted her. ‘Excuse me, your friend has not yet answered my questions.’
Henrietta turned her wide blue eyes to Isabella. Stirred into instinctive protection of her friend, Isabella scowled at the man.
‘I am quite well, sir. Thank you for your concern.’ She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. ‘Though I would be far better if I had not just been nearly knocked down by you and your horse.’
‘I did shout to you several times.’ He shrugged, his palms facing the sky. ‘But you appeared to be lost in a daydream.’
Isabella’s gaze was drawn again to the deep frown engraved above his eyes and she wondered if it ever lifted.
‘Well, sir, mayhap I should ask you if you are unable to control your horse?’ Her frosty reply was met with an eruption of giggles from their audience.
‘I must admit, Miss…’ His eyebrows lifted as he awaited her reply.
She was reluctant to provide him with her name without an official introduction, but the moment was too awkward to withhold it, so she surrendered.
‘Adams.’ Would he know her name and reputation? Was it possible that this stranger would have heard of her past…misfortunes?
‘Miss Adams’ – he bowed regally – ‘my horse was startled by a squirrel and I was trying to regain control of him when you walked across my path. You seemed quite preoccupied, almost like a sleepwalker.’
Isabella willed the heat that had risen to her cheeks to subside. She determined that although she surrendered her name, she would not surrender anything else.
‘I was merely taking the air, sir, and you, in fact, rode into my path.’
The giggles became sniggers and she lifted her chin higher, refusing to show any weakness or shame in front of the society vultures as they circled the scene of the accident, well aware that her embarrassment would be all the sweeter to them because of who she was.
‘Well, Miss Adams,’ – the gentleman’s voice was soft, low and, she believed, tinged with mockery – ‘I apologise for disturbing your walk and I will strive to control my steed in future. However, as long as you are unhurt…’
She inclined her head and raised her eyes to meet his but he had already turned to unhook his horse’s reins. He mounted his horse and dug his heels into its muscular flanks. The beast sprang into a canter, causing the crowd to take a collective gasp and step back. Within seconds he was gone, leaving her in a cloud of dust and shaking with fury, confusion and unspoken admonitions.
‘Oh, Isabella, what shall you do?’ Henrietta shook her small blonde head, causing her straw bonnet to rustle.
As she fought to control her wobbly legs, Isabella realised that she did not know. She could not believe that the gentleman had caused such a disturbance. She also knew that she should be insulted, which did not help. He had almost killed her, then caused her to fall into manure. He had asked for her name and not, she now realised, yielded his own. The gentleman’s behaviour was most improper, shocking and insulting. Yet as a sinking feeling washed over her, she wished that he had not left so abruptly and wondered if she would ever see him again.
Foolish thoughts, Isabella. He is a man, and men are not to be trusted or thought after.
‘Pray do not fuss, Henrietta,’ she muttered, dusting off her fawn gloves and straightening her violet satin spencer. She must maintain the façade of respectability in front of both her young companion and the watching crowd at all costs.
She took a deep, somewhat shaky breath and looked around, meeting the cold and curious eyes of the ton. With all of her willpower she forced haughty disdain into her expression. She would not give them what they wanted.
As if reading her thoughts, the crowd slowly dispersed.
‘Henrietta, how bad is my gown?’
As the petite young woman leant backwards to assess the damage, Isabella could already predict her reply. The thin muslin clung to the back of her legs in sticky, wet patches and whenever she moved she was overwhelmed by an aroma that reminded her of a wet forest floor and overripe vegetables.
Her stomach roiled and she struggled not to heave.
‘It is a bit messy.’ Henrietta wrinkled her nose. ‘But if we hurry home, I’m sure that not many people will see you.’
A sudden gust of wind blew cold against her wet dress and Isabella shivered. She realised that she really had no choice: the damage was done and there was nothing