Chapter Six

Emily's family had rented a modest townhouse, probably only a dozen family rooms, plus servants' quarters in the attic and basement, in a pretty square with a central garden. He gave his card to a footman over six-foot tall and waited in the parquet-floored hall after a maid took his top hat and greatcoat.

In the palace of Westminster, a place unrivaled for grandeur, he lounged on the red benches and ignored the tons of gold leaf and heraldry that covered every wall, floor, ceiling, and window. But in this room with some second-rate landscapes and a staircase covered with a deep-red Axminster carpet, Markshall rubbed his damp palms together.

"She's waiting in the blue parlor for you." The Duke closed a door behind him as he came into the hall. He stopped in front of Oscar. "I'll say the same thing to you as I did to Emily. She's not a little girl. You're not children. I'm not going to shout and stomp and tell you what to do. But I do not want gossip."

"Neither do I." The last thing he needed was an examination of why he had a house near Plymouth.

The Duke scowled at his interruption. "My wife will be very distressed by any embarrassment and my daughter does not deserve it. My younger daughter is about to have her debut. Please sort this mess you've caused out. I will be in my study if you need me. Harry will be outside the open door," he added meaningfully, indicating the footman.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Oscar said, but the Duke had already stridden off.

Lady Emily was standing looking out of the French windows when he entered the blue parlor, which lived up to its name with gentle Wedgewood color painted walls. The soft white light coming from the cloud outside acted like a mounting board, drawing his gaze inwards. Her hair, not quite blond, nor quite brown, but a mix of dark and light, was swept into a neat patisserie-like construction on the back of her head, revealing an expanse of neck before the modest neckline of her pale green dress with embroidery of ferns around the hem.

They were on their own again, and again he had no idea what to say. All he could do was drink her in, as though she were cool, sweet water and he had spent his life in an inferno of dry heat. He ought not to drag her into his life any further than he already had, but along with that knowledge, there was a savage satisfaction that she could be his. For her, he wanted to be as far away as possible. But for himself, he could watch her all day.

"Lord Markshall."

He hadn't thought she'd heard him enter the room. He wasn't Oscar to her now, he noted. "Lady Emily."

She turned away from the window. He was punched anew with the sway of her purposeful walk as she approached him. A queen might be less haughty and exalted than her. Maybe that was why he dropped to one knee. An instinctive reaction to her beauty and superiority.

"Lady Emily, I have come here to petition for your hand in marriage." Had he? His heart beat hard in his chest. Apparently, he had. "I humbly ask you will consider my suit and be my wife." That had come out easily, naturally, with as much flow as satirical remarks in the House of Lords. And honestly speaking, there was an element of cynicism in the words, even if he couldn't move his gaze from Emily or change his expression from pitifully earnest.

"You are determined to stand out, my lord." She indicated his silk waistcoat, the only flash of color in his otherwise black and white, respectable ensemble that Jones had set out for him.

That wasn't yes. But what had he expected?

"My valet insisted that red, a strong, masculine color, was too bold to come courting in, but a softer version was perfect." He'd even worn a frock coat and allowed Jones to tie a starched cravat in a complicated knot.

"Pink." She tilted her head. "I quite like it."

His breath stopped as she reached down and touched the edge of his lapel to feel the silk of his waistcoat. His head began to hurt again. It took all his strength not to stand and take her in his arms, or to lean into her touch.

"Is that what we are doing?" She didn't meet his gaze, continuing to focus on his waistcoat.

It took him a moment to follow her direction. "Yes, I believe we are courting. At the very least, I believe I am courting you." His heart seemed to expand and contract more with every beat as he said that.

Never had he courted a lady seriously. Given all that had happened, he supposed now he wouldn't. It was predetermined they would marry. This was merely a formality. There was no thrill of the chase or heart-rending uncertainty of whether he would win her affection well enough for her to say yes to his proposal. She would say yes because otherwise, her standing in the community would be as flat on her back as everyone would imagine she had been while they were trapped together.

She made a little sound in the back of her throat, and Markshall was instantly transported to other times when she might make that sound. In his bed when they were married, for instance, while he was deep inside of her, thrusting in and out and driving her to the edge of wildness. It was an ill-advised thought and he immediately regretted it as his cock twitched in response to the image.

She took a long breath and rubbed her naked, ungloved palms together. "Why didn't you marry Lydia?"

Her question was a bolt of lightning. A trial of character just like he'd tested her. He was suddenly aware that his knee now hurt from kneeling on the wooden floor. It was also not a simple yes or no answer that could be dealt with from a position of supplication. He rose to his feet. There was a plethora of facetious and clever ways to answer this.

"Because it would have made her miserable," he said after a moment.

"A sad countess." She looked up and her complicated green eyes speared him. They were hazel eyes, a mix of colors that made the stable tones of the room or her dress seem dull. "Go on."

It wasn't just a query about why he, a young arrogant lord, had ruined a lady of good family. Emily was asking why he was proposing marriage to her rather than rectifying the situation with Lydia. It all began with arrogance and ignorance.

"How do we learn about what happens between a man and a woman? Do our parents tell us? Not mine. My father died when I was fifteen. But he barely acknowledged me after establishing my gender at birth, so it wasn't a loss."

"Your mother?" Emily had her hands clasped and looked understandably unimpressed.

"Hardly better, but she waited to see me be a rakehell before she died about seven years ago. It's not taught in school." He continued despite her skeptical expression. "We might have compulsory education to eleven now, but it doesn't encompass anything about how marital relations ought to be. If you're not the sort to pick up pamphlets with well-meant religious nonsense in them, how does a man learn anything about the act? From other men."

"That is not an excuse." She enunciated every word like he was hard of hearing.

"It's a reality. I did not marry her because I thought it was her fault. It was a bit of flirtation, a bit of fun and fumble." It had only been once, but that was enough. "I passed on to her what I'd heard about preventing a child. It was only years later I learned that pennyroyal or other abortion concoctions one sees advertised as providing ‘regulation for menses' weren't the simple solution I'd been told."

"It depends what you mean by a solution." Emily's brows were low with concentrated thought.

"As you say." This was one of many topics he read about because of Fanny. Understanding a little girl meant understanding her mother. His eyes had opened to dangerous remedies and injustices. He'd realized he was uniquely able to help by spying on fellow rakes. "Pennyroyal tea doesn't work. Those snake-oils don't always work, though I suppose killing the mother does end the pregnancy. I doubt that's what most women intend."

"And." Emily made a beckoning gesture.

"When she wrote to me saying she was pregnant, I thought she'd plotted to catch me in marriage. By not seeing her, I thought I was cleverly avoiding her trap."

In a way, it was she who'd sidestepped trouble. At the time he'd had other mistresses and wouldn't have given them up. The child would have become another resentment between them. Rather like Oscar had been for his parents.

"Now she's settled with a clear story and a generous monthly income, it would be misguided to propose marriage to her." It was ironic that the culmination of his selfishness had been a better ending than if he'd done the right thing.

He'd thought about this for many nights, examining ideas from all angles as he tossed and turned in bed. On the one hand, he ought to raise his daughter. On the other, she was better off with her mother as a legitimate daughter of a respectable widow than the acknowledged bastard of a degenerate earl. He ought to go and propose marriage to Lydia, but such a marriage would make them both unhappy.

In the end, he'd contacted Lydia's sister, Lady Lakenham, and ensured regular payments. The Children's Society in Elmswell was an additional check so he would always know if Annie or any child near her needed anything. Annie had made it through the riskiest years, but the threat of consumption and other illnesses was always present.

"I don't think Lydia would welcome me if I came courting now," he added.

"No." Emily turned and walked away, circling the room, brow creased in thought. "But what if we just courted?"

He stared at her uncomprehendingly for a second, not understanding her leap of reason.

"The two of us. We don't actually have to marry."

Not marry? The feeling of guilty comfort was replaced by a sensation like the ground had slipped away. "You mean, a false engagement?"

"Temporary." An infinitesimal shake of her head corrected him. "Not false."

"False in the sense that we don't intend to marry." His mind was shuffling through the implications. He would get to spend time with her. She would eventually be free to marry someone suitable, whilst saving her reputation. It was an excellent idea, so why did he want to hit something?

"Well." She waved her hand as she turned away. "If one must be pedantic about it, yes." Moving to the sofa, she sat and indicated to him to sit next to her. "What do you think?"

"To me, it's an admirable idea." He had been reconciled for years to his isolation. For lovely, companionable minutes he had illicitly thought she would be with him for the rest of their lives. "I have no want of a wife." As soon as the fuss about this incident was elapsed, she would forget and go on in innocence. He wouldn't impose on her with his longing or his lust. He would salvage what he could from this little time they had and keep it close, a precious thing to take out and look at when the knowledge of who he was and what he'd done was unbearable.

"I'm glad that's settled." Emily folded her hands primly in her lap. They were elegant, long-fingered and her nails were neat and rounded. "We should—"

"But you said you've already lost one fiancé?" No gossip, her father had said. "Will you be judged harshly? To lose one fiancé is unfortunate. To lose two might be considered careless."

She stiffened. "I think we can be more discreet than that." Her voice was acerbic. "Besides, I don't intend to marry."

"Very well." He didn't want to examine how much the pressure on his chest eased that she didn't intend to be another man's wife.

"We're agreed?" Emily leaned forward a little.

"We'll have to settle on a story of how we became engaged."

"Oh. Yes." She tilted her chin up and Markshall couldn't imagine a sweeter scene. "Do you think ours was a whirlwind romance?"

"Love at first sight." She was easily beautiful enough for a man to fall in love with instantly. An unprepossessing loveliness in the glints of blond and brown in her hair and the sweet plumpness of her mouth.

The look that she shot him was suspicious, and he could see her remembering what he'd misguidedly told her last night. "When did you propose?"

"After the Waddington's ball." As soon as possible. "I was entranced by you."

"And I said yes?" Her eyebrows shot up, even as she leaned in slightly.

"Yes. You took a chance." He moved closer, their mouths only inches apart. The air between them was hot with their breath.

"I took a chance," she repeated. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

"You recognized a fellow tortured soul."

She flinched away.

Damn. He didn't know why he'd said that. It had momentarily seemed correct, but of course, it wasn't. She was untarnished. And he was, well. He was a rakehell.

There was a noise in the hallway, and Emily looked up. "Papa?"

Markshall sat back. "Now we have our story, we ought to go and meet the journalist." It was a good thing this was a temporary engagement and there would be some acting required for their story. It wouldn't do for him to get too used to spending time with her. If he couldn't keep away, Lady Emily would just be another broken thing he eventually left behind.

The Duke stormed into the parlor. "The evening newspaper has been delivered. I suggest you read it before you talk to any more journalists."