Page 13 of A Desperate Proposal

“I shall make certain the garden stones are well-planted in cement before you step through the gate.”

“My thanks, Lord Asherton.”

He smiled, though imagining her in the Ashforde House grounds was just as troublesome as the dreams he’d conjured the night before. The rakehell devil on his shoulder urged him to speak again, “Pardon me for saying so, but you do look pale today, Miss Harcourt.”

“Do I?” She touched her cheek and frowned.

“I should like to see you get some fresh air tomorrow if it does not distress you. Last night after supper, your cousin expressed a wish to go riding if the weather held… I could take you along in Summersby’s curricle? The general himself may join us on his hunter if he tires of the chase early.”

“Oh. I—I think I’d like that. After finding myself looking forward to the short trek to the dining room, a ride seems almost lavish. Thank you, my lord.” She glanced back at him, her eyes locking with his. A blush crept up her cheeks but she did not look away as she did during their previous conversations. Instead, she slowly lifted her hand to the cross hanging at her neck. Her thin, nimble fingers fiddled with it absently, sliding it to and fro along the chain. She’d done the same at dinner last night, he recalled. He didn’t even think she was doing it to call attention to her shapely throat or the rise of her breasts. Though it certainly accomplished both.

“You are most welcome,” he answered by rote, still considering her trinket. A gentleman wouldn’t ask its origin and certainly wouldn’t point out a nervous habit. But Tristan had spent eight years in the Peninsula—he’d seen the folly of marching without a reliable map and scouts. The idea that she was clutching a love token felt decidedly uncomfortable. And the lady in question was uncommonly open today—probably from the surgeon’s medicine if not some additional brandy or God knew what from Evie and her endless cabinet of cures.

I should not bring it up. And yet…

“Careful, Miss Harcourt.” He reached out for her, taking an ungodly liberty to seize her fingers and stop her tugging at the pendant. “Your necklace is caught in your lace at the back. Shall I free it for you? If you wish?” He was fairly certain her blushes denoted enough regard she wouldn’t refuse. But if she truly had a lover somewhere, she seemed the type to be quite set against anybody else getting too close to either her ivory neck or the gold chain around it.

“Is it?” Her arm froze in his grip, her eyes flaring wide. Then, his own heart tripped as she leaned forward, allowing him access to her back. “Yes, please. If you do not mind.”

“I shall endeavor to be delicate,” he assured her before getting up and walking to the sofa’s far side, where he could indeed disentangle her chain and lace, had such a snarl existed. He took a light hold of the necklace. “If I cause you any discomfort, say so at once,” he cautioned, his gloved fingers grazing along the neckline of her gown where her lace tuck and chain overlapped.

Her shoulders tensed before she shivered, making a slight, startled sound. “I, um, I do hope you won’t have to break it. It was a gift.”

“A lovely gift indeed.” He brushed a wisp of hair away along the back of her neck with the barest touch he could, just to watch the responsive shiver again. He let his focus slip over her shoulder to the front neckline, then made himself look back at her bare throat—which was no less distracting. “It suits you,” he lied. It emphatically didn’t. Miss Harcourt would look stunning in lighter, more delicate workmanship. And costly stones. “The giver must know your tastes very well.”

“W-well, to tell you the truth, my lord…” Her voice fell to a whisper: “It doesn’t suit my tastes well at all. I-I treasure the gift, truly, but I do not think I’d have chosen it for myself.” She let out a nervous chuckle. “I have never admitted that. Please don’t tell anyone else?”

“Never.” He drew the chain up, letting it slide along her skin as he wished his fingers could, then released it as if he was indeed working it free. Already close, he bent ever so slightly lower, inhaling her sweet rose scent. “So why do you wear it every day?”

A heavy sigh answered him as much as her speech. “I promised I would wear it as a reminder to be virtuous.”

He scoffed at that. “Surely you have no need of such a reminder.”

She tilted her head back, as if she wanted to lean into his presence, but her cerulean gaze caught on the plaster designs of the ceiling. “I was rebellious when I was younger. Like how I hurt my ankle last time? Things like that. My cousin Henry set me straight, and he gave me this. Though…” Whatever she’d been about to say faded into the ether. “Can I tell you another secret, my lord? One you will promise not to repeat?”

“Of course, Miss Harcourt.” His forefinger danced along the lace at the fastening of her gown.

“I think I miss who I was before. It was certainly less lonely.”

He thought of who he was before the title smothered him and felt a painful kinship. Enough of a twinge, he knew he must stop straining propriety. “There, it is fixed.” Tristan smoothed the chain with one finger. “Will you permit me to say something frank, Miss Harcourt?” He took his hand from her as she nodded and moved back to his original place but kept to the edge of the seat, so his knees almost touched her couch. He waited until her eyes fixed on his. “Unless you greatly clouded the tale of how you broke your ankle, it was too much care for your cousin that led you astray. How is that rebellion?”

Her eyes lowered, and so did her shoulders. “I—I fear I am in a different position than you understand. If I continued to be a poor influence for Arabella, I risked being sent home. Henry heard my aunt and uncle saying so.”

So much for kind relatives. And yet, something in the tale bothered him. Maybe it was just the cross. She wore it for someone who had saved her position but who hadn’t given her a trinket she herself would enjoy. Of course, even the best-intentioned swain chose gifts poorly at times. But one who had recourse to ask her constant companions or might himself accompany her in the shops? The chance was gift-wrapped for him, and he still mucked it up. One had to wonder what else he was mucking up. Tristan resolved to ask his sister about Henry Weston. Perhaps even Miss Weston.

“And now you wear his gift…” he let that sentence hang for a moment. “But no engagement has been announced?”

Her golden head shook, she tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “No. But I hope…” Her voice caught. “I—I do not know what shall become of me if…” She closed her eyes, her hand going to the necklace. “I think I have said too much.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. Enough to know that her attachment was not one of particular affection, certainly. Which also seemed strange. A beautiful, charming girl with a wealthy, well-connected uncle ought to have little enough trouble finding some beneficial arrangement—one that she truly anticipated. But no such excitement spilled from Elinor Harcourt’s lips or shone in her spirited gaze. “I have regaled you with so much of my family difficulties. I am quite glad to better know your cares. Henry Weston is one of the luckiest men in the land to have a claim upon your affections.”

“Mm? You look nothing like I imagined,” she said suddenly, answering yet more of the questions Tristan hadn’t asked by her avoidance.

“I don’t? How did you—?”

“The portrait Lady Summersby kept of you. You must have been quite a bit younger when it was painted.”

Tristan chuckled at that. He’d forgotten the damn thing’s existence. “I’m glad to know I’ve managed not to look quite such a babe-in-arms. I was fifteen, I think, or near enough. Just before I went to India.”