Page 5 of A Desperate Proposal

Alexander cleared his throat and offered his father a smile as he offered Elinor a hand. “What wonderful news. We could barely contain our excitement much longer.”

Edward folded his arms over his broad chest, regarding his son with deep suspicion. “There is not enough brandy in the world…” he muttered, turning to descend the stairs. “Hurry along!”

Though Elinor and Alexander exchanged a glance, not another word was spoken as they followed Arabella down the stairs and out onto the bustling street.

Chapter Three

Merfield House, Somerset. May 13, 1814

Two weeks in England as Earl of Asherton had proven to be about one and a half weeks too long. Even the unseasonably frigid journey from London to Merfield House felt somewhat of a relief after arriving in the midst of the Season, and being swept into the frantic celebrations over Napoleon’s fall, while Tristan’s own life lay in ever-degrading shambles. Which he suspected he may have set alight the previous evening.

The Earl of Bridgewater’s stinging rebuke still rang in his ears: “I would not give my poorest cousin into your house, let alone my sister.” Granted the man had sense enough to say it in private, which saved his prickly hide from facing Tristan in a duel, but the fact he could say anything at all remained a problem. Worse, Tristan couldn’t argue. The Ruthven name bore stains all the blood in Napoleon’s war would not erase. That Tristan himself stood in good stead with General Hill and even the Duke of Wellington apparently counted for naught. Nor did fifteen years in the army—striving in the Peninsula for six of them—or being instrumental in half a dozen victories. He felt, with sinking dread, that all the laurels in the world wouldn’t put his accursed sire’s damnable shade to rest.

Such thoughts plagued him even as he dismounted his traveling chariot in the broad gravel drive of his brother-in-law’s grand house and left the grooms and driver to their business, making his way up the front stairs. Normally, he’d have asked after Summersby, but knew well enough his brother-in-law was off to the west fields this morning—the distant echoing volley of gunfire from that direction could only be target practice or a disappointingly petite military uprising.

Rather than asking to see Evelina at once, he thanked the butler who came to the foyer and told the man that Lady Summersby could find him in the garden. Merfield had served as his home whenever he was forced back to England over the last fifteen years, and they’d long since left off ceremony. Besides, he was in no mood to pace her solar for the hour it would take his sister to rise and dress.

The chill lingering in the morning air matched his mood. He’d felt little but gloom since the messenger brought the news of his unexpected elevation, and since his return, England herself had obliged with endless dreariness and bone-grinding winds that had frozen more than one comely bosom in light muslin this Season. And the hearts beneath them. Just as well. No sense enjoying the belles of the Ton in summer silks and breezy gauze when you aren’t likely to bring one of them home. The thought drove him to quicken his pace. No matter how damn badly you need a wife.

If it weren’t for the children’s futures—and poor, overlooked Cecilia’s—he would have married some half-pretty merchant’s daughter and been done. Provided she could check the steward’s work, handle the servants, keep his younger siblings in line, and not spend the family fortune, a merchant’s girl might even be counted superior to her noble sisters. All she required was good connections and a father who couldn’t read a paper or speak to anyone in the Ton.

Perhaps I ought to consider it anyway? Thanks to his brothers’ and his own prizes in their various battles or investments, the Asherton coffers now overflowed. What their sire had squandered, they had rebuilt and then some. Tristan wouldn’t need to demand a dowry of his wife if he stumbled across some impoverished Ton girl with impeccable breeding and an empty purse. There must be one or two such creatures about, surely? A good family, down on their luck. I should instruct my agent to ferret out something…

Lost in thought, he wandered down the steps to the side terrace. Merfield House was not the grandest estate in England—or even in Somerset—but his sister and Summersby had created a beautiful wilderness and sculpted pleasant gardens from the landscape around them. Far better than the chaos and sprawling decay his father had left Ashforde House in.

He almost didn’t see the girl sitting in the new gazebo until he was upon her. He might have missed her entirely, had she not moved to turn a page in whatever book she was reading. Tristan stopped short, caught by her existence as much as her appearance. Framed in the weak light and surrounded by the garden’s pale greens, her flawless skin glowed with roses in her cheeks, matching her generous pink lips. She shone like a vibrant thing fallen among the wastes. An angelic presence, sent to tempt anyone who saw her.

For a brief, dizzying moment, he hoped she was a maid. He could speak with a maid. Easily. Openly. Oh, to have a simple conversation with a woman who looked like her, without expectation! Hell, he’d take her as a mistress just for that luxury. Then he remembered his station, his little sisters and brother, his ward, and all the rest of the mess. Nobody with a face so sweet ought to be dragged into the Ruthven mires. Least of all one of his sister’s staff who would have her own difficulties.

Her gleaming golden hair was simply done, more in the Grecian style than the fashionable Town girls favored this year. It suited her. But on closer inspection, her white dress was much too fine for any servant. Even a lady’s maid wouldn’t have that lace (Christ, I’ve been with Evie too much already), and likely not the golden cross hanging on a chain at her throat, nor that fine blue wool shawl.

He gave a shallow, apologetic bow. “Pardon me. I did not know my sister had guests.” Or had them wandering the garden at this hour unattended. The lady’s head jerked up as if he’d dragged her unexpectedly from a dream.

With a small gasp, she rose to her feet, leaving the book dangling from elegant, gloved fingers. Their eyes met long enough to discover that hers were a shocking, mesmerist blue—the kind artists crawled across hot coals to paint, and poets wasted seas of ink failing to describe—then she turned her head to look over her shoulder, no doubt searching the garden for her chaperone. What fool let a beauty like hers go unattended? “You startled me,” she said, her sweet voice barely above a whisper.

“It was most unintentional.”

“I’m sure, I—um. Forgive me. I did not hear your approach. It’s been so very long since I…” She trailed off and glanced down at her book, tightening her hold on it. “Are you searching for Lady Summersby?”

He smiled, hoping it might lessen her discomfort. “Is she out here already? I didn’t expect her to be about so early.” Perhaps the illness was lessening. Surely that was a hopeful sign. He looked away from the young lady, seeking any signs or sounds of movement in the distance.

“Y-yes,” she said to the book, the rosy pink brightening in her cheeks as her gaze swept over him and back again to the red leather cover. “She has been walking with us most mornings.”

He suddenly wondered if it was politeness that kept her reticent, or perhaps the hours of riding the carriage had proved disastrous for his clothes? He’d seldom worn anything but uniforms the last few years. His hand came up to check the situation of his cravat, which proved to still be tied, and a glance at his trousers and greatcoat showed nothing else readily amiss. Politeness it must be.

“Ah. Well. Is there any hope of finding her, or should I call out the hounds and a search party?”

“An excellent question.” She adjusted her cornflower-blue shawl, still carefully admiring her own book. “But I do believe there’s reason to hope. She could not have gone far. I think she was admiring the flower buds, such as they are, with my cousin. I did not realize they’d wandered out of sight.”

Cousin? So this is one of the pair of strays Evie summoned. His sister had praised both girls to the heavens, assuring him of the family’s good sense, fortune, and amiability. Mrs. Weston was an old friend of their mother, Countess Maria of Asherton, who welcomed Evelina into the area on her marriage to Summersby despite Countess Maria’s untimely and scandal-ridden death. Evie had some mad idea of his choosing one of the girls, perhaps as repayment for the woman’s kindness. A heartless scheme Tristan disliked even more upon seeing the painful shyness of the young woman before him.

“Your cousin must be a miraculous presence. Usually, I can hear my sister for a good half a mile on a clear day.” He rocked back on his heels, chafing at the restrictions of good manners. In the Peninsula, he should have introduced himself—or she would have demanded to know his name and rank already. They would not be trying to evade the crime of conversing without a proper introduction. Like many things, it seemed so damn pointless now. “Would you happen to remember what direction they traveled in?”

She gave a small but fetching smile before biting her bottom lip and turning her head again. Perhaps he was not the only one caught on the wrong foot by etiquette’s strictures. “Now that you have mentioned it, my cousin is not known for being quiet either. Were she not with your sister, I might have reason to worry.” She looked the other way and then gave a helpless shrug. “To be perfectly honest, we were all sitting here for so long, I did not pay much attention. I can guess they went that way, though.” She pointed her gloved hand to indicate the path to the right. “It seems the natural direction to navigate the gardens.”

“Natural directions and Lady Summersby do not necessarily agree.” He glanced to the left. The formal gardens of Merfield did indeed follow a sort of laid out progression, the architect intending to lead the admirer along a circuitous route to view their glory to best advantage. Or that had been the case, but he had no idea how many of the improvements Evie chattered about in her letters were already begun. “It seems odd she would abandon one of her charges out here alone for very long. Anything might happen. You might even find another book to read without her advice.”

The young woman laughed, but stopped abruptly, covering her mouth. He wondered how to make her laugh properly, so she’d forget to stifle herself. Her full lips lent themselves well to smiles. Probably to kisses as well… Damn it. Being without a lover made one too easily distracted. “I confess, there is a true danger of that. Lord Summersby’s library is quite thrilling.” Her shoulders relaxed as she spoke, perhaps having determined that being Evelina’s brother, he was close enough to an introduction to be spoken to.