Page 14 of A Desperate Proposal

“So young?”

Tristan nodded slowly, but then with a soft smile, said, “I should let you get your rest, and attend your dear Claudio before supper.” She gave him a disbelieving sniff at that. “But I am glad you will accept tomorrow’s venture.” His gaze caught on her eyes, and his hand moved itself to touch hers as it rested on the side table. He felt as well as saw her tense, and he wondered if he should withdraw. But her skin was so warm through his glove, and… God, he wanted to rip the gloves off, run his fingers up her arm and tease the curve of her throat. To caress her properly, as beauty like hers ought to be. The blush in her cheeks was lovely, but how much sweeter if it came from physical pleasure instead of sentiments? And the most surprising thing of all was that she lifted her free hand to cover his, light as a phantom’s kiss—as if she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch him at all.

“I am looking forward to it, my lord,” she said with a throaty whisper. There was something altogether too distracting about hearing ‘my lord’ from Miss Harcourt.

“As am I.” He squeezed her hand, hesitant to let go and yet afraid she might see the hunger burning through him. He raised her hand to his lips, leaving a lingering kiss above her knuckles. It wasn’t strictly proper, but there was no one to see. Just his eyes meeting hers before he rose and nodded to her and took his leave, reproaching himself with every step. Whether for kissing her hand or for not kissing her lips, he couldn’t truly say.

Chapter Six

Merfield House, Somerset. May 17, 1814

Sleep proved elusive. Aside from utter horror at her openness with Lord Asherton—no doubt aided (or so she fervently prayed) by the medicinal cordials—the prospect of sitting beside him in a small carriage left the room stifling hot. Every time she closed her eyes and tried to think of something else whether it be Henry, prayer, or Alexander hiding his quest for a commission, her thoughts somehow circled back to a pair of deeply expressive eyes, a beautiful smile, and the warmth of a large hand covering her own and ghosting along the back of her neck.

When Arabella at last burst into the room along with the morning sun, Elinor felt as if she’d only just gotten to sleep. She sat up feeling entirely bedraggled, and opened her mouth to beg off the ride, the visits, and perhaps life itself, only for her best pair of stays to hit her in the face.

“None of that,” Arabella chirped. “I don’t know what you’re about to say, but it best not be some wallflower nonsense about staying home. Pick a dress.” She dumped an armload of fabric over Elinor’s legs while her (or rather, their) maid, Hannah, clucked and harrumphed about wrinkles. She nudged the door shut and set aside her own burden of petticoats and shifts to rush over and rescue Elinor’s dresses.

Elinor dejectedly plucked at a fraying lace on her stays. “You didn’t have to go through such trouble.”

“I didn’t go through any trouble,” Arabella replied. She came to stand beside the camp bed, effectively blocking Elinor from getting a good look at the freshly pressed dress Hannah laid out on the ottoman. “Lovely as your hair is, we really need to do something with it. What do you think? A chignon? That would be perfect, actually. Elinor never did like sitting long for the more elaborate styles.”

Elinor frowned when she realized Arabella was talking to the maid and not to her. “Do you mind telling me what all this is about?”

Arabella waved her hand in front of her dismissively and moved off to supervise as Hannah took up the brush that’d been set on the tea table and came forward to start tending Elinor’s hair. “Things are progressing wonderfully with Lord Asherton, but if you are to hold his attention, you really must think on your appearance. Really, am I meant to do everything for you?”

“Arabella, he’s not—”

“He likes you, Elinor. Anyone with eyes can see it. And if you’d stop worrying so much about what others might think of you, you’d realize that you’re quite smitten as well.”

Elinor’s protest died on her lips. Her heart beat so furiously in her chest that she heard it in her ears, and a now-familiar heat rose to her cheeks before spreading over her entire face. “I do not deny that I have come to feel, um, something. But that does not change the fact that he is an earl and I…” She paused, her eyes falling on a white muslin day dress placed to the right of the others.

“You’re what? The niece of a wealthy doctor who treats you as his own daughter? Or the actual daughter of a heroic army captain?”

“That’s a terribly generous assessment and you know it.”

“It is not!” Arabella’s pert nose winkled. “I’m not entirely sure why you think so little of yourself, dear, but I suspect that it has something to do with whatever nonsense my brother put into your head. And honestly, it’s grown tiresome.” She released a frustrated sigh and slumped into the chair beside Elinor’s borrowed bed. “I know you have your cap set for Henry. But I truly believe that if you wish for happiness, you would be better served looking elsewhere.”

“Arabella…” Words failed. She simply couldn’t get past her cousin’s name. Elinor frowned, her eyes burning. This isn’t a conversation one should have before breakfast, she thought miserably.

“I mean every word of it. Not that you believe me. So, I shall say again what I said before. There is no shame in flirtation. If a certain somebody was really so afraid your eyes might wander, then he would have done more in the way of stating his intentions.” She stood again and lifted the same white dress Elinor had noticed from the sofa. “This is the one. With the blue petticoat, it will compliment your eyes.”

Elinor remained silent as Hannah and Arabella helped her dress, nor did she protest Hannah arranging her hair rather more elaborately at Arabella’s direction. She even sat still while Arabella pinched her cheeks and dabbed a bit of color onto her lips. When all was finished, she looked down at herself, her fingers trailing over the whitework trim at her collar, and she gave the smallest of smiles. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt beautiful, but for the first time in a long time, when she looked at Arabella—tall and regal in her gray riding dress and shining boots—she did not feel like an unpolished stone beside a diamond.

“Thank you,” she whispered to her cousin who’d just finished pulling a curl from Elinor’s chignon to frame her face just so.

“Of course.” Arabella stepped back to admire her handiwork. She smiled, her stormy gray eyes meeting Elinor’s for a brief moment though it seemed like much was exchanged between them. An understanding of sorts. Perhaps even an apology. Then the connection broke, and Arabella turned to Hannah. “Would you please tell Lord Asherton and Lady Summersby that she is ready? She’ll require help to the curricle.” Their maid bobbed her head and hurried to go find their hosts, and Arabella helped Elinor to stand beside the couch.

Soon enough, Lady Summersby arrived with her brother, arm in arm. They still looked like characters from a fashionable fairy story, all beautiful gleaming dark hair, Spanish lace, and flashing eyes. Even familiar, kind Lady Summersby seemed transfigured by Lord Asherton’s presence. And perhaps the illness was relenting, for her color looked better and her emerald day dress suited her very well. As for the Earl, what magic did he need? The tan buckskins and navy coat, paired with his gleaming Hessians were enough. No fashionable hero would stand a chance in Elinor’s fancy after seeing him.

“If you will permit me, Miss Harcourt?” he said, in that gloriously velvet voice. “I’ll take you to the carriage.”

It was a wonder her knees held her up. Somehow, amid all her nerves, she’d completely forgotten about the part where she’d need to be carried. Elinor swallowed despite a suddenly dry throat and nodded, hoping her face was not as scarlet as it felt. “Many thanks, my lord.” The words came out even and calm, without a hint of the turmoil she felt.

“I know it can hardly be agreeable to be so dependent upon others for movement,” Lady Summersby said with obvious sympathy, “but it will not last very much longer.” Elinor might’ve made a thoughtful reply, had Lord Asherton not at that moment swept her up in his arms, which understandably would’ve robbed even Mary Wollstonecraft herself of a moment’s speech. Especially if she caught the rich fragrance of him—leather, bergamot, and maybe cinnamon? Does he have to smell edible? Really? It seems a bit unfair…

“I will endeavor to make the journey to the carriage swift and painless, Miss Harcourt.” Asherton spoke so quietly, his voice so close to ear, that for a moment she could imagine only the two of them were present. Then he began walking, carrying her out of the room into the foyer and through the front doors as easily as he had carried her into the place on that first day. She tried not to think too much of how thick and hard his arms felt, nor how easily she might lay her head against his shoulder.

In truth, it was all a blur, but she distinctly felt the loss of his warmth the moment his arms released her, and Heaven help her, she couldn’t hide her disappointment. She pretended to be focused on settling herself comfortably on the carriage seat, adjusting her petticoat with more care than she’d ever had for any piece of clothing in her life. She tried not to watch as he climbed in, but it was difficult not to…