Page 25 of A Desperate Proposal

Asherton’s expression sobered. “Ah, your family was there for the trouble over … Burdett, wasn’t it? I heard there was a good bit of disorder in Town that year. But that is not every Season, nor even every year. Especially for this summer’s celebrations. To see the city in one of her darkest hours, and then in one of her brightest, would be fascinating.”

“A good bit of disorder? That is not exactly how I’d describe seeing Edward ushered into the house with half his face covered in blood.” She shuddered at the memory of her uncle shouting down his eldest son for his foolishness while her aunt shook him and cried in equal measure, and the butler and Arabella’s governess dealt with the cut. “But I believe you were telling me about the ways of the Ton.”

He shrugged, apparently unconcerned with either blood or her confusion over the Ton. “The Beau Monde does not sport that name without reason.”

“Their marriage ways,” she said more sternly than she meant to. “I am not so sheltered as to believe all marriages are happy ones, but when you say ‘affairs are not unique’… What do you mean?”

Something in the way his full lips turned up at one side made her want to strike him as much as she’d ever wanted to kick Alexander. “I have no full census to hand, but I would say the public disclosure of an affair is more remarkable than the existence of one. Even then, they trouble perishingly few unless both parties are married.”

“Ah.” She focused on the hem of her gown, watching the toes of her yellow slippers peek out with each slow, unsteady step. “I understand.”

He shook his head, she suspected in something other than wonderment at her perception. “I suppose that will put you off changing your vicar for a viscount next Season.”

Elinor did not intend to freeze mid-step, but she did, pulling her hand from his arm. “You know better than most that a vicar is more than I should hope for. It’s—”

“Is that true, though? Really?”

“Of course it is. I’m a soldier’s daughter, my lord. I haven’t dower or beauty enough to compensate for my lack of connections.”

“An officer’s daughter. A wealthy’s man’s niece.” Lord Asherton faced her, all the mirth gone from his handsome features, the rising moonlight and torches leaving someone new—dangerous even—in his place. “You’ve not sought a proper Season. Miss Weston complains endlessly of how seldom you go out in company. How are you so certain all other roads are closed to you?”

“And what would be the point of traveling those roads, my lord, if the likely outcome is to be cast aside for secret mistresses? I—”

“Have no idea how many vicars, bishops, and holy men keep mistresses, too?”

That hurt worse than a sprained ankle. She glanced down, half expecting to find his words had drawn blood from her chest. “It does not matter.”

“I should think it would.”

“I know Henry does not love me, but we care for one another. And I will be a Weston. I will be secure with a home of my own and a husband who does not leave as my father so often left my mother.”

“You wish a home and security—goals easily found with any hundreds of eligible suitors. So I must conclude that being a Weston is your true wish?” Asherton sighed.

Is it? I know it was, before… “Yes. Of course.”

“Well, then.” Asherton took her arm again. “There is leaving and leaving, Miss Harcourt. I hope you have judged your vicar well.”

“As I said, it matters little. I have nothing to offer. I do not have Arabella’s dowry or Mary’s beauty. I am not the daughter of a gentleman. This is your world, Lord Asherton. You were born into it. I know my place, and being a vicar’s wife is a hard enough target to hit.” She lifted her gloved hand to her cheek, wiping at her suddenly burning eyes, angry that she was crying at all.

Lord Asherton’s massive hand caught hers, and he was suddenly so close. Too close. His eyes glittered like twin daggers. “You are the daughter of Major Richard Harcourt, hero of Roliça, who held the line for Wellington himself at Vimeiro, and has a wealth of connections. That is currency, Miss Elinor Harcourt. One you should be spending, not selling yourself for a pittance to the first cousin who half-promises you a garden gate.”

He’d stolen the air from her lungs, replaced it with that intoxicating bergamot and leather scent of his, and though she remained on her feet, she was sure the ground rocked beneath her. Her vision blurred as more wretched tears rolled down her cheeks. With a sudden gasp, she lifted her hands to his chest and shoved him, taking a few steps towards the house before she froze for an entirely different reason. Her gritted teeth kept the moan of pain quiet, but she knew his accursed sharp ears caught it.

“Please,” she said softly. “Would you bring Arabella?”

“Of course.” He inclined his head, as if taking his leave, but just as he passed her, he stopped. The nearest torch cast flickering shadows across his features. “You should know, Miss Harcourt, that you far outshine both Miss Weston and her elder sister.” And then he was gone, leaving her to crumble safely in his wake, falling onto a bench purpose-made for weeping over a broken heart in the lovely grounds in the deepening twilight.

I shall have to borrow more of Arabella’s novels if I’m going to act like one of her idiotic heroines. Her shoulders shook, her hand covered her mouth to keep from sobbing. She shouldn’t have lost her temper. Should have pretended all was well. But the things he said…

Why would he say such nonsense? How did he know who her father was? He’d never mentioned it before. Had he known all along? And to know that he’d been speaking about her with Arabella…

“Elinor!” Arabella’s satin and net gown rustled loudly as she darted around a passing servant, and careened to a stop in front of Elinor’s half-hidden bench. “Have you been quarreling with Lord Asherton? He looked so dire when he came to get me, I half feared you’d fallen ill.” She paused for breath. “You were supposed to flirt, not vex him. That’s not the script at all! I don’t know what you could be thinking of—Oh. Goodness. You’re really crying!” Arabella sat beside her. “What happened?”

“What happened?” she echoed, almost annoyed enough to stop crying. “You told me to flirt with him. You told me that he would not bring his heart into it. And you were right. Damn it, you were right.” She shook her head, sniffling. “I’m a fool, Arabella. A stupid, ignorant fool. I … I just want tonight to be over.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I want to go to bed.”