Read Online A Most Scandalous Proposal by Ashlyn Macnamara - Free Book Online
Authors: Ashlyn Macnamara
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against a raw wind that belonged to February rather than April. Its searching fingers penetrated even the town house’s tiny garden.
Although spring seemed a distant promise, Sophia crouched to pluck away the previous year’s growth. It was time to prepare for the coming summer. In any case, shivering among the rosebushes was preferable to waiting indoors, dreading Highgate’s visit.
By rights, he should have paid his call yesterday instead of William. If she stayed out here long enough, patiently clipping dead branches and clearing off dried leaves, she might bring herself to believe Highgate would never come. And if he never turned up, perhaps the entire situation would conveniently disappear.
As if that would happen.
Her secateurs slipped. The sharp blade sliced through the leather of her glove and into the fleshy pad of her forefinger. Blinking back tears, she tugged off the glove and popped the digit into her mouth.
“Blast.” Her mother would have fits to hear her utter such an unladylike word. “Damn and blast.”
That felt even better—pity Mama couldn’t overhear. It was
her
fault Sophia was in this predicament. If onlyMama had kept quiet, they might have hushed up the scandal.
No one could conjure any hope of that given Mama’s determination to see her married to a title.
“Is that a China rose?” rumbled a deep voice.
That
voice.
Sophia raised reluctant eyes.
The Earl of Highgate leaned over to inspect the bush she’d been pruning. “Lovely specimen. Very rare, that.”
He knelt beside her and snatched her discarded secateurs off the pea-stone path. With a few deft strokes, he removed most of the overgrowth.
“There, that’s an improvement. They will not bloom properly if you leave all those old branches.” He turned and caught her eye. “But I suspect you already knew that. It must be quite pleasant here in the summer, a peaceful little oasis amid the bustle of Town.”
She slipped her finger from her mouth. “I’m not usually here past the end of June. We always attend as many house parties as Mama can wheedle invitations to.”
He settled back on his heels. “Seems a shame to spend so much time tending roses you’re not here to enjoy.”
She twitched one shoulder upward in a casual shrug. “I like looking after them. It makes me feel useful.”
“And now you’ve cut yourself.”
She glanced down. The throbbing had dulled, but blood oozed in a steady trickle down the side of her finger. Highgate reached into his greatcoat and produced a handkerchief. Without a word, he took her hand in his and wrapped the scrap of fine linen around her wound.
Sturdy fingers closed over her palm. She stared at the deep tan of his glove, her white hand tiny in his.
Ludlowe had all but insinuated he’d raised that very hand against his own wife.
Out of the corner of her eye, she studied Highgate’s weathered face. Even-featured, somewhat stern, withdeep-set dark eyes and strands of gray in his hair, no one would ever describe him as handsome. Rugged, perhaps, but never handsome, not with that scar slicing across his cheek. A sense of calm radiated from him—or perhaps it was resignation—and when he spoke to her of such mundane topics as gardening, she had trouble picturing him as the sort of person who would commit violence against another.
He was doing her a kindness, applying gentle pressure to her cut—and sacrificing his handkerchief in the process. Even the other night at the ball, when she’d been a stranger to him, he’d shown concern for her welfare.
He seemed a nice enough gentleman, but, Lord help her, she wished he’d remained a stranger. Then Ludlowe might have called on her in all earnestness and not her sister. She tried to push aside the insistent thought that Ludlowe had been overly interested in Julia even before that disastrous fainting spell, but it kept cropping up like a tenacious nettle between paving stones.
Had Julia done something to attract Ludlowe’s
Although spring seemed a distant promise, Sophia crouched to pluck away the previous year’s growth. It was time to prepare for the coming summer. In any case, shivering among the rosebushes was preferable to waiting indoors, dreading Highgate’s visit.
By rights, he should have paid his call yesterday instead of William. If she stayed out here long enough, patiently clipping dead branches and clearing off dried leaves, she might bring herself to believe Highgate would never come. And if he never turned up, perhaps the entire situation would conveniently disappear.
As if that would happen.
Her secateurs slipped. The sharp blade sliced through the leather of her glove and into the fleshy pad of her forefinger. Blinking back tears, she tugged off the glove and popped the digit into her mouth.
“Blast.” Her mother would have fits to hear her utter such an unladylike word. “Damn and blast.”
That felt even better—pity Mama couldn’t overhear. It was
her
fault Sophia was in this predicament. If onlyMama had kept quiet, they might have hushed up the scandal.
No one could conjure any hope of that given Mama’s determination to see her married to a title.
“Is that a China rose?” rumbled a deep voice.
That
voice.
Sophia raised reluctant eyes.
The Earl of Highgate leaned over to inspect the bush she’d been pruning. “Lovely specimen. Very rare, that.”
He knelt beside her and snatched her discarded secateurs off the pea-stone path. With a few deft strokes, he removed most of the overgrowth.
“There, that’s an improvement. They will not bloom properly if you leave all those old branches.” He turned and caught her eye. “But I suspect you already knew that. It must be quite pleasant here in the summer, a peaceful little oasis amid the bustle of Town.”
She slipped her finger from her mouth. “I’m not usually here past the end of June. We always attend as many house parties as Mama can wheedle invitations to.”
He settled back on his heels. “Seems a shame to spend so much time tending roses you’re not here to enjoy.”
She twitched one shoulder upward in a casual shrug. “I like looking after them. It makes me feel useful.”
“And now you’ve cut yourself.”
She glanced down. The throbbing had dulled, but blood oozed in a steady trickle down the side of her finger. Highgate reached into his greatcoat and produced a handkerchief. Without a word, he took her hand in his and wrapped the scrap of fine linen around her wound.
Sturdy fingers closed over her palm. She stared at the deep tan of his glove, her white hand tiny in his.
Ludlowe had all but insinuated he’d raised that very hand against his own wife.
Out of the corner of her eye, she studied Highgate’s weathered face. Even-featured, somewhat stern, withdeep-set dark eyes and strands of gray in his hair, no one would ever describe him as handsome. Rugged, perhaps, but never handsome, not with that scar slicing across his cheek. A sense of calm radiated from him—or perhaps it was resignation—and when he spoke to her of such mundane topics as gardening, she had trouble picturing him as the sort of person who would commit violence against another.
He was doing her a kindness, applying gentle pressure to her cut—and sacrificing his handkerchief in the process. Even the other night at the ball, when she’d been a stranger to him, he’d shown concern for her welfare.
He seemed a nice enough gentleman, but, Lord help her, she wished he’d remained a stranger. Then Ludlowe might have called on her in all earnestness and not her sister. She tried to push aside the insistent thought that Ludlowe had been overly interested in Julia even before that disastrous fainting spell, but it kept cropping up like a tenacious nettle between paving stones.
Had Julia done something to attract Ludlowe’s
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