A Most Improper Proposal

Isabella Adams is taken in as a companion to kindly Lady Watson after a scandal tarnishes her reputation. When Lady Watson’s nephew, Lord James Crawford, returns to the country, there is an instant attraction between them. But will the secrets of the past keep them apart?

A Most Improper Proposal

Molly Ann Wishlade

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Molly Ann Wishlade 2014

Molly Ann Wishlade asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781474008464

Version date: 2018-07-23

MOLLY ANN WISHLADE

has always been an avid reader and writer of stories. She regularly indulges her love of romance and passion by getting lost in the delicious worlds created by romantic novelists. When not reading, she’s busy with her current WIP, usually her next highly erotic tale about hunky heroes and their lady loves - and sometimes their gorgeous male lovers too.

She wants to take readers on the rollercoaster that is life through the creation of loveable characters, exciting relationships and vivid worlds. She has a soft spot for a happy ever after.

She loves to hear from readers.

Acknowledgements

Once again, huge thanks to the dedicated HQ Digital team who helped me to bring Isabella and James’ story to my lovely readers.

Big hugs to all my author friends. They are fabulously supportive with their advice, tips and retweets.

Love and a million kisses to my darling husband who keeps me sane, my precious children who keep me smiling and my two dogs for making me get out in the fresh air on a daily basis. (Walking helps keep writer’s bottom at bay! Just!)

XXXX

For all the ladies and gentlemen who have ever received a most improper proposal…

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Look out, madam! Get out of the way!’

Isabella’s stroll along the sandy track of Rotten Row was abruptly brought to a halt as the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun on her face was suddenly obscured.

She flung her hands out to shield herself from the enormous iron-clad hooves of the black stallion rearing above her. She threw herself out of its path, landing hard on her behind.

‘Hush now, hush, boy. It’s okay.’

Trembling, Isabella struggled to catch her breath, winded from her fall. She watched as the rider leant down over the stallion’s sleek black neck and smoothed it gently whilst whispering further words of reassurance into its flicking ear. The agitated beast gradually responded to the soothing voice that came from beneath the black top hat and slowly ceased its stamping, then lowered its head to the grass at the side of the path and began to graze.

The rider jumped down, looped the horse’s reins over a fence post and turned to Isabella. She looked away quickly, aware that she had been staring.

‘Excuse me, madam…’ He made a small bow. ‘Are you hurt?’

She scanned him from his black riding boots up to his black velvet riding jacket. He was smartly dressed but clearly no dandy. She moved her gaze towards his face but it was cloaked in shadow and the sun glared out from behind his head, creating a veritable halo.

She squinted up at him, raising her hands to shield her eyes.

‘Did you bump your head?’ The man reached down to her.

Isabella gasped as she caught his scent on the breeze. It was of horses, leather and something else that she did not recognise ‒ an aroma that was fresh, earthy and that stirred something deep within her. A blush rose in her cheeks as heat flooded through her like mulled wine. It was as if her body recognised him instantly and she was surprised and unnerved by its response.

‘Madam? Or is it Miss?’ His voice betrayed a trace of irritation now. ‘I asked if you are hurt.’

She shook her head and was about to reply when she heard a familiar voice.

‘Isabella! Are you all right, Isabella?’

She turned in the direction of the voice and the pounding of feet, then shook her head again in answer as Henrietta Pembrey arrived breathless at her side.

‘Oh my dear, dear Isabella…’ The words came out in between gasps and the young woman fluttered her hands above her chest. ‘Whatever happened? I only left you for a moment to retrieve my book and then I heard the most dreadful noise.’

Henrietta looked pointedly at the horseman, then crouched at Isabella’s side and rubbed her back in circles as if she were a small child in need of comfort. Isabella suddenly became aware of her position on the ground and felt acutely vulnerable. She fought the urge to shrug Henrietta’s tiny hand away and struggled to prevent the welling tears from falling.

‘Can you rise, dear?’ Henrietta took hold of her arm.

‘I can. Thank you, Henrietta.’

Isabella pushed herself up to her feet, suddenly conscious of the crowd of onlookers savouring the spectacle. She attempted to dust herself off and swallowed hard at the ache in her throat. Henrietta retrieved her parasol from where it had landed, then took a peek at the back of Isabella’s dress.

‘Oh no, your dress is quite ruined!’ Henrietta gasped. Then she whispered into Isabella’s ear, ‘You fell into horse muck and it is all over the back of your dress.’

Her blush deepening at this new revelation, Isabella backed towards the fence in an attempt to conceal her shame from the crowd. She could not believe that she could have such ill luck. She glared at the man responsible for her fall, eager to apportion blame. It was his fault. This stranger had nearly run her over with his horse; he was clearly careless and most irresponsible. He should have taken more care over the direction of his steed.

He moved towards her and she was now able to discern his features and to become fully aware of his height, because even when standing, she had to crane her neck to look up at his face. She studied his features.

Deep-set dark eyes were framed by shapely black brows currently formed into a heavy frown. His jaw was square and his cheeks featured wide sideburns that were as dark as his brows but flecked with rogue white hairs. Some might consider him handsome with his strong, masculine physique and those fathomless eyes, but he was not a young man and he had clearly spent much time outdoors.

She met his eyes and heat blazed in her cheeks. His gaze was unflinching and the sincerity she saw there unsettled her so that she felt as if she were hurtling towards something she did not yet understand. Something that scared yet excited that part of herself that she had tried to bury.

As Henrietta continued to fuss, fruitlessly attempting to wipe Isabella’s dress with a lace handkerchief, the horseman interrupted her. ‘Excuse me, your friend has not yet answered my questions.’

Henrietta turned her wide blue eyes to Isabella. Stirred into instinctive protection of her friend, Isabella scowled at the man.

‘I am quite well, sir. Thank you for your concern.’ She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. ‘Though I would be far better if I had not just been nearly knocked down by you and your horse.’

‘I did shout to you several times.’ He shrugged, his palms facing the sky. ‘But you appeared to be lost in a daydream.’

Isabella’s gaze was drawn again to the deep frown engraved above his eyes and she wondered if it ever lifted.

‘Well, sir, mayhap I should ask you if you are unable to control your horse?’ Her frosty reply was met with an eruption of giggles from their audience.

‘I must admit, Miss…’ His eyebrows lifted as he awaited her reply.

She was reluctant to provide him with her name without an official introduction, but the moment was too awkward to withhold it, so she surrendered.

‘Adams.’ Would he know her name and reputation? Was it possible that this stranger would have heard of her past…misfortunes?

‘Miss Adams’ – he bowed regally – ‘my horse was startled by a squirrel and I was trying to regain control of him when you walked across my path. You seemed quite preoccupied, almost like a sleepwalker.’

Isabella willed the heat that had risen to her cheeks to subside. She determined that although she surrendered her name, she would not surrender anything else.

‘I was merely taking the air, sir, and you, in fact, rode into my path.’

The giggles became sniggers and she lifted her chin higher, refusing to show any weakness or shame in front of the society vultures as they circled the scene of the accident, well aware that her embarrassment would be all the sweeter to them because of who she was.

‘Well, Miss Adams,’ – the gentleman’s voice was soft, low and, she believed, tinged with mockery – ‘I apologise for disturbing your walk and I will strive to control my steed in future. However, as long as you are unhurt…’

She inclined her head and raised her eyes to meet his but he had already turned to unhook his horse’s reins. He mounted his horse and dug his heels into its muscular flanks. The beast sprang into a canter, causing the crowd to take a collective gasp and step back. Within seconds he was gone, leaving her in a cloud of dust and shaking with fury, confusion and unspoken admonitions.

‘Oh, Isabella, what shall you do?’ Henrietta shook her small blonde head, causing her straw bonnet to rustle.

As she fought to control her wobbly legs, Isabella realised that she did not know. She could not believe that the gentleman had caused such a disturbance. She also knew that she should be insulted, which did not help. He had almost killed her, then caused her to fall into manure. He had asked for her name and not, she now realised, yielded his own. The gentleman’s behaviour was most improper, shocking and insulting. Yet as a sinking feeling washed over her, she wished that he had not left so abruptly and wondered if she would ever see him again.

Foolish thoughts, Isabella. He is a man, and men are not to be trusted or thought after.

‘Pray do not fuss, Henrietta,’ she muttered, dusting off her fawn gloves and straightening her violet satin spencer. She must maintain the façade of respectability in front of both her young companion and the watching crowd at all costs.

She took a deep, somewhat shaky breath and looked around, meeting the cold and curious eyes of the ton. With all of her willpower she forced haughty disdain into her expression. She would not give them what they wanted.

As if reading her thoughts, the crowd slowly dispersed.

‘Henrietta, how bad is my gown?’

As the petite young woman leant backwards to assess the damage, Isabella could already predict her reply. The thin muslin clung to the back of her legs in sticky, wet patches and whenever she moved she was overwhelmed by an aroma that reminded her of a wet forest floor and overripe vegetables.

Her stomach roiled and she struggled not to heave.

‘It is a bit messy.’ Henrietta wrinkled her nose. ‘But if we hurry home, I’m sure that not many people will see you.’

A sudden gust of wind blew cold against her wet dress and Isabella shivered. She realised that she really had no choice: the damage was done and there was nothing that she could do about it. She would have to walk back to their lodgings and endure further public humiliation.

It was past five o’clock and the park was teeming with le bon ton. How on this earth would she escape being noticed? She was about to endure yet another public humiliation caused by yet another gentleman ‒ though this was not such an emotional one, it was true. She made every effort possible to avoid England’s male population, but it seemed that no matter what she did, trouble would find her out and make her the source of other people’s amusement.

‘Come along then, Henrietta. We had better make our way home or Lady Watson will be worried.’

Her blonde companion gingerly took her arm and walked alongside her, imitating her rigid posture, and they made their way out of the park, feigning indifference to the stares, pointing and mocking laughter that followed them.

* * * *

The cool, dark hallway of Lady Watson’s London house was a positive sanctuary for Isabella as the heavy door clicked solidly shut behind them. The walk from the park to Berkeley Square had taken less than ten minutes but it had been the longest walk of her life. She was accustomed to being laughed at, pointed at and whispered about, but to be covered in horse manure whilst receiving such unwelcome attention was a humiliation beyond endurance.

‘Here, Isabella, let me take your parasol and instruct the maid to run you a bath.’ Henrietta’s kindness caused tears to spring into Isabella’s eyes.

‘Yes, thank you, Henrietta, that is very kind.’

As Henrietta went off in search of the maid, Isabella suddenly became properly aware of the butler.

‘Excuse me, Miss Adams.’

‘Yes, Henry?’ Isabella winced at the overpowering animal smell that was emanating from her dress and filling the confined space of the entrance hall like a thick, choking fog. If Henry was also aware of it, he showed no sign. His pallid face was inscrutable, as always.

‘Lady Watson has been asking for you.’

‘Please tell her that I shall join her once I have freshened up. I cannot possibly see her like this. Thank you, Henry.’

The tall man bowed, then left.

‘Alone at last,’ she thought and turned to the large gold-framed mirror that adorned the hallway. She was alarmed at how the woman looking back at her slouched as if carrying a heavy burden. She straightened her back and lifted her chin but her body immediately reverted to its original position as if tied to a spring.

She placed the palms of her hands on the cold, unyielding glass and sighed. Her skin was dull and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her once-white dress was wrinkled and stained, giving her the appearance of a woman of the lower classes. And in the shadow of her bonnet, her thin face appeared much older than its actual twenty-three years.

Yet despite these visible markers – evidence of the hardships of recent years ‒ there was something different there, something that she had not seen in some time. The inner circles of her hazel eyes appeared lit up, like she was illuminated from within. Her encounter with the horse-riding gentleman had clearly sparked something within her. She wanted to believe that it was her indignation at his behaviour, her fury at his carelessness which could have led to her being seriously injured or worse.

But deep down, in a secret part of herself that she hid always from the world, she suspected that it might be due to something else and that concerned her, as she had sworn never to allow another man to cast a shadow over her life again.

Chapter Two

‘I do love Wednesday evenings at Almack’s,’ Lady Watson giggled, stepping over the threshold of the exclusive club. She appeared almost ethereal this evening with her translucent skin and her shock of white hair elaborately pinned and decorated with diamonds.

At seventy-nine, Lady Watson displayed an energy and zest for life that Isabella admired. The ageing lady was keen to squeeze every last drop of excitement into her days whilst she was able. Some might say that the yellow shade of her gown did little for Lady Watson’s complexion, but she was unperturbed by the opinions of others ‒ which was just as well, Isabella thought, or she would not be in the position of companion to the elderly lady.

‘Come here, dear.’ Lady Watson grasped for Isabella’s arm with fingers like gnarled twigs. Though old and appearing frail, she had a surprisingly strong grip and her fingers pinched a little, conveying her excitement. ‘And how are you feeling this evening?’ The lady’s breath was fragranced with the violet and liquorice of her cachou lozenges.

‘Why I am well, Lady Watson.’ Isabella met the inquisitive grey eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I heard something of your afternoon’s adventure, dear.’ Lady Watson chuckled. ‘Some awful, boorish man lost control of his horse and nearly ran you over. Is that right?’

Isabella blushed and tried to look away, but Lady Watson reached up to firmly take her chin between thumb and forefinger.

‘How did you hear about it, Lady Watson?’

‘Why, from the lovely Miss Pembrey, dear. How else?’

Isabella shook her head as it filled with thoughts of exactly what she’d say to little Henrietta when she saw her next.

‘Now, now, Isabella, it wasn’t like that. Henrietta is a sweet girl and meant no harm. She was just concerned for your welfare. She has your best interests at heart and she is a sensitive little thing. Why, she was so upset by the incident that it gave her a headache, leaving her confined to her bedchamber this evening.’

Lady Watson gave Isabella’s chin a gentle squeeze, then took her hand, placing it in the crook of her arm where it rested upon the fine silk of her glove and the equally soft, loose freckled skin.

Isabella walked slowly along the hallway with the sprightly lady and mulled over Lady Watson’s comments about Henrietta. It seemed that Lady Watson had taken it upon herself to actively seek out young ladies in distress in order to offer them the security and protection of her age, experience and class. She had come to Isabella’s aid when she was at her lowest point and more recently she had swept up little Henrietta and her set of problems.

Lady Watson patted Isabella’s arm, returning her to the moment.

‘Come, dear, let us enjoy the evening ahead. You do look quite delightful this evening, you know.’

Isabella smiled at the compliment. She had to admit that she did feel good in the dusky-pink taffeta-silk gown. The low neckline with its pink rosebud trim accentuated her pert, round bosoms and the long skirt fell like a shimmering silk waterfall.

‘And, dear,’ Lady Watson continued, ‘I do love what Georgina did with your hair.’

‘She is most talented.’ Isabella smiled and tucked her fan beneath her arm, then moved her free hand to her hair, where she twirled a finger in a ringlet at the nape of her neck. Her chestnut curls were pinned loosely so that a few tendrils hung prettily down and her maid had styled tiny ringlets at the front so that they framed her face.

They approached the grand stone staircase. Although she had attended Almack’s Assembly Rooms several times since her appointment as Lady Watson’s companion, its splendour never ceased to amaze her. Perhaps this was heightened by her vulnerability, as she knew how strict the club’s patronesses were, and how at any moment they could withdraw membership vouchers, leaving man or woman, lord or lady, literally out in the cold. She shivered.

‘Do you have a chill, Isabella?’ Lady Watson asked.

‘No, Lady Watson, I am quite well, thank you.’

‘Then why did you shiver, child?’

Isabella considered fabricating a reason but knew that Lady Watson was too perceptive to deceive.

‘I was thinking of the patronesses, Lady Watson,’ she whispered.

The board of women, including Lady Sarah Jersey, Lady Castlereagh and Lady Cowper, were strict and draconian in their control of the club and they ruled Almack’s with a collective iron will. They had, it had even been rumoured, recently turned away the mighty Duke of Wellington, the nation’s hero, because the gentleman was wearing trousers instead of the required knee breeches and because he had arrived at the club after eleven o’clock.

The broad grin that graced Lady Watson’s face brought her immediate comfort.

‘Have I not told you that you have nothing to fear from that coven?’

Isabella gasped at the derogatory term but hid a smile behind her fan.

‘I must admit, Lady Watson, that the ladies in question do remind me somewhat of the witches in Macbeth.’ It was wicked to speak about others in such a way but Lady Watson brought out her mischievous side.

Lady Watson smiled and winked. ‘Do you mean in the way that they act like puppeteers of London society, my dear, making or breaking people’s reputations through their collective manipulation?’

Isabella inclined her head.

‘I wish I knew exactly how you persuaded them to allow me to accompany you to Almack’s, Lady Watson. I mean… so many have tried but failed.’ She peered coyly up at the great lady from beneath her lashes.

‘A lady never tells, Isabella’ – Lady Watson tapped her closed fan against her lips once before continuing – ‘but feel secure in the knowledge that everyone has secrets and that I know a few that some of the lovely patronesses… despite their insistence on members of Almack’s having untarnished reputations… would prefer not to have bandied about in public.’ With that, Lady Watson winked again, leaving Isabella wondering at the power that the seemingly frail old lady wielded in London society. She was fearless and Isabella’s admiration for her filled her chest so that she had to resist throwing her arms around Lady Watson and hugging her tightly.

As they passed the spacious supper room to their left, Isabella could already hear the musicians warming up in the rooms above. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation and she pressed her free hand over it. Even though she worried about being an object of mockery or disdain, she could not help but be caught up in the collective excitement and buoyancy that permeated the atmosphere at the club.

‘It will be another busy evening at Almack’s, Lady Watson.’

‘Certainly, dear,’ the old lady replied. ‘And I hope to see you enjoying the dancing well into Thursday morning.’

Isabella inclined her head and suppressed her reply. She knew that any gentleman who claimed her for a dance would likely be a rake who was under the impression that she was his for the taking. In the past, to her mortification, she knew that certain young men of the ton had even danced with her as a wager, just so that they could claim to have touched the flesh of the disgraceful, wanton Miss Adams.