A Most Improper Proposal

When she could catch her breath, she replied. ‘Yes, Lady Watson, Henrietta has recreated the scene of my fall at Hyde Park in perfect detail.’ From the startled fury upon her face to the bemused concern on Lord Crawford’s, every detail brought yesterday’s incident to life. But now it seemed less serious, less important, less humiliating.

Isabella stood and walked over to Lady Watson, peering at the picture over her shoulder. She gazed at the sketch and placed a hand over her thudding heart. Was Lord Crawford really that handsome… or had Henrietta been overly generous? Isabella’s eyes followed the face that sat beneath his black hat, took in his strong, square jaw line and wide sideburns and wallowed in the deep dark depths of his eyes.

Lady Watson sighed. ‘Is he not a very fine figure of a man, Isabella?’

She swallowed hard before replying, ‘Indeed he is, my lady.’

His shoulders were broad, his waist slim and his legs so shapely, so muscular.

Had she missed these details yesterday? In fact, had she really overlooked these details or just not allowed herself to acknowledge them? She felt quite lightheaded.

Lady Watson passed the sketch to Isabella and she allowed her eyes to wander slowly over the gentleman’s form, absorbing every detail, before returning it to Henrietta.

‘No, Isabella, you keep it. It is a gift.’ The girl put out her hand and gently pushed the sketch away.

‘Thank you,’ she smiled, ‘I think.’ But what I shall do with it I do not know for I cannot allow myself to keep staring at Lord Crawford like a lovesick debutante. I barely know the man… if it is possible to really know a man at all.

All three women jumped as a loud knock echoed through the hallway and Isabella’s heart somersaulted into her mouth.

Was that him? Was he here?

Her eyes moved from Lady Watson to the door, where they waited expectantly, the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She tried hard to slow her breathing and to regain her composure before Lord Crawford was admitted to the parlour but heat surged through her cheeks.

She must get a hold on her emotions now… quickly… before she made a fool of herself all over again. And that could not happen.

Suddenly aware of a rustling noise, she looked down and frowned, for Henrietta’s perfect sketch lay crumpled within her restless hands.

Chapter Five

The door to the parlour opened and the butler announced, ‘Lord James Crawford.’

The young women rose and stood behind Lady Watson’s chair.

Holding her breath, Isabella watched as Lord Crawford strode into the room and swept into a graceful bow that took in all three women. Something in the way that he moved suggested power, control and confidence and he filled the room with his masculine presence.

She forgot her sensible resolutions made just moments ago and inhaled deeply, yearning to catch his scent and to feel that strange excitement that it had aroused in her yesterday. The feeling that she could only describe as lust had been delicious, and she wondered if his presence would stir it again. Though clearly wrong and unjustifiable, it made her feel so good. So alive. And it had been so long since she had felt so animated.

‘Ladies.’ James Crawford smiled and Isabella noted that his smile seemed, this time, to reach his dark eyes, causing them to crinkle at the corners.

‘Nephew.’ Lady Watson smiled in return, her gaze warm. ‘Please sit.’

He lifted his coat tails before lowering himself into the seat opposite his aunt and made himself comfortable.

The butler cleared his throat, signalling that he was still present.

‘Would you like to have tea served now, Lady Watson?’

‘Yes please, Henry.’ She inclined her head at the manservant.

He bowed then retreated, closing the door behind him noiselessly as the heavy oak eased into place.

‘How does this fine morning find you, Aunt?’ Lord Crawford enquired.

‘I am well, James, thank you’ ‒ she pressed her hands together in her lap ‒ ‘and all the better for seeing you.’

‘I am delighted to hear that. And, ladies, how are you this morning?’

Isabella glanced away quickly as his eyes captured hers and she felt a familiar, irritating flush rising up her neck then flaring in her cheeks. Trying to calm herself, she resumed eye contact and replied, ‘I am well, thank you, Lord Crawford.’ She even forced a small smile but her lips trembled awkwardly and she bit them to still their betrayal.

But then, gazing into his eyes, she swayed a little, suddenly unsteady on her feet. It was evident that the gentleman was amused, but was it because he had noted the reaction he’d caused in her, or was it something else?

Shame crawled in her belly as the idea dawned. Had someone told him about her embarrassing past? Was he now privy to the details that so amused London society? Was he now laughing at her as they all did? Oh the shame… And the disappointment to think that he might now see her as the rest of the beau monde did.

She sagged inwardly, relieved, when he finally released her eyes and turned his attention to the girl at her side.

‘And what about you, Miss Pembrey?’

The girl smiled broadly at Lord Crawford and Isabella felt a twinge of envy at her confidence. Though it was not fitting to display the easy confidence of a country maid, Henrietta did so and did so endearingly.

‘I am very well indeed, Lord Crawford. Thank you for asking.’

She bobbed a curtsey to finish and Isabella noted the broadening of Lord Crawford’s smile. So Henrietta pleased him, did she? With her youthful prettiness and girlish ways, it was no wonder. At sixteen, Henrietta was not yet knowledgeable of the ways of men – be they lords, naval captains or reverends – and her innocence was attractive in itself. How she hoped that Henrietta would be spared the experiences that she had endured. Oh to recapture that sense of innocence and to be able to enjoy such gentle flirtations with a gentleman.

Isabella pushed her own feelings aside. If by some chance James Crawford took a liking to Henrietta then she would be glad for the girl. With her less than perfect origins, it would be difficult for the sweet girl to find a match. However, if a man as comely and well to do as Lady Watson’s nephew should think to marry Henrietta, then Isabella would be nothing but happy for her. She wanted nothing more than to see her sweet friend happy with a good future stretching out before her.

The door opened and the butler entered, followed by the footman who carried a silver serving tray which he placed upon a small table near the fireplace.

Isabella watched Lord Crawford as the slow process of placing cups and saucers upon the table ensued. Now that she could observe him without being the target of those penetrating eyes, she realised that he seemed tense and nervous, as if he would throw the whole table of tea things to the wall if they did not hurry their preparations. Lady Watson must also have been aware of this for she interrupted.

‘Thank you, Henry. I will serve the tea. You may go.’

The tall butler inclined his head then ushered the footman out of the room. As the door closed, Henry’s low voice could be heard in the hallway, reprimanding the footman for being too slow in his serving of the tea.

Lady Watson dropped cubes of sugar into the bone china cups, followed by slices of lemon, then she poured in the strong beverage. Isabella noticed that she had to stop twice because her hands were shaking.

‘Girls’ ‒ Lady Watson gestured to the cups ‒ ‘Why don’t you take yours to the window seat?’

‘Yes, Lady Watson,’ Isabella replied, passing a cup to Henrietta then taking one for herself. Before walking away, she turned to the elderly lady and examined her for a brief moment.

‘I am fine, Isabella,’ the lady reassured her. ‘Enjoy your tea.’

Isabella inclined her head then turned to walk to the window. As she moved away, she glanced at Lord Crawford, who was now staring, unblinking, into the fire and she wished that she could see into his mind and share his thoughts.

* * * *

‘James,’ his aunt’s voice and a small, frail hand on top of his pulled him back to the present.

He placed his empty tea cup on the small side table then focused on Lady Watson.

‘Sorry, Aunt Lydia, I was miles away.’

‘I could see that, James.’

The lady sat in silence, watching him and waiting for him to lead the conversation. He took a deep breath and she moved forwards, perching upon the edge of her seat, preparing to listen, but he merely exhaled and slouched back in his chair.

This was so difficult. He loved the elderly lady sat opposite him but she had hurt him and he needed to explain why.

He cleared his throat then glanced around the room, his eyes drawn again to Miss Adams who was like an angel in her white cambric morning dress with its full long sleeves and high neck ruff.

‘Does the presence of the two young ladies bother you?’ His aunt read his thoughts but he shook his head. It did not help that his aunt’s companions were present, especially the intriguing Miss Adams, but he realised that they were there for his aunt’s benefit.

‘Do you want them to leave, James?’

‘No, no, Aunt Lydia. They are welcome to stay.’ They would be unable to hear what he had to say from their vantage point by the window.

‘As long as you are sure, dear.’ Lady Watson’s eyes searched his face.

‘I am.’

But he felt sure of nothing at this moment in time. Just last evening, Lady Castlereagh had told him things about Miss Adams that would make any honourable gentleman turn his nose up at her beauty and recoil from her presence. Surely none other than a seasoned rake would want to become more closely acquainted with her.

So why then had he found it so difficult to put her from his mind? It was a palpable struggle to marry Lady Castlereagh’s history of the girl with what he had seen of her so far. She had seemed to be reserved, demure and aloof – not the wanton hussy of last evening’s tale. Yet at the same time there was something about her that aroused his masculine cravings and made him desire some time alone with her. Was that what had attracted other men to her? Was she physically irresistible?

And would his aunt really employ a lady with a questionable background and face being the scandal of London? He knew that Lady Watson was unconventional but he couldn’t believe that she would deliberately fuel the fires of the gossips of the ton; show blatant disregard for her family name.

Unless, mayhap, she were trying to make amends for a previous error.

He turned back to Lady Watson.

‘Aunt Lydia…’ he leant forwards, resting his elbows upon his knees. ‘Where to begin?’

The wise old eyes watched him, owl-like with their patience and experience.

‘At the beginning,’ he answered himself. ‘Yes, at the beginning.’

He swallowed against the lump that seemed to be lodged in his throat and spread out his long fingers over his knees, gazing at them as if hoping to find the story there.

‘Six years ago, Aunt Lydia, I seemed to have everything that a man could desire. Although I had lost my parents some time ago, and missed them deeply at times, I was a grown man with a beautiful young wife and a large estate. I lived comfortably, as you know, and I was happy. At least, I told myself that I was happy.’

He found himself yearning to look over in the direction of the window seat again. He wanted to see if Isabella was watching him but he fought the urge to turn. He must deal with matters here, between himself and his aunt.

‘Go on, James,’ Lady Watson urged, her own hands clasped together beneath her chin.

As he inhaled, preparing to continue, his head turned involuntarily and he found his eyes drawn straight to Isabella’s face. She was watching Miss Pembrey sketching, not him. But at that moment, as if sensing his eyes upon her, she glanced up and held his gaze. This time her cheeks did not flush with colour. Instead, she appeared calm and inquisitive. It unnerved and aroused him in spite of his current turmoil.

‘James?’

‘My apologies, Aunt Lydia. This isn’t easy.’

‘Of course not, my dear,’ she replied gently.

‘I thought I was happy, especially when Genevieve told me that she was with child. After all, isn’t that what every man wants? To have an heir to his name and fortune.’

‘One would think so, James.’

‘But as her belly grew, so did the distance between us. It was ironic that as the babe began to fill her body, we both realised exactly how empty our lives were. Pregnancy disagreed with her and she grew crotchety and unkind. I am ashamed to admit it now but, in return, I became intolerant of her. What had endeared us to one another in the beginning ‒ when we stepped cautiously around each other with the shyness of newlyweds ‒ became irritating and I realised’ ‒ he raised a trembling hand to his brow ‒ ‘I realised finally and with startling clarity, that I did not love her. In fact… I never had.’

He wondered if his aunt thought him an awful man for his confession but all he found in her eyes was compassion.

‘Oh my dear boy. You have nothing to feel guilty about. You are not the first man to marry, then regret your choice. Do not berate yourself.’

‘But I should, and do, feel guilty.’

The old lady took a shaky breath and James seized the opportunity to sneak a glance at Miss Adams again. What would she think of him if she knew what he was about to divulge to his Aunt Lydia? Would she be shocked at his ungallant actions? Were his crimes worse than hers? Not that he really thought she had committed any crimes. What he had gathered from the story relayed by Lady Castlereagh suggested that Isabella been an innocent debutante taken advantage of by a complete rogue. It did happen, though the upper echelons of society would prefer to bury their heads in the filth and mire and pretend that it did not. How could a young woman be blamed for succumbing to the seduction of a seasoned rake?

‘Oh, my dear James.’ Lady Watson sagged in her chair, her face suddenly haggard.

James continued. ‘After a particularly ferocious exchange of words, I stormed out of our house and fled to London. I could not bear to be under the same roof as Genevieve. I had to escape, to think. She had confessed to me that she had never loved me. She had been forced into the marriage, under the threat of being disowned and becoming a social outcast, but she loved another and always had.’

‘Oh James, I am sorry.’

‘I was shocked, of course I was, but I did not know what to do. I did not feel jealous because I did not love her in that way but I felt that I should be jealous. It made me feel inadequate in some way, that I was lacking as a man. After all, she was carrying my child and every day that child was growing bigger, its date of expected arrival getting closer. Yet it seemed that this knowledge, which for so many is filled with excitement and eager anticipation, was placing an unbearable pressure upon us.’ His stomach rolled over at the memory. ‘Then, in what must have been a placatory attempt to stem the damage, Genevieve sent a letter to me in London, claiming that she had not seen her beloved since our wedding day, when he had begged her to elope with him.’

‘And why didn’t she?’ the old lady whispered.

James tried to swallow but his mouth was bone dry and his tongue felt swollen, too big for his mouth. The memories were still so painful. He muttered, ‘She could not face the scandal.’

‘So she married you and kept silent.’ The old lady looked down at her hands.

‘Yes aunt, as you well know.’ His words were laced with venom that he had not placed there deliberately. Lady Watson recoiled but then quickly regained her self-composure, restoring her concerned expression.

‘Many women do, James. In our society few women expect to marry for love ‒ though it does happen occasionally for the very lucky.’

‘But not for poor Genevieve, Aunt Lydia,’ he spat out the words, unable to conceal his anger any longer. ‘You could have saved us both from much heartache.’

He glared at the frail old lady, years of anger and resentment welling up and filling him with fury. Then he noted her trembling and the tears in her eyes and he felt his heart soften, his anger melt away.

‘I am so sorry, James. I meant well, my dear, I really did. But I made a mistake when I pushed the girl into marrying you. It was wrong of me and I realised it soon after but it was too late then. I had so hoped that you would be happy with her. I really only ever wanted your happiness.’

‘I know that, Aunt, I know.’ He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. ‘I know that you meant well but when she came to you and asked for help…’

‘I should have helped her, not turned her away.’

‘I have often wondered about it,’ he said. ‘What it was about her that made you decide that she had to be the one.’

Lady Watson shrugged and took a shaky breath.

‘She was pretty, rich and well connected, James. I thought that she would be the ideal mate for you and hoped that she would bring you health, wealth and happiness.’

‘But when she told you of her former attachment and begged you to speak to her father and let her be… why did you not listen?’

‘I have asked myself that question a thousand times, dear boy.’ His aunt nodded, causing the loose skin beneath her chin to wobble. ‘I deeply wish that I had saved you both such heartache.’

James exhaled slowly, letting go of the past, aware that further recriminations were unnecessary. His aunt had clearly tried hard since to put things right, taking in young girls and offering them her protection was evidently her way of trying to make amends.

‘There is more Aunt Lydia. When Genevieve confessed all to me in that letter, the details seemed to push me over the edge and in London I found myself in a tavern…’ He paused, rubbing his chin roughly then he thumped his balled fists upon his knees. ‘I should have gone straight to a gentlemen’s club to seek solace in the company of men of my own class but instead I fell into… I tumbled into… I…’

‘Please, James. You can go on.’

‘I found myself… in a tavern, one frequented by women of ill repute.’

‘You will not be the first man to do so my dear,’ Lady Watson reassured him, ‘nor will you be the last.’

‘But it was uncharacteristic of me, Aunt Lydia. I had never frequented such a den of iniquity before, though I know that this does little to pardon my visiting such a place then and it does not excuse my behaviour. There is no excuse for what I did.’ His head sank into his waiting hands and he pressed hard against his temples.

‘James, please…’

He shook his head, he could not allow her to comfort him. He did not deserve it.

‘James…’

Lady Watson was unable to complete her sentence for at that moment there was a loud scream and a heavy thud.

Chapter Six

Isabella fell to her knees at Henrietta’s prone figure. ‘There, there. Hush now,’ she soothed, stroking the girl’s forehead.

‘What is it, my dear?’ Lady Watson had made her way over as quickly as she could.

Henrietta’s face was bleached of colour and her eyelids were closed. Lord Crawford knelt to fully assess the situation.

‘Hush now,’ Isabella continued to soothe the unconscious girl.

As she whispered further reassurances to Henrietta, Isabella said, ‘Apologies, my lord, there was a spider.’

James Crawford frowned at her. ‘A spider?’

‘Yes, my lord. Henrietta is… she’s absolutely terrified of spiders.’

‘Has she done this before?’ Lord Crawford questioned his aunt.

She nodded in reply, her grey eyes filled with concern. ‘But not for some time. She… it has its roots in her time at boarding school. Apparently some of the girls there played a trick on Henrietta when she was very young and she has had the most awful phobia ever since.’

Lord Crawford shrugged off his jacket and balled it up, tucking it beneath Henrietta’s head, and then took hold of her shoulders.

‘I am aware that some people do have such… fears… but to be so afraid that one faints is quite… unusual.’

Isabella stared at Henrietta. The colour was already returning to her cheeks and her eyelids flickered. Her poor friend really was truly terrified of arachnids, although she did wonder whether, at times, Henrietta enjoyed the drama of the moment a little too much.

‘Should we send for the physician, Aunt Lydia?’

‘Yes, dear, tell Henry to send for him. Though,’ she shook her head, her white hair sticking out messily from under her cap, ‘I am not sure that he can do anything. Henrietta does tend to faint at the sight of a spider then fall into a deep sleep. It does not seem to cause any lasting damage but I do feel for her. It must be awful to be so afraid of something.’

Isabella pushed herself to her feet with Lord Crawford’s swift assistance, then hurried out into the hallway where she called for the butler. It would be wise to get Henrietta checked out, just in case she had bumped herself as she swooned.

When she returned to the room, she stood for a moment at the door and watched as Lord Crawford, now satisfied that Henrietta was not in danger, tenderly took his aunt’s hands in both of his and whispered reassurances to her. He even wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb, an affectionate act that revealed a deep bond between aunt and nephew. His tenderness made Isabella breathless. She suspected that Lady Watson’s tears were due to his presence rather than Henrietta’s episode as their young companion had experienced such losses of consciousness several times before. Strangely, they often occurred when Lady Watson had guests.

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