A Scandalous Proposal (9 page)

The duchess tapped on her husband's arm. “You're
so
bad. Come along now.”

As they turned to make their exit, the duke leaned down and whispered something in his wife's ear that had her giggling like the worst of debutantes all the way to the door. “Oh, Basil, of course there will be time before dinner, you randy old goat.”

“The Duke and Duchess of Cranbrook, aunt and uncle to their heir and my good friend Gabriel Sinclair,” Coop said once the door was closed behind the pair. “Under the circumstances, I thought I'd leave introductions to some other time.”

He let go of her hands.

“Miss Foster? You're not saying anything.”

“I wouldn't know where to begin,” she told him, and left him where he stood, returning to the bench to retrieve her gloves as he followed her. “Oh, wait, I suppose I do.”

And with that, she went up on her tippy-toes and employed those gloves to slap his face.

“That's for bringing me here under false pretenses.”

Coop kept his hands at his sides, fairly certain she was only getting started.

He was right.

Slap.

“That's for being so harebrained that you'd let the viscount talk you into this.”

“In all fairness to Darby, my mother was in on it, as well. I was outnumbered at least ten to one.”

“You said the viscount and your mother.”

Slap.

“You're right. Make that outnumbered twenty to one. You'll understand when you meet Min—my mother. I had no plan—she and Darby did. We were running out of time, and it was and is plain as day that you'd involve yourself, anyway, and that was the end of that.”

“We are
leagues
from the end of that, Cooper Townsend.”

Slap.

“Ow. There are buttons on those gloves, you know.”

“I don't care. I was to
obey
you. You were
in charge
. ‘How old are you, Miss Foster?' Old enough to be compromised, or must I find another way? You couldn't simply
ask
? Does it feel more comforting to you to have been
forced
into marriage with me? I couldn't be trusted to have a brain in my own head?”

Slap.

It wasn't the force of the slaps, but the buttons, and the repetition, that were beginning to grate on Coop's nerves. That and the fact that she was right, all the way down the line. “We need to be able to be in each other's company at all times, and there's no time to devote to putting on a show of courting you, not while the blackmailer could be closing in on us, and probably many more like us. There are surveillance limitations to my current residence at the Pulteney. I need access to Portman Square. I need to be left alone by ambitious mamas and silly young ladies throwing themselves in my path, getting in my way. And once more, because it's important, you'd be in the way no matter what, so at least this way I could have some small chance of controlling—of watching over you. Our betrothal is a convenience. Don't worry. Once this is over I'll say you came to your senses and cried off. It's not going to come to marriage.”

Damned if she didn't drop the gloves, and punch him square in the jaw.

“Why did you do that?”

“You can't mean you don't know.”

The force may have been what finally drove some sense into Coop's head. For a man of five and twenty, he'd had little interest in the ladies, and probably less experience. He'd been too busy being a soldier. From the moment the blackmailer had delivered his threat, he'd been almost exclusively occupied in finding the man before he could publish and Prinny had decided to bring back neck-chopping as a form of royal sport. He hadn't considered all of the consequences when he'd finally bowed to Darby and Minerva's plan, as long as it might work.

He hadn't put all that much thought into Dany's reaction. He was doing so now. In spades.

“You want to marry me? Why on earth would you want to do that?”

She bowed her head, avoiding his gaze, and his question. “I didn't say that.”

He rubbed at his jaw. “Then I apologize, but I really don't understand. Although I'm certain I deserved it.”

Now she looked up at him again. Those eyes. Damn those soul-bearing eyes. “I don't know why I did it, not precisely. I suppose I felt insulted.”

Coop put a crooked finger beneath her chin and leaned in, gently kissing her on the lips before retrieving her gloves and handing them to her. Her lips were soft this time, not at all wooden, and he rather enjoyed the brief experience. He may have to try it again. Soon.

“Why did you do that?” she asked in that slightly husky voice that had intrigued him nearly as much as those eyes.

“I don't know, precisely. I suppose I felt an unexplainable urge. I think I've already established that I haven't been thinking all that clearly today. Are you going to slap me again?”

“No. I think I'd like you to take me back to Portman Square so that I can inform my sister of my new status as the betrothed of the hero of Quatre Bras. That ought to serve to catapult her out from beneath the covers. And you, sir, need to pen a note to my father, begging his forgiveness for presuming to take my hand before asking his permission to do so. I suggest a crate of fine claret accompany the note. Papa would forgive most anything for enough good claret.”

Coop was astounded at her level of calm. He felt as tightly wound as a watch spring. Kissing her had only increased the tension. Maybe he should try punching something.

He helped her up onto the curricle seat, tossed another coin to the boy he'd charged with minding the horses and they set off for Portman Square.

Dany was once more sitting with her hands meekly folded her in lap. That couldn't be good.

“You're thinking, aren't you? I suppose you'll want me to post our betrothal in the newspapers?”

She answered without looking at him. “If that's what one does, then one who compromises ladies of quality probably does it, yes. I doubt the protocol for compromise is listed in the book Mari gave me. Is there a corresponding tome for gentlemen?”

“Probably. But I'm fairly certain I know what to do.”

Coop knew he could have mentioned
Lord Chesterfield's Letters to His Son on the Art of Becoming a Man of the World and a Gentleman.
Minerva had given him the compilation of the letters on his fifteenth birthday, saying that since his father wasn't alive to instruct him, somebody else's father might serve as well, and probably do the job better.

She'd consigned the book to the fire a year later, after reading his lordship's observations on women being no more than children of a larger growth, devoid of real intelligence or good sense and prone to indulging themselves in silly little passions.

“Good. Then you know, as I know, that the side door will be left unlocked at a quarter to twelve tonight, and my maid will be waiting there to bring you to my bedchamber. Not that my romantical sister would blink an eye, anyway, now that you've compromised me. In fact, she'll probably be over the moon to assist us in any assignation. You've certainly gone to a whole lot of trouble to do what I'd already suggested you do.”

There was probably something Coop could say to all of this, but he'd be damned if he could think of a thing. By the time they'd returned to Portman Square he'd half convinced himself that, no matter how the world may see him—soldier, patriot, hero, baron—when it came to managing the women in his life, he was a sad case indeed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HE
WORLD
WAS
a strange place, and London might perhaps be its very center of strangeness, or at least that's what Dany had concluded over the course of the past few hours.

Her sister, somewhere between her come-out and her nearly fourth year of marriage, had turned into a twit. Not that she hadn't always been a bit silly and romantical, but exposure to London air or a matrimonial bed or the silliness of Society had picked her up and launched her straight into the land of the cuckoos.

Mari had gone from Utter Despair to Near Euphoria once she'd heard her sister's news. She'd asked no questions, as if young ladies met a gentleman on Bond Street every morning and were betrothed to him by the time the sun set that night, without something fairly havey-cavey transpiring somewhere in between.

To Mari, apparently, nothing else mattered except how her sister's sudden engagement affected
her
. The hero had arrived.
Huzzah, huzzah.
He'd been immediately infatuated with Dany, and sworn on his sword to Save Them All from Shame and Ruin. One more
Huzzah!
All would be solved, Oliver would be over the moon to hear he was about to have an heir, there definitely would be more jewelry in Mari's future and her world would run knee-deep in milk and honey. “Oh, and here, darling sister, take these pearls as my gift to you. You can't be expected to go about town in grandmother's horridly cheap garnets now. Ollie will buy me more.”

“Twit,” Dany said out loud as she sat cross-legged in front of the fire and scrubbed at her still-damp hair, her fingers serving as the only comb she'd need. “Twit, twit, double twit.” What did her sister think? That Cooper Townsend had just to wiggle his heroic ears, and the blackmailer would tumble into his lap, Mari's letters all tied up in a blue ribbon?

Then there was Timmerly. The condescending sneer the butler had conjured up each time Dany came into view had been magically replaced with an annoying series of bows and “Yes, miss. Anything you want, miss. Can I be so honored as to order anything for you, miss? Mrs. Timmerly is already planning a magnificent trifle for your first dinner here with the baron, miss.”

Dany half expected the man to bodily throw himself in her path should an unexpected puddle appear in front of her on her way from the staircase to the drawing room. Why, at dinner, he'd actually offered to cut her meat.

And all solely because she was betrothed to the baron, the hero of Quatre Bras and those silly chapbooks. If everyone were to be as annoying as Mari and Timmerly, her pity for the baron would soon know no bounds. How did he
stand
all this fawning attention?

And all this business about him working under direction of “someone close to the Crown,” going about the countryside, defending innocent young women from fates worse than death. What nonsense!

She'd read the second chapbook now, as a giggling Mrs. Timmerly had offered her own copy, and she didn't believe the half of it. The quarter of it. Why, there weren't enough hours in the day to accomplish all the rescues written about in Volume Two.

And what was a fate worse than death, anyway? There certainly wasn't anything more
final
than death. Both volumes had been rather vague on that point. Just as they were vague on what the baron
did
with his rescued damsels. Especially at the end of Volume Two.

Dany picked up the book and read the section again.

Overcome by her Emotions, she cried out in Near Ecstasy as she grasped his strong shoulders, claiming the world could safely rest on their Broad Expanse, just as her fate had so lately done, and Never Fear for her honor, that which she then so Earnestly Offered Him.

“I may not be so sure on the worse-than-death business, but it would take a real looby to not understand what
that
means.”

“You said something, Miss Dany?”

She smiled at the maid. “Nothing worth a second airing, no. Life is strange, isn't it, Emmaline? One moment you think you know everything, and the next you're certain you'll never really know anything. And yes, before you say it, in between those two opposing conclusions is the part where I do things like cut off all my hair.”

“It will grow back, miss. It's doing it already. I would even go so far as to say it looks rather fetching, all clinging to your neck and your cheeks and such. Not that I'd say the same if your poor mama was to be sitting here with us.”

“Value your position that much, do you?” Dany grinned at the maid as she got to her feet, already untying the dressing gown she'd donned after her bath. “Time for me to get dressed, Emmaline. Tell me, what does one wear to welcome one's betrothed into one's bedchamber just before midnight?”

The maid blushed to the roots of her thinning gray hair. Emmaline had been with the Foster family for decades, a sweet, homely woman who'd never so much as walked out with a young man during her youth. Dany had long ago given up asking her to answer the questions her mother avoided. “About what you've got on, Miss Dany, or so I've heard.”

“Emmaline, for shame!” Dany giggled then, but she could hear her sudden nerves in that giggle, and quickly stopped. “I think the blue dimity, please.”

The maid frowned. “The one with all the buttons, miss?”

“Precisely. What
do
you think is going to happen tonight, Emmaline?”

“I couldn't say as I'd know, Miss Dany. Begging your pardon, I haven't known what was going on with you since you could stand up and walk on your own.”

“I'm a sad trial, I know,” Dany said, giving the woman a quick hug. “If Evie hadn't married last year and gone to live with her innkeeper husband, you'd still be second maid to Mama, and not forced to deal with her unmanageable daughter. Shall we blame Evie?”

“No, Miss Dany, for if she hadn't married she'd be here with you, and I'm that happy to be in London, able to visit with my brother Sam in the stables on my afternoon off. Sam always said he wasn't built for sitting around in the country.”

Sam was built for sitting, however—at the dinner table.

“That's right, I'd forgotten Sam is part of the earl's London staff. That might be something I should keep in mind,” she ended half to herself, knowing no one could have enough allies. Sam, so rotund that at least two people could hide behind him, could also be set to watch the tree from the stables. It probably wouldn't take more than some leftover pudding to gain his allegiance. She needed to remember to tell Coop about Sam.

Coop.
He'd be here soon, tapping his foot as he waited outside for Emmaline to let him in. How had the evening dragged on for days, and now in these past few minutes she had nearly run out of time.

Emmaline approached with the blue dimity, but it was too late for that. All those buttons.

“Here,” she said, grabbing the gown and tossing it on the bed. Good Lord, Emmaline had turned down the covers! Well, that
invitation
had to be remedied, at once. “We'll forget this. Just bring me my green riding habit and take yourself off to the side door to let the baron in, all right? We don't want to keep him waiting.”

“Your riding habit, Miss Dany? You're going riding this late? Ah, Sam won't like that, thinking he has the cattle all bedded down for the night.”

“Tucks them in, does he?” Dany put her hands on the maid's shoulders, steering her toward the door. “No, I'm not going riding. It's one outfit I can manage by myself, that's all. Now go.”

She didn't mention that it was also one outfit she could run in, thanks to its divided skirt, just in case the need arose. Certainly the baron didn't think she would meekly watch from the window if the blackmailer showed up and not follow after him when he set off to bring the rotter down. What was the sense of joining an adventure if she couldn't go
adventuring
?

After securing the skirt at her waist, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of half boots, donned and buttoned her jacket and was just about to wonder if Cooper had changed his mind when the door opened and he walked into the room.

Oh, my.

He was dressed in evening clothes, all severe black and pristine-white stock, all loosely tumbled blond curls and bright green eyes.

And big. She hadn't realized he was quite that big. The generously sized bedchamber suddenly seemed uncomfortably small, now that he was in it.

And with the bedcovers still turned down...

He greeted her with no more than a nod, and then turned to Emmaline. Dany imagined the look on his face as he did so, since the maid bobbed two quick curtsies and left, closing the door behind her without so much as a glance toward her mistress.

“That was ridiculously easy,” he said, tossing his hat onto the bed, of all places. “Although I probably could have done without the butler and his wife, lined up with all the other staff in the hallway, welcoming me. Next time, if there is a next time, I might just as well use the front door knocker, and perhaps bring along a marching band.”

“I had no idea...” Dany stopped, shook her head. “No, that's really not true. I should have known. Does this happen all the time? People turning near-imbecilic at the mere prospect of seeing you?”

“Since the chapbooks, you mean? More than enough of them, yes. And if our blackmailer has one of his informers on the earl's staff, by tomorrow he'll know he can't risk returning here to carry on his knothole correspondence with the countess, so let's make the most of this single night we do have.”

“You really think someone on the staff is in the blackmailer's employ? Really? And what are you doing?”

Coop was moving about the bedchamber, using a brass snuffer to extinguish the candles. “To answer your first question, nothing is impossible. As to the second, we need this room in darkness before we push back the drapes.”

Dany pulled a face. “Oh, I did that wrong, didn't I? If he did think to deliver another threat, he clearly would have seen me outlined against the glass, wouldn't he?”

“In your defense, you're rather new at this,” he said, snuffing the last candles, pitching the room into darkness save for the light from the fire. “Will you be staying here with me, or are you planning a midnight ride?”

She glanced down at her outfit, belatedly realizing she had foregone a blouse in favor of haste, and she looked decidedly
bare
above the last button of her jacket. She imagined it would be impossible to blow out the fire, to turn the room completely dark. Besides, it was fairly obvious he'd already noticed her missing bit of wardrobe. And he couldn't resist jabbing her about it, could he?

Really, once people got to know the baron, perhaps they wouldn't all be so loopy and silly when he was around. He was just a man, and a maddening one at that. Especially when his smile carried all the way to his eyes, as it was doing now.

“Let's be on with this, shall we? Or do you want to stand here being obnoxious until the blackmailer has been and gone?” she snapped, resisting clapping her hands to her chest only with the greatest of effort. She bared more to the world in her evening dresses, but there was something very different about showing that same skin above a severely cut riding habit.

Or maybe just in exposing that skin to one Baron Townsend...

“If he's going to appear at all.”

“I know. He hasn't yet, and it has been five days—nights—since his threat. He's bound to show up soon.”

She watched as he positioned the fire screen so that it blocked some of the light from the fire, redirecting it toward the bed, before he walked to one of the long pair of windows and pushed back the drapery as he sat down on the window seat.

“Tonight's our last chance, if I'm correct about someone in this house being in his employ. Did you have your sister pen the note and put it in the knothole?”

“I did, yes. She actually wrote
Dear Blackmailer
by way of salutation. She promised the five hundred pounds would be put into the knothole as soon as her letters were placed there for her retrieval. We also wrapped up our grandmother's garnets and put them with the note.”

Coop turned to look at her. “Why would she have done that?”

“Because they're ugly, I never liked them and I'm fairly certain they're paste, thanks to our father's forays into the gaming hells a few years ago.” She thought about what she'd said, because he was looking at her as if he'd never been anywhere near the inside of a woman's head before and that his first foray there was proving more than a tad unsettling. “To show her good faith, that is.”

Coop shifted his gaze to the mews and the line of trees. “So you decided to show your sister's good faith by gifting the man with a down payment of paste garnets? Because you never liked them, anyway. You're a rather frightening young woman, but I imagine you already know that.”

“I probably am, I think I do and he might not notice. They're very good paste,” Dany said, defending her brilliant idea. Poor hero. If she'd found it sometimes difficult to be Dany, she could only imagine how other people could be uncomfortable in her presence. She was beginning to actually pity him.

“Well, then, that makes it all right, doesn't it? I suppose I should thank you for obeying at least half of my instructions.”

“Probably. I can be a sad failure at matters requiring cooperation. I say it's because I have a mind of my own, although Mama insists I'm only good for driving others out of their minds,” she admitted truthfully. “Can you see well enough to know if someone approaches the tree? I couldn't see much of anything the first two nights I tried to watch, but the moon is growing fuller now.”

“Probably what the blackmailer has been waiting for. Enough light to see, but not a full moon, or he would chance being seen, as well. By the way, I've got Viscount Nailbourne stationed at one end of the alleyway and my friend Jeremiah Rigby at the other, prepared to act on my signal.”