Page 33 of A Scandalous Proposal

The town house? Chill foreboding dampened her joy. "We cannot! Your papa would never...where is your papa, Rob?"

A look of bitterness passed over his face. "Papa? You do not know? Indeed, we do have much to discuss."

At that moment the new sales girl came to the door, her hands full of hats. “I fetched these bonnets from the window, Lady Maxwell. Would you like to inspect them? And his lordship?"

Slowly Emily turned toward Robert. "His lordship?"

Robert gave her a rueful flicker of a smile. “At your service. Papa and your dear eldest brother-in-law both died of the same fever last winter, God rest their black souls. And as Alastair's wife never managed to pop out a son, the honors of the estate fell upon lowly me." He laughed shortly, the sound not pleasant. "Is that not rich? They are both writhing in their graves, I'm sure."

Too surprised to utter a word, Emily merely stared. Her father-in-law dead. Dead, no longer a threat to her. He cannot take Drew. Her son was safe.

While her rattled brain tried to absorb that incredible information, Robert's austere face softened to a grin. "But enough of that—I'm hungry for my tea. Pack up the tray, Francesca. In the carriage you can begin to tell us all your news. And explain how I spent seven months scouring every alley and byroad in Spain only to find my precious lost sister-in-law in a London shop."

******************************************************************

A week later Emily reclined upon a satin-striped settee in the sitting room of an elegant guest bedchamber at Maxwell's Rook. In true military fashion, Rob had overridden her protests that she could not possibly leave London with her collection incomplete, and had carried all of them—herself, Francesca, Drew, his tutor and the tutor's family—off to the Earl's country estate. She needed rest and fresh air, he insisted, and they all needed time to become reacquainted.

She'd barely had a day to turn over her sketches to the chief seamstress, gather clothes and scribble a note to Brent before Rob packed them up and bore them off.

With staff officer efficiency, Rob arranged for every comfort—baskets of food and pots of tea for the carriage, hot bricks for their feet, warm meals and heated private chambers at every stop. Sometimes, when she'd catch a glimpse of him in profile, he reminded her so keenly of Andrew that her heart turned over. She wasn't sure whether it was balm or torture to be living in his house.

Aye, his house now. 'Twas the first time she'd seen the inside of Maxwell's Rook, but she vividly remembered her only previous glimpse of the crenellated fortress set high on a hill, the mulhoned windows of its Elizabethan wings gleaming like feral eyes in the near darkness.

Andrew had left her at the gatehouse, the gatekeeper and his wife fussing over the intended bride of their forbidding master's much-loved youngest son, while Andrew went to inform his father of their upcoming marriage.

She would never forget the look on his face, cold and scarred as those ancient stone towers, when he returned with his father's refusal. After scarcely a word, he'd ridden off with her. Neither had ever looked back.

'Twas a moment before she realized Rob must have entered, for he stood at the foot of the sofa gazing at her.

''Thinking how much has changed?" he asked softly.

"Y-yes. How different it was six years ago."

"Aye. We were both on the run from Papa, fellow outcasts—he for marrying you, me for buying us commissions in Wellington's army. Disowned for fighting the French instead of dutifully hunting heiresses to swell the family coffers. We swore a blood oath the night after your wedding, Andrew and I—did you know?"

She shook her head. "We vowed to watch out for each other—and you," he continued. "All for one, and such." His amused voice grew serious. "I mean to honor that vow."

"Rob, I'm enjoying my holiday, and 'tis wonderful for Drew to be part of a family at last, but I cannot remain here, hanging on your coattails. You know what I've become. 'Tis not fitting for a shopkeeper to be living with the Earl of Maxwell."

"You are family, Ari. Come, I know how difficult it is to accept, especially for you. Going from your father's household to the catch-as-catch-can atmosphere of an army on the march, and then—" He took a deep breath. "I cannot imagine how you scraped along after Andrew was wounded, after he... But wait a moment."

Holding up a hand in a restraining gesture, he walked over to rummage in the drawer of the nearby desk.

Remembering the days of short rations, haphazard shelter, odd dinners concocted of army grain, foraged fowl and confiscated French wine, she had to smile. She'd been sometimes terrified, occasionally hungry, but never bored during her vagabond life with Andrew. Whatever happened, she'd had his voice to tease her out of annoyance, his arms to snuggle in at night, his unfailing love to give her courage, to make every sacrifice, every hardship worthwhile.

Her smile faded as Rob handed her an object he removed from a large leather portfolio.

"Andrew's pistol! Where did you get it?"

"From the local lord near the village where he's buried. Don Alvarez would have nothing to do with me until I convinced him I had no ties to Papa. I bought back several items."

Assailed by memories of the last time she'd seen it, with shaking hands she took the weapon. "Thank you, Rob. I'll save it for Drew."

Close her eyes and she could hear it still—the shallow huff-pant of Andrew trying to draw breath into his damaged lungs. She'd hoped to carry him to medical treatment, but by the time they'd reached the village nearest where their party had been ambushed it became evident to move him further would be to kill him outright.

So they'd stayed. Sometimes the villagers, sympathetic to the plight of the English soldier and his lady, would leave food on their doorstep—eggs, milk, once a chicken tied by a cord on its leg to the door knocker.

Despite that her small store of funds was soon exhausted. She'd sold her jewelry first, then Andrew's horses and rifles. Then the pistol.

Tears welled up and she swiped them away. "He complained so little, though I knew he was in constant pain. One day he begged me for this that he might end his life and release us all. I was so glad I'd already sold it."

Silently Rob took several other items from the satchel and laid them on her palm.

"His insignia," she whispered, touching the glittering bits of braid, gold and silver lace with a reverent fingertip. Each pin and ribbon, epaulette and fastener had meant food, blankets, fuel for their tiny fireplace. "I sold the last gold button from his tunic to pay for his funeral," she murmured.

"There's one thing more," Rob said, his voice strained as he handed it to her. A thin gold wedding band.

Her vision blurred as she took it, held it up to read again the familiar engraving: "Today and forever—Andrew."

"I didn't want to sell it, I swear! But it's all we had left."

"I know that, Ari! I'm not blaming you. I know you had to be one meal from starvation to have parted with his ring."

Still she felt a need to explain. "I used the money for paints for Don Alvarez's portrait. Later, when I...I had more funds, I tried to buy it back, but the goldsmith said some purchaser, a stranger, had already taken it away, he knew not where."

"Don Alvarez had an agent purchase all Andrew's things, apparently. I suspect he wanted to give them back to you for Drew as a wedding gift but you...didn't fall in with those plans. Only by insisting Andrew's son should rightfully have them did I convince him to sell them back."

Slowly she slid the ring on her finger. "Thank you, Rob. For finding it. For f-forgiving me."

"Damn, there's nothing to forgive!" he exploded. "You should never have been reduced to that! 'Tis all Papa's fault, and your hard-headed father's. Well, I've the money and power now, and I mean to see you have everything that should have been yours from the beginning. Wealth, comfort, your proper place in society—

"Don't even say it!" He held up a hand to forestall her protest. "I care not if you mucked out stables and serviced the whole French army. Andrew would have wanted you restored to society, to the place you abandoned for him. He would have insisted. Can you deny it?''

That being unanswerable, she gave him none.

"I know how you feel," he continued, his tone coaxing now. "How I felt myself at first. As if it were somehow a betrayal of all we'd fought for, a capitulation to Papa, almost, to enjoy being comfortable and wealthy. But such reservations are silly. We are what our character shows us to be—fine clothes, elegant dwellings and deep pockets are not the true measure of a man. Is that not one of the principles over which we fought with Papa?"

"I suppose. But the world is more likely to share your father's opinion of me than yours."

"We'll just have to change it then, won't we? Because I won't give you up, Auriana. I've lost Andrew. I won't lose you as well. You and Drew are my family, and you stay."

A family. A place to belong. How long had it been since she had known either? While she had Andrew the lack had not mattered.

She recalled happy days in Portugal and Spain, Rob talking and laughing, sharing their frugal meals. She thought of bringing Drew permanently into such a community of caring. Rob was offering what despite her deepest love she could not otherwise provide for her son.

---