Privacy Policy

A False Proposal
by Pamela Mingle

Copyright © 2016 by Pamela Mingle. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
 

Chapter One

London, April 1812

Cass Linford stifled a yawn and tried to concentrate on her sister’s French translation. “No, dearest, this should be nous allons, not nous allez.” She sent Pippa a sympathetic look, fully expecting an outburst. It was late afternoon, and she knew well enough the child’s limits. At this time of day, her own were sorely tested.

Pippa sighed and formed her mouth into a pout. “May I be done for today?”

Cass had to clamp her lips together to keep from laughing. “You may.”

“Thank the lord,” their Cousin Louisa said. “Philippa, please ring for tea.”

Freed from the odious task of conjugating French verbs, the young girl spun over to the bell rope and tugged it. “Sur le pont, d’Avignon, l’ony danse, l’ony danse…”

Despite hating her French lessons, Pippa seemed to love singing the old song about the bridge over the Rhone River. Cass had played and sung it for her, hoping to pique her interest in the language and culture, but it had only served to pique her own. Although she knew it was probably nothing more than a fool’s dream, Cass nevertheless held close her hope of traveling to France, to Paris and Avignon. Anywhere in France would do. After the war was over, if it ever was.

But she knew it was only a dream. At age two and twenty, Cass was firmly anchored in Berkeley Square, seeing to Philippa’s education. Well, there were worse places one could be.

Willis appeared in the doorway, and Cousin Louisa asked him to order tea. “Tea and some of those marvelous little raspberry pastries of Cook’s. Sandwiches, too, if you please.”

Cass sneaked a glance at her cousin and judged Louisa could do without quite so many pastries and sandwiches. Then, feeling guilty, she banished the thought. What her cousin ate was her own business, even if she was beginning to look a little portly.

After Willis departed, Cass heard the front door burst open, accompanied by voices. She identified one as belonging to her brother, Jack. But there was a second voice, one she didn’t immediately recognize. Botheration! She was tired and not in the mood for company.

Philippa was still in motion when Jack stepped over the threshold, another gentleman in his wake. Taking no notice of where her whirling carried her, and still singing, she spun right into her older brother, who leaned down and hoisted her up into the air.

“Mind where you’re going, scamp!” he said fondly, kissing her cheek before setting her down. She swayed, and the other man grabbed hold of her in time to prevent her from falling. At that moment, Cass had a clear view of him. With a sharp intake of breath, she recognized Adam Grey, a longtime friend of her brother. Of her. An older and more mature-looking Adam, to be sure, but it was unmistakably he. Suddenly, everything seemed out of balance.

She had not seen Adam in four years. Not since the evening of the Sheffield ball, during her first season. She would never forget it. Cass could, without any difficulty at all, conjure up a memory of how he’d looked that night, so handsome in black and white evening clothes. His slow, appreciative grin when he’d seen her in her finery, as if she’d made his heart beat a little faster. It was the first time he had looked at her in quite that way. She had idolized him since their childhood, when they’d spent summers together on their neighboring estates. But in the middle of the ball, she had wandered down a darkened hallway by mistake and came upon him in the act of seducing a young lady. Fondling her breasts, to be precise. Mortified, Cass had been rooted to the spot. Adam had harshly ordered her to go back from wherever she’d come and never speak of this to anyone. Sadly, she had concluded that he must be a rake. Not a man to admire. Her girlish dreams had died that night.

“Look who I found at White’s!” Jack said, as if they should all be overcome with joy. “I insisted he come home with me.” He turned to his guest. “You remember my cousin, Miss Ashman?”

Adam entered the room and walked directly to Louisa. “Your servant, ma’am.” He bowed and took her proffered hand.

“Adam! Young man, you have kept yourself from our company for far too long. Are you in town to stay?”

Just like her cousin to scold him as though he were still a mischievous schoolboy. At times, Cass wished she could reach into heaven and have a little chat with her father. She’d ask what had possessed him to arrange for his humorless, pedantic relation to look after them.

“At least through the season. I have business in town.” His reply was somber, bordering on curt.

Cass had been standing when he’d entered the room, and remained so. Now he stepped toward her and, as good manners dictated, she held out her hand.

He grasped it and made a graceful bow, and she curtsied.

“Miss Linford,” he said, his voice edged with…what? Hesitancy? Unease?

“Mr. Grey. We did not know you were in London. How nice to see you again.” Her face felt as if it might crack and shatter into little pieces, right there on the drawing room floor. Although Cass couldn’t do more than glance quickly at him, she judged him to be as fashionably dressed as ever, in a perfectly fitted coat of blue superfine and doeskin pantaloons. His shoulders had broadened, probably from the rigors of army life. His face no longer seemed as carefree as it once had. Something around his eyes, and his mouth, too, gave it away. But he was every bit as handsome as she remembered, his unusual blue-gray eyes as striking as ever.

Cass blinked, recovering her poise before she was caught staring. “Please, stay and drink tea with us, sir.”

He nodded and flashed a brief smile. “Thank you. I will.”

…

Adam had spied Cassie as soon as he’d entered the room, and with remarkable clarity, a memory of the last time he’d seen her popped into his mind. A ball, and his tawdry liaison in the passage. Cass had caught him in the middle of it. Remembering the moment, the shock on her face, made him cringe. He’d meant to apologize, but not long after that night he’d purchased his commission and headed off to war. He hadn’t seen Cass and Jack again. So much time had passed; he hadn’t thought of what had happened at the ball in years. Now he remembered, and all too vividly. Did she?

What an ass he’d been in his rebellious youth, acting out his hatred for his father in whatever way seemed the most outrageous. Now it was coming back to haunt him. He could only hope Cass had forgotten the incident. How he wished he had not agreed to stay for tea, but it was too late to change his mind. He would behave as a gentleman ought, make polite conversation, and hope to never see any of them again, except for Jack, of course.

“Please, do be seated,” Miss Ashman said. “And tell us what you have been up to all these years.” After a slight hesitation, she said, “You were in the Peninsula, I believe, were you not?”

“No, ma’am. I was at Walcheren, in the Netherlands.” He never knew how to elaborate on that, what words best summed up such a horrific experience. The swamps, the mosquitoes, the raging fevers that had swept through the regiments. So he said nothing more. Most people had already forgotten about it, if they’d ever heard of it to begin with.

“Many died there from fevers, I believe,” Cass said.

Taken aback, his eyes locked on hers and found compassion and understanding there. Cassie had always taken an interest in the world, far beyond the scope of other young girls, though she was no longer young.

The butler carried in the tea service, along with plates laden with sandwiches and pastries. “Thank you, Willis,” Cass said. “Philippa will return to the nursery now.”

“But I want to stay,” the child protested. “I haven’t had my tea.”

“I know you do, dearest, but this is an adult conversation and you must leave. Willis will bring your tea. Say goodbye to our guest.”

Philippa looked as though she might put up a fuss, but when Adam stood, bowed, and gallantly kissed her hand, she turned into a cooing ingénue.

“Good day, sir,” she said, smiling and blushing.

Adam stared. For a moment, she looked exactly like Cass had at that age. “Good day, Miss Philippa. Lovely to make your acquaintance.” Willis whisked her out of the room before she had time to reconsider her options.

“How do you take your tea, Mr. Grey?” Cass asked.

“Just milk, please.” When she passed him the cup, the slight tremor in her hand was barely noticeable. Adam briefly studied her face, which had matured over the years, of course. Her features were delicate, and she still boasted creamy skin and luxuriant hair. When the light caught it a certain way, it was shot with coppery streaks. She averted her eyes and continued her serving duties, as if looking directly at him would be uncomfortable for her.

Miss Ashman’s voice broke in. “What was it like there…at Walcheren? Did you know there was a play about it, performed for the Prince Regent? It was very popular with the public.”

Lord, the woman was persistent. The play…when he’d first heard of it, he’d wanted to kill the insensitive ass responsible and be the first to drive a nail in his coffin. He couldn’t say that to Jack’s relation, but he had to say something to stop the questions. “Thousands of men died of fevers and dysentery. Chaos, confusion, fear, and more mosquitoes than you’ll ever see in England. For some reason known only to God, I never caught the sickness. I was sent into battle and quickly wounded.”

Miss Ashman blanched, and Adam felt a stab of guilt.

“You were wounded?” Cass said. “We didn’t know.”

“I did,” Jack said. “I visited his mother on several occasions while Adam was fighting the French, and she told me.”

Cass seemed flustered. “Why didn’t you tell me? Too dreadful for a lady’s delicate sensibilities?”

Jack shrugged. “Sorry. I thought it might upset you.”

Their cousin rose, and the men got to their feet. “I must confer with Cook about dinner.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you again, ma’am.” Adam said.

“Will you be at the Mainwaring ball tomorrow night?”

Adam pictured the invitation propped on the mantel in his library. He hadn’t responded. “Possibly.” Non-committal. That was best.

After her cousin left the room, Cass said, “Have you made a successful recovery from your injuries, Mr. Grey?”

It irritated Adam that she was being so formal with him, so he made a point of staring until she dropped her eyes. “I have. I took some shrapnel in the leg—the calf muscle, to be precise—and I limp now and then. But no more pain. I was lucky.”

“It hardly seems lucky to have sustained such an injury,” she said, looking at him openly for the first time. Cassie’s eyes—her best feature, without a doubt—shone with sympathy.

“If you’d been there and seen all the men who died from the fevers, you wouldn’t say that. After I was shot, I sold my commission and got out. Neither the fever nor the metal in my leg killed me.”

She nodded her understanding. “What have you been doing since Walcheren?”

“Traveling. On the continent, mostly. Continuing my education, if you will.”

Jack chimed in. “What will you do now that you’re home? Any plans?”

“I’m thinking about a seat in Commons,” he said. From the stunned look on Cass’s face, Adam wished he’d been evasive.

“You? Involved in politics?”

Adam couldn’t help it. He bristled. “Why is that so unbelievable?”

“I didn’t think your interests lay in that direction.”

“No? You still think me the callow youth you knew when we were growing up?” Damn it. He couldn’t keep the vexation from his voice.

“Oh, no,” Cassie said. “I adored that boy. I was thinking more of the young man I remember from the year I made my come-out.” Her look bordered on arch, and he was pretty sure he’d caught a flash of amusement in her eyes.

Adam’s jaw dropped. She hadn’t forgotten! He couldn’t believe she had the cheek to mention it, and it made him defensive. “I’m not that man anymore,” he said, noting the sparkle in her eye. “Did you think I would not have changed in four years?” The sparkle vanished. Nevertheless, he had the distinct feeling she was thrilled she’d stuck him with that particular barb. Instead of graciously ceding the moment to her, he answered the barb with one of his own.

“I’m shocked to find you as yet unmarried, Cass.”

“Oh, I’m securely on the shelf, Mr. Grey.”

She didn’t seem ashamed or embarrassed, and Adam realized he was relieved. As soon as he’d spoken those words, he’d wanted to snatch them back. “And why is that? I can’t believe you’ve had no offers.”

Jack, who’d said little during the exchange between his friend and sister, now spoke up. “Cass was engaged at one time. I suppose you didn’t hear.”

He raised a brow, appealing to Jack. But Cass answered.

“My engagement is none of your affair, Ad—Mr. Grey.” She glared at her brother, who bit back whatever he’d been about to say. Damn. Adam would have liked to know why, if she’d been engaged, she was not wed. It should be easy enough to find out. That kind of story made irresistible fodder for the gossips in the ton, including his own mother.

“You are not married, but were once engaged. Did he cry off?”

Cass’s eyes darkened at the direct hit. “The reason I am not married is personal and private. Not to be discussed outside the family.” She looked directly at Adam, her gaze frank and appraising. “Since women are subject to their husband’s whims, why should I want one, anyway?”

“Apparently you did at one time. But indeed, marriage may not suit you. Most men don’t want a wife who doesn’t know her place and can’t keep her tongue.”

Cass’s face turned ashen. She opened her mouth and started to speak, but then lowered her gaze and hastily rose, cutting off her own words. Dropping a curtsy, she smiled, and, all sweetness, said, “Good day, Mr. Grey. Do visit us again sometime.” And then she rushed from the room.

Adam had gotten the last word. So why did he feel like the worst kind of rogue?