Page 87 of The Ladies Least Likely

He was surprised he’d asked her so boldly.

His wits had scattered, or perhaps urgency had pressed him to it.

There was no hope of a future for them if she was involved in the shady things Thorkelson suggested.

A barrister marry a forger? That certainly wouldn’t help his career.

No matter how lovely her shape, or how entrancing her eyes as she flashed him a look of scorn.

“Perhaps you ought to have asked me that before you proposed marriage. Not that I can recall your genuinely proposing to me.”

“Amaranthe Illingworth.” He strode forward and captured one of the slender hands tapping an impatient beat on her elbow. He was shocked by how desperately he wanted to touch her, and what happened to him when he did.

Her index finger bore streaks of red paint and black ink stained her fingertips. He raised those fingers to his lips and kissed them. Her skin was cool and smooth, save for one callus on her finger from holding a quill.

“What would you say,” he asked, his voice deep and rough, “did I give you a proper proposal?”

His blood beat in his ears, in his chest. He knew how it looked to her: someone had mentioned to him he would advance if he married, and he had lit on her as the first woman available. What woman would be flattered by such circumstance?

He didn’t know how to explain. He had labored for months and years, wondering what held him back in the Middle Temple when all about him men who had entered with and after him were called, one after another.

Before Oliver mentioned marriage, he had never considered that the cheerfully careless reputation he cultivated, with his companions, with his habits, with his manner of dress, made him agreeable in fashionable drawing rooms but not a reliable choice for the bar.

And it was equally clear, once marriage entered his mind, that Amaranthe Illingworth was the only woman who would possibly suit him.

He waited, his breath stalled in his lungs.

He could read the emotions playing over her face, so attuned was he to her look and manner.

Whatever occurred to her first was in his favor; her lips parted and curved softly upward.

His chest swelled with air. But then the objections surfaced, and the soft look disappeared.

She sucked in a long breath, the lines about her eyes tightening.

He braced himself for the blow, though she dealt it gently. “No.”

“There’s a bastard in the Percy family,” he said, as if that might possibly persuade her.

“What?” Her eyes flared with an ageless human interest in gossip. “I did not know.”

Mal nodded. “A lad. I think he’s about Ned’s age. They smuggled the mother away to give birth in France, as the great ones do. He’s at school somewhere. I heard his name is James Louis or something fancy.”

“I still?—”

“So it’s not different,” he said. “You’re not marrying a duke. You’d marry a duke’s bastard. I could do nothing to elevate you. I should have to work to support us, and very likely you might have to work too. It’s the same world, Amaranthe. Not as different as you say.”

He’d slipped and used her name, but she didn’t scold.

In fact she didn’t say anything for a long while, simply gazed at his face, searching out his every feature, looking long in his eyes.

Mal felt his every past peccadillo, lie, and foolish act lay there for her discovery.

Amaranthe Illingworth had no foolish acts in her history, but he wished she did. It could bind them together.

“Let me come with you to Cornwall,” he said, stepping closer and placing her hand on his chest. Her fingers trembled.

“Joseph is taking Miss Pettigrew to Gloucestershire. He told me today she consented. I shall be your escort to Cornwall, and I shall advise your cousin of certain precedents that make it unwise for him to continue in possession of a book that you fairly purchased and paid for. You will ask why I have interested myself in your affairs, and I will answer that I owe you a great boon for the service you did for me. The children approve.”

“Who will watch over them while we are away?” She was weakening. The sweep of her long, thick lashes captivated him as she gazed into his eyes, and the violet rim around her iris stood out vividly.

“The excellent staff you have provided. Eyde said she could remain as housekeeper, now that Millie’s nursemaid is back.

Mrs. Blackthorn says they are training Mrs. Wheatley as both cook and housekeeper until someone can be found.

Between them Ralph and Davey have things well in hand, and the children do not object to a short holiday from their lessons. ”

“You have arranged much without consulting me,” she murmured.

“In hopes of making things easier on you.” He laid his fingers over hers. The press of her hand against the thick fabric of his coat sent warmth coursing through his body.

“It could be a holiday for you as well. And I shall show you what you stand to gain by marrying me.”

Those delectable eyelashes lowered as she frowned. “I won’t—I shouldn’t—” Her delicate throat pulsed as she swallowed, and he wanted to kiss the blush that rose to her cheeks. “Don’t hope for anything,” she warned him.

“Lovely Amaranthe. Flower unfading.” It wasn’t like him to be poetical, but her capitulation left him giddy. “I hope for everything .”

He bent his head, but waited. Her eyelashes lowered further still, and that lovely blush lingered on her cheeks, but she didn’t move to bring her lips to his.

He wouldn’t press himself upon her. Instead he brushed his mouth against her cheek, slowly, and a tremor ran through her.

His blood heated and he wanted to snake an arm about her and crush her to him.

His body was eager to replay that stolen embrace in the square.

But it was enough that she trembled, that her blush deepened, that she shivered when his breath drifted over her ear, fanning the tendrils of hair curling there.

She wasn’t unmoved. She was resisting, but she wasn’t unmoved. He would wait. In fact, he looked forward to it.

With deliberate slowness he dragged his lips across the silken skin of her other cheek and then withdrew, releasing her hand as he stepped away. She swayed toward him, her expression dazed, and he smiled.

“Send word to Hunsdon House as to when we will depart,” he said. “The children shall expect to give you a farewell dinner. I shall make all the arrangements.” He gave her a courteous bow, gentleman to lady. “Goodbye for now, Amaranthe.”

“Goodbye,” she said faintly, and he was certain her eyes followed him out the door.

Mal placed his hat firmly atop his head and walked George Court with a jaunty step. He hadn’t ever set out to seduce a woman before, with calculation and cunning, with measured slowness, and with so much at stake on winning the prize. But his problem-solving mind looked forward to the task.

She might find any number of reasons they would not match, but he would remind her of the ways they did.

An important point had already been established.

She was as affected by his nearness as he was by hers.

He already guessed her to be the type of woman who did not yearn lightly or in fantasy.

For her, regard and care were the foundations for passion, and the same was true for him; he only desired where he admired.

He needed no other proof that he had made the right decision to choose her, as sudden and unwarranted as the choice might seem.

As long as she wasn’t a thief or a forger, Amaranthe Illingworth would make him a splendid wife.