A Properly Conducted Sham (Most Imprudent Matches #5)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

84 brOOK STREET, LONDON - JUNE 6, 1816

LEE

With a heavy exhale, I turned toward her. My skin crawled, tetchy and exposed. Not only the mangled, misshapen flesh of my forehead, cheek, and jaw, but all of it. Every inch of me.

It had been years, if ever, since I had chosen to show someone my face.

The staff had seen my scars while they were forming. The whole village learned the news before I woke and looked on me with pity, rather than disgust. Everyone else had been accidental viewings, people who caught me unprepared and unaware, like the poor woman last night.

The scars were, perhaps, the least of the horrors that Lady Charlotte should know about me before charging ahead with her ill-conceived scheme. But they were almost certainly the fastest way to convince her of the futility of her plot.

First I received the requisite gasp. That was to be expected. It was followed by a ladylike pressing of her fingers to her mouth, hiding her dropped jaw. Her eyes narrowed on the angry, twisted knot on my cheekbone.

I recognized, vaguely, while staring at the space between us on the settee, my gaze boring into it, that I was shaking. Just a little. I could only hope she would be too distracted by my face to notice. It would not do to be both hideous and cowardly, and only one of those was within my control.

Time had no meaning. This moment would last until the sun ceased to rise. It stretched into an agonizing eternity, while this beautiful woman starred in abject horror at the sight of me. Surely she’d had time to run by now. It had been longer than a second certainly. Was she frozen in terror?

Gathering my courage, I flicked my eyes back up to hers. She was frozen, her hand outstretched between us—as if she planned to—that could not be.

“What happened?” she breathed, a thready vibrato in the throaty tone.

“Does it matter? Surely you do not wish to press forward with this harebrained scheme.”

“It isn’t harebrained.” Her eyes flashed in irritation. Without thought, I felt the corner of my lip rising. It was almost charming, the way she was more offended at the insult to her ill-considered, half-baked seduction than she was frightened at the sight of me.

I raised a skeptical brow above the unmangled eye. Something uncoiled deep in my chest. “Please explain the totality of it then. Because from what I’ve gleaned, you tracked down a man you met once, whose face you had never seen the entirety of. You presented yourself at his home, unannounced, to seduce him into marrying you. And you merely prayed he wouldn’t notice when you popped out a child in—what—seven months? That might be the most ill-conceived plan I’ve ever heard.”

“I was informed that you were returning to the country tomorrow. I had limited time to work with.” Her hand, the one that still hung between us, had unfrozen into a series of defensive gestures.

“And last night was what? Husband hunting? It was the right dress for it, I’ll grant you that.” It had offered her up as a masterpiece for appreciation. But she could hardly require my confirmation to know how effective the buttery cream and gold silk cupping her bust had been.

She pursed her lips to the side and shot me a look I was certain she intended to be fearsome. I bit back another smile before forging ahead, refusing to be distracted by kittenish irritation.

“And the father? The whore’s pipe running his mouth at the gaming tables?”

“Mr. Parker,” she repeated. At my blank stare, she continued. “He is tall—shorter than you, of course—but tall.” She gestured between us, raising her hand to somewhere over her head but below mine, as if that was a useful measure. “With brown hair and eyes?”

“That describes half the ton . You could not have selected a less repugnant one?”

“I beg your pardon?” She was affronted, it was plain on her wide eyes and dropped jaw. It was actually quite amusing, she took offense in the oddest of places.

“They’re all interchangeable, the lazy, degenerate lot of them.”

“I hardly think that is?—”

“And why hasn’t he been made to take responsibility? Where is your father?”

“Well, he doesn’t know!” she snapped. Her whiskey-colored eyes rolled in a brazen display.

“Oh, of course.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as well. “Why would you tell your father? It’s not as though he could offer you some manner of protection. You should throw yourself at the nearest stranger instead.”

“My father already arranged one repugnant match. And that was when my reputation was spotless. I should hate to see what he came up with this time around.”

“You are widowed?”

Her full lips twisted into a sneer. “No, I am still married. That is why I’m desperately throwing myself at you on this settee.” She rolled her eyes skyward again. Impertinent thing. “Of course I’m widowed.”

“How long ago was it? Could the child be his?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that! You are brilliant! I am saved!” The back of her hand found her forehead in a feigned swoon.

I raised a brow again. It was a growing struggle to contain my chuckle, but I did actually wish for an answer.

“He passed seven months ago,” she added, taking my silent demand for a serious response as intended.

I glanced down at her stomach. The fabric of her gown settled around her waist, pulling just enough to hint at the rounding beneath. I wasn’t an expert by any means, but I couldn’t think that she was any more than four months along, likely less.

Dragging my eyes back up her form, they caught on the heaving bosom she had on full display once again.

“Are you quite finished interrogating me now?” A prim defensive note rang in her tone.

“Hardly. And there is no need to be so high in your instep. You’re the one who came to me.”

“You still have not answered my singular question. Do not think I’ve missed the evasion. What happened to you?”

Irritation snapped through me at the reminder. My stomach turned with it.

“I owe you nothing, in point of fact. You should go. Obviously, you won’t be walking down the aisle—not with me. So there is truly no point in maintaining this farce of a conversation.”

“No. Explain yourself.” Contumelious, lovely little creature—she was. Demanding and fetching in equal measure. It was infuriating.

“I am not discussing it. You best entrap the next sorry candidate for matrimony.”

“You are my sole prospect. These scars are old. How long ago was it?”

“Six years,” I replied distractedly before remembering myself. “I do not understand why we’re discussing this. Surely there is someone better out there. Speak to your father. He will find someone who will have you.”

She forged on as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “And you’ve just been hiding yourself away? Ever since?”

“I am not hiding. Half of Surrey knows. It is only that… I don’t like to subject ladies to the sight of me. I avoid town.”

“And what, precisely, is your brilliant plan then? Never return to London except for events where you can wear a mask? And you found my scheme wanting.”

“It has been quite effective for years. And it’s certainly no less poorly considered than yours.”

“You are an earl. Surely you are in need of a wife. And an heir. How do you propose to achieve either if you refuse to be seen by ladies?”

“I hardly see what concern that is of yours.”

“You need a wife. I need a husband.” She said it simply, plainly. As if it were a fundamental truth I needed to accept. The sky was blue. The grass was green. I needed a wife. And she needed a husband.

I needed a wife.

She needed a husband.

She was already with child. We would never have to consummate. I could fulfill my duty without?—

“I would have some conditions.” The words escaped me before I had fully realized the decision I had made. My heart tripped before the words solidified in my mind. But I could not lament them once they were free.

Her eyes widened and she nodded, far too eager.

The idea took shape as the words poured free. “I—we would… I would require that you live with me. At my estate. Until after the babe is born, and for several months after. For plausibility.”

“Of course.” Her nod was persistent, never ceasing, likely sensing victory.

“I would expect discretion in any arrangements you made thereafter. Not this fellow—Porker?”

Her brow furrowed. “You do not expect fidelity?”

“This is not a love match—obviously. I would not expect faithfulness. I cannot expect you to… I expect prudence.”

“Yes, of course.” Her eyes grew brighter, and her nods surer.

“I will put off my return to the country for a few days. Take some time. Consider your situation. Let me know your decision, and I will approach your father with an offer.”

“I do not require my father’s permission.”

“I will approach your father.” I brokered no argument with my tone. This prospective marriage may be a sham, but it would be a properly conducted sham. “Are there any conditions, things you wish to add?”

“None that I can name at present. This did not go precisely the way I planned.” Her cheeks had taken on a becoming flush, barely visible in the dark.

For perhaps the first time in years, I wished a room was brighter. I wished to see...

I had to clear my throat before beginning. “No, I’d imagine not. Take a few days, a week. I can procure a special license without trouble.”

“I-I do not know what to say. I am half worried that anything I say will have you revoking your offer.”

Her fear was not unfounded. Even now, I could not believe I had rendered the proposal. It was a wretched, hasty, reckless, slapdash notion.

“You’re not wrong.”

Her eyes widened for a moment before her dark lashes fluttered. She straightened and leaned back, stealing the distractingly delightful curve of her bosom.

“I suppose I should be off then?” She asked, nodding seemingly to herself. She rose and thrust her hand before me expectantly. I stared at it a long moment before comprehension dawned and I took it. My hand dwarfed hers while we shook on our absurd little—potential—agreement.

“Good evening, Lord Champaign.”

“Good evening, Lady Charlotte,” I said. Escorting her over to the door. I pulled it open only for Brigsby to half fall into the room.

Rather than the screech the display deserved, Lady Charlotte chuckled softly and strode around him, then down the hall where Jack awaited to open the door properly.

Good lad, that one. Much more agreeable than nosey valets.

She stepped out into the late-evening setting sun, Jack trailing to help her into the waiting carriage.

“So, that was a gently bred young lady? I do not recall them being quite so… pragmatic,” Brigsby commented with a smug smile, all but confessing to eavesdropping. I merely cuffed him over the ear in response to such impertinence.

“She may be my wife. Have a care how you speak of her.” Even as I delivered the warning, my stomach churned uneasily at the thought. No man in the world was less deserving of a wife—well, perhaps the wretched Mr. Parker. But surely no other man.

“Yes, my lord ,” Brigsby added snidely. “Shall I have directions sent to begin preparing the countess’s chambers at Bennet Hall?”

“Not just yet,” I replied, then gnawed on my lower lip until the copper tang of blood filled my mouth.

What had I done?