A Perfectly Scandalous Proposal (Redeemable Rogues Book 6) Read online

  Very simply, if Margaret should fail to wed before midnight on her twenty-fifth birthday, every last farthing she owned would be surrendered to her uncle. Everything. Not only the inheritable estates—which had already been forfeit—but everything.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it; it was the fact that one way or the other, she would lose her freedom as well. So, then, her choice, it seemed, was to lose some of it now to a husband she no more wanted than she wanted chin hairs, or later, to an uncle who would take nearly as much joy in caging her as her own father had. Given such a straight comer, there was no choice to be made... none at all. At the stroke of midnight precisely two weeks hence, for better or worse, Margaret would, indeed, be wed—but under her own conditions.

  And yet... She worried her lip as she reconsidered, for she was far from finding a suitable candidate. She shouldn’t have put off the search so long. She had done so, knowing there were plenty of greedy souls out there, but time was growing short, and it simply didn’t seem fair that if a man chose to, he could live his life as he saw fit, answering to no one but himself, while a woman had few respectable options.

  Her brow furrowing, she lifted up the quill, once again setting it to paper, not daring to consider the true reason she was writing. And nevertheless determined, she finished drafting the letter to their old gardener, hoping that in detailing her abominable situation to her sweet old friend, some answers might be brought to light.

  … forgive me, dearest sir. It is not my intention to burden you. At times like this, like a mathematical equation, it simply helps me to see a problem drawn out upon paper. The solution should present itself shortly, no doubt. And I’ve an agent working on the matter as well. Never fear.

  Delicately tapping out a period at the end of her sentence, Margaret reached up to dip the quill, and her gaze was caught by some movement out on the lawn.

  Behind a distant oak she spied two figures embracing. Lovers. Modesty should have compelled her to turn away, but curiosity held her fast. It was difficult to say at such a great distance, but she thought it might be Robbie, the new stable boy, and perhaps Bethany, the cook’s daughter.

  Bethany ducked beneath and away from Robbie’s embrace, hiding herself behind a tree. The two of them circled that tree as Margaret watched, two lovers at play and her heart squeezed a bit. She’d never been one to woolgather all that much, and she prided herself on her pragmatism, but at this very instant, she couldn’t help but feel a bit wistful over all that could have been and now would never be—a direct result of her circumstances, no doubt, for it had been a long, long time since she’d daydreamed of stolen kisses... or hiding behind rose bushes with mischievous little boys.

  Glancing down at the pen in hand, she chastised herself for a fool. Such things were better not even considered at this late date. It was much too late for such girlish fancies, and she wouldn’t be marrying for love, anyhow. Silly chit, she chided herself—Did she know anyone who’d ever married for love? Certainly not her mother or father.

  No, no, no… such musings were best left for giggling young girls—something she was no longer.

  Alas, but once...

  Her memories drifted to an age when she might have leapt from her bed every single morning, eager to be away and discover all the mysteries the day should hold... eager to share every jewel of discovery with a sweet boy with whom she’d fancied herself in love. Gabe. Gabe Smith. The gardener’s son—a black-haired child with an adorably wicked face and eyes that twinkled with life and mirth.

  What a silly little twit she’d been. Waving the memory away, she peered down at her meticulous script. Dare she even ask after Gabe now? Even considering such a thing, something like butterfly wings fluttered in her breast. But it wouldn’t be the first time, and such inquiries had never served her. Every time she’d ever asked about Gabe, George’s response was always a simple, “He is well, thank you.” And Gabe himself never sent regards.

  Margaret sighed, her gaze returning to the window, to the sprawling lawns beyond the leaded glass. The faint, but distant ring of laughter reached her ears... laughter that brought a sting to her eyes.

  So much for promises.

  Blinking away the threat of tears, Margaret forced her gaze away from the window, blaming the glare for her watery eyes, and, then, shaking herself free of such pointless reverie, she penned a brief closing to her letter, signed her name, and then sprinkled a bit of sand to set the ink, then set the letter aside. There was simply no time to waste with such frivolity, when she still needed to pen the letter to her agent.

  She trusted Mr. Goodman well enough to manage the inquiries and initial interviews. He was already aware of what she expected of a suitor; she needed only to draw out a list of her requirements—first and foremost, he needed to be a commoner. If her father had ever imagined for one instant that Margaret would marry some distinguished bore, he’d been sorely mistaken. After all her years of dealing with pompous men of every age—popinjays who wanted nothing more from her than quick, sweet smiles and dutiful silence, Margaret intended to marry whomever she damned well pleased. Call it revenge, if you like, call it defiance, but there it was. Her father’s will hadn’t specified who she must wed, only that she must, and she fully intended to have the final say in this matter.

  Never again would any man manipulate her life. Not if Margaret could help it. She only hoped her father would turn in his grave over what she was about to do, and the thought of that made her giggle beneath her breath.

  Resolved, she opened a drawer and drew out another sheet of paper. Arranging it before her on the desk, precisely so, she dipped the quill into the inkwell, and began a very precise letter of instruction to her agent, after which began to list her requirements…

  He mustn’t be too attractive—only marginally so.

  She didn’t wish to be tempted, or distracted.

  He mustn’t have gambling addictions.

  He mustn’t expect to share her private quarters.

  He mustn’t expect children.

  He mustn’t expect more than £4,000 per year.

  He could, indeed, have a mistress after a proper period, if he simply must, but only if he could be discreet.

  In the end, her list was quite extensive, but fair, with more than one hundred and fifty “concerns.”

  Yes, that was a much better word than “requirements.” The last thing she ever wished to do was to trap a man in misery. But, then again, the last thing Margaret ever meant to do was fall in love. Love was the invention of innocents—not a reality of the world.

  Chapter 2

  London, June 15

  Evidently, one could take the man from the country, though one could never take the country out of the man.

  The London apartment was furnished quite modestly, with rugged pieces that served to emphasize Gabriel’s meager beginnings. He made no apologies for his provinciality. It was part of who he was. No matter the formality of his education, he was still a wee boy in ragged breeches, and he would go to his grave with imagined holes in the soles of his shoes. It annoyed him to no end to consider the prospects available to a man of means—most of them pea-brained twits, who were more concerned with putting their breasts on display than they were about revealing just a wee bit of sexy wit. Sighing, he struck a match, sinking back into his favorite chair as it flared. He lit the cheroot and sucked the smoke into the back of his throat as he surveyed the familiar room—terrible habit he’d picked up. He ought to put it aside as swiftly as the Earl of Aberdeen seemed to put aside his lovers. But then, as had already been established; Gabriel couldn’t blame the man, as there was only one girl in all his life who hadn’t fantastically bored him, and she was long gone from his life—and no doubt he’d embellished that memory as well.

  As for the decor of his office… his father had taken up woodworking after retiring from his position with the Duke of Blackwood, as London hardly offered any occasion to “get the dirt under one’s nails.” A simple wooden r
ocker sat beside his hearth, evidence of his father’s labors. Draped over that chair was a plush quilt his mother had lovingly stitched for him years ago, “for those cold, cold nights at school.”

  It was only the two of them now, he and his Da, as his mother had passed away some years ago. His siblings were scattered to the winds—a sister in Boston, another in New York; a brother in India and another one in Scotland. None were flush enough to care for their father, so the task fell to Gabriel, and it suited him fine.

  However, he’d thought a move from the country would prove to be beneficial. But damned if his old man wasn’t behaving strangely of late. All day long, he’d been coming into the room at intervals as though he had something to say, and then departing again, shaking his head like an absent-minded fool—something his wily old pop was not. At sixty-eight, his Da was as shrewd as they came, and Gabriel supposed he must, indeed, have something to say, though his father had never had much difficulty in speaking his mind.

  It wasn’t long before he peeped into the room again, and this time he entered carrying a small box. “Busy, son?”

  Gabriel eyed his father curiously. It didn’t take a mastermind to deduce he was not. “No,” he answered anyway.

  “Good. Very good.” His father approached the desk with his strange box, and as Gabriel watched him, he thought for the first time ever that his father appeared old. His mother’s death had aged him, surely, but somehow, in the space of these past few days, he seemed... so wizened.

  He didn’t speak, nor did Gabriel, as he watched as his father place the small carton on the desk beside him. Concern for his father’s health kept Gabriel’s attention from the box for the moment.

  He sat up, withdrawing the cheroot from between his teeth. It was only then that he noticed the folded parchment clutched in his father’s fist, and his gaze settled on that. Somehow, he understood that its contents must be the source of his father’s agitation.

  After a moment, his father pushed the parchment across Gabriel’s desk, then sat in a facing chair.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  Setting the cheroot down in an ashtray, Gabriel did as his father requested, lifting it up and unfolding the parchment carefully. The date noted was only five days past, the scribble unfamiliar. He started to turn the paper over to locate a signature, but his father shot up from his chair and prevented him with a hand. “Read it, Gabriel,” he said sternly.

  Gabriel’s brows drew together as he turned the paper back over to begin.

  “Dearest Mr. Smith,” he began aloud. “I realize it has been some time since our previous correspondence…”

  He lapsed into silence as he continued, the tone of the letter becoming entirely too familiar.

  I am certain I don’t know why I am writing to you with this dilemma, dear sir, but you have ever been so inclined to listen to my ravings. Do you remember all those hours I rambled away, whilst you tended my father’s roses? I must have worn your patience thin, and yet you listened ever so mindfully, imparting now and again such wonderful jewels of wisdom. Did I ever thank you properly?

  Brows furrowed, Gabriel peered up from the letter, eyeing his father with some bewilderment. He wasn’t certain he wished to continue, but curiosity got the better of him and he continued reading, his heartbeat quickening.

  It seems, once again, I must find myself rambling, albeit on paper—though I do hope you’ll bear with me. Dear me, how to begin... From the beginning, I suppose. By the time you read this I shall most likely be wed—not that I wish to, mind you, but it seems I’ve no choice. Already, I have written my agent with the necessary terms, and he is conducting a rather unconventional search on my behalf—for a husband, you see...

  The letter expounded, explaining rather directly the terms of her father’s preposterous will. She expressed with some vehemence, her distaste for the proviso, and her reluctance to comply. And yet, her tone was, in fact, resigned.

  Gabriel peered up once more, uncertain how it was that he was supposed to react to the letter’s disclosure—or to his father’s apparently well-kept secret. “You’ve corresponded with her before?”

  His father nodded, indicating the carton at his side. Half-heartedly, Gabriel peered into the box, finding the answer to his question. It was filled to the brim with old letters. And though his brain went suddenly numb, his hand automatically reached into the carton, withdrawing a letter... addressed to his father... from Lady Margaret Willingham—and then another. And another.

  He cast an unsettled glance at his father as he removed a fistful of papers from the storage container.

  Through all these years, he’d never dared seek Maggie out—not even for a fleeting glimpse—not since the day he’d left Blackwood at her father’s demand. He’d been handsomely compensated for his departure—his father, as well. In fact, Gabriel had been afforded an education the likes of which no lad of his station might ever have acquired. And for his part, his father had been given a substantial enough pension so that he, too, might enjoy the last of his days without working his fingers to nubs. And for all this, Gabriel might have been grateful, but instead he’d chosen anger as his balm and he’d wallowed in it day by day, year after year.

  All this while… his father had been corresponding with her.

  In Gabriel’s youthful pride, he’d vowed to eradicate Maggie from his memory, and to vindicate himself to the world. And so, he’d committed his years to furthering his assets and his influence, resolving to show Blackwood that he could make money enough to provide for any man’s daughter. But somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten his raison d’ê·tre. Growing his business and his money had become objectives unto themselves, and he’d stepped on backs aplenty to gain whatever he’d desired. Still, he’d never truly forgotten her—nor his anger. That much was painfully clear to him as he stared at the elegant scribble of her pen.

  “She spent a great deal of time after you left reading in the rose arbor,” his father explained. “I got to know her well.”

  Gabriel couldn’t be certain what he was feeling. And yet there was no denying the churning in his gut, or the anger he suddenly felt toward his father for keeping Margaret’s letters from him. “You never said.” His tone was clipped and cool, restrained.

  It was a long, long moment before his father seemed able to find his own voice. “I thought it best, son. He gave us so much money to leave her be. He dinna even want me to be near her, and, as you know, he asked me to leave, as well. Your ma and I decided it was best to hide her letters.”

  Gabriel pursed his lips, though what good would it do him to be angry now? What was done was done. The time to make things right with Margaret had long since passed. Even so, he felt a sense of emptiness as he reached into the box, his eyes scanning the addresses. There were so many letters.

  “You did nothing wrong, Da. These letters are all addressed to you, not me. What concern are any of these to me.”

  Once again, his father shrugged. “Before you come to any conclusions, I think you should read them, son,” he said. “All of them.”

  Gabriel wanted to pick the carton up and push it across the desk, but he suddenly did need to read them. Some part of him regretted all this time never knowing how she’d fared, never having asked, never daring to insinuate himself upon her life. He’d gone through his years shoving Margaret’s image from his memory, trying not to think of her—mostly because every time he did so, he saw her face as it was the day he’d left her at the foot of their favorite hill—and felt anger anew that he’d been judged and found unfit for the princess of Blackwood. They’d been no more than children... but Gabriel had fancied himself in love with the lass, and none of the proper lovers he’d known since—even in their maturity—had ever come close to filling the void Margaret left. And yet… so much time had passed… She probably couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, and he wasn’t all that certain he would recognize her… except he could… he’d kept track of her comings and goi
ngs… from a distance.

  He began to read, commencing with the letter he held in his hand, and found that, in the most recent, written within the past two years, there was no mention of Gabriel, at all.

  But, he pulled out a few more and found one that had been written very soon after his departure. The entire letter was an inquiry of him: How did he fare at school? Did he ever ask about her? Did he like his new friends? Had anyone thought to send him a blanket? Because in winter one could never have enough blankets. He glanced up, his gaze drawn toward the rocker, to the blanket his mother had sent him that first winter after he’d gone to school. His eyes stung.

  His father seemed to understand what he was thinking. “Your mother wept for weeks after you left. When Margaret suggested sending the blanket, she commenced to stitching it at once, and she and your sisters worked night and day to complete it. It was a very good idea.”

  Gabriel turned to look into his father’s eyes. They were weary and red-rimmed over the memory he’d shared, but full of affection. “I’ve never said this to you, Gabe. Perhaps I’ll never have the chance to say it again... I love you, son. Anything we did, we did because we thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “I know, Da,” Gabriel said, as he reached into the box again, eager to know more. He searched for and found a few more written about the same time: more of the same page-long inquiries.

  He was vaguely aware that his father rose from the chair. “I realize it’s been a long time, son, but read them all, and I think you’ll know what to do,” he said. “In the end, a man must do what he must, son. Ye ken?”