Her Wicked Proposal

Chapter 1 League Rule Number 5: A man’s best lover is a spirited lady, but one should treat spirited ladies the way one would a wild horse, with a firm hold and gentle voice. Excerpt from The Quizzing Glass Gazette, April 21, 1821, The Lady Society Column: Lady Society is in mourning. The dangerous rakehell Viscount Sheridan has been rendered blind. She cannot help but miss those dark brown eyes that scorched more than one innocent young lady’s heart as he watched them from the shadows of a ballroom. Oh, my dear Viscount Sheridan, won’t you come out into society again? Lady Society is issuing you a challenge. Do not hide from her, or else she will unearth those secrets you hold most dear. Perchance there is a lady who might yet tempt your sightless eyes and convince you to live again. Would you not like a woman once more to warm your bed? A woman to tame your wicked heart? London, April 1821 Using his silver lion’s head cane, Cedric, Viscount Sheridan, rapped it harshly against the cobblestones of the winding path in his London townhouse garden as he tried to navigate his way to the fountain. All around him the world was a winter gray. Yet his other senses assured him it was spring. Sunlight warmed his face and arms where he’d rolled up his sleeves. A flower-scented breeze tickled his nose and tousled his hair. Cedric took seven measured steps, counting them in his head. Seven steps to the center of the garden, then five steps to… He caught the tip of his boot on a raised stone, stumbled and collided with the ground. He stifled a cry as stones bit into his palms and the bones of his knees cracked. Panting, every muscle tensed, he lay on the ground for a long moment, fighting off the waves of shame and the childish urge to whimper with the pain. His eyesight hadn’t been the only thing he’d lost. It seemed sense and balance had abandoned him as well. Finally he picked himself up, patted the ground around himself to find his cane and rose unsteadily to his feet. He was a grown man of two and thirty—he could and would bear this pain as any well-bred gentleman was expected to. It was a small mercy none of his servants were around to witness this moment of weakness. Once more. Five steps to the fountain, he reminded himself, and taking care to lift his feet higher, he avoided any more raised stones. He should know this path by now, as he had walked it a hundred times. Yet he still couldn’t see it as clearly in his head as he knew he should. When the tip of his cane rapped lightly on the stone fountain’s base, he bent over and reached out to find the ledge and, with a great sigh of relief, sat down. Every hour of every day, from the moment he rose for the day until he retired to bed, he lived in constant fear of toppling precious family heirlooms, embarrassing himself in front of his friends or family, or worse, causing further damage to his body. It was a cruel twist of fate to have once been a virile man afraid of nothing, and reduced to someone who woke each morning only to remember he was forever trapped in darkness. Too often in the last few weeks, he’d sat at his desk, head buried in his hands, the heels of his palms pressed deep into his eyes as he tried to bring back the vision he desperately needed. His despair was too strong, and he couldn’t summon the will to care. Thank God for this garden. Peace, quiet, no one to see him in this state. Moments like this were a blessing. There were no social callers, no awkward visits from people who didn’t understand the trials of being blind. Out in his garden, he could exist without worries, without anxiety. The fresh air, warm sun and the sounds of birds and insects made him feel alive again, as much as a broken man could. The temptation to remain outside forever was a strong one, but his hands burned from being scraped raw and he’d have to come inside to sleep and eat. A bee hummed somewhere to his right, probably skimming the budding flowers. The twitter of birds in a nearby tree teased his ears, filling the silence with a delicate trill that was distinct and clear. He could make out every note, each singular melody and the changes in tempo and pitch as the birds talked to one another. No more could he focus on the tiny details of sight, like the faces of his sisters and his friends as they laughed and talked, or the way wind would stir the trees into rippling waves of emerald in the summer, or the way a woman’s mouth turned that perfect shade of red when kissed by a lover. Sounds, scents and touch were his only companions now. He clung to the sound of Audrey’s delicate giggles, and the softness of Horatia’s hand when she held his while guiding him around. The light steps of a footman on gravel disturbed him from his thoughts. The sure-footed steps had to be Benjamin Abbot, one of the older footmen. He’d learned so much about his servants in the last few months. The maids by their voices and the sounds of their skirts, the footmen by their heavier steps. Each servant was unique. It was one of the things he’d learned to value most after losing his sight. He’d always had a good relationship with his servants before, but now he relied on them more than ever. “There is a young lady here to see you, my lord.” “Oh?” Cedric didn’t bother looking in Benjamin’s direction. There seemed little point in looking at a person if one could not see them. “Did this lady give you a name?” he asked the footman. “Miss Chessley. Baron Chessley’s daughter,” the footman replied. Cedric drew in a sharp breath. Anne is here? Why? He’d been with many women over the years, seducing his way from one bed to the next. But not with Anne Chessley. She was different. She’d intrigued him, resisted him, and challenged him. A veritable ice maiden in her ivory tower, yet each time he caught her eye, for a brief second heat would flare, so bright and hot it made him hungry for her. She was a challenge, and he’d always been one for a good challenge. Last year he’d courted her, but she hadn’t let him near enough for even one kiss. He’d spent a fortune on sending lavish bouquets and had purchased opera box seats facing her father’s box in order to watch her enjoy the music from across the theater. And yet she had remained unattainable. Always polite, but never truly open. After months of trying, Cedric had been forced to admit defeat. She would never surrender to him or his attempts at seduction. And then he’d lost his sight. Any thought of marriage now was inconceivable. While his fortune was still a draw for some eligible ladies, he could no longer stomach the macabre dance of courtship. Not when all he heard were the rude whispers of the ladies behind their fans about his condition. He wanted no such revulsion or pity from his future wife. Anne would certainly pity him, or be discomforted by his newfound clumsiness. She was too cold-hearted to care whether he could make it five feet without hurting himself or damaging something around him. He couldn’t fathom what she’d be doing here of all places, not when she’d spent so much time avoiding him. Furthermore, she was not one for social calls and wouldn’t dare pay one to him. Add to that the news he’d recently heard regarding her, and he couldn’t imagine why she was here. Last week when his friend Lucien and his sister Horatia had come by for their weekly visit, Cedric had learned that Baron Chessley, Anne’s father, had died in his sleep. Anne was now a wealthy heiress and had no need of anyone, let alone Cedric. Which brought him back to that infernal question—Why had she come? Was she so ravaged by the grief of losing her only living relative that she was coming to him for solace? He doubted it. What could he offer a woman like her? He was half a man, broken, damaged. A bloody fool. He forced his face into a businesslike façade. He would treat her the same way he treated all the young ladies he came across since he’d lost his sight, with polite distance. His pride demanded he maintain the upper hand, especially with Anne. She must never know that he still desired her, still craved her with a madness that escaped logic. Visions of her gray eyes played tricks on his mind. To remember her so vividly, the pale pink lips that curved in a smile only when she dropped her guard, and the way her nose crinkled when she disagreed with him. His chest constricted at the memories of their often passionate discussions on horses, their shared interest. It was the only way he’d ever gotten her to respond to him, by drawing her out through her strong opinions. The icy little hellion loved to argue, and he’d taken great delight in provoking her to blushes. Damn. I’ve become a sentimental fool. The footman coughed politely, reminding Cedric he was waiting. “Please bring her to me,” he instructed. It was too much of a waste of time to find his way back inside now. Far easier to have her brought to him in the gardens instead. The weather was fine, and he knew Anne well enough to know that she enjoyed the outdoors. The footman’s steps retreated, and a minute later Cedric picked up the sound of a lady’s booted steps on the garden path. He heard her gasp when she came close enough to see him. “My lord! You’re bleeding!” Anne rushed over. Her scent hit him, an alluring scent of orchids that was uniquely hers. He sensed the warmth of her hands close to his own as she joined him at the fountain. She clasped his palms and gently touched his stinging skin. He’d become so used to the cuts and scrapes that he barely noticed them anymore. She clasped his palms and gently touched his stinging hands. He repressed a shiver. Without sight, all he had left to make sense of the world were touch, taste and smell. Anne’s touch lit a hint of fire beneath his skin. “Bleeding?” he asked dumbly, too wrapped up with the sensation of silk skirts brushing his shins. His hurt hands long forgotten. Excitement burned in his veins, and that old urge to seduce rose to the surface. He couldn’t recall a time when she’d been this close to him of her own accord. “Yes, my lord. There are bits of gravel in your palms. Did you…” She hesitated to continue. His need for her withered at the pity in her tone. “Did I fall? Yes,” he answered curtly. He’d never needed pity, and he didn’t want it now, certainly not from her. He puffed out his chest and scowled in her direction. An unsettling silence filled the air between them. Anne always had the power to put him on edge, make every muscle coil and tense. What expression was she wearing on that face of hers? Were those delicate brows he remembered arching above her lovely eyes with surprise, or set in a frown? Damnation, he wished he could see her. “Would you let me help you?” Anne asked quietly. “How?” Skepticism filled Cedric’s tone. Rather than reply she tugged her gloves off and grasped his hands, putting them into the cold, crisp water of the fountain, and her fingers gently rubbed and scrubbed at his stinging palms. Then she brought his hands back up. “Do you have a handkerchief?” she asked. “In my breast pocket,” he said. He felt her hand delve into the pocket of his vest and retrieve it. The simple action was strangely erotic and sent his pulse fluttering. He was always the one to slide a hand under a lady’s bodice, or skirt. It was quite a different experience to have a lady’s hand moving under his clothes. He could feel the warmth of her skin close to his chest. With an inward grin, he relished the sensation of her soft hands invading his clothes. When she found his handkerchief, she patted his hands dry and then held his palms up. Her warm breath glided over his skin in a soft pattern as she blew gently on his cuts to dry them.