Patricia Frances Rowell - A Treacherous Proposition

Pain shot through Vincent’s heart. He knew Diana had no reason to trust him. Every reason not to. Still… He reached over and turned her face toward his. “I’m sorry you feel alone. Perhaps one day you will learn to trust me. I will do my utmost not to fail you.”

She gazed at him soberly, searching his eyes, not speaking. Her face was too close. Her eyes too deep. Her mouth… Before he realized he would do it, he covered it with his own. She tasted salty from her tears, soft and sweet. Her breath checked. For a moment she leaned into him.

And then she pulled away.

He touched the wound on her cheek, and reality intruded. This must go no further….

A Scandalous Situation

“The admirable hero and brave heroine are bound to win all but the stoniest heart.”

—Romantic Times

A Dangerous Seduction

“Rowell creates a wonderful Gothic atmosphere, using beautiful Cornwall and its history of smuggling and shipwrecks to enhance her story.”

—Romantic Times

A Perilous Attraction

“Promising Regency-era debut…a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”

—Romantic Times

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This book is for my auxiliary kids—

my stepchildren, John Parker and Cindy Lynn Rowell,

George Richmond and Shelia Rowell,

William Dean and Pamela Darlene Rowell,

Darlene Rowell and James Michael Hussmann,

and my daughters-in-law, Renee Marie

and Leigh Elizabeth Annand.

Thank you all for so enriching my life.

And, of course, every time, for Johnny.

To all those who fought wars that seemed to make no

difference in the long run. The outcome changes nothing.

You did what you did. You gave what you gave.

You risked what you risked, and you did it with honor.

And we thank you.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Yorkshire, England, April 1796

“But, Papa! Timothy is my friend!” The little boy’s lips quivered in spite of his determination to forbid them.

His father glared at the older boy standing beside him. “Your friend, do you think? Now what would a great boy of thirteen years want with a lad not quite eight? What have you given him?”

The younger boy’s gaze dropped, then slid sideways toward his friend, guilt in every muscle of his small body as he stared at the straw on the stable floor.

“Ah!” His father folded his arms.

The boy lifted his chin. “I only gave him my soldiers, Papa. Tim doesn’t have any.”

His father’s eyes narrowed as he studied the ragged Timothy. “And a boy your age likes to play with toy soldiers?” Suddenly he barked, “Let me see what is in your pockets.”

The older boy made a break for it, sprinting for the stable door, only to be captured by an under groom and hauled back before he had made good his escape.

The boy’s father grasped him by the collar and shook him. “Your pockets.”

Reluctantly, Timothy turned his pockets outward and two gold coins fell into the straw. The man stooped and retrieved them, his icy stare never leaving Timothy’s angry face. “So you steal from your friends?”

Timothy lifted his chin defiantly. “He’s not my friend!” He kicked straw at the younger boy. “You aren’t my friend. You’re just a baby.”

He turned and ran for the door again, and the boy’s father let him go. After the boy had disappeared from sight, the man knelt beside his son and looked into his tear-filled eyes. “I’m sorry, Vincent, but there is a hard lesson you must learn. When one has the power and wealth that will someday be yours, one must always be on guard. Always. The world is filled with people who will let you think they like you, but who, in fact, only want what you have. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded, his mouth firming into a hard line.

“Yes, Papa. I understand.”

London, England, April 1814

Vincent Ingleton, Earl of Lonsdale, leaned his shoulders against the stained wall, arms folded across his chest, and studied the lady’s face where she sat by the bed. Tired. Tired and sad. He narrowed his eyes and looked more closely. No, not sad exactly. In truth, she showed very little grief. Just an abysmal weariness. Little wonder in that. The man dying in the bed had not made her life easy.

Hardly even bearable for a lady of her breeding.

Vincent wrinkled his nose at the smell of blood and mildew pervading the room. The dying man coughed and fumbled at the bedclothes. “Diana?”

She reached out and took his hand while the doctor wiped blood away from his patient’s lips. “I’m here, Wyn.”

Vincent sighed and bowed his dark head. She had always been there when Wynmond Corby needed her. No matter what he had done, Lady Diana had been there for her husband. No matter how little Wyn had provided, she had always been a gracious hostess for him, quietly welcoming his friends into their home, even as Corby finally descended into these cramped, grubby quarters. She had been there for him.

No matter how little he deserved her.

But who was Vincent to say who deserved love? He had not much experience with that thorny subject.

He glanced at the two other men quietly conversing against the adjoining wall. Men like Wyn seemed always to have friends, even though he hadn’t two coins at a time to rub together in his pocket. And why not? He constantly had a quip on his tongue, a laugh in his eyes, the heart to put his horse at any fence in the country. Perhaps that was why Corby was, in fact, the only one of his old friends with whom Vincent still associated, very nearly the only friend he had.

The only one of them who had never sponged off him.

But having friends had not stopped someone from slipping a blade between Corby’s ribs.

The softest of sighs brought his gaze back to Diana. In spite of the fatigue, she looked as she always did, calm and serene, the small pool of candlelight in the dark room setting her smooth, pale chignon aglow. Even in a worn, dull-gray gown, she was beautiful. Truth be told, Vincent knew the reason he spent so much time at the Corby home had as much to do with Lady Diana’s company as it did that of her husband.

But of course, there was the other, more important, reason.