Miss Darling's Indecent Offer

March, 1810. London, England

Emma Darling had no delusions about the precarious nature of her indecent offer to Jack Stanhope. He had an inglorious reputation as a rake and would be no coy boy falling over himself to accept her proposal. In fact, the damn man was likely to throw her out of his carriage and into the rain like so much rubbish.

She sniffed, pulled herself up to her own imperious reputation as a blue stocking and put some iron in her spine. “You will smile. You will not simper. You will entice the man, Emma. With logic.”

“Miss Darling?” Her coachman rapped on the bottom of his seat and she jumped.

“Yes, yes?”

“The gentleman you wanted?”

“Arrogant Jack?” Yes, he definitely was the only man Emma wanted. But she answered her servant here in the dark alley across from the entrance to White’s. She peered through her window and wiped fog from its expanse. “You think that man is he?”

“Aye, Miss, blue covered brougham with the Stanhope crest. Must be ‘im.”

Must be.

“Thank you, Harris.” She lifted her hood and draped it over her hastily set mop of hair. Rain or no, now is the time, Emma. She waited a heartbeat as her servant climbed down from his box and opened the door for her, then let down the steps for her to alight. She gave him her hand and a smile. Watery thing that it was, the expression was one he did not return, for he feared for his position should her stepfather learn of her escape tonight. “Please do not worry, Harris. I promise I will speak on your behalf.”

“I know, Miss. But I fret for your safety. The Viscount Durham is a bad sort.” He handed her out into the pouring rain.

“Not completely so,” she called to him and scampered across the cobbles. Deuced bad luck that the heavens opened at that hideous moment. She squealed and picked up her pace through the torrent of rain. But she managed, blast it! Catching her balance time and again, she fought for clear vision as she slipped on one stone and then slid across another. She heard Jack Stanhope shouting to his own coachman as she lifted her arm to beckon him.

“My lord!” Don’t leave, Jack! “My lord!”

The coachman slammed the conveyance door. She scurried along. Then sensed the driver climbed up into his box. Knew he would be picking up the reins and panicked that if she did not do something rash, all her plans would be lost!

She swerved, stepped in front of the coach, and summarily fell into a puddle.

“Ohhhhh, damn!” she beat the cobbles with one fist, wild at her clumsiness.

The coachman yelled. The horses neighed. She pushed herself up, hands wrist deep in pools of rain, her pelisse soaked. Hands hoisted her from the cobbles, right under her arm pits. “Get her up, Rawley.”

“Good God, milord! She’s a fright!”

“Up, up, here you go,” a booming bass voice encompassed her and she was snatched up in strong arms like a sack of potatoes and shoved, like so much dross, into a coach. To the floor, in fact, of a coach. Jack’s? Please, God.

She pushed upwards, glanced about. Those iron-like hands grabbed her once more under the arms and unceremoniously dragged her up and over the squabs. Fingers picked at her hood, undid her ties and threw back the wool to lift her chin.

“Christ, you are soaked! What in hell are you doing out on a night like this?”

She stared at him.

Jack Stanhope, no other. Eyes like lightning. Hair like midnight. Jaw like iron.

Collect yourself. “I had to come out.” Of course you did, you ninny. He’s not so handsome he can rattle you.

He frowned at her, pushed her curls back from her cheeks, and hauled her up higher. By the light of the interior lamp, she saw him better now. Close as a lover. And the power of her first hard look at the Pride of the Stanhopes made her admire the family traits all the more.

He was a luscious specimen of manhood, dark and imposing. The broadest of shoulders. The squarest of chins. The dimple there, dead center. She’d glimpsed him twice before at his racing box in Harton. She’d been drawn to his brash demeanor, his open laugh and booming voice. She’d felt his magnetism. A daring rake of tall, devilishly strong proportions, Jack Stanhope was not so much handsome as overwhelming. Not so much refined as damned perfect. For her. Her needs.

“What in God’s good name is a lady doing out at this hour of the night? And falling in front of my carriage, no less?” His striking eyes were wide, though she could smell the liquor on his breath. His fingers dug into her upper arms. “Answer me!”

“I need to talk to you.”

“The devil, you say. Who are you?” He lifted her higher, nearer, his silver-blue eyes searing her face as he scanned her features with a furious hunger.

“Emma Darling.”

“Darling….” He caught her torso against him in reflex. Her breasts crushed to his broad chest as he sank his fingers into her newly cropped cap of Grecian curls and pulled her head back to see her by the carriage lamp. “What the hell? Joan Darling’s girl?”

“Yes, Frank’s and Joan’s.” Did he know her mother?

“You’re shivering. Wet as a cat. Sit over here.” He pushed her back into the squabs, both hands to her shoulders in a move that was mostly a shove. “Take off that cloak.” He worked at a fastening to her wrap. “You’ll die of cold. Your mother will have me for breakfast.”

“No!” Emma wrapped her hand around his arm and noted that he was so large she could only succeed at plucking at the thick wool of his overcoat. “No, she won’t. Can’t.”

“What?” He shook his head, loosening the fog from the spirits he’d imbibed, she supposed. Then he tried to undo the fastening of her wrap. “This damn thing is too wet. Can’t get it open.” His hands fumbled. “Why can’t she help you?”

“She’s ill. In the country.” Dying from her husband’s cruelty and neglect.

“Since when?”

“November, December.”

He scowled now. “That’s why I have not seen her about town.”

“Listen to me, Jack.”

If her hands on his hadn’t brought him up short, the use of his given name by a stranger did. He paused. “You have my attention. What is it you want, Miss Darling?”

“I need your help.”

“At three in the morning? A very inclement morning?” His black brows wiggled in mirth and surprise.

In the lamplight, his features mellowed with amusement. His brows were long and arched, his eyes, larger than she had heard, his mouth, a wide slash but full and supple. Generous. Oh, God. Please let him be as generous as his lips.

“This was the best time to find you. You would never have seen me at home.”

“You did not invite me,” he told her, his words a bit slurred, an impish grin gracing his mouth. “I accept all invitations from beautiful women.”

“So I understand, but—” I am not beautiful. “You would not have come.”

“You’re certain, eh? Why not?”

“You do not really know me.”

His starry eyes narrowed, running from her lips to her eyes to her hair tumbling now into her eyes and about her cheeks. “I daresay I should.”

“Yes, you should.” She leaned forward now, comforted by his humor and the warmth of him to take her in his carriage and have such care of her. But she knew she must look a fright, coming out as she did so quickly, taking the chance she could find him. “You will. If you accept my offer.”

“An offer? Pardon me, Miss Darling. It’s late and my manners are as short as my penchant for games.” Bursting into a hearty chuckle, he fell back to the plush leather upholstery. Sobering, he ran a hand over his face. He knit his brows and surveyed her state of cold, wet dishabille. “I must take you home. Isn’t it Park Lane? Opposite the street from my Aunt Amaryllis Stanhope?”

She folded her arms, the rain seeping through her cloak to her thin cotton gown and making her shiver. “I will not return there.”

“Why ever not?”

“He is there.”

Jack scowled. “Who?”

“Daniel.” She murmured the name of the man who meant to ruin her life, keep her in rags and deny her her due.

“Pinrose?”

“The same.”

“Your stepfather.”

“Precisely.” Her teeth began to clatter. She clenched her jaw. Wrapped her arms more tightly about her. “He is a tyrant. I have come to you to escape him.”

Jack scowled, then picked up the plaid woolen blanket on the seat next to her and tucked it around her body and under her chin, frowning at her words and searching her face. “Christ, you’re cold as ice. How long have you been out in this?”

“Since ten or so,” she told him truthfully.

“Good God. Must be a damned good reason to chill yourself to the quick.”

She shot forward and grabbed the lapels of his coat. “Jack, please help me. I have waited for you because I need you. Only you can help me.”

“I am honored, Miss Darling, but—”

“Emma.”

“Emma, my dear young woman, I have no idea what you wish. I barely know who you are! Let alone what I might do to assist—”

“Marry me.”

He stilled. “Did you say…?”

“Marry me.”