One Tempting Proposal Read Free

Sweet and naive and kind without expecting anything in return. She feared for anyone so gentle. In this company it was better to be hard, to wear one’s armor, as well as perfecting one’s noncommittal grin. If Bess ever challenged someone like Cynthia, she’d be cut down before she ever saw the scythe.
    â€œI don’t disagree with your notion of independence.” Even when espousing women’s independence, Bess spoke softly. “But what of love?” She waited a beat and turned to watch Cynthia leave the room to see the Lissman sisters off.
    When Bess turned back, her delicate features tensed as she whispered, “What of passion?”
    Yes, what of passion? Kitty had been waiting to feel it for four seasons. There’d been moments of excitement—­the thrill of catching a handsome man’s gaze, the zing of physical attraction when a gentleman took her in his arms before a waltz, and even the heady pleasure of conversing with a clever man interested in topics beyond sports and gentlemanly wagers.
    Every spark of intrigue fizzled, and not a single burst of initial enchantment ever grew into a flame. If a man’s attention toward her didn’t quickly wane, her interest in him did. In Kitty’s experience, most men’s appeal lasted the length of one ball or perhaps a single other afternoon social call. If a gentleman didn’t drone on endlessly about himself, he took to telling Kitty what she must do. You must see the new play at Drury Lane. You must go riding with me in Hyde Park tomorrow. You must come see my horse run the Derby.
    Few asked her opinions or considered her preferences. Just like her father.
    When she found herself unable to wrap four years of disappointment into a few words, Bess nudged her arm.
    The girl’s eyes were huge and danced with mischief as she spoke in a low voice meant for secrets and intrigue. “If you have no plans to marry, will you take a lover?”
    Apparently Miss Berwick could be as fanciful as she was kind.
    Passion. A lover. Kitty couldn’t imagine either when she anticipated a season of struggling with her father to make her own choices.

 
    Chapter Two
    Cambridgeshire, May, 1891
    S LASHING THE AIR with a sword was doing nothing to improve Sebastian Fennick’s mood. As he thrust, the needle-­thin foil bending and arching through the air and sending tingling reverberations along his hand, he glared across at his opponent, though he doubted she could see any better than he could from behind the tight mesh of her fencing mask.
    His sister parried before offering a spot-­on riposte of her own, her foil bowing in a perfect semicircle as she struck him.
    â€œAre you making any sort of effort at all?”
    Seb bit back the reply burning the tip of his tongue. Fencing was the least of his concerns. In the last month he’d learned of the death of a cousin he’d barely known and inherited the responsibility for one dukedom, three thousand acres of land, hundreds of tenants, twenty-­eight staff members, one London residence, and a country house with so many rooms, he was still counting. He could find no competitive pleasure in wielding a lightweight foil when his mind brimmed with repairs, meetings, investments, and invitations to social events that spanned the rest of the calendar year.
    And all of it was nothing to the bit of paper in his waistcoat pocket, separated by two layers of fabric from the scar on his chest, dual reminders of what a fool he’d been, how one woman’s lies nearly ended his life.
    He wouldn’t open her letter. Instead, he’d take pleasure in burning the damn thing.
    Never again. Never would he allow himself to be manipulated as he had been in the past. He had to put the past from his mind altogether.
    Fencing wasn’t doing the trick. Give him a proper sword and let him dash it against a tree trunk. Better yet, give him a dragon to slay. That might do quite