Free A Most Scandalous Proposal by Ashlyn Macnamara

light leapt into his eyes, an intensity she recognized. She’d seen it before on her erstwhile suitors. Not that she’d ever given in to the temptation to allow so much as a kiss. Whenever she caught the slightest hint of descending lips, she turned her head aside to offer her cheek.
    Fending off Highgate would be another matter. His grip burned into her flesh.
    “Would you like a kiss from our dealings, I wonder? Or do you find me too repulsive?”
    She puzzled over the sudden bitterness behind his words. While she’d never qualify his looks as classic or chiseled, neither did he repel her. The thought shook her to the core. She’d once vowed never to kiss any man but William. But now, as she stood in the garden under a lowering sky, she found herself intrigued.
    “I do not think you’re repulsive.” Her cheeks heated at the admission.
    His lips stretched into an ironic semblance of a smile. “How you tempt me to put that statement to the test.”
    Fathomless eyes focused on her lips, and she tangled her fingers in her skirts in anticipation of the inevitable descent of his mouth toward hers.
    Without warning, he dropped his hands. Reflexively, she covered her burning cheeks with her palms, her touch a poor substitute for his.
    “Best not give in to temptation,” he muttered, “or we truly will find ourselves bound for life.”
    She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Did you not come today to propose?”
    “I did, and to salvage your reputation, you must accept. If we are careful, however, we need not carry the charade as far as the altar.”
    “How are we to manage that?”
    “Simple. We will pass a week or two as betrothed, and then, I shall be gentleman enough to allow you to cry off, should you wish it. Is that agreeable, Miss St. Claire?”
    B ENEDICT rested his cheek against the bay’s warm flank and leaned his weight into her hip. With a snort, she lifted a dainty hoof just as she ought. Well-trained, if a bit high strung.
    As he inspected the underside of her hoof, he inhaled. The clean, sharp scent of fresh hay wafted into his nostrils. Only a slight underlying earthiness of manure and the tang of urine marred the effect. The stalls at Tattersall’s were kept cleaner than many a London stew—or, for that matter, an army encampment—all for the equine elite and noble clientele the horse trader catered to.
    Gently, Benedict released the mare’s hoof, and she settled her weight on it. Her tail swished at a nonexistent fly. Benedict patted the heavy flesh of her rump. Powerful muscles flinched at the touch.
    “You’d have been a real goer at Newmarket, wouldn’t you?”
    She let out a soft whicker of agreement.
    Moving to her head, he reached into his coat and offered a lump of carrot on the flat of his palm. Supple, velvety lips snatched at the treat. As her heavy teeth crunched, she nosed for more, regarding him with intelligent, liquid eyes.
    He reached up and stroked the blaze of white that streaked down her face.
    “Pity, ’at one.” At the groom’s coarse accent, Benedictlooked up. “Ye wants a runner, ye’d best look elsewhere. Great prospects, ’at one, ’til she broke down.”
    “I’m not in the market for a racehorse. I’m looking for breeding stock.”
    The groom rested an elbow against the side of the stall. “Can’t beat ’er bloodlines. ’Er sire won at Ascot five years running, ’e did.”
    “Are you quite through?” Upperton’s bored drawl sounded from the aisle beyond. “I’m sure I’ve got a pressing engagement or other, one that doesn’t involve horseflesh.”
    Biting back the obvious comment about Upperton’s taste in mistresses, Benedict gave the mare a final pat and pushed his way out of the stall, noting in passing the name and lot number. Nefertari. A queenly name for a prizewinner.
    Upperton was lounging against the door of an empty stall, arms folded over a brocade waistcoat and one foot propped up. Against the backdrop of rough wood and bales