Free An Imperfect Proposal by Hayley Ann Solomon Page A

never lasts!”
    â€œStephen, you are not your father. Trust yourself. It will last.”
    Then Lord Diggory, the earl’s dearest and most trusted confidant, took himself off. He had said what he had come to say. He counted himself thankful that he had come off so lightly. In the greater scheme of things, a bloodied nose was better than pistols at dawn. In Stephen’s current state, pistols were a decided possibility.
    It was no more than a day later that Stephen was ready to make his journey home. He’d had much time to contemplate Lord Diggory’s parting remarks to him, but in spite of everything, he fooled himself.
    He simply was not—could not—be such a sapskull as to have fallen in love with his wife! He needed to take the upper hand, that was all. He would be stern but dignified. He would ignore her soft, appealing eyes and the whisper of the smile that lingered, so often, upon her lips.
    He would endeavor to forget how sweet those lips were, for whilst Lady Luttlow had palled, there would surely be some equally ravishing creature to take his carnal fancy.
    He would return to Devonport simply to inform Amaryllis that her conduct was displeasing to him. She was interfering with his stables, spoiling his wards, striking up unsuitable friendships with eligible gentlemen . . . oh, there was an endless list of complaints. All unreasonable, of course, but Lord Redding was not in a reasonable mood.
    He was still not in a reasonable mood when he finally reached Devonport, and noticed that the cottagers had all been given a holiday, and that the children had set up games and shies, and that chestnuts from his avenues of trees were being cooked and conked with varying degrees of mirth and greed. There was laughter in the air, and though Stephen was cross, he was not so cross that he could not smile when he was saluted smartly by a small urchin on his estate, or stop when an old woman wanted to bless him.
    It would have been churlish to refuse one of his own roasted chestnuts, or not to take a swing at the shy—and successfully, too, much to the applause of his cottagers. Nevertheless, his heart remained heavy, for it was unpleasant to have to scold, and he felt if he did not do so his whole world would soon be turned completely upside down.
    He was just wondering what attitude he should take in his confrontation with Amaryllis—he did not want to crush her, merely resume his masterful control—when his heart almost missed a beat.
    In an instant, all his well-prepared speeches flew out of his head. His anger was so absolute and devastating that he ground his nails into his palm. If he had not been wearing riding gloves, he would have done himself an injury.
    There, at the top of his avenue, at the main entrance, at the very site where his own horses were meant to stop, was a fashionable barouche. It was painted in gold and emerald green and had cost no less than a small fortune.
    He knew, for he had procured the item himself, from two of the best carriage makers in all the land. It was not the carriage he objected to—indeed, it was very fine and extremely well sprung—it was the owner. Unless he was mistaken, Lady Luttlow had had the audacity to darken the very doors of his estate.

Chapter Nine
    The ensuing scene was not one Stephen wished to remember. Lady Luttlow was genteelly sipping a dish of tea whilst Amaryllis, pale and stony-faced, helped her to some slices of seedcake.
    Too stunned to make an entrance, the earl watched as Lady Luttlow skillfully set about poisoning his wife’s mind. Her bracelet sparkled upon her wrist, and when Amaryllis’s eyes fell upon it she trilled self-consciously that “Dear Stephen is always so generous.”
    Amaryllis said nothing, but Lady Luttlow, observing that her hands trembled, pushed home her advantage sweetly.
    â€œIt was only last week that he gave me this, though I have told him a dozen times or more that there is