Her Wicked Proposal novel Chapter 8

Anne Chessley stood in the entryway of her townhouse on Regent Street. Her back and neck were tense as she fought to remain poised and cool, hoping to hide her racing heart and the creeping flush in her cheeks. Had it only been yesterday that she foolishly sought out Viscount Sheridan and convinced him to propose to her?

God, please don't let this be a mistake. What if he didn't come? What if he changed his mind and didn't go through with the wedding? Anne shoved the thoughts aside, though not easily.

How much difference one day can make, she thought. Since her father had passed the week before, sleep had eluded her, but last night...she'd drifted to sleep with thoughts of Cedric and that wicked kiss he'd given her. No, not given, shared. As much as it embarrassed her to admit it, she'd kissed him back.

Anne smoothed her black crepe gown over her hips and sighed. The ripples of the stiff fabric were an uncomfortable reminder of her mourning and her grief. Her father, Archibald Chessley, was dead, and she was alone in the world.

She was too logical not to be aware that part of her still denied he was dead. She had witnessed his lifeless body when she'd found him in his chair in the library, cold as marble, after a chambermaid had rushed to her bedroom to tell her he was gone.

The emptiness of her home had cut her deeply and driven her to action. She couldn't stand the silence anymore. A part of her still expected him to emerge from his study, cigar smoke wafting from him, or to have him join her outside and offer to go riding together in Hyde Park. It had just been the two of them since she was four when her mother, Julia, had died from pneumonia.

And mere days after his death, she'd been forced to endure suitor after suitor leaving their cards on silver trays, hoping she'd give them a chance to court her. All for her blasted inheritance. If they acted this way while she was still in mourning, the fortune hunters would become more determined to compromise her, even at the risk of scandal, in order to coerce her into marriage. Such a marriage was an unimaginable fate that she needed to avoid at all costs. She could only think of one person who wouldn't care about her money and whom she could stand to marry. Viscount Sheridan.

She smiled faintly. He was a tall, handsome gentleman with brown hair and warm brown eyes. A stubborn jaw and aquiline nose gave him a rebellious and imperious look, but his full, sensual lips revealed his humorous streak. She loved to watch him grin. His smiles always sent her pulse dancing and erased her rational thoughts.

She'd gone to him because she knew she could be honest with him, let him know the truth about why she needed to marry with haste. What she hadn't realized until last night, when she'd returned to an empty house, was how desperate and lonely she was. No more late-night conversations by the fire with her father, no morning breakfast chatter. Just deafening silence.

She assumed that a man like Cedric would not understand her wish to marry out of loneliness and it might not engender his sympathy. Yet he was the only man she could stand the thought of marrying. They shared a surprising number of interests, and could likely make a go of it, if he went through with it.

It was why rushing to him had seemed so natural. He always had something of interest to say, even when he wasn't trying to shock or seduce her. Being around him, she'd never felt alone.

But seeing him yesterday had been unexpectedly painful. He'd been sitting by the fountain, hands cut and bleeding, trousers and shirt dirty all along the front. It had been obvious he'd fallen shortly before she'd arrived. Seeing the blood on his hands and the almost casual way he'd forgotten about it jolted her heart. It seemed he'd grown used to falling, to getting hurt. No one should be in such constant pain that they grew accustomed to it like that.