The Lady's Proposal

One

Sheridan Manor

Coventry, England 1886

Marriage.

The word made her shiver. It made her stomach knot and her head ache. It made her feverish with excitement and cold with apprehension. Marriage was the ultimate sacrifice, to Clarissa Pomeroy's way of thinking. A woman was born, educated in the proper manner of dress and speech, taught to move gracefully when she walked into a room, tutored for hours in the arcane rules of etiquette and introduction. Then, without any explanation or regard, she was paraded through the ballrooms of London in the hopes of gaining a proposal of marriage.

It was insulting.

It was maddening.

It was the way of things.

Clarissa gazed out the window of the carriage. It was an unusually bright spring day, suitable for a ride in the country but not at all appropriate to the task at hand. She decided the day would be more reflective of her mood if the sky were a dingy gray and rain was making muddy puddles along the dirt road that led from London to the country estate. She gave the issue of the day thoughtful deliberation as the driver kept the horses moving at a smart pace through the wrought-iron gates and along the cobblestone drive that curved in front of the prestigious country estate.

When the carriage came to a halt, the footman hurried down from his perch and opened the door. Clarissa gathered her courage and the leather pouch containing the ridiculous conditions of her grandfather's will before she accepted the servant's outstretched hand and stepped from the carriage. Once outside, she looked at the grand country home, built during the reign of James II. It's three-story gray granite walls were draped with ivy, cut away from the tall lead-paned windows by a skillful gardener. Around the flat roof there was a stone railing decorated with gaudy marble gargoyles and fanciful winged beasts. The front entrance boasted large double doors carved from wood that had been stained dark by time and weather. Like the man who lived inside, Sheridan Manor was the epitome of everything proper and English.

Simon Aloysius Sinclair, the earl of Sheridan.

The name gave Clarissa pause, as did the scheme she was being forced to undertake. If her beloved but irritating grandfather hadn't died, she wouldn't be worried about whether or not the earl found her attractive.

But Clarissa was worried.

Since her grandfather's untimely death, she had done little but pace the floors of Hartford Hall, wearing out her feet in hopes of finding a more suitable solution to her dilemma.

The elaborately carved doors of the house opened in harmonious unison with the carriage door being shut behind her. Clarissa gathered up the skirts of her black mourning dress and ascended the wide, flat stone steps that led to the entryway. A shallow-faced butler with a blue-veined nose and thin white eyebrows stood like a statue, holding the door open as she swept inside.

"My lady," he said, executing a perfect bow.

"Is Lord Sheridan in residence?" Clarissa asked, anxious to have the ordeal over and done with before she lost the last of her courage and returned to her carriage with specific orders that the driver not stop until she was reinstated at Hartford Hall.

"He is waiting for you in the library. This way, my lady."

Clarissa followed the dark-suited butler across the tiled vestibule floor. It reminded her of a chessboard, done in large squares of black and ivory marble. Being reminded of the game of kings and warriors forced her to perform a quick rethinking of her strategy. Although the earl wasn't a stranger, she knew little about Simon Sinclair on a personal plane. He had shared some investments with her grandfather, and their business relationship had prompted several invitations to the earl to dine at Hartford Hall. She had never engaged in more than polite dinner conversation with the him, and none of the words they had shared had given any hint of her personal feelings for the man.

Each time that Clarissa had encountered Simon Sinclair, he had been extremely polite, the perfect example of an English gentleman. Following that description, he had been careful to avoid any subject at the dinner table that could jolt or jar the sensibilities of a lady.

The first time that Clarissa had met the earl, she couldn't help but reflect on the words of an article by Newman, from The Idea of a University, defining the desired qualities of a gentlemen. "He observes the maxim of the ancient sage, that we should ever conduct ourselves towards our enemy as if he were one day to be our friend."

Keeping that thought in mind, Clarissa took a calming breath as the butler pushed open the pocket doors of the library and announced her arrival to the earl of Sheridan. She stepped into the room. It was done in dark walnut furnishings, with deep tones of hunter green in the carpet and drapes. The lingering scent of cigar smoke and beeswax tickled her nose. Two of the room's towering walls were confined to bookshelves. Row after row of leather-bound volumes were stacked shelf upon shelf from floor to ceiling. The southern wall was consumed by tall, stately windows that lent the day's sunlight to anyone relaxing in the leather chairs while they read.

Clarissa's eyes were quickly drawn to the earl of Sheridan, standing behind an elegantly carved desk. The earl was a tall man with dark brown hair and even darker eyes. As always, Simon's intensely masculine presence affected her. His gaze held a penetrating quality that had often made her think he could see past her clothing and into her soul. It was a disturbing thought as she walked across the thick Oriental carpet to face him.

"My lord," she said, managing a polite but indifferent enunciation of the words.

"Lady Pomeroy," Sinclair replied before glancing over her shoulder at the servant who was awaiting his orders like a soldier. "Bring us some tea, Higgins."

The doors closed behind the obedient butler with a soft rumbling sound of wood moving over polished tile. Hiding her nervousness as well as a trained actress on a London stage, Clarissa walked toward the seat indicated by a graceful sweep of Lord Sheridan's hand. For the next few moments, the only sound in the library was the gentle rustle of the three starched petticoats under her dress as Clarissa seated herself in one of the two leather chairs facing the desk.

Simon returned to the stiff wood-trimmed chair behind the desk. The piece of furniture reminded Clarissa of a throne. Covered in rich black leather with an ornate design around the top and arms, it suited the earl's handsome features. Like the room, Simon Sinclair carried an innate air of quality about him. His jacket was a dark fawn color that complemented the walnut shade of his hair and eyes. His shirt, faultlessly white, was made of the finest linen. Although she couldn't see his boots, Clarissa was certain that they would reflect his features as clearly as the large gilt mirror she'd passed in the vestibule.

"My condolences over the loss of Lord Hartford," Simon added, gracefully hinting that regardless of the circumstances, it wasn't normal for a young lady in mourning to be calling upon a gentleman.

Clarissa nodded in lieu of words. It had been almost a full year since her grandfather's death. During that time, she had refrained from parties and social gatherings. But she couldn't wait until her black dresses were finally relegated to the attic before calling upon the earl. Time was of the essence.

"Thank you," she said, realizing that the earl was making as much of an impression on her senses now as he had in the past.

There was something strangely compelling about the man. It went beyond his handsome features and the impeccable cut of his clothing. The earl had a reputation for being extremely intelligent, very dignified, and unquestionably pompous when it came to matters of society. He was also said to be quick to temper if anyone mistook him for a fool. None of those qualities were of any particular interest to Clarissa. The reason she had decided upon Simon Sinclair was simple. He could be trusted. His honesty and honor were without dispute. His name was totally untarnished by word or deed.

He was, for lack of a better term, perfect.

At least he was perfect for Clarissa's purpose.

The requirements of her grandfather's will were ridiculously restrictive. She needed a man she could trust if she wanted to carry on the charitable work she'd begun at Haven House.

The small amount of conversation stopped altogether as a maid tapped lightly on the door, then entered carrying a silver serving tray. The earl dismissed her with another wave of his hand once the tray had been placed on a small oval stand situated between the leather chairs.

When the earl stood up and came around the corner of the desk, Clarissa felt a rush of heat through her body. She tried to understand the complex tangle of emotions that were forming a knot in the pit of her stomach. There was physical attraction mixed with a strange yearning that she hadn't yet given a name. Added to that was the overshadowing effect the man seemed to have on her normally mild disposition. Being alone in the room with Simon was a bit unnerving. So much so that she avoided his gaze while he poured the tea. She accepted the cup he offered, then immediately averted her attention to the oil painting behind the desk.

Simon used the opportunity to study his guest. He had known Lady Pomeroy for the last several years, and his eyes had always been drawn by her luxurious auburn hair and the deep violet blue of her almond-shaped eyes. Framed by perfectly arched brows, her eyes had an iridescent quality that contradicted her calm, ladylike mannerisms. Simon had always thought her a bit of a paradox. More so since becoming close friends with her late grandfather and hearing from the old gentleman himself that Lady Clarissa was given to a willful nature if left unsupervised.

The death of the earl of Hartford had prevented the young woman from being seen at the endless parties and soirees that filled London's seasonal schedule. Simon had heard that she had retired to her grandfather's estate near Norwich to mourn the passing of her grandfather. He'd also smiled when the rumor that Lady Pomeroy hadn't worn a corset to her grandfather's funeral had been repeated in one of his clubs. He'd attended the services held in St. Paul's Church. He hadn't been able to comment on the gossip one way or the other. Clarissa had been draped in a black cloak that had covered her from head to heel. He noticed that her hair wasn't covered today and wondered if she found the fashionable bonnets of the day as uncomfortable as corsets.

Looking at her now, Simon decided that black suited her. Few women could wear the midnight color as fashionably as Clarissa. It accented her flawless complexion and the rich coloring of her hair and eyes. It also reminded him that she was unchaperoned.

Needless to say, he'd been surprised by her note of the previous week requesting a visit. He'd responded in the affirmative, frankly curious about why she had insisted upon a meeting with him. Not as patient as many thought him to be, Simon sipped his tea quietly while he looked at the young lady sitting in front of him.

"May I be so bold as to ask what matter of urgency has brought you to Sheridan Manor?" he finally inquired, sitting his cup down on the dark blotter pad that was used to keep ink from staining the top of the two-hundred-year-old desk.

"The urgency is my grandfather's," Clarissa replied, reaching for the leather pouch and withdrawing the papers she'd brought with her. "This is his last will and testament."

She stood up and placed it on the desk in front of Simon, then returned to her seat.

He studied the document for a moment without touching it. "I'm not sure I understand."

"It's a lovely day," Clarissa told him. "I can wait in the garden while you read it. Once you have, I'm sure you will understand my reasons for seeking an appointment with you."

Simon's curiosity was piqued. He had thought of several plausible reasons why Clarissa might seek his advice. Richard Pomeroy had been an avid businessman, with investments that ranged from one end of the expanding British Empire to the other. He had thought that the earl's granddaughter might be in need of advice on how to maintain those investments, or perhaps she had found them overwhelming and sought his recommendation about whom to consult if she wanted to expand or terminate a portion of the funds. Neither reason required the presentation of the earl's last will and testament.

"I would not want to impose on such a private matter as your inheritance," Simon responded, still not touching the long legal document lying in front of him. "Are you sure?"