A Desperate Proposal

By Allegra Grey and Emily Sloan

War hero Major Tristan Ruthven never expected to inherit his rakehell father’s title. The new Earl of Asherton finds himself in need of a respectable wife to help bury his family’s scandal-ridden past. Unfortunately, no daughter of the Ton is desperate enough to accept him unless he discloses the true size of the fortune he’s inherited. He refuses. Not after a money-match destroyed his mother.

Vulnerable, beautiful commoner Elinor Harcourt enchants Tristan the moment they meet. But he's seen what happens to sheltered young ladies dropped into the Beau Monde. Elinor’s happiness must prevail. She deserves the comfortable, quiet life she dreams of.

Elinor can’t risk her future on a fleeting fancy. Tristan makes her feel more alive than anyone else, but he's not just an Earl— he's a soldier like her father. That's too many chances for tragedy. If only she could stop thinking about him...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight
• Release date: Dec 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9780369509338

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Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2023 Allegra Grey and Emily Sloan

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0933-8

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: CA Clauson

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

Allegra:

Sometimes, we all need an escape. This one is for all my fellow Austenites stuck between Pride & Prejudice re-reads.

Emily:

To Janelle. Thank you for always being there even when we are hundreds of miles away.

A DESPERATE PROPOSAL

Desperate Desires, 1

Allegra Grey and Emily Sloan

Copyright © 2023

Chapter One

Southsea, England. May 1, 1814

You need a wife, Lady Evelina Summersby announced, the gilded parlor door slamming behind her loud enough to rouse her husband from his newspaper. He peered over its orderly columns and across the breakfast-strewn table with a curious, bemused air while her bachelor brother regarded her without comment and returned to his letters as if she hadn’t spoken at all. Though paler and sterner than usual, his sister’s countenance remained beautiful and too robust to humor unreservedly, and he had no intention of rising to her bait. Her husband was in better humor.

I seem to recall having one? General Edward Orville, Viscount Summersby, hero of Orthez, raised a brow that would’ve sent an entire peninsular division running for cover. Evelina sniffed. 

"How very reassuring. Your infrequent correspondence has led me to wonder on occasion, but in this instance, I was speaking to the Major." Her slender arms crossed as her furious hazel gaze landed on her errant sibling with the force of a blow, knocking his steward’s latest vexing letter clear from his mind. 

Please don’t start. Major Tristan Ruthven had left Toulouse two weeks before, enduring destroyed French roads and a rough Channel crossing that lasted a full week thanks to recalcitrant winds. A wretched night’s sleep in a comfortable bed had not improved his patience. Summersby’s rented apartments were nicer than any Tristan had enjoyed in at least two years—especially if one figured in the lack of gunfire and cannons in the distance. Though as a busy port, Southsea made a fair approximation of the endless clamor of an army camp. He rubbed his face, wishing the pile of mail in front of him was a better shield from his sister’s glare.

I’ve been telling you for years, Tristan. And now you’re the seventh Earl of Asherton, with two little sisters, one brother, and a ward to look after. And not one thought in your head for what to do with them, let alone father’s bloody estate— 

Language, dear heart. Summersby’s reproof would’ve sounded more authoritative if he hadn’t been chuckling. People will start calling you the next Billingsgate.

Diversions won’t work, Edward. Tristan needs to consider his future. He’s thirty now, and it’s past time—  

God’s teeth, can’t I be on English shores for a full week before you start this song, Evie? Tristan corked his ink and carefully laid aside his quill in case an urge to throw the items at his sister’s pristine white muslin dress became overwhelming. They did not yet know whether Louis would throw France back into the Revolution, the ink of Napoleon’s abdication announcement was still wet, and she insisted on twittering on about marriage. His eyes matched Evelina’s in both color and stubborn glint as he met her gaze. Let it alone.

No. She took a seat in the delicate, red-upholstered chair beside her husband’s, still glaring. Cecilia doesn’t deserve to be playing governess and hostess for an empty house, the little ones are all but feral since our dear stepmother flitted off to Italy, and now you’ve dragged home that little waif of yours—

Lydia isn’t mine. I keep telling you. 

No one cares about that fact, Tris. You come carting home stray orphans, they become yours. Especially ones that call you papa. 

I have tried to talk her out of that. 

Not strenuously.  

Any conversation with a child of four is strenuous. I assure you. 

A wonder you keep her if she’s such a trial, Evie shot back. 

Summersby keeps you, though you’re far worse. Tristan almost regretted the words as Evie’s lips parted in shock, but he couldn’t help bristling on his ward’s behalf. Lydia Wilder’s parents died two years earlier during the chaotic retreat from Burgos. Captain Wilder took a shot to the right eye at the eastern bridge fending off the French attack. Another officer’s mistress pulled the wailing Lydia from her dead mother’s arms only to fall exhausted into a ditch days later, from which she never arose. Tristan had closed her eyes himself and picked up Lydia. He couldn’t leave her. Countless crying, hollow-eyed little ghosts drifting through clouds of Spanish dust already haunted his nightmares. He’d helped when he could, as had many others, funneling surviving children back toward Lisbon and the stationary regiments where many an orphan was raised ad hoc in barracks and tents. But Tristan owed Wilder better than letting his daughter land in an orphanage. 

"Not so bad as you then, as it seems no woman wants to keep your sorry—" 

Ho there, Ares and Athena. No warfare before dinner. Skirmishes only by daylight, please. Summersby set the newspaper down with a certain finality to its rustling pages. My wife may not have chosen the timing of her battle well, but her cause is just, Lord Asherton. 

Tristan groaned. Don’t start the titles, Summersby. 

Would you prefer Major Ruthven? 

Yes, Tristan said readily, earning a laugh from his brother-in-law and a huff from his sister. I wish to hell that coronet was boring a hole in Arthur or Lance’s thick skulls. They’d know what to do with it. But Arthur was dead of rotten wounds taken somewhere in America, and Lancelot was at the bottom of the Atlantic with the rest of his crew and passengers. 

Evelina’s expression softened, and she swallowed hard. Wishes won’t bring them back, Tris. We must make do with things as they are now. Summersby put a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder and leaned over to kiss her temple—the most ardent show of affection Tristan had seen from him since arriving in Southsea. Ever since learning of Evie’s pregnancy, Summersby treated her like a spun glass figurine. Though considering how noisily sick she’d been for most of the last two days, perhaps that was for the best. I wanted to give you more time, little brother. Truly. But I can’t. The doctor’s insisted that I refrain from travel. He’d have me wait out the whole wretched time here! He acts as though Bath is the West Indies. 

Meaning Evelina couldn’t accompany them to London or be available to chaperone Cecilia. And if childbirth went badly… But he couldn’t think of that. He had been arguing and reconciling with Evie since their own births, not even a full year apart, and couldn’t imagine the world without her. Lancelot and Arthur were older, much absent, and even worse correspondents than Summersby—he mourned them, but he was in some ways accustomed to their absence. True, he’d spent fifteen years mostly apart from Evie, yet letters, presents, and his infrequent leaves from the army had kept them close. 

Tristan risked a glance at Summersby whose expression appeared equally adrift. Wellington had dispatched the General from Spain two months ago, tasked with raising fresh recruits while nursing a recurring fever. Now he found his wife’s health becoming fragile while his own rallied, and he needed to be elsewhere as the allies scrambled to fully suppress and disperse Napoleon’s surrendered empire. Of course, you will return to Merfield, Summersby murmured in what he no doubt intended to be reassuring tones. We will take the trip very slowly and in the most comfortable carriage I can find. 

I’m sure our own will do just as well, Evie replied.

Perhaps. I’ll speak with the doctor. New springs and fittings might help alleviate some of the danger. 

Do you suppose a carriage spring is likely to stab me in the stomach, dear? 

Tristan leaned forward. Evie, don’t bite his head off for being concerned. 

I’m not. I just don’t like being his excuse for buying new whatsits and thingamabobs for the wretched equipage. She shot to her feet, glaring at both of them this time. And to tarry in this blasted town another fortnight while you lollop around with blacksmiths and carriage makers! On that note, she spun on her heel and stormed back through the doors, leaving Summersby to pinch the bridge of his nose. Tristan shrugged sympathetically. 

Sorry, brother. 

Not your fault, Tris. I have the most amiable wife in the world, so long as she’s not, er, sprained her ankle. 

Tristan chuckled at the slang he’d last heard in the soldiers’ mess. You’d think she’d be used to it by the third round. 

Fourth, Summersby said, very quietly. Tristan blinked. He’d never heard his brother-in-law acknowledge the miscarriage out loud. Tristan only knew of it from Evie’s letters of the time, and likewise knew she’d ordered no one to speak of it.

Damn, you are worried.  

Of course I am. The doctor never advised her against traveling so early. Nor has she ever been so sick before. Summersby ruffled his sandy hair, his face paling slightly. It’s why she’s pushing you on the marriage and is as touchy as a porcupine—she’s scared. Please, just let her win. Make a show of searching for someone. Put her mind at ease about Cecilia and the estates. 

You know I will. Tristan busied himself ordering the pile of correspondence in front of him. But it will be all right. Evie is tough as iron.

I hope so. Summersby’s jaw flexed. I always thought General Graham was mad for not remarrying in all this time. But the idea of something happening to Evie… He trailed off, focusing on the windows. I don’t think I could stand to see anyone in her place either. 

Tristan couldn’t look at his oldest friend, so he, too, stared out the window. Had it not been for Summersby, and later his acquaintance with General Graham, he’d have never believed in love. But only that storied emotion could explain the ocean of grief Graham carried for his long-gone wife, and every moment Tristan shared with his sister and brother-in-law was a lesson that surely love existed in abundance for the lucky few who found it. Lust might have explained the Honorable Edward Orville marrying the daughter of a disgraced earl in the midst of a wildly scandalous divorce, but it would not have carried him through the last fifteen years nor kept the spark of wonder in his eye every time she walked into a room. 

Tristan never expected to find such emotion for his own, but he’d hoped. Now, there was no more time for hoping. Evelina was right. He had a little brother and sister and an even littler ward who needed guidance, an estate that needed someone beyond the steward for his tenants to address, and a house that needed a mistress. Someone he could depend upon while he continued his career in Portugal—or France—depending on how the peace treaties went. Perchance he would even go back to India for a while if Europe truly settled. All in all, it might be better to find someone who was more a partner than a lover if one took the long view of things. Surely he could find that amongst the daughters of the Ton between now and the Regent’s Grand Jubilee in August…

You should go with her to Merfield, Tristan said finally. Let me handle your recruitment duties while I’m in London. There’ll be plenty of patriotic fervor in Town with the upcoming celebrations. Send a couple of your men along with me, and I’ll dispatch them back to you in a month. He hated recruiting, but he could hardly ignore the weight bearing down on a friend’s shoulders. Anyway, the recruitment would provide another layer of confusion to anyone monitoring his business in Town. He watched Summersby’s back straighten, his mouth open with a polite protest, silenced by the echoing sounds of retching from the next room in the rented apartment. 

Thank you, Tristan. Summersby’s lips twisted in a sad half-smile. I must accustom myself to calling you Asherton now we’re back on the right side of the Channel. 

Not until you can say it without sounding like you’re talking about my illustrious canker of a sire. Tristan chuckled. I’ll get enough of the disdain rolling off everyone else’s poisoned tongues.

So you mean to redeem the title after all? 

No. Despite the name mother chose for me, I’ve no stomach for vain quests. Tristan shook his head, sifting through the steward’s letters—though his thoughts were on the family’s social standing, not accounts. His father’s wild divorce and scandalous second marriage, his mother’s untimely and much-gossiped-about death, Arthur’s rakehell nature, Lance’s love of gambling, and Tristan’s own eccentric preference to remain abroad as much as possible all weighed against the family name. But I’ve money and the favor of three great generals. Such status may distract the Ton for a time.  

Four. Unless you’re not calling me great, you vagabond. 

Tristan laughed and relaxed against his chair. Is one allowed to praise one’s family to their faces? I thought that was out of fashion. 

My ego does not care for fashion. Besides, we serve Wellington. We must demand praise from fellow officers, for our commander will never give a scrap. 

A sorry truth. Tristan pushed himself out of his seat and seized the brandy from the sideboard to pour them both a measure. Or two. Shall we dine out again? 

Aye. Evelina cannot stand the smell of food. I’ll not vex her with it. 

That will make stopping at inns quite the diversion. 

I’m hoping to be clever and make it in a day to avoid that particular issue. We can take cold meats and simple fare for the duration.

God knows we’ve devoured worse than that a time or two. So long as you forego offering hardtack or horsemeat, I shall call it luxury.

Never again. Summersby grimaced and took the cup from Tristan’s hand, downing the contents in one go and rising to his feet to pour himself the next round. Come with me to the coachbuilders? I’ll see what can be done with our chariot. 

Of course, but I must finish this letter. 

Go to. I’ll brave the fortress to see if she requires any comforts while you sort your steward out. With any luck, the man won’t prove to be a born liar. 

Something I’ll have to see for myself once I can get northward, Tristan answered grimly, returning to the task. His father had been too canny to employ a cheat, but who knew what leash the hound might have slipped once he buried his dread master. The door closed behind Summersby, and Tristan gazed out the window to the sunny, breezy day beyond, his thoughts flying south and east rather than north and west.

Chapter Two

Bath, England. May 9, 1814

What do you think you’re doing?

Elinor gasped, jumping nearly an inch off the sofa, her embroidery hoop falling into her lap as she whirled around to find her unrepentant cousin, Alexander Weston, silhouetted in the narrow drawing-room door, grinning like a loon. Elinor’s right hand clenched on her wool skirt, lest she raise it to shake a finger at him. Stop sneaking up on me like that.

She retrieved the fallen sampler upon which she’d stitched a Bible verse surrounded by yellow and red flowers in Henry’s favorite shades. Upon examination, half a verse, and three flowers was a more apt description. At this rate, it would never be finished before Henry returned. She’d so hoped to give it to him at the moment of his securing a living, when he would see her clever handiwork and know at once she was the perfect partner for his future life…

Alexander crossed the room’s gleaming oak floor and came up behind the sofa, his long arms spanning the length of it as he peered over Elinor’s golden head, no doubt noting the crookedness of the last few stitches. Blast, Elinor thought emphatically. She’d just have to unpick it in the carriage. It could never grace Henry’s chamber in such a state!  She cast a reproachful look at her looming cousin as if it were Alexander’s fault for intruding.

She’d hoped to spend a little more time alone before herself and half the family—her aunt and uncle along with their son Alexander and daughter Arabella— were to be packed tightly into the hired coach. But it felt impossible to be entirely resentful as Alex’s cedar and clove-scented cologne hit her nostrils. It had been so very long since he’d been home for any length of time, she’d almost forgotten what it was like not to miss his vexatious presence.

From her awkward angle below him, she could see a small patch of yellow hair on his chin, easy to miss unless the light hit it just right. The idea of Alex needing to shave felt almost as ridiculous as the stray hair itself. Even though he was but a month younger than her, at the mature age of almost-twenty, something in his air was still as boyish as ever. With a smile, she pointed and said, You missed a spot.

Did I? He lifted a large hand to his face and rubbed his chin. Damn. But instead of fleeing to his shaving kit, he rounded the sofa and sprawled next to her. This close, it was hard to ignore the family resemblance—golden curls, porcelain skin, a certain slenderness of build.  Though Alexander’s striking features looked as if they’d been carved out of stone by Renaissance masters, Elinor felt keenly the softness of her own which more resembled a poorly made doll. And their eyes set them apart, of course. Alex’s were the gentle color of a summer sky just after a storm, and Elinor’s a bright, rather vulgar blue inherited from her equally vulgar father, which she firmly despised. Yet most people—at least initially—mistook her for another Weston child.  She liked to think they were all seeing her future. 

Which she would soon secure by wedding Henry. The moment he bothered to come home and notice her flawless suitability. That could be any day now, truly. With that thought, she picked up the snips from her basket to free her needle and begin unpicking her last unsightly