The Proposition Read Online Free PDF Page B

it could be damaging. She was allowed her little life on the fringe of society partly because she had been born to society, but partly too because she didn't challenge it.
    But, oh, to fool the duke and know she had fooled him for the rest of her days. Yes—
    No. No, no, it was a dangerous idea. But in imagination, it was amusing to consider. In fantasy, the idea made something inside her give a joyous jump. A small, vindictive lurch in her chest that was surprising for its liveliness. What a thought: Old Milford Xavier Bollash, the fifth Duke of Arles, mocked by his plain cousin for whom he had no use.
    She looked at the mustachioed man in front of her. He swilled tea like a pint of lager, grasping the teacup whole in the palm of his hand. He drained his cup, then raised his hand, clicking his tongue and snapping his fingers to get the waiter's attention. When the waiter looked over in alarm, Mr. Tremore pointed, a downward poking gesture with his finger, and called, "We'd 'ave s'more, Cap'n."
    Dear Lord. His manners were a nightmare. He was unwashed, threadbare, and coming apart at his buttons.
    Yet there was something about him. His posture was straight. His teeth were good. Excellent, actually. A shave, a haircut, some good, clean clothes. And a trim, at the very least, of that feral-looking mustache. Why, there was no telling. He would probably clean up rather well, which, with the girls at least, was always half the battle.
    When the second cup of tea came, he wouldn't let the waiter take the old cup. Then Mr. Tremore reached under the table and withdrew a surprise—the animal from his pocket, the one he'd saved at his own expense.
    It was a small, weasly-looking thing. A ferret. It had to be, though Edwina had never seen one. But that was what ratcatchers used, wasn't it? Ferrets and terriers? What a vocation.
    It had a shiny brown coat and a long, supple body, which it folded in half to "kiss" Mr. Tremore on his dark-stubbled cheek. The animal's shape was strange but good, she supposed, for wiggling through rat mazes and rabbit burrows. One of nature's better adaptions.
    When Mr. Tremore lowered it out of sight, he also took the teacup. A moment later, the cup returned to the table, missing tea—or rather tea was in different places, in little sprinkles all around the inside of it.
    She frowned. While the two brothers continued to argue, she argued with herself, staring at a ferret's tea-cup. A ratcatcher. Don't be preposterous, Edwina. An illiterate, crude ratcatcher— Yet Mr. Tremore's eyes, as they remained intent upon his animal, his livelihood, were alert. Astute. He was a slurp one, there was little doubt. Not well-educated, but not unintelligent.
    He glanced up suddenly, from re-pocketing the ferret, then caught her staring. He winked at her.
    She jerked, blinked, then picked up her own teacup, pouring her attention into it. Goodness. Certainly, if he were willing to tone down his swagger to mere arrogance, he would have enough of it to fit in with Arles and his lot. A little help with his diction, a few rules and manners…
    Besides, he only had to get through one evening, not a lifetime. And he seemed able to wind his impromptu way through any number of scrapes.
    A ratcatcher. Oh, yes. It was delicious. To pass a London ratcatcher off on the duke as a … a viscount.
    Not so dangerous, she told herself. She could do it. No one would know. Just herself, a thirsty Cockney-fled Cornishman, and two quarrelsome brothers—none of whom would want the truth to come out.
    Meanwhile, what a gift that knowledge would be: I outdid him, outfoxed him. Made a mockery of what deserves to be mocked. It would be her triumph, her little joke for the sake of her own amusement. At the expense of her old cousin, the Duke of Arles, also known as the Marquess of Sissingley—once her own father's title—and other lesser titles, who, by any and all his names and titles, deserved to be made fun of. Most surely he did.
    The