A Scandalous Proposal by Kasey Michaels

of...” She sighed. “Mother. Or perhaps Mama?”
    â€œYou hate when I call you Mother. You have to be joking.”
    â€œI most certainly am not. Henceforth, at least in public—not that I consider this scamp’s presence as anywhere near public —you will address me as Mother.”
    â€œThe gifts heaped on your shoulders just keep mounting, Coop, you lucky dog. Either that, or this figurative hole you spoke of is growing deeper.”
    â€œShut up, Darby. All right, Mother , since you insist. Now why don’t you retire to your chamber, where I’m certain Rose has laid out some sort of refreshment.”
    â€œPerhaps even turnip pie,” Darby said quietly. Too quietly for Minerva to hear, but close enough for Coop to not only hear but be forced to manfully repress a laugh.
    Minerva looked from one to the other. “He said something, didn’t he? Something amusing. What did he say?”
    â€œNothing Min—Mother. Darby’s mouth moves, but he rarely says anything of importance.”
    Minerva smoothed the front of her gown, clearly settling herself in for the duration. “Well, at least we agree on something. Now, shall we travel back to the problem that isn’t your problem, because it definitely seemed very much your problem when I arrived? Come on, lads, one of you open your mouth and say something important, because I’m not leaving here until you do.”
    â€œRace you to the door,” Darby whispered, careful not to move his lips. “Unless you can come up with a convincing fib? Because you’re wrong about the countess’s retirement to her bedchamber, Coop—you need Miss Foster out and about in Society.”
    And that, Cooper was to tell himself later, was how Darby helped him dig that lifelong figurative hole even deeper, until he thought he could see a Chinaman’s straw hat.

CHAPTER SIX
    D RAT THE MAN , Dany thought, standing in front of the pier glass in the hallway just outside the drawing room, slapping her gloves against her thigh. And drat Mari, so firmly sunk beneath the covers that it would take an expedition to find her.
    Does one have one’s gloves on before her escort’s arrival? Does one appeared gloved and hatted and panting like a puppy eager to be put to the leash? Does one race back upstairs, only to descend—gracefully, of course—when the gentleman is announced? Which would be past ridiculous, since that would mean his horses would be left standing while he waited for her to become gloved and hatted and fill the awkward silence with inane chatter such as, “Oh, dear, how the time has flown,” or “Gracious, I had entirely forgotten I’d agreed to drive with you in the park.”
    Whopping great help Mari had been, only lamenting, “For the love of heaven, why won’t she go away,” when Dany had sat herself on the bed and asked these questions.
    So here she stood, still not gloved, although she’d decided the military-type shako might take more than one attempt to settle it jauntily enough over her right eye and finally donned it. Amazingly, with her hands trembling ever so slightly, she managed the perfect level of jaunty in one try.
    Did Emmaline ride with her? Did she, hopefully not, plunk herself down on the seat between the baron and her mistress? If he brought an open town carriage, there would be two seats, and she could have the maid facing her—and watching her—for the entire time. And wouldn’t that be above all things wonderful, since Emmaline possessed an alarming tendency to giggle.
    But no. Young gentlemen didn’t favor such equipages. He was bound to show up with some outlandish curricle, or high perch phaeton (and wouldn’t climbing up into that be interesting, while attempting to keep her ankles covered and her rump inconspicuous?). What about a tiger? Did the baron have one, some poor, terrified young lad in garish livery,