An Improper Proposal by Patricia Cabot

stained shirt from her husband’s enormous frame. “Don’t shout so. We discussed this. You’re going to stay in London with me and find a nice viscount to marry. Maybe a duke, if we’re lucky.”
    “I don’t want a duke!” Payton declared. “I want—I want—” She broke off, shocked at herself. Good Lord, what was happening to her? She seemed to be coming unglued at the seams. She had practically admitted—and in front of one of her brothers, no less—who it was she really wanted.
    “Payton, I know what you want, darling.” Georgiana spoke gently. “But you know you can’t have it.”
    “Why?” Payton demanded.
    “You know why, darling. It’s why we’re here.”
    “But that’s what I don’t understand.” Payton shook her head until both her hair combs came out, this time. “Why is he marrying her?”
    “Are you two,” Ross asked curiously, “talkin’ about Drake?”
    “Yes,” said his wife, exasperated, at the same time that Payton shouted, ” No!”
    Ross let out a snort. “I thought,” he said, “it was bloody well obvious why he’s marryin’ ’er.”
    “Ross,” Georgiana said warningly.
    “No,” Payton said. “I’d like to hear this. Why is he marrying her, Ross? Is it because of her looks? Because of her sweet disposition? Because all she ever says is ‘Yes, dear,’ and ‘No, dear,’ and ‘Anything you say, dear’? Well, I’d like to know what’s so bleeding great about that! If you ask me, it’s bloody damn well boring!”
    “‘S’got nothing to do with all that,” Ross said disgustedly. “I thought it was obvious. It’s because—”
    “Ross!” Georgiana cried, her fingers flying to her cheeks.
    “—she’s carryin’ ’is brat.”
    Payton blinked. She did not think she could have heard her brother aright. She thought he’d said the word “brat.” But surely that wasn’t accurate. He must have said “rat.”
    But “rat” didn’t make any sense. Why should Miss Whitby be carrying Drake’s rat? Drake didn’t even have a rat. He didn’t especially like them, although he had never, like her brothers, killed any with the heel of his shoe, preferring, like Payton, to let the shipboard cats take care of the problem.
    He must have said “brat.”
    And yet that didn’t make any sense, either.
    “Brat?” she echoed.
    Georgiana flashed her husband an aggrieved look. “Really, Ross. I asked you not to—”
    “Well, why shouldn’t she know?” Ross, shirtless, shrugged. “She’s nineteen, for pity’s sake. And if you’re going to be shovin’ ’er out into the marriage market, then she’d better bloody well get an idea of how these things work. Besides, it’s not like Payton’s exactly unfamiliar with the facts of life. Mei-Ling taught ’er all about ’em. Didn’t she, Pay?”
    Payton was still too stunned to make any sort of reply, so Ross went on casually. “Well, you remember what happened at our wedding breakfast, don’t you, Georgie? How Payton so impressed your sisters by tellin’ ’em that if they took a sea sponge and cut it up and soaked it in some muckety-muck or another, and then stuck it up their—”
    “Ross!” Georgiana had turned a delicate shade of umber.
    Ross shrugged, then grinned down at his little sister. ‘Too bad you didn’t impart that little bit of information to Miss Whitby, eh, Pay?”
    “Ross. Really.” Georgiana turned her concerned gaze on Payton. “Payton? Are you all right?”
    Indignant at the chilly look his wife had shot him, Ross demanded, “What the hell did I do? Drake’s the one who couldn’t keep his trousers buttoned, not me.”
    Suddenly, Payton felt extremely warm. It was midsummer, true, but up until then the house had seemed pleasantly cool, situated as it was on a hill, where a soft breeze continuously moved through the many open windows. Now, however, it was as if the wind had died altogether, and the wails of the manor house were closing in on her. She had a distinct feeling