But now a decade had passed and her parents had as little regard for their friends as they had their daughter, allowing even their longest acquaintances to fall by the wayside as they galavanted around the world like gypsies.
While Prudence’s dowry was ample and her connections better than most, she was hardly in a class of her own. There were any number of women who had more to recommend themselves and quite honestly Prudence thought Mr. Benedict would be foolish not to consider his options.
A flurry of unease unfurled in her belly at the thought.
It was not that she was so very set on this match. After all, she did not even know the man in question. But her aunt was set on it and that was what mattered.
For, if this fell through…
Well, it wasn’t as though there was a queue forming for unwanted, not terribly well connected, plain looking young ladies, now was there?
She shifted as the unpleasant thought was followed by another even more unpleasant sensation.
Fear.
It was fear, plain and simple. All this time she’d taken Mr. Benedict’s procrastination as nothing more than a wealthy man’s whim. He was not in a rush to marry, so why rush the engagement?
But now…
If her great aunt was worried—and she clearly was—then perhaps she ought to be worried, as well.
“I should never have sent you to that school,” her aunt continued. “Miss Grayson clearly allowed you to be as lazy as ever.”
“She did not—” Her protest died in her throat under her great aunt’s withering glare.
Her throat felt choked under the heat of it.
She hadn’t been silly enough to defend herself—nothing she said or did would convince Aunt Eleanor that she was anything other than lazy, fat, and ungrateful. But she couldn’t sit by and let Miss Grayson be slandered.
Miss Grayson, who’d been so kind to her. Even during those moments when the others merely tolerated her, Miss Grayson had treated her with love and kindness.
Almost like a mother.
The thought made her lips twitch upwards. Miss Grayson was not even a decade older than her and she had ten times more beauty than Prudence ever could. She hardly fit the role of her mother.
An older sister, perhaps.
Whatever her role, she ought not to have her name or her school in jeopardy merely because Prudence was a failure at music.
“It wasn’t Miss Grayson’s fault that I haven’t mastered music, Aunt,” she forced herself to continue despite the wicked glare.
“We’ll see about that.”
Prudence blinked in surprise at the cryptic comment. “What does that mean?”
“It means I have taken it upon myself to find you a new tutor. One who has a great reputation for making young ladies such as yourself find the discipline necessary to mastering the pianoforte.”
Prudence straightened with alarm. Images of harsh instructors from her past came back to haunt her as well as the sting of their ruler when she failed to perform without error.
Which would it be? Or had her aunt found someone even more fearsome for her to learn from?
The thought left her winded with a whole new terror that had nothing to do with the spinster life that loomed ahead of her and everything to do with torturous, painful lessons.
“Lord Damian comes highly recommended.”
“Damian?” she repeated without thinking.
“Surely you remember the Marquess of Ainsley’s nephew. He’s made quite a name for himself as a music tutor among the ton.” Her eyes narrowed on Prudence with scorn. “He will whip you into shape or you and your hopes of marriage are as good as done for.”
She blinked once. Then she blinked again. Shock didn’t begin to cover it. Amusement warred with disbelief which battled with incomprehension.
Surely she wasn’t talking about the Lord Damian.
That man wouldn’t know the word discipline if it slapped him across the knuckles.
No, there was only one word that Prudence associated with Damian. And that word…?
Rake.
2
Prim, proper, and utterly impossible. Those were the words that came to mind when Damian tried to recall Miss Prudence.
His lips curved into a sneer at the memory of her when they were young. All goody-two-shoes propriety, even as a child. He and his brother and the other neighboring children would be climbing trees and racing across the meadow or wading in the river, but Prudence?
Oh no. She would never.
He rolled his eyes, only dimly aware of his uncle’s voice intruding on his admittedly childish thoughts.
He really ought to have overcome his dislike of the neighbor girl, and he might have if she hadn’t been the one to get him into trouble at every turn.
A tattletale, through and through.
Even now she was giving him grief and he hadn’t seen the girl in years.
“Damian, are you listening?” His uncle’s brows were arched so high they nearly reached the older man’s thick dark hair, which these last few years had been showing signs of his age as gray edged his temples.
“Er…” No. The answer was clearly no, he had not been listening.
His uncle, the Marquess of Ainsley, sank back in his seat with a weary sigh that made him sound decades older than he was.
Or perhaps that was Damian’s doing. He seemed to have a special knack for making his uncle sigh with weariness.
“You cannot be serious with this music tutoring business,” his uncle said now.
His uncle was a good man. A kind man. Gruff, no doubt, and filled with the sort of old-fashion ideals that made him and all the others of his ilk such a bore to be around. But a good man, nonetheless.
“I am indeed, serious,” Damian said with a pleasantness he hadn’t quite felt since discovering who his new pupil would be.
Prim and prudish Prudence.
Insufferable little brat.
But, money was money, and her great aunt’s money would spend just as well as any others, even if hers would be a good deal more loathsome to earn.
Not that he would ever tell his uncle that.
“Aren’t you at all concerned with your future? Your reputation?” His uncle’s thick brows were drawn together now in confusion and despair.
“Ah yes, my reputation.” Damian smirked. “Perhaps someone ought to have thought about that before cutting me off.”
Wrong thing to say.
Some said the eyes were the window to the soul. For the marquess, the eyebrows were the window to his mood.
When they drew down like this into a fierce glower, it was clear Damian had pushed too far.
“Is that a threat?” his uncle growled. “Is this some sort of childish blackmail, a spoiled child’s idea of comeuppance, perhaps?”
Damian shifted in his seat, discomfited by his uncle’s sharp tone. “No, of course not.”
Not anymore, at least. It had started out that way. Hiring himself out as a music tutor had been a way to thumb his nose at his guardian out of frustration when his funds and life as he knew it had been shut off.
After an admittedly debaucherous stint in London with his friends from school, his uncle had cut off all funds. Rather than tucking his tail between his legs and hurrying home with promises to curtail his revelry and live the life of a pious saint, he’d done the opposite. He’d gone off on his own, determined to make his own way. Tutoring young ladies in music had been a bit of a laugh at first.
He and his chums at the club had joked about how the dimwitted members of society were inviting the rooster into the henhouse. Imagine, paying a gentleman like him to be alone in close quarters with their young and innocent darlings.
But then again, Damian had always excelled at selling himself. His one skill, apart from a knack for music, was to play the role that was expected of him. If an elderly lady in the countryside wanted an upright, studious disciplinarian to teach her great niece the pianoforte, then by golly, he would
be the strictest, most serious music instructor the old bat had ever seen.
His uncle sighed again, this time in defeat. “That is it, isn’t it. You are trying to make a fool of me.”
“No, Uncle, I swear it.” He leaned forward so his uncle could see that he was in earnest. Damian might have been able to fool the world with his acting, but there was only one person on this earth who could see through all that, and that was the man who’d taken him in as a child and raised him as if he were his own son.
“Uncle, I promise you, I am not trying to make a fool of you.” He cleared his throat. “You know I’ve always been grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Hmph.” Despite his huff, Uncle Edward seemed to lose some of his anger with that concession. “Then what do you mean to prove by—”
“I mean to prove that I can make my own way.” The moment the disturbingly upstanding words were out of his mouth, Damian had the alarming realization that there was some truth there.
Judging by his uncle’s wide-eyed stare, he’d come to the same conclusion. “So it means that much to you then?”
“It does.”
Even more alarming? That too was the truth. This whole endeavor had started as a joke. A prank, of sorts, at the very least. But then he’d found that, much to his dismay, he actually liked teaching music.
It helped when the young ladies in question were beautiful, of course. It was very nearly a joy when the girl in question proved to be a flirt. But, above and beyond the divertisement of watching young ladies swoon when he performed for them, there was something else. Something he was loath to name.
Something very similar to...pride.
He shifted uncomfortably again, wishing he was anywhere but here. It was all fine and good to enjoy his new career. It was even better that he’d found some form of pride in what his peers would likely see as a humiliating downgrade in status.
But while it was one thing to feel that way, it was quite another to have to stop and acknowledge the fact.
Intentionally or not, his uncle was rubbing Damian’s nose in the fact that he’d gone and found an—oh curse it. He’d found a work ethic, plain and simple.
As if he could read his mind, his uncle wore a thoroughly satisfied, completely off putting smile when he next spoke. “In that case, I see I have no choice but to condone this new pastime of yours.”
Damian let out a sigh of relief. Not so much because he’d been granted permission—for years now he’d been acting blithely with or without permission of any sort. He was merely relieved that this wretched interview had come to a close.
“But Damian—”
He froze halfway to the door. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. Next his uncle would no doubt make him admit that he was beginning to harbor hopes for the future. He’d make him call it something utterly vile like a ‘life plan’ or some such nonsense.
“If I find out that you are doing this to get close to Miss Pottermouth—”
His short laugh of amusement cut Uncle Edward off before he could finish. Damian turned around. “I assure you, Uncle, I have no nefarious intentions toward the Dowager Demon’s niece.”
Uncle Edward scowled at the nickname but did not argue.
How could he? The dowager duchess’s property had adjoined theirs since time immemorial and his uncle knew their neighbor's character as well as anyone.
Was it any wonder that her ward had been such an unpleasant little brat?
Likely not.
He felt his lips curling in disgust at this flicker of sympathy for the girl who’d made his childhood miserable with her relentless tattling and her ceaseless nagging.
Certainly, she’d been the victim of bad fortune to be raised by the Dowager Demon but that hardly excused her for being a prig.
Uncle Edward was watching him closely. “Are you certain you have no ulterior motives when it comes to Miss Pottermouth?”
Damian rolled his eyes. Did he really have to repeat himself? Couldn’t his uncle have a little trust just this once? But as soon as Damian thought it, he dismissed the idea.
Of course his uncle didn’t trust his word. Why should he? Aside from the fact that his uncle knew very well of his questionable parentage, he had a lifetime of bad behavior to live down.
Or to live up to, depending how one looked at it.
The thought made him grin.
Uncle Edward groaned as he ran a weary hand over his face. “That smile only ever leads to trouble.”
Damian laughed, heading toward the door. “Perhaps. But I can promise you this.” He paused in the doorway. “I have no nefarious hidden agendas when it comes to Miss Prudence Pottermouth.”
Uncle Edward’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So you don’t have any…” He waved a hand, his expression pained. “Feelings for the girl.”
Damian laughed again, because honestly, the thought was ludicrous. He knew what his uncle meant by ‘feelings.’ He meant attraction. Desire.
It had been years since he’d seen the girl but all he felt when he thought of Miss Prudence Pottermouth was contempt.
3
Prudence’s great aunt wasted no time.
The very next morning, Prudence was summoned from the breakfast table—a table at which the servants had been ordered to provide only the bare minimum because of her ‘weight troubles.’
How mortifying.
Her stomach still rumbled with hunger as she left the room at her aunt’s bidding. “We have a full day ahead of us,” her aunt said the moment she entered the drawing room.
Her aunt eyed her from head to toe and she straightened her spine in response, bracing herself for the inevitable criticisms.
Fortunately, this morning her aunt seemed too distracted to delve into specifics and she settled on a simple shake of her head. “We have much work to do.”
Prudence held still. That was it?
She very nearly wilted with relief, but that would have meant that her posture worsened and that would have only incurred more criticism.
So she remained standing as straight as an arrow, her back to the door as she listened to her aunt rattle off a list of all the steps they would take for her improvement.
They had a fortnight to prepare for her possible future husband’s arrival with his family, and Aunt Eleanor meant to make the most of every last second.
“But most importantly, your music lessons.” Aunt Eleanor’s gaze turned sharp. “If you cannot master the pianoforte then perhaps he can teach you how to hold a tune so you don’t embarrass yourself by singing.”
The mere mention of singing had her throat closing up in horror.
“Or we’ll find you some other instrument.” Aunt Eleanor waved a hand as though there were a wide assortment of instruments to be found in the drawing room. “Something that you can’t ruin with those thick fingers of yours.”
Prudence nodded. All she had to do was try, she reminded herself. It was not as though this engagement would be made or broken based on her ability to sing, now would it?
Her aunt took a step closer as the door behind Prudence opened and the butler cleared his throat.
Her aunt took no notice. “Do you understand the gravity of this situation, Prudence?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Of course,” her aunt repeated with a scornful mutter. “I doubt it. If you did, you would have tried harder at Miss Grayson’s school. But you didn’t so now you are here, and do not think for one moment that I will coddle you or allow you to be the lazy ungrateful little cur your mother was as a child.”
The words were barbed arrows, but years of practice taught her how to shield herself against their blows. “Yes, Aunt Eleanor.”
But Aunt Eleanor wasn’t done. “Do you think Mr. Benedict couldn’t have his pick of ladies? Do you believe you are so very special that he will overlook such a monumental flaw?”
She ought to keep quiet. She knew this very well. Yet her entire body quaked with the urge to s
peak, to protest, to defend herself. “But I have many other skills—”
“Other skills?” Her aunt’s face grew flushed and her entire body seemed to quiver with anger.
Fear sliced through Prudence, cold and sickening as she stumbled back a step.
“Do you think Mr. Benedict cares that you can do maths? Do you think he will be so very overcome by your spectacular looks that he’ll forget the fact that he is in need of a wife who can host and that his very business depends on having a wife who can entertain?”
She was still trying to stammer a response when a voice from behind her saved her.
“My apologies for intruding, my lady.”
That voice. She knew that voice.
Spinning around quickly, she found herself right smack in the middle of her worst nightmare.
Him.
Damian the reckless beast was there, in the doorway...and he’d heard.
He’d heard it all, of that she was certain. When his dark gaze flickered in her direction she saw it—worse than any tirade or criticism her aunt could ever throw her way.
Pity.
She saw pity there, and it was so much worse than her friends’ sympathy. It made her insides recoil, her stomach churn.
It made her want to heave those meager contents in her stomach to rid herself of the vile sensation.
“You are late.” Her aunt snapped at him as she strode toward the door, past Prudence, who no longer seemed to exist. The tirade forgotten.
“Apologies again, my lady.” Damian bowed low, his gaze cast down to the floor in respect.
Prudence narrowed her eyes, registering him anew now that the shock of his sudden arrival was waning.
“I arrived a short while ago but did not wish to intrude.”
Her aunt glared at the butler who cowered beside him as he murmured an apology for not interrupting sooner, although Prudence was certain that they all knew he would have been chastised either way. The poor old servant was forever in trouble.
“Hmph.” Her aunt gave a grunt that no one would refer to as ladylike as she eyed Damian from head to toe.
The Misgivings About Miss Prudence: A Sweet Regency Romance (School of Charm Book 4) Page 2