Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  Pru refrained from mentioning that she was less shocked at the idea of Mrs. Northgate flirting—though that was inconceivable—than she was at the woman dancing and laughing.

  “But we fell in love, despite our differences. It was not at all fashionable to marry for love in those days, so we were fortunate that our parents approved the match. And it was a good match for forty years. I made him laugh a little more and he taught me to cultivate an air of gravitas.”

  “It sounds as though it was a happy marriage,” Pru said.

  “Not always. We fought and faced hard times. Our first two babies were delivered stillborn. William was the only child that lived, and he has blessed me with two granddaughters and a grandson to carry on the name.” She leaned closer. “He’s also saddled us all with that shrew of a wife, but that’s what happens when a boy does not listen to his mother. I told him not to marry her, and now he regrets it, of course.”

  During the past few months, Pru had become used to the way people in the village would gossip. She had always felt so anonymous in London or Rome, but here everyone knew everything about everyone else. Still, Mrs. Northgate’s words were a rather shocking revelation. Not because Pru doubted their truth, but because no one of the Northgates’ status ever admitted to matrimonial discord. But Mr. Northgate was never at home, and Pru could only assume that was his choice. Of course, if she had to live with Eliza and Mary Northgate and their sharp-tongued mother, she would find somewhere else to spend her time as well. Poor Mrs. Northgate. She was trapped with them all the time.

  “I don’t tell you this so you’ll pity me,” Mrs. Northgate said, sitting forward. “I’m not to be pitied. I do just fine, and I have my diversions.”

  Pru could only suppose she was one of those diversions. Knowing Mrs. Northgate, Pru supposed the lady not only enjoyed having something to do away from her daughter-in-law but was also pleased that her diversion was something that rankled said daughter-in-law.

  “We all need diversions, Miss Howard,” Mrs. Northgate said. “I imagine Mr. Pope and his peacock are quite the amusement.”

  Pru sighed. “I have enjoyed spending time with him. He’s intelligent and easy to talk to and forthright. But...” She trailed off, fingering the fine material of her russet gown.

  “Go on,” Mrs. Northgate said. She looked at Sterns and made a shooing motion. “Out.”

  When the door closed and they were alone, Pru said, “But he won’t marry me.”

  The older woman sat back. “I assume he has not compromised you else I would have heard the tale.”

  “No,” Pru said, not offering any details.

  “So he knows you have feelings for him? Does he feel the same?”

  “I think so.”

  “Is it an issue of class? He is the son of an earl, albeit the youngest son, and you are the daughter of...well.”

  “I don’t think that’s it.” Although the differences in their class probably did not help the matter.

  “I see. Do you want my advice? Because I do not want to give advice where it is not wanted.”

  This was news to Pru who had been on the receiving end of Mrs. Northgate’s advice more times than she could number.

  “Yes.”

  “Life is short and when you find happiness, you should embrace it with both hands. Even if that happiness is to be short-lived.”

  Pru looked at Mrs. Northgate for a long time. “Do you know,” she finally said, “I believe we are more alike than anyone could guess.”

  “I suppose that may be true.” Mrs. Northgate stood. “But do not ever tell anyone I said that.”

  “Grandmama!” A quick tap sounded on the door and before Mrs. Northgate could call out, it opened to admit Miss Mary Northgate standing in the doorway, her blond curls bobbing. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said to Pru, probably forgetting that she was too good to speak to Pru. She looked rather out of sorts. “Grandmama,” she gasped. “I have such news.”

  “Catch your breath, child, and then out with it.”

  Miss Mary pushed a hand to her abdomen and tried to gulp in air. Meanwhile Miss Northgate strolled behind her. “Mr. Pope is in the village,” she said, smiling triumphantly.

  Miss Mary whirled on her, grasped one of the artful tendrils of hair dangling down the side of her sister’s neck, and yanked it.

  “Ow!”

  “I wanted to tell the news!”

  “You took too long.” Miss Northgate grasped one of Miss Mary’s curls and yanked. Pru looked at Mrs. Northgate, who was watching her. Their eyes met and Mrs. Northgate nodded. “Go,” she said. Then, “Girls, move aside right away. Miss Howard was just leaving.”

  The girls stepped aside without ever pausing in their squabbling. Pru rushed past them, Mrs. Northgate’s admonishments ringing through the vestibule of the house as she collected her coat and gloves and raced toward the center of town.

  Seventeen

  Nash supposed the benefit of being mostly blind was that he could not see the good people of Milcroft staring at him. He imagined he could feel their gazes on him, but Rowden said it was only his imagination and no one was paying him any attention.

  Nash didn’t believe that rot. He could hear the way conversations stalled or petered out as he approached. They’d driven into the village just a quarter hour ago, leaving the carriage at Mr. Langford’s.

  He and Rowden had visited the bakery and the blacksmith. Nash had said very little, allowing Rowden to engage in the awkward conversations with the villagers. Finally, on the way to the general store, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Mr. Pope!”

  Nash turned toward the sound of Mrs. Blimkin’s voice. “Mrs. Blimkin,” he said, bowing in her general direction. “Who let you out of the kitchen?”

  “Oh, you’re very naughty, you are. Mr. Higginbotham is out and about today. I was on my way home until I heard you were in the village. Is Mrs. Brown at Wentmore all alone?”

  “I daresay she isn’t alone,” Rowden added. “We have our usual contingent of workmen there. When we left, she was in the kitchens muttering something about dinner.”

  Nash doubted Rowden had been anywhere near the kitchens today, but he didn’t contradict the other man.

  “She isn’t thinking of making something herself, is she?” Mrs. Blimkin asked, sounding alarmed. “I left her with provisions.”

  “I’m not certain, Mrs. Blimkin. I heard Clopdon ask her if she could make a porridge.”

  “Oh, that awful man! He should not be allowed anywhere near the kitchens.”

  “If you’d like to accompany us back to Wentmore, you are welcome to join us in the carriage.”

  Nash couldn’t see Mrs. Blimkin’s reaction, but he could hear her sharp intake of breath. He was perplexed by it for a moment, until he realized she had probably never ridden in a private carriage before. First, the reference to Clopdon and then the offer of a carriage. Rowden must be quite hungry to be going to such lengths to persuade Mrs. Blimkin to come to Wentmore.

  “Well, I would be honored. I need to stop in at the vicarage and gather a few supplies and set something out for dinner.”

  “We shall come by in a quarter hour for you,” Rowden said.

  “Oh! Yes. Well.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Blimkin,” Rowden said. Nash echoed the sentiment. With a light touch on Nash’s arm, Rowden indicated he would begin to walk again. Nash started after him, trying to keep the little vision he possessed on the shadowy form of his friend. Thank God for Mrs. Blimkin. This torture was almost at an end. All that remained was to call at the store and then collect Mrs. Blimkin from the vicarage.

  The vicarage. Where Pru lived.

  “You won’t believe who is striding toward us right now,” Rowden murmured under his breath.

  Somehow Nash already knew. The air had shifted just a moment before, and he’d known she was close. It was as though he had conjured her with his thoughts. That was ridiculous, of course. She’d no doubt heard he was in the village and c
ame to...what? Tell him off? She wasn’t the sort to pretend to feel anything she didn’t truly feel.

  “I wish you could see her,” Rowden continued. “She’s wearing a dress I haven’t seen before and she looks...hmm.” He made a sound of approval that Nash didn’t care for. He wanted to punch his friend for looking at Pru that way, but instead he tried to prepare himself for the lash of her tongue.

  Perhaps that was the wrong terminology as it produced a very pleasant image in his mind.

  “Mr. Pope and Mr. Payne, how unexpected this is!”

  Nash frowned, hearing neither real warmth nor wrath in her voice.

  “What brings you into the village?” she asked. Nash realized she was providing him the perfect opportunity to answer the question probably everyone in Milcroft was wondering.

  “Well...” Rowden began, but Nash cleared his throat, cutting his friend off. Rowden had been doing all he could to save him from the asylum. It was time Nash saved himself.

  “Good day, Miss Howard,” he said, giving her a slight bow, which served to remind the curious villagers that he was the son of an earl and a gentleman, not some monster at the castle on a cliff. “I have fond memories of Milcroft from my childhood. I told Mr. Payne I wanted to stop in at some of the shops now that my—er, health has improved.”

  “I see,” she said. They must have several people around them because she wasn’t chastising him for the way they’d last parted. “I won’t keep you then. Good day.” Her step sounded on the stones, and Nash struggled for a way to keep her from walking away.

  “Miss Howard,” he said, grateful when her steps halted. “We are on our way to the vicarage after this stop to collect Mrs. Blimkin.” He didn’t know why he said this, other than to keep talking to her. Perhaps to let her know the best way to avoid him...or to see him again?

  “The vicar is not at home today,” she said. “After the rains the other night”—there was a slight pause that he thought perhaps only he detected—“the field where we had thought to hold the autumn festival is now far too muddy. Mr. Higginbotham went to inspect several other possible settings.”

  “Autumn festival?” Rowden said, and Nash did not like the tone in his voice. “What is an autumn festival?”

  “Oh, but you must come,” said a woman’s voice. “It is ever so diverting.”

  “We have food and games and fellowship,” another woman added.

  Clearly, Rowden had some admirers here in Milcroft. Nash didn’t know anything about an autumn festival. It must be something that had begun in recent years.

  “Of course, we will come,” Rowden said. Nash muttered, “Speak for yourself,” under his breath. He was not going two miles within range of an autumn festival. He’d had enough people looking at him for a year.

  “In fact,” Rowden added. “I think we should host the festival at Wentmore.”

  Nash jerked in surprise.

  “The grounds are extensive enough, and we have enough workmen at the house to...er, tidy them up.”

  Nash had not seen the grounds, of course, but he imagined they needed more than tidying.

  “When is this festival?”

  “Saturday,” Pru said, her voice catching Nash’s attention. She was too far away to touch, which was a good thing as Nash desperately wanted to touch her.

  “I’m afraid that’s not enough time,” Nash said. “I would be happy to host next year.”

  “Oh, you are being too modest,” Rowden said, clapping a hand on Nash’s shoulder hard enough to rattle Nash’s bones. He gripped Nash tightly, and Nash had to struggle not to flinch. “The grounds will absolutely be ready. Miss Howard, would you let the vicar know that it would be Mr. Pope’s honor to host the autumn festival this year?”

  There was a measurable pause. “Of course,” she said, her voice full of skepticism. Clearly, she knew Nash was being strong-armed, literally, into hosting. “I will speak with him this evening,” she said. “Good day.”

  “She’s walking away,” Rowden muttered.

  Nash knew this, and he knew he should allow her to go.

  “Do something,” Rowden muttered. “Or you’ll regret it.”

  “Miss Howard!” Nash called.

  “Yes?” she answered, sounding slightly farther away.

  “Might we drive you back to the vicarage in the carriage?”

  “That’s the idea,” Rowden said.

  “It’s not a long walk,” she said. “I can manage.”

  So much for his idea, Nash thought.

  “Surely you don’t want to get dust on your new dress,” Rowden said, sounding so completely unlike himself that Nash would have questioned the speaker was his friend if he hadn’t been standing beside him. Rowden smacked Nash’s shoulder.

  “I really must insist,” Nash said.

  “Very well.” Pru didn’t sound annoyed, exactly. She sounded confused and wary. Nash couldn’t blame her. He was confused himself. Why could he not allow her to walk away?

  “We’ll have to stop in at the store another day,” Rowden said, no doubt for the benefit of their audience. “Come, Miss Howard.”

  Nash imagined he was taking her arm, but instead he yanked Nash forward and locked her hand on his arm. The feel of her warmth beside him was like coming home to a cozy chamber after being out in the freezing rain. He instantly relaxed, the eyes of the villagers not mattering quite so much. He could manage the whispers and stares with her at his side. He leaned closer to her, catching a hint of her scent, mixed with something new. It must be the fabric of her dress. She hadn’t worn it enough for it to soak up her fragrance. Nash could remember burying his nose in her hair that night they’d spent together, wanting to drown every one of his senses in her.

  “Why are you doing this?” she hissed, sounding as though she were speaking out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Seeing you to the vicarage seems like the gentlemanly thing to do,” he said, knowing full well that was not at all what she meant.

  “Don’t be obtuse.”

  Nash had always been anything but obtuse, but he felt incredibly dull-witted at the moment. All of his life he had sought to keep hidden, to use surprise to his advantage. As long as he kept his head down and his aim steady, he was safe. But Pru would pull him out into the open. And if he didn’t control his feelings for her now, she would paint an enormous target on his chest. Without his only defense, his sight, he was even more exposed and vulnerable.

  Nash had always prided himself on making split second decisions—fire or hold fire. Kill or stand down. The few times he had made the wrong decision—when he’d fired at a child or an unarmed woman—he had known, even in the instant he pulled the trigger, that he’d made a mistake. It was as though his mind screamed no and his body acted anyway. The experience of losing control of his actions for that instant had been jarring, all the more so because of the regret and guilt he’d felt afterward.

  He felt that way now. His mind told him no, but his body acted without him. His hand covered Pru’s, and he pulled her slightly closer. “I’ve missed you,” he said. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t know why he said it. Yes, he’d missed her, but she didn’t need to know that. It didn’t change anything to tell her. She wasn’t safe with him, and when his father sent him to the asylum, her association with him would only hurt her reputation. She couldn’t afford that. She was the daughter of poor missionaries who had foisted her on a vicar. A charity case.

  A true gentleman would let her go.

  And he would, Nash told himself. He just needed one more minute with her. One more hour. One more day.

  One more night.

  “You’ve missed me?” Pru asked, her voice softer than it had been. That was when he heard the hurt in her voice, and the ache that lanced through him, knowing he’d caused her pain, almost left him breathless. He wanted to ease that pain, soothe it away, atone for it.

  “Terribly,” he said, and it was true. He hadn’t let himself feel how much he had ached for her u
ntil this moment when she was at his side again. He couldn’t allow himself to feel it because the anguish would have been too much. How was he ever to let her go again?

  She seemed to make the decision for him, pulling away from him. “Here is the carriage,” she said. He could make out the large form of it and was glad to climb inside so as to be somewhat hidden from the curiosity of the village.

  The carriage began to move and Pru made a sound of pleasure. “I’ve only been in a carriage a few times in my life,” she said. “Most of those were hackneys. None as lovely as this.”

  Nash had a vague memory of the coach. It was nothing special, but then he’d grown up as the son of an earl and took carriages for granted, he supposed.

  “Now that it is back in good working order, we’ll have to make sure to send it for you,” Rowden said.

  “Thank you.”

  Nash could hear the rejection in the tone of her voice. There was a but coming, and Nash didn’t want to hear it.

  “But Mr. Pope and I have finished with our lessons in night writing. He knows the chart now and just needs to practice, and he doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder.”

  Nash would have argued he did need her looking over his shoulder. And at his side. And in his arms. Instead, he said, “I need you to help with the autumn festival.”

  “Me? I’ve never been to the autumn festival. I have no idea what the village expects. Mrs. Blimkin can be of much more service than I.”

  “We have promised to fetch her from the vicarage,” Rowden said. “We need all the assistance we can muster. Ah, here we are.”

  The coach slowed, and Rowden opened the carriage door before the servants could jump down and do so. He closed it behind him, quite purposefully leaving Nash and Pru alone.

  “Excuse me,” she said, moving toward the door.

  Nash reached out and groped until he managed to grasp her wrist. “Wait.”

  He could feel her tense, could feel her desire to escape him. But she didn’t move, didn’t pull away. That must mean she still felt something for him. Didn’t it?

  “Walk with me,” he said on a whim. He was no great walker, but it seemed the only way to be alone with her and to ensure she wouldn’t make an excuse and stay behind in the vicarage.