by Anne Gracie
Missy thought of the way the rascally knave’s mouth had almost devoured hers. She thought of a long-fingered hand cupping her breast and stroking it in a way that made a shiver pass straight through her, leaving her toes curling at the mere memory. Yes, she knew all too well what he meant. Prudence, knowing she had turned scarlet, hung her head, and said in a low voice, “No, Great-uncle Oswald, Lord Carradice never touched me in an improper manner.”
“Hmph! Didn’t suppose so. A rake like Carradice wouldn’t waste his time dallyin’ with a plain and virtuous gel,” Great-uncle Oswald said gloomily. “Pity.”
Prudence stared at him in shock. Pity?
Great-uncle Oswald saw her look. “Full o’ juice, Carradice.”
Prudence still didn’t understand.
“Not that I approve of such goin’s on, for I don’t, but all the same, if there had been hanky-panky, it wouldn’t have been a bad match for you,” Great-uncle Oswald explained. “Settled you right and tight.”
“But would Lord Carradice wish to be settled right and tight?” Prudence said with an edge to her voice. “I cannot imagine it—not if he has such a famous reputation as a rake.”
“Ah, well, as to that, marriage gives a rake respectability.”
Prudence couldn’t think how, for it seemed to her that if a man had been trapped into marriage he would have no incentive at all to change his dissolute habits. It seemed likely to her that in such a case a rake would most likely continue in his rakish ways. And she pitied the woman married to that rake, for she would probably be miserable.
Probably.
There might be some compensations, she thought wistfully, recalling the exquisite sensations she had experienced on Cleopatra’s barge.
“But since he didn’t attempt any hanky-panky, we won’t force the rascal’s hand.”
Prudence sat up. “I would never allow anyone to force a man to wed me, hanky-panky or not. The very thought is utterly repugnant. It would be completely humiliating.”
“Hmph! You can’t call a splendid match like that humiliatin’, my gel. Don’t matter how it came about, a good match is a good match, and I don’t deny Carradice is a better match than even I’d hoped for—for you.”
“I think it would be a perfectly frightful thing,” Prudence declared hotly. “Married off to a man who cares not a button for you, merely in order to prevent a little scandal!”
“You’ve led a sheltered life,” Great-uncle Oswald said simply. “You don’t understand these things.” He sighed. “It don’t matter, anyway—question is entirely academic, since he never laid a finger on you, nor promised anything in a letter. I suppose we have to be grateful that he didn’t come across your lovely sisters in Norfolk.” He snorted. “Though I suppose they were mere children at the time. Deuced good thing, too. Couldn’t see a blasted libertine holdin’ back with one of those little beauties in his arms. Lucky it was you, eh, Prue?”
Prue just looked at him. Not even to get out of this mess would she admit to being grateful for being too plain for even a rake to seduce.
“What am I saying?” Great-uncle Oswald said apologetically. “I don’t mean it was lucky at all. He bruised your tender heart, didn’t he? Not used to admiration from any man, let alone a London rake. Like putty in his hands, weren’t you, poor little lass?” He reached out and patted her knee clumsily. “A few stray compliments and you took him at his worthless word. Turned your little head, didn’t he, Prue?”
Prudence gritted her teeth, mortified. The fact that the picture was false didn’t make it any better. She might not have had her head turned by Lord Carradice as a girl of sixteen, but this morning, at the advanced age of almost one and twenty, she’d acted no better than her gullible maid, and allowed a libertine to—to take liberties with her person. Worse; she’d flowered under his touch.
It was pathetic when she thought about it.
She was unused to compliments from men. Grandpapa was virulently uncomplimentary, and Phillip was the practical sort, not given to flowery speeches. Great-uncle Oswald freely gave her compliments about her noble soul, but since they were interspersed with comments about her plainness, they failed to turn her head.
She probably was susceptible to a cozening rogue. She had been putty in his hands, the softest, most pathetically eager putty, right up until the last few moments, she realized bitterly.
At least plain Prudence Merridew had summoned enough self-respect to reject the irresistible Lord Carradice in the end.
Prudence sighed as her customary honesty reasserted itself. It was not self-respect that had made her reject him. It was neither respectability nor virtue. It was simply the fear of discovery that had put a particle of common sense back into her foolish, dazzled brain. Had there been no danger of discovery, she would probably have allowed him anything. And reveled in every minute of it.
…slaves to their base animal instincts…
It must have been instinct, she told herself, recalling the way her body had molded itself to his without any consciousness on her part. The sensations she had experienced in his arms, delicious as they were, certainly had nothing to do with reason or logic or any of the other principles so important to enlightened humankind.
“Never mind, Prue.” Great-uncle Oswald patted her knee again. “We all make fools of ourselves at some time.” He peered at her in a gruff, kindly way.
Prudence felt tears pricking behind her eyelids. He looked so much like Grandpapa, but there was no comparison. Beneath the noise and bluster and foppish appearance, Great-uncle Oswald was a dear. She had spent all her life braced against hostility and harshness. She had no defense against kindness.
“The duke seemed a decent-enough fellow, don’t you think?” Great-uncle Oswald asked with a touch of anxiety. “I’ll have to be polite to him, my dear. I don’t mind cuttin’ a rake like Carradice if I have to, but I don’t think I could cut a duke, Prue.”
Prudence nodded vaguely. She had no interest in dukes. She had been momentarily dazzled by a rake with as much morality as a cat and a smile that ought not to be legal. But she knew the dangers now. She felt a sudden twinge in her stomach; Great-uncle Oswald’s herbal purge making its presence felt. She grimaced and rose hurriedly, wishing there was an equally effective herbal remedy against rakes. But she had an uneasy suspicion Lord Carradice would not submit to a purge the way her breakfast undoubtedly had.
As she stood, the butler, Niblett, threw open the door. “The Duke of Dinstable,” he announced in a sonorous voice.
Prudence glanced at Great-uncle Oswald in horror. Why would the duke come calling so soon? What would he say? Would he demand an explanation? What would she say? And would he be accompanied by his cousin? She held her breath and stared at the door.
The Duke of Dinstable, dressed in neat, buff breeches, gleaming Hessian boots, and a coat of dark blue superfine, quietly entered the room. “How do you do, Sir Oswald, Miss Merridew,” he said, bowing politely.
Slightly bemused by the unexpected visit, Great-uncle Oswald invited the duke to be seated. With some reluctance Prudence resumed her seat. One did not rush from the room the instant a duke entered it, and her dilemma was not one she could raise in polite company
“I came to inquire about Miss Merridew’s health,” said the duke. “Miss Merridew, have you quite recovered from your indisposition?”
Miss Merridew, finding the urge of Great-uncle Oswald’s herbal purge most insistent, hastily assured him she was indeed completely recovered.
The duke expressed himself delighted to hear it. He then made a comment about the weather they had been having and asked Prudence’s opinion of it.
Prudence responded that it had been quite delightful, such glorious sunshine, such balmy breezes for this time of year, and wondered desperately how soon she could leave the room without causing offense. She would never again swallow one of Great-uncle Oswald’s herbal concoctions.
Great-uncle Oswald rang the bell and ordered refreshments. Peppermint
tea and plain oat biscuits. The duke blinked but said nothing.
The herbal concoction within asserted itself again and Prudence leaped to her feet abruptly. The two gentlemen instantly leaped to theirs, politely.
She stared at them wildly. “I, er…I need to…”
Just then the door opened and Charity, the twins, and Grace entered, the latter three talking animatedly between themselves.
“Oh Prudence, dear, there you are,” Charity said. “We were planning to walk in the park and were looking for you to see if you cared to come with—oh!” She broke off, staring at the visitor.
The visitor stared back. The other girls stopped their chatter and broke into hasty curtsies.
“Oh dear.” Hope rose carefully from her curtsy. “We didn’t realize you had company, Great-uncle Oswald.”
“Yes, we thought Prudence was alone. We’re very sorry for barging in like this,” Faith added.
“Quite all right, my dears. Let me introduce you to our distinguished guest, the Duke of Dinstable.”
The girls gasped, bobbed another curtsy, and with one accord, turned their horrified faces to Prudence.
Prudence had no interest in their horror; she was entirely occupied with the effects of herbs. “I—I shall see to the refreshments. Pray, excuse me a moment, Great-uncle Oswald, Your Grace.” And she rushed from the room.
Great-uncle Oswald frowned. “Don’t know what’s got into the gel. Butler can bring ’em in perfectly well and what she thinks cooks, maids, and footmen are for, I don’t know!” Shaking his head, he continued, “Your Grace, may I present my other great-nieces? This is Miss Charity Merridew, the second oldest.”
His face blank of all expression, the duke bowed over Charity’s outstretched hand. “M-Miss Charity.”
“Then there are the twins, Miss Hope and Miss Faith.”
The duke didn’t move. He held Charity’s hand, staring. Charity, blushing prettily, tugged gently at her hand.
“Miss Hope and Miss Faith.” Great-uncle Oswald repeated in a loud voice.
The duke started, glanced at Great-uncle Oswald, dropped Charity’s hand, and swiftly murmured polite greetings to the twins.
“And this is the baby of the family, Miss Grace Merridew.”
The duke murmured vaguely, “How do you do, Miss Grace. Er…You were planning to walk in the park this afternoon, you said? All of you? Together?” His gaze flickered briefly.
“Yes, Hyde Park. All the fashionable people go there at this time of the day—on the strut, you know,” Grace explained artlessly. “It is so interesting to see everyone dressed up in their finest.”
“Yes, quite. Er, perhaps we shall meet there, one day,” the duke said, looking at no one in particular.
It was midafternoon when Gideon finally gave up all pretense of sleeping. He ought to have slept. He was tired; he’d been up all night playing piquet. And he’d had quite a bit to drink, which usually ensured him a sound sleep. But something—or rather, someone—had prevented him from sleeping.
A small, curvaceous someone with huge gray eyes and curly copper hair whose soft, surprised little mouth had made him forget who he was for several long, unforgettable moments…
A small, determined whirlwind, most improbably called Prudence. He smiled to himself and stretched languorously in his big, wide bed. Whoever had named her Prudence was way off the mark. Imprudence was more like it. He chuckled again. Miss ImPrudence Merridew. He liked it. What would she have to say to that, the next time he saw her?
He stretched again, enjoying the energy that surged through his body, and thought of the next time he’d see her. Because of course there would be a next time. And soon.
He couldn’t get that kiss, those kisses, out of his mind. In those few moments, with Prudence on the couch, he’d lost all sense of himself, or where he was. There was only her…
He couldn’t recall when that had last happened. He wasn’t sure if it had ever happened.
He would see her again. He could remain sensible and indulge his curiosity at the same time. There was no danger. He glanced at the slabs of afternoon sunshine sliding imperceptibly across the floor, snatched his watch from the bedside table, and flicked it open. Nearly four o’clock. Just enough time to pay a call on Miss ImPrudence Merridew and her Great-uncle. Suddenly energized, he bounded out of bed, calling for his valet, and for hot water and his razor to be brought in. And his phaeton to be ordered for half-past four.
Miss Prudence may have made the acquaintance of an unshaven shag bag this morning, but this afternoon she would receive a call from an immaculate Corinthian.
Not that he had any intention of pursuing her; he didn’t dally with innocents and marriage was no part of his plans. But…he had to find out whether that kiss was a fluke or not, find out whether he would find himself lost in sensation again…
Besides, he owed it to Edward to discover what game she was playing.
His first thought on meeting her—his second, actually; his first had been what a sweet face she had—had been that it was some kind of plot to entrap his cousin. He’d expected trouble since that mention of him in the Morning Post. A young, wealthy duke, as yet unwed and newly come to town, was a temptation, not simply to matchmaking mamas, or ambitious great-uncles.
But Prudence had repeatedly ended the false betrothal. Even when Gideon’s levity had threatened his own head with a matrimonial noose, she’d dragged it back out out of danger.
Why had he done that? He pondered the matter deeply and could come up with no satisfactory solution. It must have been the brandy. He could think of no other reason for such a burst of insanity. Brandy had never before incited him to flirt with the possibility of marriage.
Thank the Lord she’d continued to repudiate him.
Although when he’d kissed her, it was a different story…Her hesitant, surprised, instinctive response to him was not only intensely arousing, it had somehow struck a chord deep within him.
His reaction had been so primitive it shocked him. She was his. His! But he’d never been the possessive type.
How had that happened? How had he allowed it to happen? His brows drew together. He would have to warn Edward about that particular batch of brandy. It obviously had very peculiar effects.
He owed a debt of gratitude to Miss Prudence Merridew.
Gideon could not imagine any other young unmarried woman of his acquaintance passing up the opportunity to snare, if not himself, then the Carradice fortune. In any case, the number of women who’d rejected him in any way was gratifyingly small. Yet Miss Prudence Merridew had most unmistakably rejected him. Several times. Wielding that damned lethal reticule like a little Amazon, to emphasize her point.
Now he came to think of it, that reticule was something of a gauntlet. Carradices never backed down from gauntlets.
Gideon was waiting in the hall for his phaeton to be brought around when the butler coughed discreetly at his elbow. “Excuse me, my lord. A message from the stables: A crack in the wheel of your phaeton has been discovered, and your man has taken it to the wheelwright to be mended.”
“Blast!”
At that moment the duke walked in the front door, his expression slightly glazed.
Gideon turned to him. “The most irritating thing, Edward—there’s a damned crack in my phaeton wheel, and I was planning to drive out just now. Could I borrow your curricle?”
The duke didn’t reply. With a preoccupied air, he allowed Bartlett to remove his driving coat.
“Wake up, Cousin! I asked you a question.” Gideon eyed his reflection critically in the hall looking glass and adjusted his hat to a more dashing tilt. “I presume you’ve finished with your curricle. Can I borrow it this afternoon?”
Edward nodded. “Hmm, yes, of course. But the curricle is being repainted. I’m using my mother’s landau. Send a message to Hawkins, Bartlett.”
The butler bowed and snapped a finger to a waiting footman, who sped off.
“The landau! That s
todgy—but there, I’m being ungrateful. The landau it shall be.” Gideon frowned critically at his own reflection. “Everything all right, Edward? You look like a stunned mullet,” he said with vague cousinly concern as he adjusted the high-standing points of his collar. “Where did you go?”
“Er, paid a call.”
“Did you now?” Gideon said cheerily, making a minor alteration to a fold of his neckcloth. “Brave fellow, I thought you dreaded—” He whirled around and eyed his cousin narrowly. “Who did you call on, Edward?” he said in quite a different tone.
Edward looked a little self-conscious. “I’m in a hurry, Gideon. I am going out again.”
“Who, Edward?”
But Edward had apparently discovered a piece of fluff on his coat and was engrossed in removing it. When he looked up again, his face was tinged with pink.
Gideon frowned in darkest suspicion. “You called on Miss Prudence Merridew, didn’t you?”
Edward raised his brows haughtily. “If a lady becomes indisposed in my house, it is only polite to enquire after her health.”
“Don’t raise those Penteith brows at me, Edward, I’m immune to ’em. As for her being indisposed, you know perfectly well that faint wasn’t genuine. There’s no use trying to flummery me—you tried to steal a march on me with Miss Merridew!”
The duke shrugged and said mildly, “Steal a march, dear boy? How very vulgar. We of the house of Penteith never steal anything. We’ve never needed to. It was the Carradices who distinguished themselves as—what was the euphemism?—border raiders, was it not?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
The duke smiled. “Dearest Coz, you claimed to have no interest in Miss Merridew, and naturally, as a gentleman I took you at your word. Now, I really must leave.”
“But you just got home!” Gideon frowned as his cousin set a curly-brimmed beaver carefully on his neatly pomaded locks. “For a reputed hermit, you’ve become very sociable all of a sudden. Where are you going now? Do you need the landau to drop you off?”