“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” she said at once. “Robert will be returning shortly. In the meantime, I shall remain right by this pillar. I shan’t move an inch, I promise. Go on.”
Uncle Stephen needed no further urging, and he departed for the smoking room, leaving Prudence alone at last. She continued to watch the duke as he conversed with several companions, and when one of them said something to make him smile, the strangest sensation happened inside of her. Her tummy dipped with a weightlessness that made her feel as if she were in one of those elevator contraptions.
Suddenly, he glanced past his companions and saw her. His gaze caught at her face, lingered there, and everything in Prudence seemed to freeze. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t turn away. Would he remember her? Surely not. A duke would never remember a mere seamstress. Yet, he did not look away, and a slight frown creased his brow, as if she seemed familiar and he was trying to place her.
When he murmured something to his friends, disengaged himself from their circle, and started through the crowd in her direction, joy surged up within her, followed at once by sheer panic. By the time he reached her, her heart was thudding in her chest with such force that it hurt.
She hadn’t realized until now just how tall he was. Prudence measured her own height at five feet and three full inches. Despite that somewhat optimistic estimate and the fact that she was wearing heels, the top of her head still barely reached his chin, and his powerful physical presence did little to calm her nerves.
“By all that’s wonderful, it’s Miss Bosworth!” he greeted her. Before she could gather her wits enough for any sort of reply, he took up her hand and bowed over it, lifting her fingers to his mouth in the proper manner, his lips not quite touching the fabric of her glove. “This is a lovely surprise,” he added as he straightened and let go of her hand. “I thought I would never see you again.”
He’d thought about her? Pleasurable warmth radiated through her body, adding to the quixotic mix of her emotions. “Hullo,” she said, wishing she could think of something charming and clever to say, but that short, inelegant greeting was all she could manage. Any further words seemed caught in her throat, suspended there by the sweetness of simply looking at him and trying to believe he was truly glad to see her.
“I hope you haven’t had to endure Alberta’s tantrums tonight,” he said, leaning closer, a teasing gleam in his green eyes. “If you tell me she has been abusing you again, I shall be forced to come to your rescue.”
His greeting and his words made her realize he didn’t yet know of her inheritance. The blissful warmth in her deepened and spread. “What a gallant offer,” she said, striving to sound nonchalant, as if she conversed with dukes every day of her life, “but it isn’t necessary. I’ve come for the opera.” She gestured toward the stairs to her left. “My cousins have a box.”
“A box? But surely a seamstress—” He broke off, and looked away as if embarrassed.
“Surely, a seamstress, if she could afford to attend the opera at all, would be in the cheap seats?” she finished for him.
He tugged at his cravat like an abashed schoolboy. “Sorry,” he muttered and returned his gaze to hers. “My mistake. Was that terribly snobbish of me?”
“No, it’s perfectly understandable, given how we met. But you see, I have had a change in my situation—” She broke off, reluctant to explain. Once he knew of her inheritance, he was sure to discover she was also illegitimate, and when that happened, his manner toward her would change. He was a duke, after all. Legitimacy of birth was everything to people of his class. Though it was probable that he would eventually learn the truth, she decided to postpone the inevitable moment as long as possible. “I have been rather at odds with my mother’s family,” she said, skirting the vital points. “We are attempting to reconcile.”
To her relief, he did not pry.
“Rum thing, families, but I wish you every success, Miss Bosworth. Although for my part,” he added, looking doubtful, “I don’t think listening to Wagner would put me in a forgiving and amenable state of mind. What is your opinion?”
She made a face, and he threw back his head and laughed. “Wagner not your cup of tea either, I see.”
She liked his laugh. It was deep and rich and made her laugh, too. “I suppose it’s because I can’t understand what they’re saying,” she told him. “I don’t speak German.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Alas, no. I do speak French, though. My mother taught me French when I was a little girl.”
“I only ask because I believe you would like Italian opera far better than the German.” He moved a bit closer to her. “This is the closing night of Wagner. Verdi’s Aida, which is sung in Italian, begins two days hence. If you plan to attend, I should be happy to act as your translator.”
Her heart gave a leap of joy. “Thank you. I would—”
“Prudence!”
She almost groaned aloud at the sound of her aunt’s voice. Of all the bad timing.
St. Cyres, however, merely smiled and stepped back to a more proper distance as Aunt Edith and Cousin Millicent bore down upon them.
“What is this?” her aunt demanded. “Is it the fashion for gentlemen in London nowadays to accost women who are unaccompanied, sir? Why, I have never seen—”
“Aunt Edith,” Prudence cut in, “may I present the Duke of St. Cyres? Your Grace, this is my aunt, Mrs. Feathergill, and my first cousin once removed, Lady Ogilvie.”
“Oh…I didn’t…that is…” her aunt stammered, then gave a tinkling, rather awkward little laugh. “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with a duke, Prudence, dear. What high circles you’ve been moving in.”
There was a bit of fluttering as she and Millicent dipped deep curtsies. The duke bowed in response, and as he straightened, he gave Prudence a roguish wink. “I first met your niece at a ball, Mrs. Feathergill.”
“Indeed? How lovely. Prudence, where is your uncle? Off smoking that foul pipe of his, I suppose. I cannot believe he left you here alone.”
Prudence wished her other relations would follow that example. “Your Grace,” she said, desperate to return the conversation to their previous topic, “I believe we were discussing Italian opera?”
“Here we are, here we are,” Robert’s voice entered the conversation before the duke could reply. “Refreshments for the ladies.”
Prudence spared an impatient glance at the four brimming glasses of lemonade clasped in his hands and took the one nearest her with a perfunctory smile. “Thank you, Robert.”
“My pleasure, Prudence. Anything for you.” He glanced at the other man and his expression changed, as if he’d just encountered a bad smell. “St. Cyres,” he greeted stiffly with a little bow. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with my cousin.”
“Sir Robert.” He nodded to the glasses still in the other man’s hands. “Watch out, old chap. You’re spilling lemonade on your gloves. Best to hand it ’round before you spill any more.”
“Oh. Right.” Robert turned away, and the duke moved to claim the place at her side, successfully separating her from the others.
“Now,” he murmured, “where were we?”
“Italian opera.”
“Ah, yes. Opera. Fascinating subject.” He leaned down closer to her and the camellia in his buttonhole brushed her bare arm, tickling her skin and sending shivers of excitement through her entire body. Nervous, she took a gulp from the glass in her hand and immediately grimaced.
“Fond of lemonade, are you?” he asked, laughing under his breath.
“I hate it,” she admitted. “Especially when it’s lukewarm like this. I wanted champagne, but my aunt said no. I think she’s afraid I’ll become tipsy and embarrass her.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“You’d like to see my aunt embarrassed?”
“No.” His lashes, thick and golden brown, lowered a fraction, then lifted. “I’d like to see you tipsy.”
The way he said those words was soft and low, strangely illicit. For no reason at all, Prudence blushed.
A gong sounded, signaling that intermission was nearly over. The echo hadn’t even died away before Aunt Edith was stepping around them to her other side. “We had best return to our seats,” she said, and put her arm through Prudence’s as if to lead her away.
Prudence, however, did not move. “We have a bit of time still,” she said, hoping for a few more precious minutes in St. Cyres’s company.
“I don’t think so, dear. Forgive us, Your Grace?”
“Of course.” He gestured to the stairs on the other side of the foyer. “I must find my seat as well, before my friends wonder what’s become of me.”
Prudence felt a stab of disappointment, and she ducked her head to conceal it. “Of course,” she murmured, and lifted her chin, forcing her voice and her expression to a neutrality she was far from feeling. “It was a pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure has been mine, Miss Bosworth.” He bowed. “Lady Ogilvie, Mrs. Feathergill, Sir Robert. Good evening.”
He turned and departed, and after watching him a moment longer, she did the same, reluctantly allowing Aunt Edith to lead her away.
“You see, Prudence? It’s just as I said the other day,” Edith told her as they mounted the stairs. “We only left you alone for a moment, and fortune-hunting scoundrels began swooping down on you.”
“Hardly that!” she countered with spirit. “I know the duke to be a perfect gentleman.”
“Of course you would think so, dear. You are such an innocent. But I am a woman of the world, and I know his type. Out for what he can get.”
“Your aunt is correct,” Robert said behind her. “The man is a rake of the first water. Mama and I met him in Italy a few years ago. Do you remember, Mama?”
“I do,” Millicent replied, panting a little from the effort of getting her stout frame up three flights of stairs. “You wouldn’t believe the stories we heard about him. Drunken parties at his villa, swimming naked in fountains with Russian countesses, all manner of shameless goings-on.”
Prudence supposed that if she were truly good, she would disapprove of such wild behavior, but in truth, she’d swim naked in a fountain, too, if she could get away with it. It sounded delightful.
“And he’s deeply in debt,” Robert went on. “Thousands and thousands of pounds, I hear.”
“A fact which makes him no different from any other peer of the realm,” Prudence countered. “I daresay you have a few debts yourself, Robert.”
Her cousin grimaced and fell silent.
Aunt Edith, however, was not as easily deterred from the subject. “Robert’s situation is hardly the same thing,” she said as they entered their box. “He is family. Ah, Stephen, so this is where you’ve got to,” she added, turning to her husband as he rose from his seat. “What were you about, leaving Prudence alone downstairs?” Before he could answer, she returned her attention to her niece. “Setting aside the financial considerations, there is position to consider. St. Cyres is a duke, and far too high for you. It would be an unsuitable match in every way.”
“What’s this about a duke?” Stephen asked, looking at his wife in bewilderment.
“Ask your niece. She knows him already. Met him at a ball, of all the extraordinary things!”
“I happened to meet the Duke of St. Cyres a few days ago,” Prudence explained as she circled the table to her own chair by the rail and sat down. “He paid his addresses to me downstairs just now.”
Stephen gave a low whistle. “That didn’t take long.”
“Exactly,” Edith said as she took her own seat beside Prudence. “It’s obvious he’s after her money.”
“Of course, his interest in me could not possibly be genuine attraction!” Prudence shot back, stung. “You attribute the lowest possible motives to him, but I choose not to be so quick to judge!”
“Steady on, Prudence,” Uncle Stephen said. “We are your family, and we are only thinking of you. St. Cyres is a thoroughly bad lot, not fit company for a young lady. And as for marrying the fellow, Edith is right. It’s out of the question.”
“I believe it is I who must decide whom to marry!”
“No need to raise your voice, dearest,” Edith said, looking a bit like an abused spaniel. “Our only wish is for your happiness.”
Prudence pressed her fingers to her forehead and reminded herself that June was only twelve weeks away. “Oh, let’s not quarrel. Besides, it’s far too soon to be talking about my marrying anyone.”
Thankfully, everyone let the matter drop, but thoughts of the duke continued to occupy Prudence’s mind. She knew her family was right to take a dim view of any romantic connection between St. Cyres and herself. A duke would hardly choose as his duchess a woman whose parents had never married, a woman who until a few short days ago had been a seamstress in a dressmaker’s showroom. Yet, he had remembered her, he had gone out of his way to speak to her. He didn’t even know about her inheritance. The fact that he had called her Miss Bosworth proved that much. In addition, he had already demonstrated by his actions that he was a thoughtful and gallant man. Her family was prepared to think the worst of him, but she was able to see him in a more balanced light than that.
And of course, there was the fact that he was so terribly attractive. She bit her lip and stared down into her glass of lukewarm lemonade, remembering his words of a few moments ago.
I’d like to see you tipsy.
She couldn’t imagine why he would want such a thing. During the fine nights when she’d walked home from the showroom, she had seen drunken people stumbling along the sidewalk or through the open doorways of taverns as they sang boisterous songs at the top of their lungs. Drunkenness didn’t seem a desirable state at all.
Still, as she remembered his words, she wished one of Berliner’s gramophones could have recorded the moment, so she could relive it whenever she liked, hear again the strange, soft note in his voice that had made her blush all the way down to her toes.
“If you please, sir?” someone said from the doorway, breaking into Prudence’s thoughts.
She turned in her chair to see a liveried footman standing by the entrance to their box, a tray in his hands on which reposed several tall crystal flutes and a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. “I’ve something for the Ogilvie party.”
“There must be a mistake,” Uncle Stephen exclaimed as the footman brought the tray to the table. “We did not order this.”
“Compliments of his grace, the Duke of St. Cyres,” the footman explained as he popped the cork on the champagne. He poured the sparkling wine into the glasses and brought the first one to Prudence, presenting it to her along with a small white envelope. “For Miss Bosworth, from His Grace.”
She snatched the envelope before her aunt could do so. Setting aside her glass, she broke the seal and unfolded the note.
Miss Bosworth, the only thing duller than German opera is lemonade. Your servant, St. Cyres.
She read it three times, running the tips of her fingers just beneath the strong, stark lines of his handwriting, then reluctantly tucked the note away into her evening bag.
“How considerate he is,” she said, responding to her aunt’s sour expression with a sweet smile as she picked up her glass. She took a sip of her champagne and found it every bit as delightful as its reputation warranted, but it was only a temporary diversion from the even more delightful topic occupying her mind.
Turning her attention to the other side of the theater, she took her opera glasses from her pocket and lifted them to scan the boxes opposite.
She found him almost at once, as if she had sensed where he was by some mysterious spiritual connection between them, and it jolted her to discover he was looking at her, too. He was leaning back in his chair, his opera glasses folded in one hand, his flute of champagne held in the other, staring straight at her across the expanse between them, his he
ad tilted to one side, a hint of a smile curving his lips. The sight of him watching her brought a rush of pleasure so acute it hurt.
She lowered her opera glasses and lifted her flute of champagne in acknowledgment of his gift. He lifted his in reply. They each drank at the same time, and the moment made her feel giddy, as if she’d drunk the entire bottle of champagne instead of just two sips.
The lights lowered and the opera resumed, putting an end to the magical moment. She leaned back in her chair and turned her gaze to the stage below, but in her mind she saw only him. Heavy German music reverberated through the theater, but all she heard was the whisper of her own wishful hope.
If only…
Prudence pressed her fingers to her lips. Impossible that a devastatingly handsome duke would ever fall in love with a plump, rather ordinary spinster who had calluses from needlework on her fingers and the blood of ordinary Yorkshire country folk in her veins. Impossible, and yet, she sat in the dark and imagined it anyway.
Chapter 5
London’s newest heiress demonstrates a profound interest in art. What a happy coincidence some of London’s most eligible bachelors share her enthusiasm.
—The Social Gazette, 1894
Rhys pulled a newspaper from the pile beside his plate of eggs and bacon and grimaced at once. Talk of the Town. A journalistic endeavor that made him wish he owned a parrot, so suitable was it as a depository for bird droppings.
Much to his relief, however, London’s most sensational newspaper was far too preoccupied today with news of Miss Prudence Abernathy to make snide comments about the financial status and wicked ways of a certain duke. Their account of the seamstress-turned-heiress substantiated what Cora had told him the night before, though it glossed over her illegitimacy and spoke of a halcyon Yorkshire childhood Rhys viewed with skepticism. Bastard children never had an easy time of it, and childhoods were never halcyon. They were the torture one spent the rest of one’s life recovering from, though perhaps his own hellish upbringing had given him a rather jaded view on the subject.
The Wicked Ways of a Duke Page 7