“Not all of it, Prudence. You see—”
“And our picnic,” she interrupted. “That was a lie, too. You only pre…pretended to have a romantic attachment to me that day.”
“I wasn’t pretending. I swear to you.” He started toward her, desperate to explain, but she wouldn’t let him.
“And the ball,” she swept on. “Paying your addresses to Lady Alberta was a farce, wasn’t it? A way to play on my feelings for you and heighten my suspense. Then your declaration at Little Russell Street, and all that talk about ducal responsibility and needing to marry an heiress. You knew what I would do. You knew I would tell you about the money.”
She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, looking as if she would be sick. “You manipulated me at every turn, playing with me as if I were nothing but a pawn in some chess game!”
Rhys told himself he could make everything right if only he could find the right words to say. “I can explain—”
“How you must have laughed at the chubby, foolish, lovesick spinster making a fool of herself over you.”
Rhys gave a violent start, and he felt as if he were coming apart. She was the sweetest, loveliest thing he’d ever come across in his life. That she could think he would ever laugh at her nauseated him. “I have never laughed at you. Never!”
With a sound of disbelief, she started to turn away, but he gripped her arms and swung her around to face him, knowing he had to find a way to explain it all from his point of view. “Yes, I did know about the money, I admit it. Cora told me at the opera, just as she said. Yes, I arranged things and manipulated the situation, but it was because I didn’t see how I could be honest about my motives. You’ve got such romantic ideas, Prudence, and I—”
“Foolish ideas, you mean!” she cried with a sob. She wrenched free of his grasp. “I thought you were a hero. I thought you were a true gentleman, honorable and chivalrous. I thought you loved me!”
“I do love you.” The moment he said it, he knew it was true. He loved her. And he knew from the hard glitter in her eyes that he’d realized it too late.
“You bastard.” Her palm hit his cheek with enough force to swing his head sideways. “You lying bastard.”
The loathing in her voice sent panic coursing through him, and he fought back, refusing to believe he was losing her now. Not now, not when everything to make both of them happy was right in their grasp. “Prudence, listen to me. I wanted you from the first moment I ever saw you. I always desired you. That was no pretense, I swear. I needed money, it’s true, but I always wanted you.” He took a deep breath, trying to think. He ought to tell her everything he felt, everything he’d thought about today, everything he envisioned for their future. But desperation was clawing at him as he watched the resentment and hurt in her eyes hardening into hatred. Finding the words for a long, poetic speech about his feelings proved beyond him. “I love you.”
“Liar!” Her condemnation rang out like a knife twisting in his guts. She began walking backward, shaking her head as if in disbelief at his gall. “You are such a liar.”
“I’m not lying!” he said, forcing the words out past the sick fear that gripped him. “I’m not!”
“And you expect me to believe you when I know you’ve been lying to me all along?” Her gaze raked over him with utter contempt. “It’s the money you love, not me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Well, you’re not going to get any money from me,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’ll have to go find yourself another heiress. After all,” she added with a humorless laugh that cut him to ribbons, “you’re a duke. You couldn’t possibly earn your living the way most of us do. You have position, but without money, what are you? You’re a lily of the field.” With a sound of dismissal, she turned her back. “You’re worthless. You’re nothing.”
He watched in despair as she walked away. Her rage, even her hate, he could handle, for they told him she still had a passion for him that could be turned to love. But her contempt was different. Without her respect, her words became true. He had nothing. He was nothing. Rhys watched her walk out the door, and he saw everything he’d dared to dream these last few days crumbling into dust.
Chapter 16
Abernathy heiress breaks her engagement! Jilted duke appears devastated.
—The Social Gazette, 1894
Before confronting Rhys, Prudence had made preparations. She had already packed her things and settled her account with the innkeeper of the Black Swan. She had given Woddell the painful truth about Mr. Fane. She had endured the pleas of her uncle and the self-satisfied crowing of her aunt. She had arranged for a hired carriage to convey them to the village’s tiny train station and for the train to be ready for departure the moment they boarded.
When she walked out of the parlor, there was nothing left to do. She departed from the inn and stepped up into the carriage beside her maid. She didn’t know if Rhys even tried to follow her because she never looked back.
At the station, she boarded the train Rhys had bought her, but as it conveyed them back to London that night, she did not sleep in her compartment, for she couldn’t bear to lie in the berth where Rhys had kissed her and touched her so sweetly. Instead, she sat alone in the parlor coach while the others slept, staring out the darkened window and trying to decide what to do next.
The Abernathy millions would be forfeit, for she couldn’t see herself marrying anyone now. She could not imagine allowing any man to kiss her or touch her as Rhys had. And his betrayal had shown her that no man could ever be trusted with her heart when millions of pounds were at stake. She thought of the other people who had gathered around her these past two months—Edith, Robert, Millicent—people who wouldn’t spare her a thought if not for her inheritance, and she felt a bitterness she’d never felt in her life before.
She had always assumed having money would be the most wonderful thing possible. How wrong she’d been. Maria and Mr. Whitfield both tried to warn her that money might not provide the happiness she expected. She hadn’t understood then what they meant. She understood now, and it was a hard, painful realization. And though she’d enjoyed having pretty clothes and staying at the Savoy and having her own private train, none of that could replace the things that truly made a person happy.
Because of that, she didn’t mind giving up the inheritance, although she regretted that she would be unable to help her friends as she’d hoped. But for herself, she had lived the life of a wealthy heiress for two months now, and decided she’d had enough. She just wanted to be herself again. Prudence Bosworth had been happy. She’d known her place in the world, she’d had friends—true friends—to rely on and a cozy little flat to call home. That and enough money to live on were all a person really needed in life anyway.
She’d have to find a new post, something perhaps that didn’t involve working such long hours. Her allowance from her father’s estate was hers to spend as she liked until the year was up. Perhaps she could use that money to finance a dressmaking establishment of her own. Her friend Emma, being a viscountess, might be able to help her establish a clientele. The train would have to be returned, and the legal terms of the engagement officially severed. She supposed Mr. Whitfield could take care of all that.
In making these decisions about her life and her future, she tried not to think of Rhys, but in the quiet darkness, with nothing to distract her but the rhythmic sound of the train, it was impossible to veer her thoughts in any other direction. Impossible not to remember the beauty of his smile and the magic of his touch, the hot, sweet feel of his kisses and the thrill in her heart when she’d believed he loved her.
She struggled to be numb, yet as often as she reminded herself he wasn’t worth a single moment of pain, she could not be numb. Every part of her was bruised and battered and raw.
Kiss me, tipsy girl.
Prudence closed her eyes and a tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away, but it was followed at once by another, and she got
angry all over again, angry with herself for wasting tears on that lying, worthless cur of a man. Yet when the next tear spilled over, she didn’t have the strength to stop it.
She curled up in a ball on the seat, hugged her knees to her chest and gave up, letting the tears fall. She cried for all her silly illusions, her romantic ideals, and the death of her dreams. Most of all she cried for the love that had existed in her heart but had never existed in his.
Day was breaking. Rhys stared out over the lake at the blue and pink shades of a pastel sunrise, but in his mind all he could see was love and adoration dying in Prudence’s eyes. All around him was silence, but ringing in his ears was the sound of her contempt.
You’re worthless. You’re nothing.
She hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. He’d known for years his life was an utter waste of time. He thought of those days in Paris, drunk on absinthe. All those days in Italy—the gambling and the champagne and the sexual escapades. Numbing himself with any sensations that could help him forget that he’d failed his brother. Refusing to let anything matter to him because the things that mattered were impossible to hold onto. Building layers of cynical, man-of-the-world wit to form a shell around the emptiness that had been in him since he was twelve years old.
Liar. You are such a liar.
Prudence’s accusation shouted through his mind, echoing back to years ago. Letitia saying the same when he’d tried to tell her about Evelyn, when he’d tried to save Thomas from a second summer at Winter Park. How ironic that the times in his life when the truth had mattered the most, he hadn’t been believed. Rhys rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. He was so much better at lying, he thought wearily, than he was at telling the truth.
A chaffinch began to sing in one of the elms over his head. Rhys straightened, listening to that promise of home, and the sound was like another crack in his protective shell.
He stood up and began to walk. He climbed the hill, wanting only to get away from that sound, but as he reached the top of the tor and looked down at St. Cyres Castle, the place he and Prudence had decided would be their home, he felt another crack, another fissure of fear and despair that threatened to break him apart.
What would he do now? The past few days here with her had been the happiest of his life. But now she was gone, and he felt more lost and empty than ever before. He couldn’t go back to the life he’d had before he met her, and he didn’t know how to go forward into any future without her.
The sun lifted above the horizon and hit the stones of St. Cyres Castle, gilding them with light and warmth and the promise of home. He’d been yearning to find home ever since he’d lost it, but it had always been here, waiting for him and he would not lose it again. This was home, for him and for Prudence, the place they would live and raise their children, the place they would grow old together. He knew, as surely as he knew anything, that this was the life he wanted, and he was going to fight for it with everything he had. Prudence was the woman he wanted, and he was going to do whatever he had to do to get her back. But this time he could use no wiles, no tricks, and no lies. To regain Prudence’s love, her trust, and her respect, he knew he would have to earn them.
Staying awake on a night train gave a woman with a broken heart plenty of opportunity to think, and by the time her train pulled into Victoria Station, Prudence had made her own plans for her own life.
The platform was crowded when they arrived, but there were plenty of porters waiting to assist them. Rich people with private trains evidently received more attention than ordinary folk traveling the rails.
“Yes, yes, all of them go to the Savoy,” Edith assured the big, burly Cockney who’d won the honor of taking charge of their things. “All of these,” she went on, pointing to the various trunks and cases stacked on the platform. “And these, too.”
“No, Aunt.” Prudence stepped forward and pulled one black valise from the pile of luggage. “Not this one. This comes with me.”
“What do you mean?” Edith glanced at Stephen, then returned her gaze to Prudence. “You’re coming to the Savoy with us.”
“No, I’m not.” She pointed to four of the trunks. “Porter, I want these delivered to 32 Little Russell Street. Prudence Bosworth. Can you do that?” When he nodded, she pulled her money purse from her handbag and, ignoring her aunt and uncle’s protests, counted out the porter’s fee, including a generous tip. “That should take care of transporting my luggage to Holborn, I think,” she said as she put the coins in the man’s hand. “And when my trunks arrive, there will be a fiver waiting for you.”
“Very good, miss,” he agreed with a happy smile and began separating her trunks from the others.
“What do you mean you’re returning to Little Russell Street?” Edith demanded. “Prudence, what are you doing?”
“I’m going home.”
“Home? But your home is with us now. Until you marry, at least.”
“I’m not getting married, remember?”
“But you’ve eight months left before the terms of the will are voided. Surely before then you will find some suitable young man. Robert—”
“I’m not marrying Robert, Aunt Edith,” she interrupted. “I will never marry Robert. Perhaps when April fifteenth comes you will accept that fact. And once the expiration date passes,” she added with a cynicism that was new to her, “I’m sure Robert’s affection for me will disappear, too, as quickly as it came.”
“No one’s demanding that you marry Robert, Prudence,” her uncle said in a conciliatory voice, and she didn’t miss the warning glance he gave his wife. “After all, the duke is the one you really love. It’s clear you’re still hurt by his…er…unorthodox methods of courtship, but he’ll redeem himself, I daresay, if you give him the opportunity. He’s—”
“I’m not marrying the duke either, Uncle, and you will have to accept that.”
“But Prudence, you have to marry somebody!” Edith cried. “And you won’t ever meet anyone of the right sort if you go back to living in that lodging house.”
“Then I won’t marry anyone, and the money will be forfeit. I don’t much care.”
“Let all that money go?” Stephen cried. “You can’t! You’re obviously upset, but once you’ve thought things over—”
“I have been thinking things over,” she interrupted, and faced her aunt and uncle. She took a deep breath. “I have been thinking things over all night, and I’ve made some decisions. First, I am meeting with Mr. Whitfield this afternoon, and I shall make it clear to him that from this point forward, my allowance comes directly to me.”
She allowed them no opportunity for argument. “The allowance of fifty pounds per month is mine to do with as I like from now until April fifteenth,” she said incisively. “And I see no reason to spend it on lavish hotels. The two of you may stay at the Savoy until the weekend. If you decide to stay beyond Friday, you will pay for it yourselves. I am returning to Little Russell Street, as I said, and I should advise the two of you to return to Sussex. London is so expensive nowadays.”
Prudence turned to Woddell, whose pretty, freckled face showed that she, too, had cried through the night. “I won’t be needing a lady’s maid anymore, Miss Woddell,” she said as she once again opened her money purse. “But if you wish to accompany me,” she went on as she counted out the amount of wages she owed the girl, “I’m certain my landlady at Little Russell Street could find a place for you until you get your bearings and decide what to do.”
“Thank you, miss,” the maid said as she took her wages and put them in her pocket, “but I’ve a sister in Clapham. I’ll stay with her for a bit, until I find a new situation. If you could just see your way to writing me a recommendation, I’d be appreciating that very much.”
“Of course. Come to my lodgings in Little Russell Street tomorrow. If I’m not in, I shall leave the letter with my landlady. Will that do?”
“Yes, miss. Thank you.”
Prudence held out her hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Woddell.”
The girl looked at her gloved hand a bit doubtfully, as if uncomfortable with the sudden transition from servant to acquaintance. She curtsied. “Good luck to you, miss.”
Prudence let her hand fall. “And you as well. Good-bye.”
Nancy Woddell walked away in search of the platform for trains to Clapham, and Prudence turned the other way, but she’d only taken one step toward the exit at the opposite end of the platform when Uncle Stephen put a hand on her arm.
“Prudence, be reasonable,” he pleaded.
“I have been reasonable for far too long,” she said, and pulled free of his grasp, “and I’m tired of it. From now on I’m going to do what I want, and I don’t care a jot if it’s reasonable.”
“What on earth has gotten into you?” Edith asked in bewilderment. “After all we’ve done for you, this is how you repay us? Tossing us aside and throwing away all that money without even trying to find a husband?” She began to cry. “Oh, Prudence, I don’t understand you anymore.”
“That’s your problem, Aunt Edith,” Prudence said as she walked away. “You never have understood me. I doubt you ever will.”
Number 32 Little Russell Street looked just the same as always, but though it had only been a month since she’d last been here, it felt like a lifetime. Prudence paused on the sidewalk, eyeing the familiar red brick building, dark green shutters, and potted geraniums with affection. It was good to be home, she decided as she opened the door and went inside.
“Hullo,” she called, pausing in the foyer and setting down her black valise. “Is anyone about?”
Feminine voices answered back in the affirmative, and moments later Mrs. Morris came through the doorway, followed by someone Prudence had not expected to see.
“Emma!” she cried, crossing the foyer toward the slender redhead. She opened her arms and gave her friend a warm hug. “How wonderful to see you. When did you return from Italy?”
The Wicked Ways of a Duke Page 23