“Let go of me,” she said, and tried to pull free of his grasp, but William did not let her go, afraid that if he did, he’d never have another chance with her. And he wanted that chance more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
“Nancy, I resigned because I had to,” he explained, still holding her arms and ignoring the appalled whispers of the ladies. “A valet can’t marry. It isn’t done.”
She stopped trying to pull free. She stared up at him, her green eyes narrowing. “And who,” she asked through clenched teeth, “do you think you’ll be marrying?”
“You, if I can ever manage to convince you to have me. I love you.” He kissed her, then he fell to one knee, keeping one of her hands fast in his. “I know it will take a miracle for you to agree to marry me, but I’ll wait as long it takes. I intend to obtain a new post, because when a man falls in love, when he wants to marry and settle down to raise a family, he has to have a steady job with a reliable income. I intend to work hard, save my wages and find a way to buy a house for you. For us. And every day, for the rest of my life, I’m going to ask you again to marry me, hoping that one day you’ll have a moment of madness and say yes. Will you allow me to do that?”
She bit her lip, staring down at him, but did not speak.
“Will you, Nancy?” he asked again, and then he waited, on his knees with his heart in his throat, sure that she’d never agree in a thousand years.
“Yes, Mr. Fane,” she said at last. “I will allow you to do that.”
He was on his feet in an instant. Pulling her hard against him, William Fane, gentleman’s gentleman, shocked all the ladies in Mrs. Oliver’s dressmaking establishment by giving Nancy Woddell, lady’s maid, a most passionate kiss.
Just as Emma had predicted, journalists swooped down on Little Russell Street the moment The Social Gazette announced the dissolution of Prudence’s engagement to St. Cyres. Hanover Square was a gated square in Mayfair and Marlowe’s house there provided Prudence the protection Emma had promised.
Because of the situation, the tradition of Sunday tea at the lodging house was not possible, but Prudence needed the support of her friends more than ever before, and Emma’s suggestion that all the ladies take tea with her in Mayfair instead was happily accepted.
As a result, four days after the dissolution of her engagement, Prudence found herself seated not on the horsehair settee in Mrs. Morris’s parlor, but on an elegant white brocade sofa in the drawing room of Lord and Lady Marlowe, discussing her future plans with her friends, and finding some solace in their validation of her ideas.
Her decision to take charge of her own money was heartily approved by all. If anyone knew how to manage an income with thriftiness and skill, it was a girl-bachelor. Gentlemen, it was agreed, had no idea how to spend money properly. Race meetings, club memberships, and port could not compare to important things like good quality bed linens and a well-stocked larder.
Her decision to send her relations back to Sussex and her refusal to marry Robert also received their endorsement. It was agreed that perhaps people who ignored a member of their own family for eleven years, paying attention to her and caring for her only after she was set to inherit millions, could not really be trusted. And since all of her friends had met Aunt Edith, they couldn’t help but deem Emma a far better chaperone.
Her plan to open her own dressmaking establishment met with unanimous approval, and Emma offered to assist by using her influence to gain Prudence clients in the top echelons of society.
These matters were easy for Prudence to discuss, but when it came to her broken engagement, she found the terrain much more difficult to navigate. She had vowed never to cry over Rhys again, and she knew that the pain was too fresh for her to keep that vow if she began to explain. Her friends, sensing her unwillingness to discuss the matter, took their lead from her and asked no questions.
Fortunately, Emma’s return from Italy provided plenty to talk about, for to a group of girl-bachelors, honeymoons were a favorite topic of conversation. Only weddings and babies could generate greater interest.
“Did you really have a view of the Arno, Emma?” Miranda gave a dreamy sigh. “Oh, how I should love to visit Florence.”
Emma crossed the room to a cabinet and removed from it a folio. “I have photographs. I purchased them from a photographic artist in Rome.”
Exclamations of delight greeted this news, and soon views of the Arno, the Roman Colosseum, and various other sights lauded by Baedeker’s travel guides and popular with English tourists were handed round.
Two months ago, viewing them might have been a welcome entertainment, but with every photograph, Prudence couldn’t help thinking of Rhys. After her soul-wrenching night on the train, she’d had little time to think of him. She’d moved her things to Hanover Square, ignoring the imploring letters from her relations to reconsider. She’d ensured that her aunt and uncle had left the Savoy. She’d met with Mr. Whitfield, clarifying that the allowance of fifty pounds per month was hers to do with as she pleased until next April and never had to be paid back. The coming months would no doubt keep her quite busy as she established her dressmaking business.
Right now, however, as she studied photographs of Italy, Rhys dominated her thoughts. She couldn’t help wondering if he had stood in that piazza, eaten at that café, bathed naked in that fountain.
Pain pinched her chest as she stared at an image of the Trevi Fountain in Rome and memories came rushing back of that day with him at the National Gallery.
How happy she’d been that day, never dreaming he’d arranged it all. Inquiring about her family and whether she still had to work as a seamstress, knowing all the while about her money, playing her for a fool. How smooth, how accomplished, a liar he was. It still amazed her.
I think you’re luscious.
Another lie. The pain in her chest squeezed harder. Deep down she’d always known she wasn’t really luscious, but how sweet it had been to hear lies like that.
She passed the photograph of the Trevi Fountain to Maria and took the next one from Mrs. Inkberry, but as she bent her head, she only pretended to study it. She closed her eyes instead, unable to bear any more views of Italy and thoughts of him.
Jackson, the viscount’s butler, entered the room. “If you please, ma’am, the viscount has returned. He has a friend with him, and he wishes to know if they may join the ladies for tea?”
“That depends,” Maria put in. “Is the viscount’s friend a single gentleman?”
Everyone laughed at that except Jackson, who maintained the dignified, superior air of an excellent butler. “I couldn’t say, Miss Martingale,” he murmured and turned to leave.
Stifled giggles followed him out the door, but were silenced almost at once when Viscount Marlowe walked in. He was followed by the Duke of St. Cyres.
Prudence jumped out of her chair as if jolted by a shot of electricity. She felt no dizzying rush of euphoria at the sight of him, no heart-twisting pang of pleasure, no overwhelming longing. Instead, she felt only the deep, bruising ache of hurt and the blazing anger of betrayal. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, as the other ladies rose to their feet in a far more ladylike fashion than she had done. “Leave at once.”
“Oh, Harry!” Emma wailed softly. “What have you done?”
“It’s business, Emma,” the viscount said, attempting to look innocent. “You know with me business always comes before any other considerations.”
Prudence asked the question before Emma could do so, but she asked it not of the viscount, but of Rhys. “What business could you possibly be conducting with Lord Marlowe?”
Rhys reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded newspaper. “The viscount conducted an interview with me for The Social Gazette. This is the first copy off the press. Would you care to see it?” Without waiting for an answer, he unfolded the newspaper and held it up so she and all the others could read the headline.
Wicked Duke Chooses Love Over Money!
>
Prudence stared at it for a moment, then looked at him. “What is this?”
“I told you, it’s tomorrow morning’s edition of The Social Gazette.” He nodded to the man beside him. “I gave Marlowe’s paper an exclusive interview, making a public declaration that if you were to consent to marry me, I would not receive a single penny of your inheritance.”
There were murmurs of surprise from the other ladies in the room, but Prudence merely folded her arms and scowled at him. “I don’t care what lies you tell the newspapers. I am not marrying you! Why on earth should I?”
“I can’t think of a single reason,” he admitted. “I know I’ve lied to you and I’ve been an utter bastard, and you have every right to hate me, but in all of this, I’ve told you one true thing. I love you.” He handed her the newspaper. “This was the only way I could think of to prove it.”
“I don’t believe you. This is a trick of some sort.”
“It’s not a trick. Read the interview and you’ll see. Please, Prudence,” he added when she made no move to comply. “Just read it.”
Reluctantly, she glanced at the story on the front page of Marlowe Publishing’s biggest newspaper, but before she could begin to actually read it, Rhys’s hand appeared in her line of vision, pointing to one particular paragraph. “Here’s the part where I declare that if Miss Abernathy agrees to marry me, the wedding will be on April sixteenth of next year.”
She glanced up, uncertain she’d heard him correctly. “April sixteenth?”
“One day after the terms of Henry Abernathy’s will go unfulfilled,” he went on. “The money will, of course, be forfeit.”
She frowned at him, still skeptical. “You’re willing to do that?”
“It was the only way I could think of to show you I’m sincere. I could have agreed to give you total control of the inheritance in some sort of prenuptial agreement, but my creditors would still come after the money and demand payment of my debts, so you would always have cause to suspect my motives.”
“Especially since the moment after we were wed you’d begin trying to sweet-talk your way into gaining control of it from me anyway,” she accused. “You would just keep trying to trick me.”
“I knew that’s what you’d think, and that’s why I did it this way, so there would be no doubt of my sincerity.”
She still had plenty of doubt. She studied him, and though she saw no devastating smile, no blithe confidence, she knew he could lie with his heart in his eyes, and she still felt the pain of his deceit.
“Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a charming fortune hunter like you,” she said. “Why don’t you just find yourself another heiress? Lady Alberta Denville would marry you, I’ve no doubt.”
“I don’t want Alberta. I don’t want any other heiress, I don’t want any woman but you. I told you before, I’ve wanted you from the very beginning, ever since I first saw you at that ball, but I was in desperate need of money, and I knew the only way out of that hole was to marry an heiress. When I saw you at the opera, and Cora told me about your inheritance, that was all I needed to hear. From that moment on, the idea of marrying any other woman—heiress or not—never entered my head.”
She sniffed, unimpressed. “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you to be honest with me about your motives?”
“With your romantic nature, I didn’t want to take the chance. I knew you thought of me as some sort of hero, and I thought wooing you through courtship was a better strategy.”
“Lying is never a better strategy, and you lied.” Prudence held up the paper. “After the things you’ve done, do you think this is all it takes to win me back?”
“No, but I’m hoping the next ten months will be long enough to convince you of my sincerity. I know I’ll never be your hero again—” He broke off and glanced away for a moment, his fist pressed to his mouth. Then he cleared his throat and looked at her again. “I know I’ve ruined any chance of that, but I hope I can at least gain your respect.”
He leaned over the paper and pointed to another paragraph. “This is where I tell everyone I’m going to earn my living from now on. I’ll be writing books for Marlowe Publishing.”
Prudence glanced at Viscount Marlowe, who nodded in confirmation, then she looked back at Rhys. “You’re going to be a writer?”
“Travel guides to Europe. Witty books for aristocrats on how to traverse the globe for no money at all, and serious books on where to go and what to see. A bit like Baedeker, you know. I realize it’s not much of an income,” he added in the wake of her astonished silence, “but it’s the only thing I’m remotely qualified to do, and I hope it will convince the woman I love that I’m more than a worthless lily of the field.”
She swallowed and closed her eyes, remembering when she’d accused him of that, of being worthless. She’d said it to hurt him, to wound him as she had been wounded. He’d deserved it, too, she reminded herself.
“That’s in here, too, by the way,” he said, causing her to open her eyes.
“What’s in here?” she asked. “That you’re a lily of the field?”
“That, and that I love you, not your money. I didn’t love you when we started, true enough, but I love you now, and I will love you until the moment I die. And that if you ever agree to marry me, you will make me the happiest man in the world.”
Prudence looked down at the words printed on the page as he repeated them, and the newsprint began to blur before her eyes. Deep down inside she began to shake, for she could feel a spark of hope that he was speaking the truth, and it frightened her. She was still raw with pain and afraid such hope only made her an even bigger fool.
“How can I marry you?” she cried. “You deceived me so thoroughly, how can I ever be sure you won’t lie to me again if it suits your purpose? How can I ever trust you again?”
A delicate cough interrupted any reply he might have made, and Prudence glanced around, remembering they were not alone. She returned her gaze to his and hardened her resolve. “I want you to leave.”
As if she were speaking to them, her friends all stood up.
“No,” she said in dismay as they began walking toward the door, “I didn’t mean all of you.” She waved a hand in Rhys’s direction. “I meant him.”
Her friends seemed to have gone suddenly deaf, for they continued out the door. Emma, the last one to exit the room, paused and glanced at Rhys. “I am acting as Prudence’s chaperone, St. Cyres. I shall be right outside the door.”
“No, wait!” Prudence cried, but the door swung shut behind her friend, leaving her alone with Rhys. She started to leave as well, but his arm caught her around the waist.
“Prudence, listen to me.” He hauled her back against his chest. “I know you don’t trust me, and you have every right, but other than giving up the money, I don’t know how to regain your trust.” He grasped her arms, turned her around. “Just tell me how.”
She looked up at him, into eyes as silvery green as a Yorkshire meadow in autumn, remembering the man she’d first seen, the man she’d thought him to be. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “You are not the man I thought you were. I don’t know who you are.”
She turned and walked toward the door. This time he didn’t try to stop her. She reached for the handle and turned it.
“My brother killed himself.”
The door handle clicked back into place, and Prudence turned around. “What?”
“He hanged himself from a stair rail at school because my mother was sending him back to Winter Park for a second summer holiday. Alone. She was sending him back alone. He couldn’t bear it.”
Prudence felt that strange eeriness along her spine, just as she had that afternoon in the drawing room at Winter Park. “He didn’t want to go?”
“No.” Rhys tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “There are some men, Prudence, who don’t care for women. They have…other tastes. A taste for boys. Evelyn had such tastes.”
“Oh my
God.” She felt sick. “No.”
“It was just games at first, then…then other things. We were just boys, but we knew it wasn’t right, and we used to hide in the lavender house. Evelyn hated the place and never went there. But hiding didn’t always work.” He lowered his head and looked at her. “You can’t hide all the time.”
“He hurt your brother.” She swallowed hard, and forced herself to go on. “So, because of what happened to him, your brother killed himself.”
“Yes.”
“What about you?” she whispered. “What happened to you?”
He looked past her, staring at the closed door. “I stabbed Evelyn right through the hand with a fork the first time he touched me. Because of that, he locked me in a room for three days. Afterward, when Thomas told me what happened to him, we ran away, and I managed to get us to Hazelwood. My mother was actually in residence at the time. I tried to tell her what had happened, but—” He stopped and his face twisted, tearing at Prudence’s heart. “She called me a liar.”
Prudence pressed a hand over her mouth, fighting past the sick knot in her stomach.
“She sent Thomas back to Winter Park. She sent him back to that monster. I begged her not to do it. I begged her. She wouldn’t listen.” Rhys raked his hands through his hair and sank into a chair. “Not me. I was sent to friends in the north of Scotland because after what I’d done, Evelyn refused to have me back at Winter Park. I didn’t even have the chance to try to protect Thomas. In the autumn, we had to go to different schools, because I was old enough for Eton. We wrote, but I never saw Thomas again. When spring came and he learned he was going back for another summer at Winter Park, he killed himself. I couldn’t protect him from Evelyn. I tried, but I failed.”
“You were a boy. It is your mother who failed.” She walked over to where he sat and knelt down beside his chair. “Why didn’t you tell me this before, when I asked you about it?”
“How could I?” He sat up with an abrupt move and rubbed his hands over his face. “For God’s sake, Prudence, you’re so innocent. I just couldn’t bear to tell you something so sordid.”
The Wicked Ways of a Duke Page 25