Alfred shook his head, saying, “I’ve asked myself the same question. And my clothes would never have fit that big ape who so enjoyed choking me. It is a mystery, Auntie.”
“But however did you get home?” she asked.
“After being spotted in my state of dishabille by Lord Seton, who obviously felt obliged to share the story with the Times, I ran down the street and took refuge in a hedgerow until a coach came by. I flagged it down and returned here.”
Great-Aunt Withypoll’s sapphire eyes twinkled with mischief. “And what did you use to flag down the coach, Alfred? Do tell.”
Alfred smirked, amazed at her cheek. “My hat, madam…nothing but my hat. You know, for a woman at the grand age of eighty-seven, you have a terribly naughty mind.”
“From whom do you think you inherited yours?” she asked, deadpan.
“Well, I would have hoped it was from Great-Uncle Bertram.”
“No, no. Though you are the spitting image of him.” Lady Weston began to rise from her chair and Alfred assisted the tiny white-haired woman to her feet. “Let us go outside into the garden, Alfred, where I will tell you more about your task.”
They walked slowly down the hall, each step short and carefully placed on the white marble floor. Alfred felt the frailty of the old woman’s grasp on his arm, felt the brittle bones of the gnarled fingers clinging so dependently to him.
He looked down at her and felt his heart warm with affection. This indomitable woman had been the closest thing he’d had to a mother for most of his life. She and her late husband, Bertram, had practically raised Alfred and his brother, Richard. She and Alfred had always been very close.
His father, the Earl of Harrington, had insisted upon naming his sons after great English kings. But he’d never had much time for them, and even less when his wife, Lady Harrington, abandoned her family and ran off to Italy. Alfred was only eight at the time.
Soon after, Lord Harrington had placed his sons with his uncle, the eleventh Baron Weston, and his wife, to raise. Lord Harrington’s business commitments kept him very busy and he didn’t want his sons raised by servants.
It was strange, but sometimes Alfred still dreamed of the day his mother left…that cold winter day when his world had changed forever. He, a grown man of thirty, was still haunted by an eight-year-old’s broken heart. How pathetic.
He led Great-Aunt Withypoll outside into the back gardens of the townhouse. They walked slowly across the lush grass at the same steady pace, just as they did every day that she was in residence.
Great-Aunt Withypoll insisted on taking in an hour of fresh air each day, weather permitting, to invigorate her health, and it was obviously quite effective. For though her bones were becoming frail, her constitution was surely as strong as that of an ox.
He helped her to her seat on the marble bench next to her favorite pink rose bush and sat down beside her. “Now, Auntie, tell me what I must do to win back my place in your heart.”
“Foolish boy,” she replied. “I believe you are probably there to stay, after all. But you will certainly strengthen your position by fulfilling my task. All you need do is act as an escort to a young lady that I have taken under my wing—”
“Oh, Auntie,” he said, sighing. “I am still not recovered from my last assignment as escort to one of your protégée’s. Do you not remember Miss Honoria Walters and her penchant for eating onions? I squired her most dutifully without complaint about her breath, or her high-pitched giggle, or her propensity for tears, or the attentions of her tiny dog. Though I must say, Miss Walters was an improvement on the others you’ve forced me to escort about of late.”
“You are too critical, Alfred,” Great-Aunt Withypoll admonished. “And I am not getting any younger. I want to see you settled with a wife, and babies for me to spoil. And what does it matter who you marry, as long as she is young and healthy and able to provide you with children?”
“Well, it matters to the man doing the marrying.”
“Ah, but you cannot refuse me this request, Alfred,” she said. “Not ten minutes ago you promised that you would do anything I asked. Appearing in public will show your utter disregard for that offensive article in the Times. And though it is unfortunately true, you must take pains to act as if it were not true. Escorting a proper young lady to an entertainment of the ton will show you to be the picture of propriety. It is the only course of action, I’m afraid.”
Alfred resigned himself to defeat. If his Auntie asked for the moon, he could not deny her.
“Alright, I’ll do it,” he said, finally. “I only hope that I survive this one.”
“Oh, stop whining, m’boy!” she replied. “This one’s a gem. You’ll see. Miss Prudence Atwater is a very unique young woman.”
“Unique? Is that your way of saying she looks like Medusa and has a temper to match?”
Great-Aunt Withypoll whacked his arm and he yelled, feigning injury.
“Behave,” she warned, “or I’ll give you something to yell about, m’boy. Now, you will escort Miss Atwater to Lady Townsend’s ball in a week’s time. I, of course, will be in attendance. I do so like to see the young people enjoying themselves.”
Alfred looked at her quizzically. “Just who is this Miss Atwater, Auntie? Not another vicar’s daughter, I hope?”
“Her father was a scholar, I believe,” Lady Weston answered, thoughtfully. “Well, he must have been, for I met her at the library last month when you were away to Devonshire. She was carrying a stack of books almost as tall as herself. And then she dropped them all. Terribly unfortunate. Made a very loud noise. I of course commanded Barkley, who had escorted me there, to assist her in picking them up. She was wonderfully grateful and I was taken with her charming manner. Very bright girl. Pretty, too. She runs her late father’s school—the Atwater Finishing School for Young Ladies, and I am its newest patroness.”
“Patroness?” he asked, suddenly worried. “Auntie, is this wise? You should have consulted with me first.”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Lady Weston retorted. “I may be old, but I am not feebleminded. I am quite able to make my own decisions on such matters, m’boy, and don’t you forget it. I have a singular feeling about this girl, Alfred.”
“Just like you had a singular feeling about Miss Honoria Walters, and Miss Gertrude Tibbets, and Lady Clementia Bagley?” he asked.
Lady Weston waved her hand and chuckled. “Oh, no. I was wrong about all of those silly girls. But you’ll see, m’boy. Miss Atwater is quite different. In a week’s time, you’ll see. You might even like her.”
“In a week’s time, then, Auntie,” he said. “As you wish.”
He helped her to her feet and they walked slowly back to the house. Alfred resigned himself to his fate with a sigh. If escorting his Great-Aunt’s young protégés made her happy, then he would do it.
This wonderful lady had given him so much. It was the least he could do for her. Yet, in his heart he knew he should be doing much more. Great-Aunt Withypoll was right. She wasn’t getting any younger.
Didn’t he owe her the joy of holding his children in her arms before it was too late? Didn’t he owe her the knowledge that the Weston name would carry on?
He had been putting off the idea of marriage for years, now. But perhaps he didn’t have as long as he thought. Just because the great old lady seemed healthy as a horse, didn’t mean she would live forever.
The only problem was that Alfred found the very thought of marriage abhorrent. Truthfully, it was nothing but a charade…an arrangement in which a man gave a woman his name and a share of his earthly possessions in exchange for the rights to her body—most importantly, her womb.
It was all about breeding, about heirs, and preservation of the family fortune. It was almost never about love.
Most husbands and wives he knew merely tolerated each other. They lived apart and saw each other only when necessary.
Except for his friends, Beckett and Isobel, of course. Lord and
Lady Ravenwood, late of Barbados, were a true love match. Sometimes, when he watched Beckett and his wife together, speaking to each other only with their eyes, Alfred would feel a stab of jealousy. He knew that what he was seeing was so precious and so rare, he doubted that he would ever truly understand it, let alone possess it for himself.
His parents’ marriage had been a sham—as his father told it—and at any rate, his mother wasn’t around to explain her side of the story. She’d been traipsing about the continent since she’d left them, or so they’d heard, living in sin with an Italian Count Something-or-Other.
Alfred had looked for her on his Tour in Italy…
He’d looked everywhere he went.
They reached the back step to the house and Great-Aunt Withypoll leaned more heavily on Alfred’s arm as he helped her up onto it. She stumbled a little and he stooped to catch her, feeling the old woman’s frailness as he held her steady in his arms.
“Oh, thank you, my dear,” she said, shakily. “I’m afraid my knees aren’t what they used to be. Ah, well. I shouldn’t complain, as I am still breathing.”
Alfred chuckled. “I have no doubt you will be doing that for a long time, Auntie.”
But would she? She had already lived to a very impressive age of eighty-seven years. How many more did she have, really?
As they made their way back to the salon, Alfred found himself thinking about Miss Prudence Atwater. And he hoped, for the sake of his Great-Aunt Withypoll and her fondest wishes for him, that Miss Atwater truly was different.
* * *
A week later, Alfred squired Lady Weston to Tattingstone’s Circulating Library in Bedford Square.
Alfred’s arm was becoming stiff, but he held it straight and sturdy, supporting Great-Aunt Withypoll as they walked about the shelf-lined rooms. Of course, they had yet to peruse any books, as Tattingstone’s was a favorite place for the ton to indulge in daytime socializing.
“Of course, you are coming to Lady Townsend’s ball tomorrow night, Dorothea?” Great-Aunt Withypoll asked as they passed by the elderly Lady Abercrombie, who nodded and smiled in reply.
Alfred chuckled to himself. It seemed that practically the whole place would be attending Lady Townsend’s ball tomorrow.
Since they had arrived a quarter of an hour ago, Alfred had noticed a few curious looks, a few whispers and knowing glances, undoubtedly about the unflattering article in the Times.
He’d been ribbed about it at his club but had succeeded in brushing it off—dismissing it as pure bunk. This appearance at the library would also work in his favor. And the ball tomorrow night would be the final stage of his campaign.
Alfred had no idea what to expect, really. When he pressed Great-Aunt Withypoll about details to the girl’s appearance or temperament, she would merely answer that Miss Atwater was pretty and bright.
Must be unbearably ugly, then, he thought.
And overbearing.
And loud.
Well, it would all be over tomorrow night. He would have fulfilled his duty and would be free to engage in his own pursuits about town. He could hardly wait.
As they made their way around the south side of the gallery, Great-Aunt Withypoll stopped for a moment and squinted at something in the distance. Alfred followed her glance, but could not see who she was staring at.
“I say…is that…can it be she?” Great-Aunt Withypoll said.
“Who, Auntie?” he asked.
She sighed, replying, “Perhaps you are correct in advising me to acquire spectacles, Alfred, for I cannot say for certain, but I do believe I see Miss Prudence Atwater there.”
“Where?” Alfred said, regarding a group of people milling about at the other end of the room.
“Yes! I was right,” Lady Weston said, happily. “It is Miss Atwater. Come along, Alfred. You will be able to make her acquaintance before the ball tomorrow. Oh, what luck!”
This time, Great-Aunt Withypoll dragged him across the room toward the dense crowd.
“Miss Atwater? Miss Atwater!” Great-Aunt Withypoll called to a girl whose back was toward them, her head buried deep in a book.
Even before the girl turned, Alfred felt a familiar jolt of recognition in his gut.
Perhaps it was the fiery red hair that, even though pulled back into a demure knot, unavoidably caught the eye. Perhaps it was her bearing—the way she held her head and shoulders as she turned.
As the girl faced them, Alfred saw the look of surprise and shock spread over the girl’s face.
He felt his blood heat with anger…and something else just as dangerous. For the girl standing before him was none other than the Drury Lane strumpet.
Chapter 4
Prudence stared at the dark stranger who stood next to Lady Weston, and found herself quite unable to speak.
It was him.
The man from Drury Lane.
The one who had kissed her.
The man she had left laying naked and unconscious under a hedgerow.
For a fleeting moment she had thought he wouldn’t recognize her—thought that perhaps he’d been in his cups that night and wouldn’t remember much of what happened.
But the controlled fury that smoldered in his dark brown eyes made it quite clear that he did remember her…as well as everything that had happened between them.
Suddenly, she dropped the book she’d been reading. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare landed with a great thunk on the floor.
“Oh, my—Miss Atwater,” Lady Weston exclaimed, “you are forever dropping your books. Alfred, my dear, would you be so kind as to retrieve Miss Atwater’s book for her?”
The man stooped to pick up the heavy tome. He stood and handed it back to Prudence silently, but his eyes spoke their message quite clearly.
I know who you are.
“Miss Atwater,” Lady Weston began, “I would like to introduce to you my great-nephew, Alfred, Baron Weston. He is the one I told you about. Lord Weston will be escorting you to Lady Townsend’s ball tomorrow evening.” She turned toward him. “Alfred, I am pleased to present to you Miss Prudence Atwater, proprietress of the Atwater Finishing School for Young Ladies.”
Prudence felt her heart beating as if it were lodged in her throat.
Would this man expose her secret in front of Lady Weston?
With his dark stare never leaving her eyes, he slowly took her hand in his. It was warm and strong—just as she remembered. She struggled to keep her composure as Lord Weston performed a courtly bow over her hand.
“Miss Atwater,” he said.
When he stood tall again, Prudence took a shaky breath and forced herself to meet his eyes. “Lord Weston.”
“I should think you two will want to become better acquainted,” Lady Weston said, eyes twinkling. “I shall go and sit with Lady Merton. And perhaps Alfred, you should ask Miss Atwater if she would like to take a turn about the room.”
“Yes, Auntie,” he replied. His voice had a slight edge to it. “I can think of nothing I would rather do at the moment. Miss Atwater?” He offered his arm.
It would cause a scandal if she refused, so Prudence reluctantly slipped her arm through Lord Weston’s, and forced herself to smile. What was his game?
Lady Weston was already making her way to where a group of ladies sat in nearby chairs along the wall.
Prudence felt the muscles in Lord Weston’s arm tense under her fingers. She dared to look up at him. “I daresay you are surprised to make my acquaintance again, my lord.”
His eyes blazed with anger as he replied, “I daresay that I am. What do you think you are doing passing yourself off as a schoolteacher to my great-aunt?” He kept his voice low as they began to go about the room.
“I am a schoolteacher—”
“A schoolteacher who also leads another life as a light-skirt and a thief?” he demanded. “I’m sure you neglected to mention that before you asked Lady Weston to be your patroness—a situation that I intend to remedy, I assure you.”
Oh, this was not going well at all…
“I understand your shock, Lord Weston—”
“Do you?” he said. “You understand my astonishment that the young woman I am to escort to Lady Townsend’s ball is the same woman who not only tried to seduce me on the street, but also robbed me of my clothes and left me to be the subject of a rather embarrassing article in the Times?”
Prudence bristled at the accusation. “I did not try to seduce you! And we did not set out to rob you—”
“Oh, didn’t you?” he said sarcastically. “Well, whether or not you set out to rob me, you and your large friend did exactly that, after he nearly choked the very breath out of me. And as for seducing me, I recall quite clearly both your lips and your body pressing wantonly against mine. Surely, Miss Atwater, you remember doing that?”
Prudence felt her face heat with color.
He stopped and looked at her, and lowered his face close to hers. “Do you remember kissing me, Miss Atwater? Opening your mouth to me and letting me take my pleasure there? Do you?”
Prudence remained silent, held prisoner by the expression in his eyes and the truth of his words.
“Well, do you?” he demanded, hotly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He glared down at her, saying, “Well, I am glad to see that you are at least honest about that. As for the rest of it—”
“It is the truth, I assure you,” Prudence insisted. “I am not a thief! I run the Atwater School. And when you came upon me that night, I was out searching for new students.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “What do you take me for? A complete imbecile?”
Prudence felt her own temper flare. “Whether or not I take you for a complete imbecile, Lord Weston, I shall repeat that I am indeed the proprietress of the Atwater Finishing School for Young Ladies. And the type of young ladies I endeavor to teach are the ones that walk the streets of London at night, scandalous though it may be.”
Taming The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 2) Page 3