He kissed her tenderly, so tenderly that her heart wanted to break. With a gentle hand he wiped away the tears that stained her cheeks. “You said that you love me, too, Prudence.”
She nodded silently, for she couldn’t deny it.
“Then say yes. Stop fighting this and be my wife.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Because of the school?” he asked. “I could fund the school, if that would make you happy. Money is no object. I could hire a staff of the best teachers in England.”
“But there’s so much more to it than just that.” She stopped herself, not wanting to explain the thing that held her back. The thing that made her a poor choice as any man’s wife. “What about me,” she said, deflecting the truth, “and my dreams for the school? My father left it in my care. It was his dream, and it’s my dream, too. It’s something that I must do on my own, don’t you see?”
Alfred shook his head. “No, I don’t see. More money for the school would mean that you could expand, you could help more girls.”
“And would I still be in complete control?” she asked.
“For the most part.”
“For the most part isn’t good enough, Alfred,” she argued. “Do you realize what would happen if we married, and you funded the school as you’ve said? I wouldn’t be able to go about at night looking for girls on the streets, would I?”
Alfred paused. “Well….”
“You see? No husband in his right mind would allow his wife to do what I do.”
“I’m glad we agree on that point,” he replied.
“Alfred, I do love you,” Prudence said. “So much so that it frightens me.
And I was so close to saying yes to your proposal a few moments ago—but I simply cannot.”
He stared down at her with a dark expression. “You can’t go on denying what we have, Prudence.”
“I don’t deny it. I’m through denying it,” she said, brushing a damp curl away from his face. “But Alfred, I am wise enough to know that our marriage would never work.”
“I am not so convinced,” he replied.
“Why, because we feel lust for each other?” she asked. “It takes more than lust to make a lasting union. Let me paint you a picture of this marriage that you seem to want so badly.” She pulled away from him and looked across at the vacant lot, which glowed eerily in the silver moonlight.
“There is a wedding,” she began, “a joyous affair with both of us basking in each other’s perfect love. Our wedding night is hot with passion, we make love into the night and fall asleep in each other’s arms.”
She glanced at him, and he gave her a knowing grin.
“Our lives continue like this for a time,” Prudence continued. “You make good on your promise of funding the school. Teachers are hired, and soon it seems the school can practically run itself without me. Our first baby is born, a strong, hardy son, or perhaps a beautiful little daughter. The baby takes up most of my time, and I visit the school less and less. I no longer teach there, of course, as a responsible mother, I am certainly not permitted to go about at night dressed as a streetwalker. I resign myself to the fact that those days are over. A year or so after that, there is another baby, and perhaps another a year after that, all darling little cherubs who we dote on hopelessly. To everyone, even me, it appears that I have a happy life. But one day, I realize that the terrible pain that has been growing in my heart year after year is my resentment toward you. For you didn’t want me as I was, but instead wanted me to be something I could never be. A proper wife.”
She turned to him, taking in his sober expression.
“I know that I have just described most of the marriages in England,” she said. “And who am I to want more? But Alfred, can you honestly tell me that our marriage would not turn out as I’ve described?”
“No, I cannot,” he answered. “But you cannot guarantee that it would turn out that way, either.”
“No,” Prudence said. “But let me ask you this. If we were to marry, would you allow me to continue my role at the school, exactly as it is, now? Recruiting girls off the street? Teaching every day? Would you?”
Alfred dropped his gaze and sighed heavily. “It’s not what I would want.”
“You see? Our marital differences have already begun, and we aren’t even married,” she pointed out.
He stepped toward her, and reached out to touch her arm. “You make a fine argument, Prudence. There’s no denying that your mind is as sharp as a whip. You are more intelligent than most men I’ve had the occasion to meet. You’re maddening and adorable and stunningly beautiful. And stubborn as a mule. But none of your arguments have convinced me that we should not marry.”
“No? Perhaps this next argument will, then.” It was time, she knew, to confess. She couldn’t hide the truth from him anymore. Not if she was ever going to convince him what was best for both of them.
She looked him directly in the eye. “What would you say if I told you that my mother was a prostitute?”
“I beg your pardon?” Alfred said.
“You heard me—a prostitute,” Prudence said. “And I don’t know who my real father was. He could have been anyone from an aristocrat to the lowest piece of scum on London’s streets. Disconcerting, is it not?”
“Somewhat, yes,” he answered.
“Indeed. Now do you want to rethink that marriage proposal, my lord?”
He ignored her question. “Who told you this?”
“My parents,” Prudence explained. “They were surprisingly honest about it. That was their way. My mother had left her life on the street and joined my father’s small school, which he ran out of his modest house. When she arrived there, she was already with child. She had no idea who the father was. She’d been working steadily, so it could have been one of hundreds. My father didn’t care. They quickly fell in love, and married. After my mother died some years later, he continued raising me as his own.” She couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the great man she had loved so dearly. “He was a wonderful father.”
She drew her cape close around her shoulders as the night had grown more chilly, and said, “So, now you see why I do what I do. And why I cannot, and will not give it up. My mother was one of those girls. If my father hadn’t taken her off the street, and offered her a chance at a better life, I would never have lived. We would have died out there on the street, she and I. How many other lives would be altered if I abandon those girls to their fate, thinking only of myself?”
“Yet, I doubt that either of your parents would expect you never to marry because of the school,” Alfred said.
Prudence shook her head. “You don’t understand, Alfred. If I was your wife, I would have to lie about my family’s past. And I couldn’t do that. I can’t pretend to be something I’m not. Can you imagine the reaction of your friends when they learned of my scandalous pedigree? You’d become an outcast—Lady Weston would, too. Any children we might have would fare the same. So you see, it’s impossible. I am not fit to be a nobleman’s wife.”
For the first time in this battle of wills with Alfred, he made no argument. He only stared at Prudence with a sober, darkened expression. “We should go home,” he said, finally.
“Yes,” Prudence agreed.
Alfred led her to the street corner and flagged his waiting coach. They waited in uneasy silence as the vehicle approached.
Prudence knew she should have been feeling victorious at finally convincing Alfred that they could never marry.
Wasn’t that what she wanted—to be free?
Chapter 22
“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,’” Prudence read, glancing at the reposed form of Lady Weston beside her in the enormous bed. She had come to visit her benefactress in her well-appointed bed-chamber. Lady Weston had requested that Prudence read some of Mr. Shakespeare’s sonnets aloud. She continued:
“‘Love is not love which alters when it alteratio
n finds…
or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.’”
She stopped for a moment, watching the frail woman as her eyes fluttered slightly and her breathing became rhythmic.
Prudence closed the small book and rose from her chair.
“Don’t stop now,” Lady Weston said, weakly. “You’re just getting to the good part.”
Returning to her seat. Prudence found the spot where she had left off in Sonnet 116:
“‘Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.’”
Lady Weston opened her eyes and smiled softly. “A very observant man, Mr. Shakespeare. I must say, I agree with him wholeheartedly.”
“About what?” Prudence asked, eager to engage the frail woman in diverting conversation.
Lady Weston’s health had been very poor since the day at the museum when she’d collapsed. Neither her appetite nor her energy was strong these days. She was sleeping more than usual, too. The doctor said it could be a failing heart. She was, after all, an old woman. Though no one in the house wanted to admit it, even someone as formidable as Lady Weston could not live forever.
“About everything,” Lady Weston replied. “I particularly like the part about Time: ‘Love alters not within his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.’ A very reassuring thought when you reach my age. And also that ‘Love is not Time’s fool…’ though our physical bodies grow old and our appearance changes, the heart does not see that. Love burns as brightly in a ‘marriage of true minds’ whether the couple be old or young.”
Prudence looked upon Alfred’s great-aunt with admiration. “You are very wise, Lady Weston.”
“I ought to be, after all this time,” she replied.
Prudence couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I only hope you, too, will be wise, Miss Atwater,” Lady Weston continued, “and that when you reach my age, you will have no regrets about the choices you have made.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.
“You know very well what I mean,” Lady Weston said, seriously. “I am referring to my great-nephew, Alfred. He told me he proposed to you, and you refused him. That in itself is not so unusual the first time ’round—it is sometimes best to make a man wait for your hand in marriage. But from what he described, you have refused outright because you are fearful…and I had you pegged for a braver girl than that.”
Prudence met her benefactress’s accusing gaze. “You don’t understand, Lady Weston. For me, marriage is quite impossible—with any man.”
“My grand-nephew is not just ‘any man,’ as you put it,” Lady Weston said. “Alfred is the best of men, Miss Atwater. He is like a son to me, and I am both proud and lucky to say so. My late husband Bertram and I were not blessed with children, but Alfred and his brother, Richard, became our own as we raised them in their parents’ stead. And that was no easy task, I assure you. I remember the boys’ hijinks—there were days I wanted to raise the white flag in surrender and give up. But more than that, I remember the laughter and joy they brought us through the years. I love them both, of course, but as you know, Alfred has always been devoted to me. As the younger son of an earl, he will get nothing of his father’s estate, so my late husband named Alfred heir to the Weston barony by special remainder. It is through him that the Weston family name will carry on, and I long to see him settled with a wife and child before I die.”
“You aren’t going to die—” Prudence began.
“Yes, I am,” Lady Weston replied, calmly. “If not today, perhaps tomorrow…or next week, or even a year hence. But be assured, I will die, Miss Atwater. On that, you may absolutely count. But before I do, it is my greatest wish to see him take a bride. You, my dear.”
Prudence shook her head. “I told you, my lady, I cannot marry any man—least of all Alfred.”
“Why?” Lady Weston asked. “Because your mother came from the streets?”
Swallowing uncomfortably, Prudence answered, “I wasn’t sure you knew about that. And I dare say, Lord Weston should have kept that business to himself.”
“That is not our way,” Lady Weston replied. “Alfred and I are very honest with one another. I wish you would learn to be the same.”
Prudence was shocked to hear such bald criticism. “Forgive me, Lady Weston, but are you suggesting that I am in the habit of lying?”
“Not to anyone but yourself,” she answered, sagely.
“But—” Prudence began to argue, then found herself unable to form an intelligent response.
“You see?” Lady Weston said. “I speak the truth, my dear. The only person you are being dishonest with is yourself. And that is the last person you should attempt to deceive. If you do, you’ll find yourself trapped in a life you were never meant to live, and you may only realize that when it’s too late. Look at me, Prudence, I am eighty-seven years old. I had a great love—my darling Bertram—and was lucky enough to become his wife. We journeyed through life together, living each day as an incredible adventure, until his death. But in order to do that, we each had to give up something of ourselves, to give a piece of ourselves to the other. That is how two people create a true union. And that is what I think you are afraid to do. Alfred said you are afraid to give up your freedom, afraid of losing control of the school. However, I believe that what you truly fear is yourself—the new person you’ll become if you are brave enough to share your heart and soul in a marriage.”
Prudence swallowed uncomfortably. There was a pain in her chest that she tried desperately to ignore, but it didn’t go away. She didn’t want to hear this from Lady Weston—she didn’t want to hear it from anybody. Yet here she sat, unable to leave the great lady’s side.
“Make no mistake, Prudence,” Lady Weston continued, “marriage is a daunting thing. For either sex, marriage to someone unsuitable can be a torture all its own. But when two people are well-matched, when they complement each other, challenge each other, and comfort each other, marriage is an adventure like no other on earth. I would hate to see you count yourself out of such fun because you are afraid of what people will say about your origins.”
“I’m not afraid of what people will say,” Prudence explained, “I’m afraid of what I’ll say when they make insulting comments about my mother. I told Alfred, I won’t lie about her.”
“He never asked you to,” Lady Weston pointed out.
Prudence took a breath in order to keep going with her argument, then stopped and said, “What?”
“I said, Alfred never asked you to lie,” Lady Weston said. “Nor have I.”
“But as I explained to Alfred,” she said, “as his wife, I would be expected to attend balls and soiree’s and other society functions with him. And when his aristocratic friends asked about my parents, I couldn’t lie about them. When I met you, Lady Weston, I told you only that my parents were dead. You made no further inquiries about my mother’s family, so I offered no more information. But someone will ask the question someday. And I will have to answer them truthfully. Do you really want the ton to look at Alfred and I, and even you—with ridicule?”
Lady Weston huffed, saying, “They don’t scare me. And they shouldn’t scare you, either.”
“You’re saying that if I was Alfred’s wife and someone gave me the cut direct, you’d stand by me?” Prudence asked.
“Not only would I stand by you,” Lady Weston replied, “I’d launch a few stinging volleys myself!”
; Prudence was at a loss for words.
Lady Weston patted Prudence’s hand, looking worn out. “You think about what I’ve said. I am quite tired just now. I must rest.”
“Of course, Lady Weston,” Prudence replied, feeling terrible for bothering the frail woman with her problems. “Can I bring you anything…? Lady Weston?”
But she was already asleep.
Prudence quietly exited Lady Weston’s bed chamber and headed downstairs. She herself was in need of a cup of tea. After the intense conversation with her benefactress, she needed to take some time and think about things.
Things like Alfred…and his proposal of marriage…and whether or not it could ever work between them.
Just picturing his darkly handsome face sent butterflies to Prudence’s stomach. She hadn’t seen him this morning. He had departed the house early with Lady Harrington, and they would be gone for most of the day.
Was Lady Weston right? Was Prudence truly more afraid of herself and the uncharted territory of marriage than anything else?
She sighed as she walked into the salon, finding Dolly at work mending one of the girls’ frocks. A tea service sat on an end table. Prudence poured herself a cup of fragrant tea and plunked herself down on the sofa.
“Goodness sakes, you sound like an elephant stomping about,” Dolly said, glancing up from her work. “Is everything alright?”
“As alright as it can be, I suppose,” Prudence answered, then she frowned. “No…actually, Dolly, things are not alright. Why does everyone say that when it is hardly ever true?”
Dolly looked uncomfortable. “Is it because of Mungo an’ me gettin’ married, Miss?”
“Oh dear, no,” Prudence said, springing up and giving her friend a quick hug. “That’s why people say things are alright when they aren’t—they don’t want to upset anyone unnecessarily. I am happy for you both, Dolly, more than you could ever know. As I told Mungo, I hope you’ll stay on with me at the school, wherever that will be. We need to find a new location. We can’t stay here in Lord Weston’s townhouse forever.”
Taming The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 2) Page 18