“Though we rarely believe half of what he tells us,” Randolph added. “But forgive me, brother—I discredit you again. We affirm your reputed transformation from rogue to gentleman, and we are keen to witness it.”
“And so you shall,” William pledged. “Mrs. Heathhill, please give your sister my regards.”
On that note, they departed the inn and moved down the street toward their carriage. Olivia declared Mrs. Heathhill to be the very picture of a lady, though her younger sibling, she feared, might be the nervous sort. Randolph defended Miss Watson’s tender nerves and remarked upon her loveliness.
William kept his thoughts to himself. If Prudence Watson was half the woman he supposed, she was far above him in integrity and virtue.
He had not turned over a new leaf.
Even if he had, she would be beyond him. The secrets of his past would haunt him forever. He had no doubt of that. Nothing he might do now or in the future could absolve him.
Miss Watson must be left alone. Despite her protests to the contrary, she would find another man to love. In time, memories of her fondness for a certain poor blacksmith would fade. As would any recollection of a man who had helped her from a puddle somewhere in Yorkshire.
“I believe an unmarried woman must do good wherever she goes.” Prudence spoke with fervor before the assembled friends and family of Lord and Lady Thorne.
After a sumptuous dinner, they had gathered around the fire in the great drawing room. The meal had warmed Prudence’s spirits, and her hosts’ kindness had eased her heartache. The subject of eager discussion was Prudence’s future, with every participant—except William Sherbourne—advocating matrimony. Several possible husbands were suggested, their merits and shortcomings the theme of heated debate.
“I shall never wed,” Prudence declared before they could begin to set a wedding date and select a gown. “Therefore, I await the call of God. When I am certain of the cause He wishes me to champion, I shall march into the fray and do battle to the end.”
“Does God often require such violence of His followers?” William Sherbourne asked. “I confess I was blissfully unaware.”
He stood with one arm on the mantel, the image of idleness and indifference. The man had said little all evening, and when he did speak, it was to trivialize every topic of conversation. Making jests at the expense of others and bandying with his brother humored him no end. Prudence had decided to despise him.
“Miss Watson, I am of a mind to inspect the armory here at Thorne Lodge,” William went on. “You will need a strong shield and a sharp sword if you are to combat the evils of this world.”
“Are you blissfully unaware of the shield of faith and the sword of the Spirit, sir?” She made little effort to conceal her disdain. “They are described in St. Paul’s epistle to the Ephesians. The full armor of God is all I require in my quest.”
“Ah, I begin to suspect a Joan of Arc in our midst. Indeed, I feel flames burning about me even now. Or perhaps it is merely the blaze on your hearth, brother, that warms my . . .” He paused and winked at Prudence. “My undercarriage.”
She looked away, determined not to smile. “Have you a copy of Fordyce’s Sermons, Lord Thorne? I believe the nourishment of Scripture may sustain me even more than the fine gooseberry pudding we just enjoyed.”
“Certainly,” he said. “My forefathers amassed a grand collection of books of which we are exceedingly proud. William, will you be so good as to show Miss Watson to the library?”
Before Prudence could protest, the younger man stepped to her side and offered his arm. Lest the others sense her loathing, she slipped her hand around it.
Unfortunately for Prudence, William possessed a remarkable musculature. She tried not to notice how her fingers formed around his biceps. Had his many sojourns at sea hardened him in both body and soul? He was cynical, mocking, and contemptuous. But his dark eyes beckoned her.
“Miss Watson,” he began as they strolled down a corridor lined with portraits of his ancestors and laid with thick carpets. “I must say how delighted I am to learn you plan to remain forever unwed. I, too, am bound for such a future. As fellow partakers in uncorrupted innocence, we shall be great friends forever. Chums, in fact.”
“Chums . . .” She barely mouthed the word.
“When we are together,” he continued, “we shall always be at ease. As comfortable as a pair of old shoes. Can you disagree?”
“No,” Prudence said, hardly knowing whether to laugh at his preposterous remarks or to consider him quite as mad as poor King George.
But he persisted. “I find I am perfectly content with my lot. The solitary life is unmatched for those of us who prefer piety to a household with a spouse and children.”
“Piety?”
“Of course. I do hope you mean to keep yourself chaste.”
At his careless use of such a term, a wash of heat flooded Prudence’s cheeks. She prayed he would not notice.
“Certainly,” she mumbled. Spotting the library a short distance away, she detached from her escort. “Excuse me, Mr. Sherbourne, but I am capable of walking the rest of the way alone.”
She picked up her skirts and hurried toward the library, now a veritable haven into which she might escape this man who was at once both disarming and annoying.
“I am glad of your resolve,” he said, easily keeping pace. “As King Solomon the wise asserted, a virtuous woman is more valuable than gold.”
While still speaking, William reached around Prudence to open the door. Unaware, she took another step and glided into his arms. Catching her breath, she hung there for a moment, conscious that he too had paused in surprise.
Whose fault? Which of them could be blamed for this accidental intimacy?
Neither moved.
“Rubies,” she whispered, looking up into warm treacle eyes, soft and luminous in the lamplit hallway.
“Rubies?” he asked.
“Proverbs 31.”
At the touch of his hand on her shoulder, the air went out of her, and she sagged against him. His lips brushed her cheek, lit a fire on her mouth.
“Forgive me, Miss Watson.” He spoke against her ear, his voice low. “I believe we have arrived at the library.”
“Indeed we have,” she acknowledged, ducking under his arm.
She stepped through the open door and made for the fireplace on a far wall. William Sherbourne had kissed her! She had allowed it! Worse, she had welcomed it. An instant in another man’s arms, and she had betrayed her greatest and only true love.
And for whom? A naval officer so wicked that his own family could not speak of him without scorn. But was she any better?
Prudence had not been faultless in her conduct with Mr. Walker. Her friend Anne had been compelled to reproach her more than once for secret tête-à-têtes and hushed avowals of passion. If her sisters knew what she had done now, they would reprimand her with fervor. Rightly so.
Her pulse thrummed as she stepped up to a bookcase and laid her hand on the nearest volume. Was William still in the room? Or had he gone away in shock? Oh, she could hardly guess what he must think of her. Would he tell his brother about the strumpet in the family library?
“Are you quite sure it was rubies?”
His voice from behind shattered her nerves like a pane of glass breaking. Wrapping her arms around the book and holding it tight against her chest, she turned. He stood less than a pace away. Too close.
“Rubies,” she said. “‘Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.’ Proverbs 31:10.”
When he made no response, she hastened on. “But I do not find Fordyce’s Sermons, and so I must return to the drawing room. My sister will be anxious to depart for the inn before the roads are dark. Pardon me.”
She made an attempt to start for the door.
“The books on religious matters are shelved near that window,” he told her, his outstretched arm blocking her way. “As you see, it is too late to hope for light
. Even the moon hides behind a cloud. But you have no cause for alarm, Miss Watson. My brother’s torchbearers will run ahead of your carriage.”
“All the same, Mary will worry if I am away long.”
“Will she?” He touched a tendril of her hair that had escaped its knot. “Mrs. Heathhill was content when we left her. I believe she and Lady Thorne had agreed to exhibit their talents on the pianoforte. In fact, I hear them now. My brother will be entertained. He is a great aficionado of music. We are not missed.”
“I love music too. I should enjoy a recital.”
She started to move away again, but his fingers on the lock of her hair prevented it.
“Sir,” she said, “please release me.”
“I beg your pardon.” He lowered his hand. “I am bemused at such a curl. In the whole of my life, I have never seen another like it.”
“You jest, of course. Many woman have curly hair. Mine gives me no end of trouble. It is willful.”
“Much like the lady who possesses it.”
“On the contrary, I am most compliant, Mr. Sherbourne. I assure you of that. Now if you will excuse me, I have selected a book which I am eager to read, and I must return to my sister.”
“Of course. I should not want to prevent you from your perusal of . . .” He took the book from her arms. “Two Treatises: in the One of Which, the Nature of Bodies; in the Other, the Nature of Mans Soule; Is Looked Into. Ah, an enlightened tome. Do you wish to study bodies, Miss Watson, or souls? Mr. Kenelm Digby will allow either or both.”
Prudence looked down at the title. How could she have chosen such an ill-befitting subject? Now Mr. Sherbourne had found a new way to tease and embarrass her. But she did not have to endure it.
“Man’s soul is well worth study,” she told him. “I have met many gentlemen, sir, and few can boast any redeeming qualities. You, for example, are determined to make a mockery of everything and everyone. In the short time we have known each other, I daresay I have not heard a single admiring comment about you. Your entire family enjoys goading you to your face. The poor children employed at your mill speak openly of your heartlessness and cruelty. Indeed, I am sure Mr. Kenelm Digby, whose treatise I hope to read momentarily, would have enjoyed making a study of your soul. Perhaps he concludes that some men have no soul at all.”
“You are correct in every wickedness you surmise about me, Miss Watson.” He looked down, a frown furrowing his brow, as if he saw his failings written out across the carpet. “I am not a good man. I have committed such evil, in fact, that I cannot hope to be forgiven. I do have a soul, but it is blacker than the night outside that window. I might as well have sold it to the devil for all the good it will do me in the life to come. And now you know all there is to understand about me.”
He lifted his head. She expected to see the smirk that would tell her he once again made light of what she had said. But his expression was sober, his dark eyes shadowed.
“Take Mr. Digby to the drawing room,” he said, handing back the book. “Read what he has to say about men’s souls, Miss Watson. Tell me if, upon my death, I may anticipate anything but the flames and torment of a fiery lake. But I shall seal my fate with a comment I cannot resist: Mr. Walker the blacksmith was lucky to win the love of a woman like you. And he is the greatest fool alive to have let it go. Should I ever be so blessed as to win your good opinion, be assured that nothing in the world could induce me to sacrifice it.”
His serious tone could not be mistaken.
“It is not my good opinion you should seek, Mr. Sherbourne,” she told him. “It is God’s. You will find Him more forgiving than I and certainly more merciful. But I shall endeavor to like you. We are, after all, chums.”
With a little curtsy, she ended their conversation and left the room as swiftly as she could without breaking into an all-out run.
William sat at the end of a settee, as far as he politely could from the jolly gathering in the drawing room. After much pleading from the other guests, Mrs. Heathhill and Miss Watson had condescended to sing. Their voices were melodious and sweet as they blended in perfect harmony. Standing at the pianoforte, they gazed at one another with such fondness that William could scarcely endure it. Such genuine happiness. Such sisterly affection. Such innocence and wholesome beauty. He felt ill.
The life he had tried to leave behind held nothing in common with the genteel accord of these friends assembled at Thorne Lodge. An evening of dining, music, polite conversation.There had been some mention of whist. Perhaps they would even dance. Heaven forbid.
“Your humor, brother, is as black as the coals on our grate.” Randolph, who had approached from behind, now seated himself in an ornate chair beside William. “Surely Miss Watson’s pretty smile has little to do with your dark disposition.”
“She is nothing to me,” William returned. “I have known women ten times as pretty who could not disturb the rhythm of my heartbeat. She is a city lady who cannot cross a country street without tumbling into a mud puddle. Forgive me, but I have no more to say about her.”
Randolph chuckled. “I shall take this discourse as proof that Cupid’s arrow has struck true. Methinks you do protest too much.”
“Now you quote Shakespeare. Miss Watson took delight in reciting the Bible. Has no one in this room an original thought?”
“William, your scorn fatigues me, and I know its source. I shall not mince words. The boy we met this afternoon most certainly works at Quince’s Mill. He cannot be one of our laborers, and you are not to blame for his brother’s injury.”
“How like you to meddle until you have discovered the source of my unease.” William watched as the women rearranged themselves at the pianoforte—colorful butterflies hovering around a drop of honey. Now Mrs. Heathhill played while her sister treated the company to a solo.
“I did not like the look of Tom Smith’s wagging finger,” William went on. “For all I know, he and his siblings do work at Thorne Mill. Injuries are common, Randolph. The piecers and scavengers move about in the midst of such a tangle of looms, carding engines, and scouring machines it is a wonder we don’t behead several a day.”
“William!” With a wry laugh, Randolph leaned back on the settee. “The things you say never cease to astonish me. You know we built the mill to the specifications of the best architect in Yorkshire. Our looms are as safe as any such mammoth apparatus can be.”
“They were safe when we installed them. But I have been away at sea these many months. I do not know how well my overlookers tend the machinery or supervise the laborers. I confess the mill was not my primary concern while my men engaged the French navy in battle.”
“Yet I have been here all the time, and I have heard no complaints.”
“You were engaged in wooing and wedding Olivia Hewes, as I recall. Not to mention producing your heir and spare.”
“The spare is only just under way, brother,” Randolph said in a low voice. “Keep that information to yourself, if you will.”
“Am I not the paragon of discretion?”
“Hardly.” Randolph studied the gathered ladies. “She is a beauty, William. I assure you I have never known a woman so lovely or so good.”
“Her hair is too curly, don’t you think? Bits and pieces keep escaping her knot.” He paused and smiled. “You were talking of Miss Watson, were you not?”
“My wife,” Randolph growled. “You know very well who I meant.”
“Your wife is perfect. Miss Watson is silly. A woman of such surpassing beauty can have nothing in her head but gowns, balls, receptions, intrigues, and gossip. I ought to cast my lot with her sister. A widow might make a tranquil diversion.”
“William, can you never be serious? Mrs. Heathhill is in mourning, and her temperament is unsuited to yours. But observe Miss Watson now. She sings well. Her manners are impeccable, and her family is well connected. You really should marry. It would do you good to gain the steadying influence of a wife.”
“Hmm . . . yes, I
suppose so.” He mused on the curve of her shoulder as she turned a sheet of music for her sister. “If you must know, Randolph, Miss Watson and I have an agreement.”
“What?” His brother sat up straight. “Already?”
“In the library just now. We spoke; we kissed; we confessed our true feelings. In short, we are in perfect accord. Our future union is settled.”
“Can you mean this? William, speak plainly. You hardly know the woman. Are you engaged already?”
“Engaged? Oh no. Our agreement is of another sort. Until death do us part, we are to be the best of chums.”
“You agreed to be friends? You and Miss Watson? William, you astonish me.”
“It is my single aim to astonish my eldest brother three times each day. If Edmund were not busy scuttling about in India, I should enjoy dumbfounding him as well.”
“I shall not give way to your impudence, William. You need a wife, and Miss Watson is suitable in every way. Can you not set aside your melancholy air and dark wit long enough to win her heart?”
“Win her and then grow glum and miserable again? She would not like that, I think. No, we are not well matched. She loves London, and I prefer the country. She is pious, and I am irreverent. She is happy and charming, while I am always tedious. Leave me in peace, Randolph. My future is laid out. I intend to maim as many children as possible in my mill, develop a wicked case of gout, and die a bitter old man.”
“How lovely you sing, Miss Watson,” Randolph exclaimed, drowning the end of William’s remarks as the young lady approached. He stood to welcome her. “I have rarely heard that tune sung with such animation. Do you not agree, William?”
“You might be mistaken for a nightingale, Miss Watson.”
She seated herself on the settee, though at a distance from him. It was all William could do not to stare at her. Singing had heightened the color in her cheeks and brought a bright fire to her eyes. She was—he could no longer deny it—the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Their kiss in the library played at the edges of his mind, taunting and mesmerizing him with possibilities. Yet there were no possibilities. He knew that too well.
The Courteous Cad Page 3