“Because you wished to complete what you had only just begun.” William set his cup on the table and stood to address the innkeeper’s wife. “Thank you, madam, you have been a friend indeed. Your advice and speculations have given me no end of food for thought.”
“Well, then!” She beamed. “Thank you, sir. And I shall hope to see you again soon.”
“Indeed, I have no doubt of it.”
With a fluttering little curtsy, the woman scurried away, looking pleased with herself.
William picked up an iron poker and prodded a burning log on the grate. “You are not well, Miss Watson,” he said, his focus on the blaze that had reignited. “You look tired.”
“Thank you, I am sure. Such a compliment I have not received in many a day.”
His expression remained somber as he faced her. “You should not go out alone. There are gypsies about. And pickpockets.”
“And cads, but one cannot be too careful lest all the fun go out of life.” She rose. “Thank you for your invitation, sir, but I must respectfully decline.”
“Do you think me a cad?”
“Are you a cad?”
He regarded her for a moment. “I am. I cannot deny it. My behavior has been reprehensible. You are right to shun me.”
“Were I a cad, I should not make so light of it. More than one woman has had her heart broken over the likes of you.”
“But you are not such a woman, Prudence. Are you?”
His use of her given name flustered her. She took a step toward the fire, and swaying slightly, she put out her hand to find a mooring. William took it instead, caught it to his chest, and drew her near.
“Woman, you torment me,” he said, his voice low. “Tell me why?”
“I cannot say.” She looked into his eyes.
“You cannot say . . . or you will not?”
“We are not alike. Perhaps therein lies the torment.”
“Do you feel it too? Say you do.”
She moistened her lips. “You ask much of me, sir. Please, I must return to my room. You are right—I am tired.”
“Have you stayed because of him?” William asked. “Does that lost love still impel you?”
She looked away, wishing he would set her free, yet relishing the warmth of his hand on hers. “I am not in love,” she told him. “Not with him or any other man. My reason for staying has nothing to do with passion.”
“And everything to do with compassion.”
Surprised, she glanced at him. “Yes. Compassion. How did you know?”
“Do I not know you, Prudence? You say we are not alike. I say we are two of a kind. I see the fire in your eyes. I know what you want.”
“Do you? I think not.” She swallowed. “But you have given me half of what I want already, William.”
“And what is that?”
“Cake. Tea. Kindness to those who labor on your behalf.”
“What else would you ask of me, Prudence? Tell me now. Perhaps you have it already.”
She longed to speak words that must not be said. Her heart filled with forbidden desire. He smelled of the outdoors, of leather and bracken. She ached to drift into his arms, lay her head against the broad plane of his chest, feel the sweet press of his lips against hers.
But this was not the time for such longings, nor was he the man who could give life to her dreams.
“Hours,” she managed. “Shorter hours. That is what I want. Send them all home before dark. Give the children time to play, the parents strength to hold their little ones close. Bring a teacher. Let the children learn to read and count. Give them hope for a better life.”
“A better life that would take them from my mill?” He released her hand and took up the poker again. “Do you not understand that these people have served my family for generations? It is all the life they have known. All that we have known. The villagers are our tenants. They plow our fields and keep watch over our flocks. They clip and mow our gardens. They polish our silver and shine our windows. And they produce our worsted.”
“But have they no right to dream?”
“This is an economy, Prudence!” he barked. “It is a system. A familiar—even comfortable—system. Would you bring it all down with a whispered word of sedition? Would you and your compatriots in revolution topple this great nation by smashing our machines and burning down our mills?”
At his vehemence, her indignation rose. “Did I ask for destruction, sir? Did I speak of an end to England’s peerage or the annihilation of her social order? No, indeed. I asked for a shorter workday, better food, cleaner air, and reading lessons for your laborers. It is not so much, William Sherbourne. Not for a man like you.”
“A man like me. You know nothing about me.” He thrust the poker into the fire again. For a moment, he was absorbed in prodding a log into flame. Then he straightened and turned to her.
“I am not capable of greatness, Prudence. Do not imagine me better than I am. I am a selfish and obstinate man. I have done too much in my life already—too much that is wrong. The fetters I once forged now tighten about my neck. The ball and chain I crafted now prevent my escape. My hands are bound by iron cuffs that constrict every movement. I cannot be good. I cannot be worthy of anything . . . or of anyone who is so much better and more beautiful than the wretch who stands before you now.”
The pain written on his face was more than Prudence could bear. “Your heart is not fettered, William,” she said, laying her hand on his cheek. “No one can imprison your spirit. No one can lock away your mind. You speak as an old man whose life is nearly at an end. But you are young. Hope cannot be constrained. Nor can faith. And love? Love is beyond the reach of sin and failure.”
He took her hand again, held it to his lips. She saw his struggle, the anguish of words he could not bear to speak. Stepping near, she stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss on his cheek.
At that, he groaned, took her in his arms, and held her so close she could hardly breathe. His lips found hers, and he kissed her with such passion that the reticence holding back her heart fled at once.
“William, what am I to do?” she murmured against his coat. “What are we to do?”
“Don’t speak, my lady. Stay in my embrace forever. Let me hold you and kiss you until every impossibility is erased by our love.”
“Our love? Oh, William . . .”
“No,” he silenced her. Holding her at arm’s length, he shook his head. “No, not love. I cannot . . . I will not imprison you too. Go, Prudence. Go home to London. Leave me here, I beg you. Save your life. Spare your heart for a man more worthy of it.”
With a last kiss, he shuddered. His hands laced through her hair, cupped her neck, caressed her face. Then he turned from her and strode out of the room. She heard the door open and shut again. With a sigh, she fell onto the settee, buried her face in her hands, and allowed herself to weep until no more tears would come.
Ten
William sat near the pianoforte and made a gallant effort to listen to a young lady who fumbled every third note. He took some amusement from it, for she carried on playing with great determination despite the discordant notes that echoed through the drawing room. Most of the other guests had moved into the ballroom, where hired musicians played jigs, country dances, and even waltzes with skill. William was half-inclined to join them, but the very thought of dancing with any woman other than Prudence Watson paralyzed him.
“There!” the young lady cried out as the final cacophonous chords quavered across the room. She let out a deep sigh of satisfaction and turned to William with a smile that made her almost pretty.
He observed, with some regret, that he was the only gentleman remaining in the room and that she was awaiting his response. Sitting up, he applauded with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
“Lovely, Miss . . . ?”
“Miss Madeline Bowden.”
“Of the James Bowden family?”
“Yes, sir. I am the youngest daughter but one.”
“I am William Sherbourne.”
“Yes! Your eldest brother is Lord Thorne and your second brother is a missionary in India.”
“Well done, Miss Madeline. You have placed me exactly.”
“We are Ivy, Caroline, Madeline—that is me.”
“Of course.”
“And finally Clementine. She is youngest of all and has not yet come out into society.” Her attention returned to the pianoforte. “Would you like to hear another song, Mr. Sherbourne? I have found a concerto here among the music, but I have never played it before. Still, if you wish—”
“Ah, but I should not like to put a lady in distress.” At the alarming prospect of listening to her scrabble through an interminable concerto, he leapt to his feet. “Surely you would rather dance on such an evening as this, Miss Madeline?”
“Dance? With you?”
“None other.” He held out his hand.
Blushing rather too much, she rose and slipped her arm around his. “You are very kind.”
He begged to differ, for his offer to dance was born of self-preservation and nothing else. But he kept his tongue. The evening held little else to divert him, and the young lady was positively trembling at having won his attentions. Sadly, he could not be less interested in her . . . or in anyone else.
Prudence Watson, he had learned from Olivia at tea that afternoon, had been joined by her dear friend Anne. This welcome visitor had lately arrived in Otley with her husband, Ruel Chouteau, the Marquess of Blackthorne. Lord and Lady Blackthorne, it was rumored, had come to retrieve Miss Watson and would depart with her for London the following morning.
As he faced Madeline Bowden across the dance floor now, William tried to be glad about this news. Prudence would tempt him no more. She and her sweet lips, glorious curls, and pert opinions could no longer divert him from his resolve to remain a bachelor—and to be happy about it—for the rest of his life.
The music swelled; he bowed, stepped into the pattern, turned a circle with Madeline Bowden, and found himself face-to-face with the woman herself—Prudence Watson in a golden gown and long white gloves, with silk ribbons woven through the curls in her hair.
His expression of surprise must have been obvious. Prudence audibly caught her breath, her eyes begging him to remain silent. When the formation of the dance moved him away from her, he scanned the couples to determine the identity of her partner.
None other than Ruel Chouteau was escorting the young lady around the room. Chouteau, once a seaman too, had met William on more than one occasion. It was entirely possible that the man knew William’s history, had related it to Prudence, and would soon report it to the entire company.
“Good evening, Mr. Sherbourne,” Prudence said softly, when the dance brought them together a second time. “You did not expect to see me.”
“Indeed I did not. Yesterday I believed you must depart for London very soon.”
“And you wished it so,” she replied.
Before he could answer, the dance separated them again. He willed his attention to Miss Madeline, who was clearly beyond rapture over the honor of her escort. She smiled, giggled, tittered, missed several steps, winked at her sisters, and otherwise made it quite impossible for William to keep a straight face.
But soon his path crossed the floor toward Prudence again. “Do you mean to remain in Otley?” he asked.
“We leave tomorrow morning.” She linked arms with him and turned a circle. “Your cake was well received at the mill. Or so I am told.”
They parted again, and he was left to imagine who had informed her about the cake. Walker, of course. The blacksmith must have met Prudence—perhaps this very evening before she departed for Thorne Lodge. His ire at the idea of a secret rendezvous told William she still held his heart. He could not endure the thought of any other man touching her, embracing her, kissing her.
“Thank you, sir.” Madeline Bowden gazed at him, her eyes aglow. He realized belatedly that the music had ceased and the dancers were leaving the floor. Her long lashes fluttered as she spoke again. “You dance remarkably well.”
“You are too kind. But I fear my years at sea have made me unsteady on my feet. I am grateful for the honor of your hand, Miss Madeline.”
“The honor is mine,” she replied. William feared they might go on this way for some time, but Randolph stepped in to ask for a moment with his brother.
“Have you seen Miss Watson?” Randolph asked in a low voice as they made their way to the refreshment tables. “She has captured the eye of every unwed man in the room, William. You must ask her to dance.”
“You ask her, brother, for she will more likely grant you the honor. Miss Watson and I are no longer friends.”
“Indeed not, for you are more than that, and you should make plain your claim on her. Leave her no doubt of your intentions, and erase the hopes of any other man who might propose to woo her.”
“Randolph, upon my word, I believe you are persuasive tonight. Perchance did Olivia suggest that you advise me thus?”
“What if she did? We both agree you would be wise to form an attachment with a lady so handsome and well connected as Miss Watson. Did you meet her friends? Blackthorne will be duke one day in his father’s place. The family owns a grand home in London, a vast country estate, and a flourishing lace industry in France. I believe they are somehow connected to tea.”
“Tea? That settles it, then. I shall propose marriage to Miss Watson at once.”
“Dash it all, William, can you never be serious?”
“No, Randolph, I cannot. My course is set and my future will never include a—”
“Do excuse me, my dear William.” Olivia Sherbourne had appeared at her husband’s side. “Miss Watson is hardly lacking in dance partners, but—” and here she prodded Prudence forward—“but I believe I have managed to secure at least one dance in your name.”
The younger woman gave Olivia a wan smile. “Thank you, madam. I am not engaged at present, but surely Mr. Sherbourne prefers to select his own partners.”
William stared at Prudence, unable to think beyond the immediate desire to sweep her into his arms and carry her away into a life where they could never be parted. But at his hesitation, her cheeks colored and she gave a little laugh.
“Indeed, I believe Mr. Sherbourne has already asked another lady for this dance. Miss Madeline Bowden is very pretty.”
“No,” William blurted. “It is you I want.”
With that assertion hanging in midair, he took Prudence by the hand and led her to the floor.
Prudence managed the first steps of the dance well enough. But on crossing to William, slipping her arm through his, and turning an intimate circle, she felt her knees go weak.
“You are beautiful this evening,” he murmured, his lips near her cheek, his breath warming her ear.
“I am tired,” she responded, her eyes meeting his. “I had thought to stay away tonight.”
“Then I am to thank your friend for my happiness.”
“She insisted we attend—but only after Lady Thorne sent a second invitation. Anne wishes to meet you.”
“I am at her service. And yours.” He stepped away now, the requirements of the country dance moving the participants into parallel lines, the women facing the men.
Prudence had made every effort to focus her attentions elsewhere that evening. From the moment Anne and Ruel accepted the formal invitation issued from Thorne Hall, Prudence had labored to concoct a truthful reason not to go. Indeed, she was very tired, for she had spent the day at the mill, where her thread continued to be uneven and her spindles a tangle. Yet, as Fanny had assured her, Prudence’s efforts were not quite as hopeless as on the previous day.
On learning they must present themselves at the assembly, Prudence decided she would ignore William. If she feigned disinterest in him, perhaps that falsehood would somehow become truth.
But now she had no choice except to gaze on the man who consumed her waking th
oughts and sleeping dreams. Though attired as the other gentlemen—in a black suit, damask vest, and white neckcloth—William easily surpassed them all with his form. Broad shoulders, faultless posture, depthless brown eyes, and impeccable dance steps surely made him the object of every woman’s hopes and imaginings.
“I think of you day and night,” he whispered when they came together again. “I cannot sleep.”
“You named yourself a cad,” she reminded him. “Perhaps offering such alluring compliments to women is one of your vices.”
“I have many vices,” he told her. “Deceiving you is not among them.”
“Why is that? I am little different from these other lovely ladies who grace the stage of your life.”
He was silent for a moment, his hand at her waist as they moved down the line of dancers. “You are in every way different,” he said finally. “I love you.”
At that declaration, the steps of the dance parted them again. Prudence tried to believe she had misheard William. The music was loud and the chatter of onlookers pervasive. But he had said the words. Said them with reluctance, as though loath to admit the truth of his own feelings.
And how might she respond? More men than she could count had pronounced themselves violently in love with her. She could not recall the number of marriage proposals offered to her on bent knee. How many had sworn they could not go on living without her? that they must surely perish in the barren desert of her rejection? that their existence would no longer have meaning without the daily, hourly vision of her smile?
But which of those vaguely remembered suitors moved her heart as William Sherbourne did? Only one. And that man had spoken to her on this day—as on every other since their reunion—of his engagement, his fond attachment, his deep desire to wed another. He loved Bettie, a little widow with pretty dimples and threads of white hair woven through the brown. He would unite himself to this woman who could give him what Prudence could not—a simple life, a warm cottage, food prepared by her own hands, the peace of knowing he at last had come home.
The Courteous Cad Page 13