“Do you think he suspects most women would accept him for his fortune?” Prudence asked pensively.
“Perhaps,” Dorothea replied. “But your cousin rejected his offer despite his wealth. I cannot help but wonder how that made him feel?”
“I believe he was a little surprised.” Prudence thought back to the day Margaret had formally rejected his suit. At her aunt’s bidding, Prudence had waited to speak with Sir James outside the drawing room to extend her aunt’s most sincere regrets. Had he indeed seemed surprised? Perhaps a little disappointed? She didn’t think so. As she recalled, James seemed rather lighthearted about the incident, but perhaps he was simply putting a good face on it.
“Lady Brownell must have been a good deal surprised when your cousin Margaret rejected her son’s suit. Your aunt as well. Together they must have considered the couple as good as plighted. Sir James appeared so biddable and Margaret’s situation so…”
Dorothea lifted the back of her gloved hand to her mouth, coughing slightly. “I beg your pardon, Prudence. I ramble on so. I forgot I was not speaking to myself.”
“I quite understand,” Prudence said, hoping she did not look as pained as she felt. Her uncle’s gambling debts were too humiliating to contemplate. “I told Margaret she should consider it her duty to marry Sir James—not just because of my late uncle’s debts either.” Sighing, she added, “It is a woman’s duty to marry, and so we are taught from childhood.”
And yet Prudence had been as stubborn as her cousin. She had not only rejected her first offer of marriage, but the second as well. There had been no others, nor were there likely to be. Perhaps that was her punishment for being too particular, Prudence mused. But was it wrong to desire the ability to truly respect one’s husband for the man that he was and not merely because one was married to him?
“Do you think Sir James has a romantical nature?” Dorothea asked.
“How can I say?” Prudence asked, frowning. This was proving a most difficult and uncomfortable topic of discussion. “Margaret did not think so,” she added with a short laugh.
Dorothea stopped to place a light hand on Prudence’s arm. “Prudence, will you tell me something?”
“Certainly.” Prudence returned her friend’s frank gaze in a considering way. “What do you wish to know?”
Glancing around first to be sure they would not be overheard, Dorothea asked, “Do you have feelings for Sir James?”
Prudence could feel her cheeks grow warm and a lump form in her throat. She hesitated, unwilling to speak of her true feelings for the man to anyone. If she admitted that she cared for him—cared for him deeply—would that not make her disappointment and heartache even more unbearable when he went to sea?
Squeezing her wrist, Dorothea said, “Come, Prudence, you are past the age of being missish, and we have been friends far too long. Be candid with me.”
“It is quite absurd to speak of such things,” Prudence answered with a short laugh. Dorothea dropped her hand but stood regarding her with an inquiring look. Expelling a breath, she finally replied, “I do not know my own mind—or heart.” Walking past her friend, she made her way toward a row of flourishing yellow rose bushes. “Look at these! Are they not breathtaking?”
“They are indeed,” Dorothea said, catching her up. “However, if you do not know your own mind and heart, then perhaps I should tell you Mr. Younghughes is most eager to earn your good opinion once more. He sought me out in the Pump Room yesterday, claiming to know that I am your most particular friend. He pressed me to give him some assurance that your affections are not engaged elsewhere so that he might…”
“Never!”
Dorothea, her eyes twinkling, replied, “Hmmm, such a vehement reply. And so candid and quick.”
“Where Mr. Younghughes is concerned I know my mind and heart quite well indeed,” Prudence assured her, flushing.
“But if your affections are not engaged, is it not possible that you might consider…”
“No!” Prudence insisted. “I could never feel anything of a warmer nature for Mr. Younghughes. Believe me. It would be better if he spent his time with his prize ammonites and focused his attentions upon becoming a member of the Royal Society.”
“He seems more intent upon fixing his interests with you,” Dorothea said.
Prudence sighed wearily. “I have done nothing to encourage him. We have always been friendly with one another in a casual way. Why cannot we remain so?” Thinking back to the afternoon when she and the Greenwoods had taken tea with Mr. Younghughes at his residence, Prudence shuddered. The man’s eager intent had dismayed her then. It dismayed her still.
“Do you dislike him because he does not admire Sir James?” her friend wanted to know.
“I dislike him for his own sake,” Prudence replied, chagrined. “He told me he considers the Society for the Suppression of Vice to be a radical organization. Have you ever heard such piffle? He insists Sir James is a dangerous man and that dear Mr. Wilberforce is misguided.” Prudence shook her head and made a most unladylike sound in her throat, something between a snort and a growl.
Dorothea laughed lightly. “All right then, Pru. If I am pressed further, I will tell him that it is my understanding that you have no desire to marry and would not welcome any advances of that kind.”
“Indeed that is true as far as Mr. Younghughes is concerned,” Prudence snapped. When she noticed Dorothea observing her with a somewhat speculative gaze, she lowered her lashes and said rather more meekly, “I daresay you think I am foolish.”
“How so?” Dorothea asked.
“At my age, I suppose I should be grateful for any attention from an eligible gentleman.”
“Did I say so?” Dorothea asked, arching a brow.
Prudence shrugged a shoulder. “No, you did not, and I thank you for it.”
“You are, more than likely, interested in promoting your cousin’s marriage opportunities at this time,” Dorothea said. She bent down to sniff a particularly well-formed cluster of rose blooms. “I rather fancy seeing Sir James suitably wed before he leaves upon his next voyage. Anything can happen between now and then,” she went on. “Arthur says they are to leave in six months at the earliest. Sir James has a great deal to do in the meantime, including outfitting the ship, purchasing supplies, and selecting a crew and a physician to accompany him.”
“I daresay Lady Brownell will indulge your fancy, seeing to it that her son also makes time to seek a bride,” Prudence added with a wry smile.
“True. Now that the London Season is over, many young women will come with their families to Bath to recuperate from the excesses of the season. He will have a veritable bouquet of beauties to choose from,” Dorothea pointed out, with a slight smile. “As I said, anything can happen.”
Chapter Thirteen
On the following afternoon, Prudence and Margaret visited the circulating library. Normally, Prudence took a keen pleasure in this activity. Even as a child she’d found it invigorating to be surrounded by books. But today, as she perused the shelves, her joy took a damper when she heard a burst of familiar, masculine laughter. With a jerk of her head, she glanced up, catching sight of Sir James entering the library, accompanied by two fair-haired beauties clinging to his arms like leeches. The young ladies—and they were quite young—wore fashionable walking dresses in complementary shades of blue and green, their lovely faces perfectly framed by ravishingly stylish bonnets. Surely these incomparables could be none other than the St. Vincent sisters Mrs. Belmont had gushed about with such enthusiasm.
Prudence observed Sir James in a surreptitious manner as he conversed with his two beautiful companions. He appeared quite cheerful as he tilted his head to one side in an effort to better catch the comment made by the young lady on his left, laughing appreciatively at whatever she said to him. Prudence pursed her mouth with annoyance as she fought an overwhelming desire to duck for cover. She loathed herself for feeling so hen-hearted, but hoped nonetheless James woul
d not notice her. She did not wish to endure a polite introduction to the incomparables. The two sisters were so handsome. Standing beside them would only serve to accentuate her own homeliness. But then it would be difficult to think of anyone who would not be cast in the shade by their breathtaking beauty.
As her wary eyes flickered again to James’s smiling face, Prudence noted how his handsome countenance glowed with pleasure, how his blue eyes twinkled. He seemed content in their company and was no doubt aware that every eye had swiveled in their direction. The library patrons as well as the clerks seemed transfixed by the glorious sight of the St. Vincent sisters—not one but two diamonds of the first water. Who could not admire them?
Standing frozen in place, Prudence felt wretched with indecision. If she scurried around the corner to hide in the shadowy recesses of the nearest bookshelf, James might notice the movement out of the corner of his eye—his good eye at that. He would certainly remark upon it later, as he’d done when he’d observed her sinking back into the dark corner of his mother’s elegant barouche to avoid being seen by Benedict Younghughes. But if she remained where she now stood, she would be noticed sooner or later and then probably forced to meet his charming companions.
The decision was made for her by Margaret, who came up from behind, snatching Prudence by the elbow in a viselike grip before tugging her to the farthest end of the shelf—and none too gently either. “Pru, did you see who has come in just now?” she asked in breathless gasp.
“Who?” Prudence asked, playing the innocent. She made a slight movement forward as though she intended to make her way nearer the library entrance to ogle the new arrivals. Margaret yanked her by the arm again, pulling her backwards.
“It is Sir James,” Margaret breathed in her ear.
“Why should that surprise us?” Prudence asked in a well-controlled whisper. “He does read and must surely borrow a book from time to time. Why are we hiding behind this bookshelf like a pair of criminals?”
Margaret sighed. “He is in the company of the two most stunning women I have ever set eyes upon.”
“Indeed?” Prudence asked in a negligent manner. She made another slight movement as though she would like to behold the beauties for herself, but again Margaret’s firm grip prevented her from going far.
“Don’t look now!” Margaret insisted in a hushed voice. “He will see us.” She then peered around Prudence’s shoulder as though hoping for another peep. “I must say he wasted little time in finding another female—two no less—to bestow his gallantries upon.”
“Meg, you cannot be jealous, surely?”
Her cousin tilted her chin upward. “No, of course I am not jealous. You must have a poor opinion of me to think so.”
“Good, because you have no cause or right to be jealous,” Prudence pointed out. “Had you accepted Sir James’s offer, you would now be formally engaged to him. However, you made the decision to reject his offer, so you cannot be dismayed that he is looking elsewhere for a bride.”
Ignoring her cousin’s practical observation, Margaret mused, “I wonder who they might be? Are they twins, do you think?”
“If I should hazard a guess I would say they are the Misses St. Vincent. They are indeed sisters, but not twins. They are, however, as alike as two rosebuds from the same bush,” Prudence replied with a wry smile.
Margaret gave her a quizzical glance. “You are acquainted with them then?”
Shaking her head, Prudence answered quietly, “No, I am not, but Mrs. Belmont sang their praises the other evening.”
“They are exquisite,” Margaret proclaimed with a rather wistful sigh.
Prudence sighed too. “Indeed they are.” She thought it rather a shame that so much beauty had been generously bestowed upon the two sisters when it could have been more fairly distributed among the rest of the female population.
The beauties in question approached the desk to make an inquiry of the clerk and to return their books. Romance novels, Prudence speculated with a superior sniff, of the dullest, most predictable sort. Or perhaps the sisters preferred reading titillating gothic novels, with such daft titles as The Monk of the Grotto.
With another wistful sigh, Margaret turned away, retreating around the corner to explore another row of bookshelves. Lost in thoughts of her own, Prudence remained where she was, staring with unseeing eyes at the leather-bound spines of the nearest row of books.
“Miss Pentyre, how delighted I am to see you. What are you doing slinking among these somber tomes?”
Hearing James’s voice immediately over her left shoulder, Prudence startled. Turning, she caught a glimpse of laughter in his eyes and strongly suspected he had indeed noticed her as soon as he’d entered the library.
“Slinking?” Her bosom swelled. “I am hardly slinking. I do not slink,” she insisted. She could feel the color mounting to her cheeks.
“Then what would you call it?” James asked in a light conversational manner.
“I am perusing the book shelves hoping to find something suitable for my Aunt Judith, if you must know.” She quickly jerked a convenient book from the shelf in front of her.
James gently took it from her hands. Revealing the title page to Prudence, he said, “This is Ovid’s Metamorphosis—in the original Latin, if I am not mistaken.” He lifted one eyebrow. A smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. “I did not know Mrs. Leyes to be fluent in Latin.”
Flushing more deeply this time, Prudence averted her face.
James handed the book back to her, saying in a near whisper, “I feared you and Miss Leyes were avoiding me for some reason.”
“How nonsensical you are,” Prudence replied, her face burning. “We are busy on an errand for my aunt and cannot dawdle.”
“I too am busy on an errand and cannot dawdle.” He allowed his gaze to stray to the St. Vincent sisters, who stood speaking with two fawning young men near the circulation desk. Prudence followed his glance.
Forcibly smothering another wistful sigh, she asked, “Are those the St. Vincent sisters per chance? I have heard much about them and am sure they are much admired.”
“Indeed yes, or so I am often told,” he replied, his blue eyed gaze now fixed upon her.
“How would one ever choose between them, I wonder?” she said smoothly. “Which one were you making sheep eyes at just now—Eudora or Helene?”
James gave a spurt of laughter. “I have never made sheep eyes at any woman in my life.”
“There is always a first time,” Prudence pointed out, ignoring the tingle of pleasure she experienced at the sound of his laugh. She noticed Margaret, wide-eyed with incredulity, peering at her from around the corner of the nearest shelf. Straightening, she said, “I must go, Sir James. Aunt Judith will surely be wondering what has taken so long.”
“Speaking of your aunt, she will tell you upon your return that the two of you have been invited to take luncheon with us tomorrow, after which time, I will have the singular honor of showing you my Borneo sketchbooks—the ones you expressed an interest in seeing.” James paused briefly before adding, “If you still wish to see them, that is.” He fixed her with a searching look.
“I do,” Prudence admitted, all eagerness.
With a half smile, James bowed slightly, saying, “Until tomorrow then, Miss Pentyre,” and returned to claim again the attention of the St. Vincent sisters, who cooed and fluttered at his approach like a pair of contented pigeons.
“What did he want? What did he say to you?” Margaret hissed, coming to Prudence’s side.
“He wanted to tell me Lady Brownell has invited me and Aunt Judith to join them for luncheon tomorrow so that I may peruse his Borneo sketchbooks.”
“Must I come too?” Margaret asked, her forehead wrinkling with an expression of dread.
“No, he thought you would not like it,” Prudence told her frankly.
Margaret sighed with relief. Her expression lightened. “Indeed, I would not. I am quite weary of all things tropic
al.” She gave an exaggerated shudder of distaste. “I am sure he has quite talked your ear off about Borneo and the headhunters. I don’t know what else the two of you can find to talk about upon the subject.”
Prudence chuckled, but said nothing. As James and his awe-inspiring companions had taken their leave, Margaret bustled toward the circulation desk with three books pressed possessively to her bosom. Prudence followed, certain Margaret would be shocked to learn just how much her cousin longed to converse with James at great length upon any subject at all. Prudence felt certain he was the most fascinating man on earth and knew she could never grow tired of his company.
More’s the pity, she silently chastised herself. For his part, James would probably prefer one of the St. Vincent sister’s sparkling, flirtatious conversations. It was only from a sense of polite obligation he had agreed to show Prudence his sketchbooks. Hadn’t she practically invited herself over to see them in the first place? She blushed with shame as she recalled her forward behavior.
Prudence experienced an altogether different emotion the following afternoon when Lady Brownell and Aunt Judith left her alone with James and his sketchbooks. After luncheon, the four of them retired to what Prudence privately dubbed the Bird Room, because it contained the large wooden cage where Lady Brownell’s colorful zebra finches were held captive. James led Prudence to a small desk in the corner of the room and pulled out the chair so that she might be seated. After stacking a collection of assorted sketchbooks in front of her, he then drew up an extra chair so that he could tell her about the pictures therein.
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