Preoccupied by this sudden revelation, Christian frowned and took in the pile of golden ringlets piled atop her head and down her narrow, slender frame to the God-awful, hideous ruffles adorning her dress. This is what the young woman’s mother would put her in? He gave his head a sad shake. What a pity. The eager-eyed lady he’d pulled away from being splashed with grimy water would be better served in shades of green and turquoise like the Caribbean waters.
“A scandal surrounds the lady’s family.”
“Oh?” He didn’t give a jot about the whispers of Society’s gossips.
“An elopement between her eldest sister and a gentleman who she did not find herself wed to,” Maxwell said with a wave of his hand. “The brother, Lord Sinclair married the governess. The scandalous sister wed a marquess at Christmas just months after her failed elopement—”
“Bloody hell, I hardly need a detailed accounting of the lady’s family,” he groused. Long ago, he’d become one of Society’s favorite figures to whisper about. First as a hero, then as a tattered hero, then as a rogue, and eventually as a gentleman polite mamas should keep their marriageable daughters away from.
“Yes, I suspect it would not matter much to one who finds himself in your dire financial straits.” He jerked his chin toward the lady in question. “There are certainly worse things than losing a wager to dance with an heiress.”
Christian clenched and unclenched his jaw. How very mercenary his friend made it all out to be. But then, isn’t that precisely what your intentions are? He’d sacrifice his freedom and integrity to save his mother, Lucy, and servants. But what consolation was that to the poor lady who ended up with him as her spouse?
Maxwell motioned a servant forward. A liveried footman rushed over with a silver tray and his friend claimed another flute of champagne. “The lady is purported to possess a fat dowry and with her family’s scandal, would be an easy lady for you to claim.”
He silently cursed and stole a glance about. “By God, have a care man.” He’d not be made into one of those gossiping peers. The title fortune hunter was bad enough.
“I was merely pointing out that though unappealing to some marriageable misses, others,” he discreetly motioned to the garishly clad lady, “others will not be so particular in matters of your finances. And there is the whole marquisate,” he added almost as though it were an afterthought. “Very nearly a duke.”
His friend’s nonchalance over his circumstances set his teeth on edge. “I hardly need lessons on the rankings of peers.” He infused a deliberate dryness into his tone. “I am quite aware of the proper ranks.”
“The set is nearly concluded.”
Christian looked out to the dance floor. Yes, yes it was.
“The dance,” his friend reminded him. Of course, Maxwell would not let the matter rest.
“What d—?”
Maxwell laughed all the harder. “Oh, you no sooner forgot that set than I forgot the smell of musket fire in battle.” That dark, and always unwelcome remembrance of their youth, drove back some of the lightness of their exchange. He slapped Christian hard on the back. “Go, I am sure there is someone who can coordinate an introduction with the heiress.”
Christian glowered.
His friend laughed. “Very well, with the lady. In fact, our hostess is alone with the young woman now. I daresay you can manage a dance before her overprotective mama interrupts your efforts.”
With a final scowl for his friend, Christian started over to the young woman who had assuredly not captured his attention.
Chapter 4
Lesson Four
Never be afraid to demonstrate your enthusiasm for life…
It really was a shame that a young lady who so dearly loved the movements of a waltz and quadrille and any and every set should find herself unsquared. That shame was made all the worse by the rather embarrassing fact there was a parade of family members and friends of family members who positioned themselves at Prudence’s side. Likely so she didn’t note the fact that she was one of only a handful of ladies not dancing.
Which was rather preposterous. One would have to be blinder than a doddering duke with a cracked monocle to fail to note the ridiculous fullness of her ruffled gown.
At that precise moment, the rescuer of her embarrassingly solitary self was the hostess for the evening’s festivities, the lovely Marchioness of Drake. The small, dark-haired woman stood shoulder-to-shoulder beside Prudence and scanned her gaze over the crush of her guests. “Were you aware that I was a wallflower?”
At that unexpected pronouncement, Prudence blinked several times in rapid succession.
As soon as the words left the marchioness’ lips, the happily wedded woman slapped a hand over her mouth. “Not that I was implying you are, in fact, a wallflower. I was merely stating—”
Prudence smiled her into silence. “You may rest assure you’ve not at all wounded my sensibilities, Lady Drake. I am well aware of my current circumstances.” As though to prove as much, her skin pricked with the attention being trained upon her person by the other wallflowers whom she’d kept company with a short while ago. Before she’d made an indignant, and more importantly, dramatic exit.
The other woman followed her gaze to the row of mean girls and then an uncharacteristic frown settled on her lips. “I daresay it is a very sad day when wallflowers do not band together and support one another. My dearest friend Sophie and I met upon that very wall. Well, not that very wall per se, but…” A blush stained her cheeks. “I gather you understand my point.”
Prudence thought she had, but had lost her way somewhere between the mention of the marchioness’ friend, Lady Waxham, and that unfinished thought. Filled with a restiveness, or mayhap it was more the need for a friend, she clasped her hands. “I do know of your circumstances, my lady, before you were,” in love, blissfully wedded. All those things she herself wished to be. At the woman’s gentle but encouraging look, she cleared her throat and continued. “Before you were wed,” she settled for.
The other woman angled her head. “Ah, yes, my forever betrothal.”
An arranged marriage to a handsome marquess, determined to avoid that match. The young lord realizing almost too late his love for Lady Drake and then ultimately in a public showing, declaring his love with great poetry the gentleman had written himself. And that was the extent of her knowledge. “You were merely a wallflower because you already had a husband-in-waiting.”
A sharp bark of laughter escaped Lady Drake. “A reluctant husband-in-waiting,” she said as her shoulders shook with amusement.
“Beg pardon,” Prudence said quickly as her cheeks burned with her often too-quick tongue. “Or anyway, that is what my mother said.” Stop talking, Prudence Gwendolyn Tidemore. “Regardless,” she said on a rush, as the young woman’s shoulders quaked with renewed mirth. “I am a wallflower because,” she glanced down at her atrocious dress. “Of these hideous skirts, and my lamentable hair arrangements, and…” She stole a look about, and then dropped her voice to a barely-there whisper. “And because of my sister’s scandal.” Mother insisted not a word be breathed about Patrina’s failed elopement. As though not speaking of it would make that moment in time go away.
The other woman claimed her hand between hers and held it a moment. “Society has dictates they expect us to follow, but it is important to sometimes take control of your happiness.”
Prudence’s heart started. “That is beautiful,” she blurted. Unlike her, who was not at all poetic.
“You will find your forever husband.” And when said like that, so very romantic and very hopeful when Prudence herself wasn’t, she sighed. A mischievous and not at all marchioness-like twinkle lit the other woman’s eyes and she shifted closer. “Though,” she glanced about and her gaze landed on Prudence’s brother a moment, “sometimes you require help, too. We all do.”
Her eyes flew wide as she followed the woman’s stare to over where Sin stood conversing with Juliet. “Sin helped you?”
Before he’d been wed, he’d been a hopeless rogue. And yet, he’d apparently brought his best friend, the Marquess of Drake up to scratch for his forever betrothed. “Hmm,” she said to herself. “Well who knew he had a romantic soul before Juliet?”
“Do not tell him I uttered a word on it,” the marchioness warned.
Prudence marked an X on her heart. “Oh, you have my word, Lady Drake.” Suddenly, being the un-danced about lady at the edge of the ballroom was a good deal less dreary with the other woman near. Granted, it would be far better to have a gentleman who wanted to be near, coming over and asking to partner her in a—
“Lady Drake, it is a pleasure.”
Her heart started and she knew before she even fully faced the gentleman in possession of that voice who he was. She knew because she’d dreamed of him since that day outside Madame Bisset’s shop. Knew because she’d read of his name in the gossip sheets and knew he was purported to be a rogue. And knew because…well, she’d been looking for him not even moments ago.
Lady Drake cleared her throat. Loudly. Which only served to indicate she’d likely cleared her throat in a like manner when Prudence had been woolgathering. “Lord St. Cyr, allow me to present Lady Prudence Tidemore, my dear friend.” Her heart warmed at the woman’s kind introduction. “Prudence, the Marquess of St. Cyr.”
That effortless greeting belonged to a woman who knew the gentleman. A million questions that all necessitated an afternoon visit with the marchioness sprung to her lips.
Lord St. Cyr sketched a deep bow, dislodging a loose, golden curl that tumbled over his eye. “Lady Prudence, will you allow me to partner you in the next set?”
“Yes.” She winced at the breathless, and worse, desperate quality of that capitulation. Striving for the cool evinced by the marchioness herself, Prudence smoothed her palms over her skirts. “Or rather, that would be most agreeable, my lord.” Beyond agreeable for one who loved to dance as much as she did.
The ghost of a smile played on his hard lips as he reached for the dance card dangling from her wrist. He quickly penned his name to her abysmally empty program.
Prudence dipped her gaze and her heart tripped another beat. The waltz. The next waltz.
“May I?” he asked, extending his elbow.
Warmth unfurled within her belly at the intensity of his brown-eyed stare and she managed a nod. Placing her fingertips upon his midnight black coat sleeve, she allowed him to usher her onto the dance floor, to where other couples were now filling in for the respective dance.
Prudence’s mouth went dry as he guided her hand upon his shoulder and then settled his large, heavy palm at her waist. The heat of his touch penetrated the thin fabric of his immaculate white gloves and the…well, the immaculate white of her gown. All the years of being the garrulous Tidemore went out Lady Drake’s proverbial window when presented with the dashing stranger who’d saved her those two months ago. From a bucket of water.
The orchestra struck up the tune of the waltz and Lord St. Cyr guided her through the movements of the beloved dance.
She stumbled a step and he expertly righted her. “I did not properly thank you for your rescue that day,” she said softly. Then it occurred to her that perhaps their first meeting was a good deal less memorable for the blond-haired man who could rival Apollo in his golden perfection. “We met at Bond Street,” she explained. “A shopkeeper tossed a basin of water out the steps and—”
“I remember you just well, my lady,” he said quietly.
“You do?” She was grinning like a lackwit but could not stifle the expression of joy.
He nodded. “Indeed.”
Prudence’s heart warmed. He remembered. Nay, he remembered her just well. What precisely did he mean with that just well? Just well enough. Just very well. Regardless of what manner he remembered her, people did not think of her beyond anything more than the scandal—that was not her own.
“I was fascinated and left with questions.” He lowered his head and his breath fanned her lips. Prudence stumbled once more, but this faltering step had nothing to do with her uncooperative feet and everything to do with his nearness. Lord St. Cyr caught her closer to him. “Yes,” he said, drawing out that one syllable utterance. “I remember you very well.”
“Wh-what did you remember about me that day?”
He paused and she silently cursed her runaway tongue. “Not that you need to tell me,” she rushed to assure him. He cocked his head. “Unless you want to, that is.”
“Well, for one,” he said quietly, his breath tickling her ear. “I—”
She giggled and faltered and was quickly righted once more.
“I—,” he began again, his lips so blasted near to the sensitive skin where her ear met her neck.
A laugh burst from her lips and he angled his head as though trying to sort out whether she was having a laugh at his expense.
“Th-I—” Oh, bloody hell, she was going to go and ruin all of this. Whatever this was. But one thing was certain. It would assuredly never be anything as long as she was openly laughing at the gentleman, in the midst of a crowded ballroom, no less. “I-I am sensitive on my neck and your breath has quite tickled me.”
Blast, now she’d gone and mentioned her neck. Instead of a scandalized look from the young lord, a half-grin slowly turned his lips upward. “Are you always this honest?”
“Yes,” she answered automatically. “My mother does not approve.” And hadn’t since Prudence had been a girl of five and had mentioned the chin whiskers upon just one of many nursemaids to be given the unenviable task of caring for the Tidemore girls.
“I imagine not,” he said with an equal honesty.
They shared a smile and in that instant, the hum of the crowd whispering and conversing dulled and faded so all Prudence heard was the haunting strands of the waltz and all she felt were his hands upon her person.
No scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages. You are to be everything and all things proper. All the time.
Now she knew why Mama had come up with that very important mantra. Well, that and the whole business of her elder sister being ruined by a scoundrel.
“It is a crime that you do not dance more,” he said quietly.
Uncertain how to respond to that softly spoken declaration, she wet her lips. “I am a horrid dancer.” She chose that unfortunate moment to miss a step and stomp upon his feet. “Th-that is horrible. Not, horrid. Mustn’t say horrid.” Mustn’t do all manner of things, such as stammer, and falter, and appreciate him in this openly, surely scandalous manner.
“And whyever is that?”
Had she said something? Her mind raced in an attempt to sort out what that something might have been. Horrid! Of course. “My governess observed my and my sisters’ overuse of that particular word—” He angled her close, burning her with the heat of his touch. “And advised us against using it,” she finished lamely. Oh, dear. Surely all the lords and ladies present saw the effect this stranger’s whispered words and firm touch were having upon her flyaway senses. She should care a good deal more about it, too. Then, she’d never been the proper sort.
“You are an interesting young woman,” he murmured, his tone the same level of contemplative as though he now puzzled through life.
A warm fluttering danced in her belly. In a world where she, in her dull skirts, blended with the sea of other white-wearing ladies, he’d somehow found her interesting. “Thank you.” Her gaze landed on her mother. Who stood beside her brother. Who stood beside Juliet. All three wore matching frowns. Prudence quickly yanked her attention upward and tripped over the marquess’ feet.
Lord St. Cyr tightened his grip upon her waist and a small gasp escaped her at the intimacy of that movement. Oh, dear. Her brother would sever the man’s hands from her person if he was still watching. “Nor do I require your thanks for my assistance that day.” The young marquess lowered his lips closer to her ear. “You were plenty thankful.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Wa
s I?” Her details of their first meeting involved breathless sighs and a fast-beating heart and the hope of seeing him again.
“Indeed,” he said slightly inclining his head.
The music drew to a slow, regretful stop and she mourned the end of this most magical of sets. They stood there a moment while couples filed from the dance floor, so that only they two remained. “I should go,” Prudence said, catching her lower lip between her teeth.
Did she imagine his lingering gaze upon her mouth? “Yes, yes you should.” He made no immediate move to leave.
Alas, the swift advancing figure of a scowling Sin from beyond the marquess’ shoulder propelled Prudence into reluctant movement. She dropped a curtsy and paused, wanting to ask if she’d see him again. But even that was a question too impolite for her. “Good evening,” she whispered instead. With her brother nearly upon them, she did what she’d always done when her brother was in one of his tempers after her shows of difficulty—she spun on her heel and made to storm off.
“Prudence.” The marquess’ shockingly intimate use of her Christian name, uttered in that deep, husky baritone, brought her spinning back around, angry brother be damned. “It was your eyes.”
She angled her head.
“You asked what I remembered of you that day. It was the blue of your eyes.” And with his words rousing another fluttering in her belly, he took his leave.
Couples made their way to the rapidly filling dance floor, jerking her to the moment.
No scandals. No elopements or rushed… What was that whole other part her mother was forever stating? Staring after the broad retreating back of the tall, powerful Lord St. Cyr, Prudence was hard-pressed to remember a single thing, including her name. Which unfortunately accounted for her belated remembrance of Sin. Oh, blast.
“Dance with me,” her brother bit out as he came to a stop before her.
She swallowed a groan. “Must I?”
His answer was to take her by the arm and steer her into the proper row for the quadrille. “You love to dance.”
Captivated by a Lady's Charm Page 5