Captivated by a Lady's Charm

by Christi Caldwell

  A loud bark cut into her wondrous musings. She frowned down at the anything but quiet dog. Her sister shifted the leash of her mongrel dog, gifted her two years ago by Lady Drake.

  “Do hush,” Poppy chided.

  To demonstrate how well-behaved he in fact was, Sir Faithful II, perhaps the worst-named dog within the kingdom behind Sir Faithful the first, who’d sired him, tugged the hem of Prudence’s cloak within his teeth and shook. Her frown deepened. The dog didn’t seem to have a spot of intelligence, for he released her garment and darted in front of Poppy’s legs.

  Her sister quietly cursed and stumbled over the black, coarse-haired animal. The sketchpad under her arm shifted and fell from her arms. Poppy paused a moment to retrieve her own small book and then quickly caught up to Prudence.

  As the gravel crunched beneath the heels of her serviceable boots, Prudence redirected her gaze to the surface of the river.

  “You keep stumbling into me,” Poppy chided at her side, giving Prudence a nudge.

  Except, following Lord and Lady Drake’s ball last evening, she could not feel any pain.

  “Ouch, you did it again,” Poppy lamented. She stuck a sharp elbow into Prudence’s side.

  Prudence grunted. Apparently, she’d been wrong. She’d quite felt that. “Do stop nudging me.”

  “But you are walking in an odd back and forth angle as though you aren’t paying attention to where we are going. And we really should not be traveling upon the riding path.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Are we on the riding path?” She’d not realized it. Prudence glanced about at the empty landscape of Hyde Park. Well, it appeared they had gone and wandered off the well-traveled, but now blessedly empty, walking paths. “No, we really should not be,” she conceded. She’d been so very lost in the thoughts of him; a man she knew barely at all, yet who still possessed her every thought.

  But he’d spoken of her eyes and danced with her when no one else had. She wrinkled her nose. Well, that was anyone that was not her brother, Sin, or his closest friend, the Marquess of Drake. Why, the only familial male obligation left was Patrina’s husband. Though she was sure Weston would get around to it when he and Patrina at last arrived for the Season. If they ever arrived for the Season.

  She and Poppy walked at a brisk clip, with little puffs of cool, winter air stirring from the heat of their breaths. She shifted the sketchpad under her arm, pulling it closer. That familiar urge to sketch the particular someone danced around her thoughts. The someone who had asked to dance when no one else had…and a man who was assuredly not family.

  “You are doing it again,” Poppy snapped.

  “You did not have to come,” Prudence pointed out.

  That immediately silenced her youngest sister. Her brother had always accused her of being a hopeless romantic. He’d said it with the same staggering frequency of his hiring of new governesses for Prudence and her wayward sisters.

  She stopped in the middle of the path then slapped her sketchpad against Poppy’s chest and her sister grunted. Prudence drew in a deep breath of the cool air savoring the purifying scent of the winter’s clean smell.

  “What are—?”

  “This is the perfect place,” she said.

  “It is?” Poppy looked about skeptically.

  She nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes.”

  Her youngest sister glanced down at her feet and then back at Prudence. “Here, on the riding path?”

  Prudence wrinkled her nose. Again they’d meandered onto the riding path? “Well, not here, but here,” she said stomping the earth with her foot to indicate the specialness of this precise location.

  Her sister threw her hands up and she cursed as the books tumbled to the ground once again. Sir Faithful yelped when a leather pad landed on his paw. “But you are on the riding path.”

  “We are in Hyde Park,” she said with a long sigh of annoyance. “Where is your sense of romanticism?”

  Poppy’s groan swallowed the remainder of that last word and she slapped her hands over her eyes. “Oh, blast. Not this again.”

  Prudence bristled. She really didn’t care to rise to her sister’s baiting and yet—“Not what again.”

  Her sister hurriedly bent and rescued her books. “Hyde Park. Talks of Christmas. The rock.” As in the boulder where her sister had been wed. She narrowed her eyes. “The woolgathering.” That last charge was spoken as though Prudence had committed a crime against the Crown. She grunted as her sister stuck her finger into her chest. “You have gone all romantic. It is rather much.”

  Their maid reached their side and when presented with another Tidemore altercation chose the wisest course. She promptly collected the whining dog’s leash, turned on her heel, and marched in the opposite direction, affording them their privacy.

  Prudence waited until the other woman was a safe distance away and then dipped her voice to a hushed whisper. “I am not all romantic. I am merely hopeful. Can I not be hopeful for a grand love like Sin and Juliet or Patrina and Weston?” Even if that entailed taking control of her life, and not just waiting for excitement to come to her, as it had her siblings.

  Her sister frowned and had the look worn by her mother when she was about to utter the whole no scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages bit. To end that bothersome mantra, she took her sister by the shoulders. “If I had wanted the logical, reasonable sister, I would have forced Penelope awake and dragged her here instead.”

  “I am logical and reasonable,” Poppy grumbled.

  She retrieved her book from Poppy’s filled hands and gave a winning smile. “Now, if you will excuse me,” she said against her ear. “I need my time to find my creative inspiration. I encourage you to do the same.” Prudence nudged her between the shoulder blades.

  “Oomph.” Poppy frowned back at her.

  “Off you go.” She gave a slight wave and then spun on her heel.

  “I am only walking off because I saw a majestic bird begging to be sketched,” her sister called after her.

  Ah, Poppy and her love of sketching any and every animal. Prudence held a hand up in acknowledgement but otherwise did not break her stride. Hugging the familiar sketchpad close to her chest, she moved along at a slow pace taking in the still, Hyde Park grounds. With the trees now bare of their green leaves and the thick, grey, winter sky blanketed in white clouds, there was a special beauty to this place.

  It was the place where her sister had found love and given Prudence hope that the rash and ruinous act carried out by her sister would not seal Prudence and Poppy and Penelope’s fate as unloved, gossiped-about ladies. Well, the talked about part had proven true…but there was still the hope for love.

  Despite her brother’s bemoaning, which she suspected was intended as some manner of insult, she’d always been rather proud of that whimsical belief in love. When other ladies were dreaming of proper matches and distinguished titles and abundant wealth, she’d held on to the dream of…well, more—marriage to a man who did not want her to conform to the mold expected of societal ladies, and who loved her for who she was, dreaded dancing and rotten sketches, and all. That hopeless romantic in her attended once dull soirees and balls with a breathless anticipation of again seeing him.

  Lord St. Cyr.

  The winter wind whipped at her cloak and sent crisp, brown leaves tumbling down the path before her. She continued walking onward to a familiar boulder in the distance. Prudence sank onto the ground and winced as the cool earth penetrated the fabric of her cloak. Shoving aside discomfort and instead choosing to focus on her moment of solitude, she fished around her reticule and withdrew her charcoal. Then popping open her sketchpad, her fingers flew over the page.

  Prudence angled her head periodically, chewing her lower lip as she sought to bring Lord St. Cyr’s face into focus. Nay, Christian. In the privacy of her thoughts, he could exist as Christian. Her lips moved as she mouthed that name. And he was a marquess. Why, the gentleman who’d rescued her from the sopping water an
d danced her first non-familial obligatory dance was a marquess. Whatever were the chances that—?

  A scream penetrated her thoughts and snapped her head up. Heart hammering, she quickly found Poppy with her gaze, in a furious chase for her dog. The maid trailed along after her, wearing a sheepish expression on her flushed cheeks. With a sigh, Prudence hopped to her feet as her sister sprinted through the park after a swiftly fleeing Sir Faithful. His leash trailed uselessly after him, with Poppy making frantic grabs for the thin lead. Their maid, shamefaced at having lost control of the unruly pup—again, followed along behind her young charge. Poppy made for the riding path.

  On a curse, Prudence set down her book and heart racing, she took off after her sister. Do not be a fool, Poppy…heed your own advice. Prudence’s chest heaved with the exertion of her efforts and she stared on hopelessly as two monstrous horses appeared over a slight rise and thundered directly for her sister. Oh, God, no. “P-poppy, no!” Her breathless cry fell useless on the winter air and she willed her legs faster.

  To no avail. Sir Faithful raced directly toward an enormous, black steed and a chestnut mount. Poppy’s bloodcurdling scream rent the quiet and sent several kestrels into flight. The two gentlemen, with an expertness that could have only come from the Lord’s divine hand, yanked on the reins. The hooves of the black beast pawed at the air as the gentleman effortlessly brought his mount under control. He leapt over the side and his horse took off in the opposite direction before coming to a slow halt beside a barren oak tree.

  And then the world resumed its normal course.

  “Poppy!” she cried out and sprinted the remainder of the way to her sister who lay sprawled on her back, staring wide-eyed up at the morning sky. Prudence skidded to a halt beside her, kicking up gravel and dirt with the abruptness of her stop. She brushed past the two gentlemen at her sister’s side and sank to a knee beside her. “Are you all right?” Her breath came hard and fast from her exertions.

  Poppy looked past Prudence’s shoulder. “There is a—”

  “Whatever were you thinking racing upon the riding path?”

  As though in answer to Prudence’s question, Sir Faithful bounded over and sank down obediently on his heels. He gave an excited yap and then promptly licked a still-prone Poppy’s face.

  “But Pru, there is a—”

  “You are never to do that again,” she demanded.

  “Please allow me to extend our deepest regrets,” a deep voice sounded from over her shoulder.

  “There is a gentleman,” Poppy said on a loud, unnecessary whisper.

  Prudence snapped her head up and her heart tripped several quick beats. Oh, my. She stumbled over her skirts in her haste to rise. Lord St. Cyr was at her side in an instant. He quickly caught her by the arm and prevented her from falling in a humiliated heap at his feet. Her heart raced. Oh, my. Their gazes held a moment and then he swiftly looked away. And the world resumed spinning on its safe, familiar axis. She followed his stare to the gentleman helping Poppy to her feet.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, taking a step closer to Poppy.

  At the evidence of his concern for her sister, warmth spiraled through her heart.

  “Indeed, not,” Poppy said with a frown. “As though I could ever be harmed by a near trampling.” The gentleman’s lips twitched. “But thank you,” her sister belatedly added.

  “If you’ll allow me to present my close friend, Tristan Poplar, the Earl of Maxwell.”

  There was an air of familiarity to the man and as he sketched a bow and murmured a greeting to Poppy, Prudence tried to place him. Then she widened her eyes. Of course! “The shop!”

  Three pairs of human eyes and one pair belonging to the four-legged sort swiveled in her direction. Oh, blast. Perhaps she could simply pretend she’d not said anything and that they’d merely imagined those two words. All of them.

  “What?”

  Prudence gave her perplexed sister a look and then swiftly returned her attention to the marquess.

  Lord St. Cyr stared at her with the ghost of a smile upon his lips that had the same effect it had since their first meeting outside of Madame Bisset’s. That shop she’d just inadvertently mentioned.

  “What shop?” Poppy pressed.

  The trio continued to stare at Prudence. Her cheeks blazed with hot heat and she wet her lips. “That is to say, I believe I recall Lord Maxwell from one of our visits to Bond Street.” At that unwitting revelation, her shrewd sister narrowed her eyes. Of course she would remember Prudence staring out the windowpane at these two gentlemen. She continued to hold the marquess’ eyes. Well, not two of them. She’d been boldly staring at one of them.

  “Ah, yes, I recall,” Lord Maxwell, said, inclining his head. A cool wind stirred the air and snapped his sapphire blue cloak against his legs. “St. Cyr remembered that particular exchange quite well.”

  Her heart leaped. “Did he?” She swung her gaze to the marquess.

  A mottled flush filled his cheeks and he cast a glower at his friend to rival the looks Prudence reserved for Poppy and Penelope.

  “Undoubtedly,” Lord Maxwell confirmed. There was a faint mischievous glint she recognized in his eyes, which only came from years of mischievousness herself. The gentleman shifted his attention to Sir Faithful. He reached for the dog’s leash.

  “No!” At Poppy’s sharp command, the earl stilled mid-movement. “He does not care for strangers.” Before her sister could collect the leash, however, Lord Maxwell captured the thin chord. The dog promptly set to licking his gloved hand.

  “Why, look at that, Poppy. Sir Faithful likes the earl,” Prudence said with something akin to surprise.

  “Sir Faithful doesn’t like anyone,” Poppy said, wonder in her eyes as she took the leash from Lord Maxwell.

  “I have several dogs myself,” he said with a wink. Which was all the gentleman needed to say to fuel the tide of a thousand rapid-fire questions from Poppy about everything from the breed of dog he had to the treats preferred by the four-legged creatures.

  Grateful for the diversion, Prudence tipped her head back to look up the tall, powerful frame of the marquess. “I am so sorry,” she said softly. “I am afraid we were not paying attention to our whereabouts.”

  He took a step closer, shrinking the space between them. “You needn’t apologize,” Lord St. Cyr dropped his voice to a low whisper reserved for her ears alone. “Prudence.” His hot breath stirred cool puffs of air.

  Oh, God, hearing her Christian name upon his lips wrought havoc upon her senses. There was a steely strength, underscored with honeyed warmth to his bold commandeering of her name. She fought to regain control of her muddled thoughts. “I would be at worst, ungrateful if I did not, and at best, impolite if I did not properly thank you.”

  “Lord Maxwell and I should have paid closer attention.”

  “You could not expect that a small girl—”

  “I’m not a small girl,” Poppy paused mid-conversation with Lord Maxwell to interrupt and then promptly resumed her line of questioning about dogs.

  Prudence pointed her gaze to the sky. “That a young lady,” she amended. “Would be racing along the riding path at this hour, no less.”

  Amusement lit his eyes. “I assure you, I am well-accustomed with the unexpected. I have a spirited sister.”

  He had a sister. That shared piece of personal information somehow made him all the more real, in a very human, very approachable way. “Do you?” she asked. “How old is your sister?”

  “She is fifteen. Her name is Lucinda.” He held out his arm. “May I escort you and your sister back to your earlier spot?”

  Prudence managed a nod and then placed her fingertips upon his sleeve, allowing him to walk with her to the elm tree she’d long adored. All to the disapproving eyes of her maid who passed an equally conflicted look between her two stubborn charges. “I am unaccustomed to seeing any lords or ladies in the park at this hour and yet you are here.”

  Christian took in
the question in Prudence’s words; her wise observation. Most indolent lords and simpering ladies only strolled the grounds of Hyde Park in the fashionable hours when the pathways were clogged with carriages and walking couples.

  And yet, he was here.

  He was here because he’d spent all night battling demons and sought the reminder of light and quiet and peace that existed before the world stirred beside the row of elms. “And you are here, too,” he said at last.

  The cool wind whipped about them. It knocked her bonnet askew and a tight golden curl tumbled over her eye. “I am here because I take care to avoid members of the ton when and where I can,” she said, shocking him with her candidness. She brushed back that strand and, for an instant, a hungering to claim that sole tress between his fingers and determine the silkiness of that lone strand gripped him. Lady Prudence looked up.

  He recalled her as she’d been on the sidelines of Lady Drake’s ball; alone, tipping her head back and forth in time to the music and thought of the details imparted by Maxwell just yesterday.

  Prudence must have seen something in his eyes for an unexpected wariness replaced the cheerful exuberance he’d come to expect from the unconventional lady. “I expect you have heard of my family and me.”

  A lie formed on his lips and she stared hard at him, clearly expecting that mistruth. Only, his entire life from Toulouse to now was a fabricated myth. A hungering gripped him with a lifelike force to tell the truth to someone and have them believe that. “I have,” he said quietly.

  She captured her lower lip between her teeth and worried that plump flesh. “We are a scandalous lot.”

  A sudden conflicting urge overtook him to kiss the sadness from her. “Your family’s scandals are not your own.” Unlike him, whose own faults belonged to him and no other. “You are not responsible for their mistakes or missteps.”

  She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Perhaps to some,” she said, adjusting her bonnet. He mourned the loss of the pale blonde curls as they disappeared under that hideous hat. “But then, isn’t that the way of our Society? A mistake made by one, is a mistake suffered by all?”