He’d never deserved Maxwell’s loyalty. His friend was just too stubborn to see as much.
Maxwell dropped his elbows onto his knees. “And I wasn’t discussing Waterloo.” He paused and gave him a piercing look.
Lynette.
He swiped a hand over his face. “I do not care to discuss,” her, “it.” Nor did he think he ever would.
His friend searched his face a long moment, opening his mouth as though poised to press the point, but then he settled back in his seat. “Very well. Then let us speak on the matter of your wife.” One horror for another. And suddenly the matter of his future bride seemed far preferable to the talk of the past. “Those title graspers. The ones you are searching for, my mother keeps abreast of who those ladies are.” He picked up his brandy and waved his glass about. “Competition for Kristina. It will, if nothing, save you time in your quest, and at best, spare you from seeking out a lady with stars in her eyes for the dashing Waterloo war hero.”
Heat raced up Christian’s neck. Such a faux hero as he would never be deserving of an honorable lady. Say, one who sketched poorly and sprinted through the grounds of Hyde Park to rescue her younger sister from harm. He recalled her as she’d been earlier, entering his ballroom, flanked by her stoic mother on one side and her glowering brother, the Earl of Sinclair, on the other. For the dourness evinced by her kin, the lady wore a perpetual smile and the young woman he’d met on three occasions now, he suspected did it as her way of thumbing her nose at Society’s disapproval.
Honorable. Courageous.
“Miss Caroline Watts.”
No, her name was Prudence. Though he did wonder as to the lady’s middle name.
“An enormous dowry, a desire for nothing less than an earl, and also a father who will bow to her wishes.”
That snapped Christian’s attention away from the white skirt-wearing miss who’d been gawked and gaped at by the lords and ladies in his ballroom. It had taken a physical effort to not look to her in a silent, unspoken bid for support against the cruel gossips who’d flay her for the scandal made by her siblings.
“Will she do?”
“Will she do what?” he questioned.
Maxwell eyed him suspiciously. “As your prospective marchioness?”
Oh, Christ. His friend’s earlier commiseration then the mention of Miss Caroline Watts. It all pertained to his fortune hunting efforts. He forced his attention to the young woman in pale pink skirts. The black-haired, perfectly rounded young woman who’d eyed the crowd over the top of her fan.
“She has a delectable form,” his friend put in.
Yes, yes she did. With her generous hips and abundant décolletage, she far fit with the standard beauty he’d come to crave.
“Well?” his friend prodded.
“She will not do,” he bit out.
His friend scratched his brow. “Are you cert—?”
“I am certain,” he snapped out.
“Very well, there is also Lady Gabriella Atwater.”
He knew his friend was trying to be helpful. He really did. And more, he should be attending the man and grateful for his efforts. But blast, if Maxwell wasn’t grating on his nerves with his methodical list. “And what of the Lady Gabriella?” he forced himself to ask. Considering the impending doom awaiting his family and staff in three weeks and three days, his friend’s response should matter a good deal more than it did.
“Graceful, outrageously dowered, determined to have nothing less than a marquess.” Nothing. Not “no one”. “And on her third Season.” Then, isn’t that what Christian sought in a bride? A woman who saw his title first and him not at all? Ultimately, they were all mercenary and he deserved nothing less, nay, wanted nothing less.
He forced himself to truly consider this particular candidate. He’d caught a glimpse of the lady as she’d glided through the movements of a quadrille with a remarkable ease and, as his friend indicated, grace. No, Miss Atwater did not stumble or falter as she danced.
He frowned. There had been something endearing about a lady so very different than those dull, paste copies of other dull ladies. One who, with her golden hair and cream white cheeks, had been nothing like the women who merely hungered for a spot in the bed of some fabled war hero.
“I can arrange an introduction to the lady,” his friend put in.
He thrust those ancient recollections of the woman who’d opened his eyes to the true ugly in the world and focused on his friend’s words. Miss Gabriella Atwater fit with all those important criteria for his marchioness. And as Maxwell had pointed out, on her third Season, the lady was no fresh bloom off the debutante tree with unrealistic expectations for what the world held before her. Christian forced himself to nod. “An introduction to Miss Atwater, then.”
Since she’d been old enough to open the nursery door and slip undetected past her often-harried nursemaids, Prudence had been listening at keyholes. It had proven a rather lucrative way for an inquisitive child to learn a great deal. There had been the information gleaned at the doorway of her brother’s office as Mother lamented her woes about being parent to five troublesome Tidemore children. Then, the library door where her former governess, turned sister-in-law, Juliet, had met with Sin to discuss her charges. The inevitable truth had been that not all good could come from listening at those keyholes, as was evidenced by the shameful hurt Prudence had wrought years earlier upon her brother and Juliet.
Oh, that did not always hold true. On very rare, very special instances, one could learn a great deal of good at doorways. This proved to be one of those times. With her heart hammering wildly in her breast, Prudence stole a glance down the marquess’ darkened halls. Finding the corridors still blessedly empty, she pressed her ear to the wood panel once more.
“Will she do?”
She damned her pulse as it pounded loudly in her ears, further muffling the words of the gentleman speaking to Christian.
“…As your prospective marchioness…?”
Her heart tripped a beat. As her brother had suspected, Christian was in the market for a wife. There was something that made the truth all the more real, hearing it uttered from the gentleman himself. For one hopeful instant she allowed herself to believe the fleeting exchange on the quiet London streets had created some inexplicable pull between them that was mutual.
“…She has a delectable form…”
All such hopes were dashed on the other gentleman’s words. With a slight frown she glanced down at her still not at all delectable form. When she’d been a girl of fifteen and she, Poppy and Penelope had plotted ways to slip into a gentleman-only club, her sisters had unhelpfully pointed out that of them, only the curveless Prudence would be able to accomplish such an endeavor. That was the last she’d ever considered entering a gentleman-only club.
Christian’s response, though lost to the wood panel, hinted at a rejection of his friend’s suggestion and she swallowed back the giddy giggle that climbed up her throat.
…Until his deuced determined companion went on with his blasted suggestions…
“Lady Gabriella Atwater?”
Memory of the pointedly cold, spiteful young woman in Madam Bisset’s shop more than two months ago slipped in. She fisted her skirts. That was the foul creature his friend would see Christian wed to? Oh, no, that would not do at all.
“…outrageously dowered, determined to have nothing less than a marquess…”
Granted, the woman had a monstrous dowry, yet, whyever would any gentleman want one such as that for his—
“May I help you?”
The sharp command from the hall wrung a startled gasp from her lips. For a moment, the horror at being discovered listening at the Marquess of St. Cyr’s keyhole as if she were a child of eight and not a woman of eighteen threatened to drown her, but then her gaze settled on the dark clad servant stalking toward her with the aid of crude wooden crutch tucked underneath his arm.
The right sleeve of his empty jacket had been tacked up
. It was not the missing limb that attracted her horrified notice, but rather the dangerous gleam in the man’s nearly black eyes. She gave a jerky shake of her head and then with a terror born of impending discovery stumbled away from him. Prudence raced down the hall. Shameful as it was, she gave a cowardly thanks for her advantage over the man whom she suspected at one time could have easily overtaken her. And by his rough speech would have gladly destroyed her.
With her breath coming in ragged pants, she turned right at the end of the corridor and lengthened her stride. Goodness, what manner of servants did Christian keep? Prudence rushed ahead and then came to the end of the hall. She grabbed the door handle and then casting one fearful glance back over her shoulder, shoved the door open and stepped outside.
The wisdom in seeking sanctuary from the cold indoors hit her with the force of running into a stone wall. Or in this case…a wall of cold air. A sharp blast of winter air slammed into her with such force that tears stung her eyes. That unforgiving chill sucked the breath from her lungs.
“Bloody hell, that is c-cold,” she gasped and hugged her arms close to her chest. She tossed a glance beyond her shoulder, briefly contemplating returning and risking the wrath of the marquess’ burly servant. When faced with the prospect, Prudence stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkened gardens. There was a decided dreariness to the barren trees and bushes. She rubbed her arms in a bid to smooth the dotted gooseflesh that popped up on her skin. Her teeth chattering, Prudence drew her arms all the closer and wandered deeper out onto the balcony.
This hasty, ill-thought escape through the marquess’ home would decidedly fall into the “avoid scandals of all kind” end of her mother’s mantra.
Thick clouds filled the night sky, occasionally rolling past and blotting out the thin sliver of a moon. Prudence walked briskly along the terrace and wandered to the edge. She placed her hands upon the balustrade and looked out.
Taken hold by winter’s grip, Lord St. Cyr’s prized rosebushes were sharp, leafless sticks. She lowered her elbows upon the ledge of the wall and propped her chin atop her hands, and stared out at the grounds below while contemplating her circumstances, and more, considering what she’d heard from behind the marquess’ door. They were two in the market for a spouse, and yet, how very different they both were. He was sought after, whispered about for only good reasons, while she was shunned, and loudly gossiped about for…well…not at all good reasons. If she were forced to endure an entire Season as this socially snubbed, disdained miss, she’d go utterly mad.
A sharp breeze cut through the walled-in gardens and the frigid air slammed into her person, filling her body with its coldness. Instead of returning to the warmth of the indoors, she took on that slight discomfort for it distracted her from the horridness of her own circumstances.
Lord St. Cyr guiding his partner through the intricate steps of the quadrille slipped into her mind. She bit her lower lip. “It was only a dance,” she whispered to herself. Yet, why had it mattered so very much to her? Because he’d seen past the scandal and there was something powerfully heady about a gentleman who turned his nose up at all those gossips.
The faint tread of footsteps jerked her quickly to the moment. Oh, God! The brutish servant. Her mouth dry with fear, Prudence wheeled around. No scandal…No elopements, no hasty marriages…Her mother’s mantra thundered in time with her panicked heartbeat. As the stranger in black pulled the door closed behind him, she briefly shot a glance over her shoulder at the grounds below. She could jump. She’d done it often as a child from high oaks and willows. Not in a satin ball gown and certainly not from this height.
Swallowing hard, she recalled the one-armed stranger’s thunderous fury, and hefted her leg over the wall. Yes, she’d rather take her chances with a risky fall.
“I daresay, I hope you’re not finding jumping over the edge preferable to my company,” an amused voice, and more, very familiar voice sounded.
Prudence froze, her leg hung damningly on the edge of the balustrade. Her heart missed several beats, only this time for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. It was as though from her earlier musings, she’d conjured him. “Oh. You,” she blurted.
Christian stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying her from down the length of the balcony. He dipped his gaze to her suspended foot. Even with the distance between them, a flash of hot desire sparked in his eyes. Warmth unfurled through her, momentarily driving back the evening chill. She slowly lowered her slippered foot. His pearl white, even smile flashed bright in the dark. “Were you expecting another?” There was a trace of hardness underscoring that wry question, the faintest thread of possessiveness that hinted at more.
Bah. Foolish. In a bid to maintain feigned nonchalance at being discovered lurking in his house and sneaking on his private balcony, Prudence shrugged. “Were you expecting another?” He stilled. As soon as the words slipped past her mouth, the audacity of that inquiry slammed into her. “N-not that it matters wh-whether you’ve come to meet another.”
Christian halted his advance.
It was entirely possible with the chill of the winter night he’d credit the cold with the faint quiver to her words. She willed her mouth to silence. Alas, the words kept coming, fed by her own mortified embarrassment. “What you do is your own business.” Heat scorched her cheeks and she shot her hands behind her, clasping the rail to keep from dissolving into an embarrassed heap at his feet. “Not that you were out here on a matter of business,” she said quickly. Shut your blasted mouth, Prudence Tidemore!
Did his hard, sculpted lips twitch with amusement?
Adopting her breeziest tone, she gave a toss of her head. “You are free to keep company where you would.” As he’d done a short while ago during his and his unscandalous lady’s quadrille. The reminder of that hurt more than it should, more than she wished.
He cocked his head. “Have you quite finished with er…that very specific opinion on your expectations for my…er company?”
“Quite,” she said with a curt nod. All attempts at cool indifference were ruined by the blasted curl that pulled loose of her hideous chignon and tumbled over her eye. She blew it back. It fell promptly back in place.
Christian resumed closing the length of the distance between them and her heart fluttered. His long, effortless strides ate away the space, until he came to a stop right before her. Another winter wind slapped at her satin skirts. Odd, she’d ceased to feel the cold the moment he’d interrupted her stolen moment here. The muscles of her throat bobbed as the scent of him, sandalwood and brandy, wafted about her senses.
“I am not meeting anyone.”
Joy buoyed her heart and then it promptly sank like a rock in her belly. His hulking servant had likely alerted his employer to Prudence’s scandalous flight through his home. “Are you not?” Her voice emerged on a high squeak.
The marquess brushed his knuckles along her jaw, the touch so fleeting she thought she might have imagined it. “It occurs to me you’ve never answered my question.” Had there been a question? In this moment, all she knew was him. “Who are you meeting, Prudence?”
His breath stirred her cheeks and for one shocking moment, she believed he would kiss her, and for one even more brazen moment, she wanted him to. Nay, she wanted to lean up on tiptoe and take his kiss. Wanted his to be her first. “No one,” she managed to force out. “I merely…” …listened to talk between you and your friend about your marital state.
He arched an eyebrow.
“I was merely avoiding your servant,” she finished lamely. While I was lurking outside your office door, listening at the keyhole like a recalcitrant child. She sighed. This passed a level of embarrassment she’d not yet achieved, until now. “He was a tall man with a crutch.” And a look of death in his hardened stare.
Understanding dawned in Christian’s eyes. “Terry.”
“I—” She gave her head a shake and desp
erately tried to attend what he was saying. She really did, except he stroked her cheek once more.
He let his hand fall to his side and she mourned the loss of his touch. “Terry is harmless.”
Prudence eyed him skeptically. The man had looked prepared to take her apart for wandering through Christian’s townhouse.
“Though I can certainly see why he’d make you uneasy. I have a rather unconventional staff.” She would most assuredly agree with that. “They are former soldiers,” he explained.
“Indeed?” When most lords and ladies hired only the most refined servants, this man had filled his household with burly men, some with crutches and missing limbs.
“Indeed.” He rocked on the balls of his feet. Another gust of winter wind slammed into them and Prudence shivered, her teeth chattering noisily. “Here,” Christian murmured, slipping off his jacket.
She made a sound of protest that died a swift death at the sight of him in his shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and cravat. There was something so very intimate in being with him in this manner, clad the way he might be if they were husband and wife, and his home were empty but for the two of them. He slipped the midnight black fabric over her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said softly, burrowing into the warmth that still clung to the jacket. Prudence discreetly turned her nose into the collar and breathed deep of his sandalwood scent.
He tipped his chin in the direction of his townhouse. “Are you not enjoying yourself this evening?”
“I am not,” she said before she could call the words back. “That is—” Oh, why could she not have a clever lie on the ready like Poppy? Prudence sighed.
“Well,” he stretched out that one syllable, his husky tone wrapped about it, making it somehow more. “It would seem you also far prefer the cold of my gardens to the frigidity of the peerage inside that ballroom?” He gave her a wink.
Captivated by a Lady's Charm Page 12