by Julia London
“Come here,” he said soothingly, and drew her closer, kissing her softly. When he kissed her like this—so tenderly, so caring—Prudence could believe him. She could believe that this would be all right in the end.
A knock at the door separated them; Roan slipped away from her and allowed the footmen in with the bath, and the maids behind him with the water. “I shall leave you to your bath, Mrs. Matheson,” he said, and picked up his brandy and wandered into the adjoining sitting room.
After a bath, and a bit of brandy herself, and a girl to help her put up her hair, Prudence did feel somewhat better. She was prepared for Stanhope’s questions and was determined to make a game of it, staying a step or two ahead of him.
She dressed in a gold silk with delicate embroidery, and a pale green train embroidered with the gold of her gown. The girl who had come to help her dress threaded a green ribbon through Prudence’s hair and put it up. After the past two days, Prudence felt a bit like a princess. She donned an emerald necklace and matching earrings and her favorite satin shoes.
Roan was in the sitting room, standing at the window, his hands clasped at his back. He’d dressed in a formal coat with tails and dark trousers. “Roan?”
He turned around at the sound of her voice. A snowy- white neckcloth was tied just below his chin and stood out starkly from the black-and-gold-striped waistcoat he wore. He looked magnificent, as robust and handsome as a man had ever looked to Prudence. A prince. An American prince. Her heart swelled with adoration. Or was it love? Whatever she was feeling was deep and flowing.
Roan’s gaze slowly moved over her, taking her in. “Dear God, how beautiful you are.”
She blushed with pleasure and glanced down. “That is kind of you to say.”
“You are as lovely a woman as I have ever seen in my life.” He shook his head. “But you must hear that from many admirers. They must all tell you what a unique beauty you are.”
Prudence laughed self-consciously. “No.”
“I mean it,” he said, and touched the back of his hand to her cheek, then brushed his knuckles against her décolletage. “You have astounded me every day, but tonight, you’ve taken my breath away.” He leaned down, kissed her tenderly on the lips.
She smiled and stroked his jaw. “I adore you, do you know it?” She twined her hands around his neck and pulled his head down. “You’re very handsome yourself. I suppose you hear that from all the little birds flitting about you in America, don’t you?”
“Birds don’t flit around me,” he said, and kissed her as his hands slid down her ribs, to her hips. But he didn’t linger, lifting his head with a sigh. “You’re a temptress. I would like nothing better than to tear that gown from you now, seam by seam.” He ran his thumb lightly across her lip. “How did it happen? How were you standing on that green in Ashton Down on the day, the hour, the moment, I should arrive?”
“I would ask the same of you.”
“For the rest of my life, I will ask myself that question.” He shook his head and kissed the top of her head. “All right, then, Prudence, chin up. Smile at them as you’ve smiled at me, and they will be charmed to their toes and eating out of our hands by midnight.”
She slipped her hand into his. “I confess I prefer the little fire on the brook with only you and me and the nag.”
Roan laughed. “Never let it be said that Roan Matheson doesn’t know how to woo a lady.”
* * *
IT WAS ONLY half-past seven, too early for supper, and yet there were at least two dozen souls in the salon if there was one, and all of them appeared to have been in the wine for hours.
Penfors greeted them at the door and insisted on taking them around, introducing them around as “Stanhope’s guests.” Stanhope, Prudence noticed, did not attempt to correct Penfors, but merely smiled at Prudence as if they’d conspired together in this.
She refused to acknowledge him, her skin tingling with the agony of her dread.
Roan’s gaze scanned the crowd, searching for his sister. All the while, Lord Vanderbeck, a thin man lacking a firm chin, was quite taken with the idea that Roan would hail from New York, and caught him up in a torrent of questions. What was the commerce, how did the navy fare, had he ever been to Philadelphia. Roan answered politely and seemed at ease with the gentleman.
Vanderbeck was tedious, and Prudence found herself looking around, too, for a woman who might resemble Roan. She was so intent on her search that she was startled when Lady Penfors appeared at her elbow.
“You don’t want to listen to that blowing wind,” Lady Penfors said loudly, apparently uncaring if Vanderbeck heard her or not. “Come, there are others for you to meet.”
Prudence was introduced to the young, ginger-haired Mr. Fitzhugh, who very openly admired her décolletage. Mr. and Mrs. Gastineau barely spared her a look. Mr. Redmayne and his companion, Mr. True, politely greeted her, and Mr. True pointed out his sister, the widow Barton. Prudence recognized the widow Barton as the woman in ruby who had so exuberantly leaped off her horse to greet Stanhope.
And then she saw Lord Stanhope a few feet away, his gaze locked on her. It seemed she would have his undivided attention once again. He started in her direction, but Lady Penfors barreled in between them.
“Stanhope, I wonder why you’ve not introduced Mrs. Barton to your friend.”
Prudence avoided Stanhope’s gaze. “How do you do?” she asked politely of the woman.
Mrs. Barton had lively brown eyes and a charmingly dimpled smile. “Oh my, you’re quite a beauty, aren’t you?” she said as she surveyed Prudence from the ribbon in her hair to the tips of her satin slippers.
“This is Mrs. Matheson,” Lady Penfors practically bellowed.
“Ah...” Prudence could feel the rush of heat to her face. She frantically thought of how to correct Lady Penfors, but Mrs. Barton spoke first.
“What a stunning gown,” she said approvingly. “It looks to be the work of Mrs. Dracott,” she added, referring to the most sought-after modiste in London.
Prudence had never dreamed anyone would make note of her gown. As it happened, it was the work of Mrs. Dracott and Prudence was momentarily stunned into silence. Mrs. Dracott’s clientele was very elite. To admit she wore a Dracott gown was tantamount to admitting she was more than what she’d let on.
Mrs. Barton laughed roundly at Prudence’s momentary fluster. “I’ve stepped in it, haven’t I? I’ve forgotten that Mrs. Dracott’s gowns are above the reach of most. I’ve been very fortunate in that regard.” She turned a little to her right and to her left to draw attention to her pale rose silk gown.
“It’s beautiful,” Prudence said, realizing she was meant to comment.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Barton said with a wink. “I should like to paint your gown!” she said with a swirl of her fan above her head, and Prudence wasn’t entirely certain if she meant to paint on her gown, or copy it onto a canvas. “Who has made it?”
“Who?” Prudence repeated, then cleared her throat as she desperately searched for an answer. “My, ah...my mother.”
Stanhope chuckled, drawing Prudence’s attention.
“Silly man!” Mrs. Barton said, and leaned against Stanhope. “What, do you think that only a modiste might put thread to fabric? Of course her mother fashioned her gown!”
“If you say so,” Stanhope said, smiling at Prudence.
Prudence’s heart began to sink to her toes. She had the very nauseating feeling that Stanhope was referring to her mother in particular, that he somehow knew it was impossible for her mother to sew anything—much less a gown as intricate as this.
“I can very well imagine that lovely train swimming about behind you as you dance,” Mrs. Barton said. She suddenly gasped. “That’s it! We must have a dance. Lady Penfors!” she shouted, forcing Prudence to lean back as she waved her fa
n across Prudence in the direction of Lady Penfors.
That was the worst idea—Prudence was certain she’d be made to stand up with Stanhope.
“A grand idea,” Lady Penfors called back. “Yes, yes, we must, straightaway, after we dine. Cyril! Where are you, Cyril? Send down to the village for musicians at once!”
“Is it possible to find musicians at this late hour?” Prudence asked, trying to derail the plans for dancing.
“You can’t object. It’s been decided,” Mrs. Barton trilled as the harried butler reached his mistress’s side.
There was a lively conversation between Lady Penfors and Cyril after which Cyril scurried away, gesturing for a footman, and Lady Penfors began to clap her hands as if she were trying to gain the attention of a group of children. “Attention! Attention everyone! Supper is served. Find your partners, please, and prepare to promenade!”
As the guests began to find their partners, Roan made his way to Prudence’s side. “You must promise to come at once and save me if Vanderbeck comes in my direction,” he muttered. “Shoot to kill if you must.”
“Did you find her?” Prudence whispered.
Roan shook his head. “I haven’t seen her. I tried to ascertain if all the guests were down for the evening, but the question invited more talk from Vanderbeck.”
There was no opportunity to say more—Mr. Fitzhugh sidled next to Prudence and remarked that they’d gone without rain for far too long now, and didn’t she think the south lawn looked a bit brown?
In the dining room, Prudence was relieved to see that she and Roan were seated across from each other and at the opposite end of the long table from Stanhope. Not that it dampened his interest in her; Prudence could feel his gaze on her, making the hair on the back of her neck stand. Mrs. Gastineau sat to her right, and an elderly gentleman, Lord Mount, sat on her left. He was quite old and quite deaf, which Prudence thought might have something to do with the amount of hair growing in his ears.
No one around her seemed curious as to her presence. No one looked askance at her or Roan as if they suspected a deception. Roan was right—she had only to make the best of it, and it would be over soon. She began to relax as the meal was served. She glanced around at the people gathered. It was a strange collection of guests, and she was not acquainted with any of them, save Stanhope. Moreover, Howston Hall was so removed that she could now agree with Roan—the chances of her seeing any of these people again seemed very small.
The supper was actually quite pleasant. They dined on soup and pheasant, they drank wine, and the conversation centered around the planned shoot on the morrow. It was after the plates had been cleared and ices were being brought in that Roan found the opportunity to inquire of Penfors if his sister had come to Howston Hall. “She would have come within the last fortnight or so,” he said.
“Miss Matheson!” Lord Penfors said loudly, startling Prudence and several others. She glanced around her and noticed that down the table, Stanhope was watching her. She looked away.
“Aurora Matheson,” Roan said. “In her last letter she wrote that she was staying with friends who intended to travel here to call upon you.”
“Me?” Penfors said, looking confused.
Roan looked slightly concerned. “She’s young,” he said. “She has auburn hair and brown eyes.”
“Ah, yes, the American girl,” Penfors said suddenly. “Such a delight she was. Very witty, that one, and quite good on the hunt.”
“The hunt?” Roan repeated uncertainly, as if he suspected Penfors had the wrong Aurora.
“That’s it!” Penfors suddenly declared, shoving his forefinger high in the air. “That’s where I’ve heard your manner of speech! I thought it Eton, but no sir, you speak in the way that you do because you’re a Yankee!”
Roan glanced at Prudence. “Yes,” he said curtly.
“A Yankee,” Mr. Gastineau said. “My grandfather was there, you know, in the colonies, in seventy-seven. Harsh winter. Lost two toes.”
“The winters can be brutal,” Roan agreed, and turning back to Penfors he asked, “I beg your pardon, my lord, do you mean to say that Aurora has come and gone from Howston Hall?”
“Oh my, yes, she’s gone,” Penfors said. “When was that, Mother?” he called, rapping loudly on the table to gain his wife’s attention. He succeeded in gaining everyone’s attention.
“Eh, what?” Lady Penfors responded irritably. “What do you bang on the table?”
“The American girl! When was she here?”
“Oh, the American girl! Cute as a button, wasn’t she?” Lady Penfors said, suddenly smiling. “Quite good at the hunt.”
Roan looked at Prudence with a look of pure confusion.
“Yes, yes, but when was she here?” Penfors asked, rapping the table again with his knuckles.
“Here?”
“Yes, here!” he shouted.
“Well, you needn’t shout, Penfors, we all hear you very well indeed,” Lady Penfors said crossly. “I can’t recall when she was here, precisely. When the Villeroys were here. She returned to London with Mr. and Mrs. Villeroy, you will recall. Cyril! When were the Villeroys here?”
“They’ve been gone a fortnight, madam,” the butler said.
“A fortnight!” Lady Penfors yelled down the table, as if no one had heard the butler but her.
“She’s gone to London?” Roan repeated, his brow furrowing.
“She took a fancy to Albert, do you recall, Penfors?” Lady Penfors said, then giggled like a girl, pursing her lips naughtily.
“Albert who?” Roan asked.
“Al-ber, Al-ber,” Penfors said, and to Roan, he added, “she almost drove the poor young man to drink with all her insistence on calling him Albert.”
“My sister?” Roan asked, confused.
“Lady Penfors!” his lordship exclaimed, clearly annoyed that Roan wasn’t following his line of thought.
“What?” Lady Penfors called out.
“Never you mind, Mother, have your pudding. We’ve worked it all out. The American girl took a fancy to the Villeroy boy and returned to London with him and his family! Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, that is so,” Lady Penfors confirmed. “Albert!”
“Al-ber,” Penfors shouted back at her.
“Christ Almighty,” Roan muttered, and sat back, staring into space.
“There’s no call for alarm, sir,” Penfors said congenially. “The French aren’t as randy as they once were. Rather sufferable now, aren’t they? And the boy is no threat to your sister. I doubt he could lift a linen without a bit of perspiration.”
Mrs. Gastineau laughed at that. “Albert Villeroy. He’s a whiff of a boy, isn’t he, with high cheekbones and fine, slender hands,” she said to Roan.
“I don’t care if he has hands like mutton chops,” Roan said.
Penfors laughed and pointed at Roan. “Look here, Matheson’s in a snit! Our American girl has gone off with the Villeroy boy, has she? Lovely girl your sister, Matheson. Lovely. Quite good at cards.”
Roan looked as if he might come completely undone. Prudence pictured him unraveling, starting with his neckcloth, spinning off like a top. “Pardon, my lord,” she asked quietly, “but would you happen to know where in London the Villeroys might have gone?”
“Well, of course I know! I’ve dined there often. Not in the fashionable part of Mayfair, mind you, but on Upper George Street. Do you know it?”
“Yes,” Prudence said absently.
“There you are,” Stanhope said, and looked at Roan. “Your cousin knows where the Villeroys are, Mr. Matheson. You might send her in after your sister with a shield and a sword.”
“Cousin!” Lady Penfors echoed incredulously.
A silence fell over the table. Prudence felt the rush of heat to her face,
the fluttering of her heart. This was the moment Stanhope would expose her lie and she would be humiliated before everyone gathered.
But Lord Penfors suddenly howled. “You devil you, Stanhope! She’s much too young for Matheson, I grant you,” he said, indicating Prudence, “but don’t malign the good Mrs. Matheson with your jesting.”
Stanhope graciously nodded his head. “I should rather cut out my own tongue than malign the good Mrs. Matheson,” he said. “Forgive me, madam, I misunderstood. I thought you were cousins in addition to...your arrangement.”
“Goodness, my lord, you should know better than anyone, shouldn’t you? They are your friends,” Lady Penfors said.
“Indeed they are, my lady,” he said.
Prudence said nothing. She looked at Roan, whose jaw was as firmly set as the fist that rested next to his plate.
“Oh my, look at the time, Penfors!” Lady Penfors said. “Send for the port.”
Thankfully, the supper ended there, and the ladies were instructed by their hostess to retire to the grand salon to oversee the preparations for dancing, while the gentlemen were similarly instructed to enjoy their port.
It was astonishing to see that the musicians had indeed come up from the village while the Penfors guests had dined, a ragtag group of four men who were busy tuning their instruments. By the time the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, Lady Penfors was eager to have the dance get underway, opening with standard country figures.
Roan had scarcely entered the room, his gaze seeking Prudence. He’d almost reached her when he was intercepted by Mrs. Barton, who appeared at his elbow, her smile sultry. “You must allow me to teach you a country dance, sir.”
“I think—” Roan tried, but she wouldn’t allow him to speak.
“You must humor me. I’m very keen to dance with a tall American stranger.” She slipped her hand in between his elbow and body, then flagrantly squeezed into his side. “Do Americans dance, Mr. Matheson? Surely not as we do. I think you must like the reels there, don’t you?” she asked, tugging him away.
He glanced helplessly over his shoulder at Prudence.