by Julia London
Augustine looked very earnest as he squeezed her hands. “I thought we might put this all to bed before word gets round, but I think it too late! Lord Stanhope caught me at White’s—”
“What?” Prudence gasped. “When? How?”
“When? Last night. He said he’d borrowed a horse from Howston Hall and had accompanied the estate’s agent to London. He said he’d been pleasantly surprised to make your acquaintance there.”
Tendrils of trepidation began to snake in around Prudence’s gut. “What did he say?” she asked weakly. She could imagine it all, the ever-present, knowing smile on Stanhope’s face. I met Mrs. Matheson, my lord. I hadn’t heard your sister had married! Poor Augustine. He was a simple man and liked a simple life. She could imagine his shock, the way he’d bluster and fidget through such an encounter.
“He said he should like to come round this evening and speak to me privately, that’s what,” he said nervously. “And when I mentioned it to Honor, she confided in me that you had been there with a gentleman,” he whispered, as if Prudence had been in the company of Satan himself.
“Oh God,” Prudence moaned.
“Pru, darling, I won’t ask about the gentleman, for I think I can’t bear to hear it,” Augustine said as Honor walked back into the dining room. “But I think it best if you hurry back to Blackwood Hall straightaway. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.”
“And what good will that do?” Prudence asked him, and walked away, to the windows. “It won’t stop anyone from talking. Does it even matter if people talk? Haven’t they said all there is to say about the Cabot sisters?”
“What? Of course it matters!” Augustine said, his voice rising. “Do you mean to dishonor us all?”
“Fine. Send me into hiding like a criminal,” she snapped irritably.
“I don’t think that’s what Augustine means,” Honor said evenly.
“Not at all,” Augustine insisted. “I mean only that it is best for you to remain out of society for a time until this blows over,” he said sternly. Having delivered his brotherly warning, he rose up on the tips of his toes and down again, then yanked at the bottom of his waistcoat, pulling it over his belly. “You must never give us a fright like that again, Pru,” he said, wagging a chubby finger at her.
“No, of course not,” Prudence said bitterly. “I shouldn’t do anything but stay out of sight and speak when I am spoken to—don’t worry, Augustine. You won’t have me to fret over. Perhaps I will marry the mysterious gentleman and solve the problem for you.”
She had never seen her stepbrother look as shocked as he did in that moment. His jaw dropped open. His eyes widened with alarm. His lips moved as if he wanted to speak but was incapable. And then he found his tongue. “I beg your pardon, you mean to do what? Who is this bounder?”
“He’s not a bounder! He’s an American.”
Augustine looked as if he couldn’t draw his breath. “He’s a what?” he shouted, the force of his voice very nearly lifting him off his feet.
“Prudence! Stop this!” Honor cried.
“I’m only telling him the truth, Honor.”
“And with very little regard for his feelings,” Honor said hotly. “Augustine, darling, let me sort it all out, will you?”
“I can’t believe what she’s saying,” Augustine said helplessly as Honor took him by the elbow and began to guide him toward the door.
“I’ll sort it all out, dearest. You should go home to Monica now,” Honor said, referring to Augustine’s wife. “She’ll be terribly anxious to hear what’s become of Prudence.”
Augustine looked with great bemusement at Prudence as if he were looking at an apparition. Prudence felt another painful twist inside of her. She loved Augustine. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. “Augustine—”
“Yes, she will be most anxious,” he said, nodding to himself as Honor showed him out.
Moments later, Honor returned with a dark glare for her sister. “Are you happy now?” she asked irritably as she fell into a chair. “Augustine is beside himself.”
“What would you have me say, Honor? Would you have me deny it? Would you have me pretend I have no feelings about it, that I don’t know what I want?”
“No,” she said as if speaking to a child. “But you might have shown a bit of tact.”
Honor was right. Prudence sat on a chair across from her sister. “I apologize,” she said. “You’re right, that was badly done.”
Honor sniffed. She looked away from Prudence a moment. “Do you really want to marry him?” she asked, and turned a shrewd gaze to Prudence.
“I don’t know,” Prudence said with honest misery. “I feel things for him that I’ve never felt in my life,” she said, pressing her palm to her heart. “I can’t imagine I shall ever feel this way again. And then it feels a bit like an ague, and I think it will pass. But it doesn’t pass, Honor. It only seems to grow.”
“Oh dear,” Honor said. She suddenly sat up. “Listen to me, Prudence. Grace and Mercy are coming this afternoon. Can’t we at least discuss it as rational, clearheaded sisters before you do something foolish and swan off to America? Will you not at least show us the courtesy of discussing something that would affect us all?”
“My life, my choices, will affect us all?” Prudence asked, bristling.
“Of course they do. Just as you so adamantly pointed out last night that my choices have affected you, your choices affect us. Do you think any one of us want to lose a beloved sister to America?” she said as if she could hardly say the word. “Are we not at least as important to you as this...this stranger? You would say the same, Pru, and you would demand the same consideration as us.”
Prudence gazed at her beautiful older sister. She’d adored Honor all her life, had looked up to her, had idolized her. She could see the faint smudges of worry under her eyes this morning and knew that she’d put them there. Honor was right, of course. Her sisters were her world. They were the corners of her heart. But Roan was there, too. As improbable as it seemed, he had taken up space in the center. “Yes,” she said calmly. “Yes, of course, Honor. I would never intentionally hurt any of you. Never.”
Honor smiled wearily. “I know, darling,” she said, and reached for Prudence’s knee, giving it a squeeze.
“Where have they gone?” Prudence asked meekly.
“I suppose you mean Matheson? He and George have gone round to the Villeroys.” Honor stood up and walked to the sideboard, clearly not in a mood to discuss it.
Prudence could picture Roan arriving at the house on Upper George Street, the relief and consolation washing over him when he laid eyes on his sister, now assured that she was well. She could see him gather her up and hold her as tight as he’d held Pru last night, but out of fear she would slip away again. She could see Roan grasp his sister’s head in his hands and study her face for any change in her, any glimpse of the girl she’d been before she’d left America.
“What time did they go?”
“Nine o’clock,” Honor said. “George said he expected they’d be back by the noon hour.” Honor turned from the sideboard and put a plate of breakfast food before Prudence. “Here, eat something. Put some color in your face.” She quit the room without another word.
Roan and George did not return by the noon hour.
At two in the afternoon, Prudence was pacing the foyer.
Honor came down with her children, Edith, Tristan and Wills, all of them dressed to go out. “Where are you going?” Prudence asked as Honor separated Tristan and Wills from each other in the course of their overly boisterous play.
“To call on Lady Chatham. If I don’t bring them round, she’ll come here, and George will be unhappy.”
“But...what of George and Roan?” Prudence asked.
“Who is Roan?” Tristan demanded, wrinkling his no
se.
“No one,” Honor said, a bit too quickly for Prudence. To her sister, she said, “They’ve obviously been delayed. Why don’t you read? I’ve left some needlework upstairs if you want to busy your hands.” She ushered her three young children out before her. “Stop pacing,” she said to Prudence as she went out behind them.
Honor was right; Prudence needed an occupation. She went upstairs and sorted through Honor’s basket of needlework, but found nothing to suit her. The heavy, oppressive air of the past two days finally gave way to rain, and she listened to it hitting the windowpanes for a while as she paced the drawing room with her hands behind her back, pausing occasionally at the windows to stare out at the steady fall of rain, thinking. Examining her options from every conceivable angle. Trying to sort through her feelings for a man who had filled her heart and her imagination and taught her what it was to yearn.
Where could they be?
She’d resumed trying to embroider a linen napkin when she heard someone at the door. Her heart lurched—Prudence unthinkingly tossed down the linen and rushed to the front windows to peer out. She could see nothing through the rain but a brown hat. The person wearing the hat hidden from view beneath it.
Still, it had to be Roan—who else could it be? She whirled around, tucked in a bit of hair and clasped her hands together, waiting.
Several moments later, she heard the light footfall of Finnegan and caught her breath. Finnegan entered the room and silently held out a silver tray with a calling card to her. A calling card? Roan wouldn’t come in with a calling card. Prudence looked at him hesitantly and picked up the card. The moment she saw the name she threw it back on the tray as if it were a hot coal. Stanhope.
So this was it, she thought desperately. How much money would he want? Should she send word he should come back when George was home? No, no...she was not a coward. She’d brought this on herself and she would answer for it. Prudence squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Is everyone out?”
“Yes, miss,” Finnegan said.
She nodded. “Show him up, please.”
Finnegan turned, prepared to fetch him.
“Finnegan!” she said quickly, before he could leave.
He turned back to her.
“Leave the door open, and please...stay close, will you?”
“Just outside,” he assured her. “Are you certain you want to receive him?”
Prudence laughed nervously. “Not at all. Unfortunately, I must. Bring him up, please.”
Stanhope entered the room and paused just over the threshold. He smiled and inclined his head. “Miss Cabot. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said coolly.
“May I say, it’s lovely to see you home and refreshed.” He smiled warmly.
He was wearing a dove-gray coat over black trousers and waistcoat, a pristine white shirt and neckcloth. His hair—gold, like hers—was combed and trimmed since she’d last seen him. Prudence resented the sight of him. “How may I help you?”
Stanhope cocked a brow and smiled with surprise. “You seem uncomfortable, Miss Cabot. Is my presence so hard for you to bear?”
Oh no, she would not allow him to bait her. “I have quite a lot to tend to, my lord.”
His pale blue gaze swept over her, assessing her. “Very well, I shall come to the point.” He gestured to the settee near the window. “Will you at least sit?”
Prudence didn’t want to sit, she didn’t want anything to do with him. But she dared not show him any fear or reluctance, either. She moved stiffly to the settee and sat, her hands folded on her lap.
Stanhope flipped his tails and sat beside her. He smiled kindly, as if he were a friend. They weren’t friends, they were nothing to one another, only mere acquaintances, and uncomfortably vague ones at that. He meant to extort her, so what was the point of smiling? “Yes?” she prodded him, wishing he’d get on with it. Her palms were damp, her heart racing.
“No pleasantries? No remarks about the weather, no inquiries about my safe return from Weslay?”
Her heart skipped at the mention of Weslay. “Are pleasantries really necessary? I know why you’re here.”
He actually laughed at that. “Do you, indeed? I suspect not, Miss Cabot. I’ve come with a proposition for you.”
A proposition! She could only imagine what it was. She shifted uncomfortably.
“It’s not an indecent proposition, if that’s the idea you have.”
“I am happy to hear it,” she said coolly. “What is your proposition?”
He sighed as if dealing with a temperamental child. “I had imagined a gentler moment, but I see I won’t be granted one. So I’ll speak plainly—I think we might help one another.”
Help. What an odd thing to say. Prudence frowned doubtfully. “How?”
“You are very comely,” he said, his gaze wandering over her. “Any gentleman in this town would be very lucky to have you as his wife.”
A self-conscious heat began to rise in Prudence’s cheeks. “You said it wasn’t indecent—”
“Hear me out,” Stanhope continued undaunted. “It is no secret that scandal and your mother’s unfortunate madness have made you rather untouchable, is it? And I think it obvious to you that if anyone were to discover your recent foray into the English countryside, it would be impossible for any gentleman of note to offer for you.”
Prudence’s humiliation crawled up the nape of her neck. “I certainly can’t fault you for refusing to flatter me, my lord. Did you come expressly to humiliate me?” she asked evenly. “If so, you’ve wasted your time. I am not easily humiliated, thanks to all the reasons you’ve so candidly listed.”
“Humiliate!” he said, surprised. “Quite the opposite, Miss Cabot. I’ve come to offer for your hand.”
That brought Prudence up short. All rational thought flew out of her head. She stared at him, confused as to what scheme he was perpetrating.
“Naturally, in doing so, I am prepared to overlook all of the reasons I’ve listed that make you an unsuitable match for anyone else. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about them. I find you appealing in many ways. And, as it happens, my estate is entailed to such an extent that I am in need of a sizable dowry. I suspect yours will do.”
Prudence suddenly couldn’t breathe. She was indignant, but unsure why. The truth was that had it not been for Roan, she could imagine herself being strangely grateful to Stanhope. Of course she would have hoped for something a bit less transactional about this offer, but that was the way of her world. No matter how people dressed it, marriages were made for connections and financial and social gains. Sometimes great affection was tied to it. Sometimes, not.
Of all the things she had expected from Stanhope, an offer of marriage—to an earl, no less—was wildly beyond anything she might ever have imagined. And yet there was something so mercenary about it that Prudence couldn’t help recoil from it. She didn’t want a bloodless transaction. She suddenly realized how desperately she wanted love.
“You will not have heard a word against me, I suspect,” he blithely continued as if he assumed she agreed with his reasoning. “You will be the Countess of Stanhope and all the attendant privileges that brings. I will cherish you as a husband ought, honor you, father your children and keep you in society as you are accustomed. Who’s to say? We might even grow to genuine affection.” He smiled.
Prudence couldn’t believe it.
He cocked his head to one side and looked at her curiously. “I know this must come as a shock, but you can’t disagree, can you?” he asked, his gaze falling to her lips. “Ours is as good a match as either of us might expect to make at this point, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said, her voice a bit breathless.
“No?”
“No, my lord, it’s not. I won’
t accept your offer.”
Stanhope frowned for the first time since she’d met him. “Why? What option do you have?”
“Surely that is obvious to you. I intend to marry Mr. Matheson,” she said, and she meant it. She loved him. She loved him desperately, and she would risk everything to be with him rather than remain here and face men who had the same motives as Stanhope.
His eyes widened with surprise. And then narrowed as if he didn’t understand. “Pardon?”
“I am marrying—”
“Yes, I heard you. Do you mean you’ll leave your family behind? Or does the Yankee think to remain in England?”
“I will go there,” Prudence said.
Stanhope rubbed his chin. He looked as if he were working something out in his head. “What does your family think of this?” he asked. “Beckington, Merryton, Easton. What do they say to it?”
Prudence didn’t answer that question.
She didn’t need to. Stanhope understood her. “I see. They either are unaware of what you intend or are unhappy with your choice.”
“It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks,” Prudence said. “I love him.”
“Ah, love!” Stanhope scoffed, sweeping his arm out as if he were on a stage. “A roll in the proverbial hay is not love, Miss Cabot! You are naive if you think so.”
Prudence surged to her feet. “What is it to you?”
Stanhope gained his feet, too, and stood so close that Prudence was forced to tilt her head back. “You’re being foolish. I have offered you a solution to your troubles.”
“What you’ve offered me is a heartless transaction, my lord. Not an offer of marriage.”
He nodded as he considered her. “Rethink your response, Miss Cabot,” he said, his voice low and cool. “Give my offer the courtesy of serious consideration. I’ll call again in forty-eight hours.”
Prudence bristled. “Come in forty-eight hours if you like, but I will still refuse you.”