Compromising Prudence

by Marguerite Butler

“What color was your gown?” Charles asked abruptly.

  “Which gown? I’ve owned many.”

  “Your ballgowns. What color were they?”

  She continued to stare, then said, “White of course. What other color would they be?”

  He would have missed a treasure, his one diamond hidden among the others. He was sure of it. “Your papa wouldn’t have allowed anything else, would he?”

  She shrugged and parted the curtain with one finger, just enough to allow her a glimpse of the street.

  “It’s wrong, you know,” Charles said.

  “What is?”

  “Not to tell your father where you are is cruel.”

  She let the curtain fall. “He was cruel.”

  “Perhaps, but you aren’t. You need to write to him.”

  “This is a taste of his own medicine. He is forever issuing edicts as if I were one of his clerks. No one will order me about again. I won’t have it. I won’t!”

  She seemed perilously close to tears, which was the last thing he’d intended. He easily swung over into the seat next to her and took her hand. “That wasn’t an order,” he said gently. “I’m not in the habit of issuing edicts, you know. For one thing, birds don’t listen to them.” She rewarded him with a tremulous smile. “Come to think of it, neither do my siblings. I suppose I’m not intimidating enough to bend them to my will. I only ask that you consider telling your father the truth. He can’t stop us. Promise me that you will consider it.”

  She leaned closer to him and nestled her cheek against his shoulder. A sweet gesture of trust, it felt wholly natural to return the comfort by resting his chin on her hair.

  She smelled faintly of orange blossoms.

  “I’ll consider writing him,” she said at last.

  Prudence sat at the writing desk, drumming her fingers.

  They had compromised.

  How surprising that Hatterly could be so persistent.

  She would write someone — not Papa — and explain her situation. Unfortunately, she could think of no one to whom she wished to write. She was on friendly terms with lots of girls, but there was no bosom bow she could trust to not rush about with a tidbit of gossip. Her sisters were a possibility.

  Grace could be relied upon to report to Papa that Pru was alive and well and not kidnapped by pirates, but could be counted on to do so in such a clumsy way as to make her marriage sound tawdry. Constance would mean to tell, but she’d forget. Silly chit.

  With a sigh, Pru finally picked up the quill and began a letter to Aunt Hetty. She would tell her aunt that she was safe, but not where she was. Better no one know until they were married.

  If Papa cared.

  Pru’s eyes strayed to the daily news. There was nothing in the paper regarding a famous magistrate missing his daughter — no constables hunting for her, no bills or pamphlets. Papa had washed his hands of her. After all, he had two good daughters who had married respectable men.

  He didn’t deserve to have his mind set to rest.

  He deserved to suffer.

  Nevertheless, she would write Aunt Hetty. Much as Papa deserved to suffer, she wasn’t so cold as to let him do so endlessly. It would be enough for him to know that she had married and gone without his leave. He would assume the worst, that her marriage was one he wouldn’t approve of — and that would likely be correct. Papa was suspicious of men who placed confidence in science and logic. He was also suspicious of those outside his circle. Hatterly’s family was most likely in trade.

  Pru smiled. She would mention in her letter to Aunt Hetty that she’d married a merchant. This wasn’t precisely a lie and the news would give Papa as much dyspepsia as would the bill from the modiste.

  Hatterly was busy up in his study. Wasn’t that just like a man? Leave her to this wretched task whilst he indulged his interests. No thought to her. She closed the desk with a snap. She’d write the letter later.

  This was to be her future.

  A busy, remote husband. Separate lives. She would make new friends and learn to enjoy village life. Perhaps she would take up needlepoint and finally master watercolors.

  She could travel. That would be nice.

  Oh, this would certainly be for the best. A pleasant marriage of convenience was always preferable to stormy waters of a love match.

  Pru drummed her fingers on her seat.

  How long could one man think about birds? Steps in the hallway made her leap to her feet. She flung open the door, startling the poor housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Forbes!”

  “Great heavens, miss!” The portly woman staggered, hand on her bosom.

  “Sorry,” Pru said with an unrepentant grin. “But does Mr. Hatterly take tea each day?”

  “Aye, when he’s in residence he does like a bit, miss.”

  “How wonderful,” Pru sighed. She’d entertained dire visions of Hatterly sequestered in his study for days on end, eschewing food, sleep, and conversation. “You may bring the tray to me and I will take it to him.”

  Mrs. Forbes stared blankly for a moment, but controlled herself enough to murmur, “If you’d like, miss.” Then she turned and rapidly left.

  Well, if Hatterly could be interrupted by a maid then he could be interrupted by his soon-to-be-wife. Pru reopened the desk and began the letter to Aunt Hetty.

  True to Mrs. Forbes’ promise, Lizzy appeared on the strike of the clock bearing a silver tray with scones, jam and tea. Pru eyed the tray doubtfully, for it looked much heavier than she’d expected. Perhaps she wouldn’t play maid.

  “Follow me,” she said finally. “I expect he may protest when we invade his study, but simply put the tray on the nearest table and exit.”

  She knew a thing or two about disrupting men in their office. It had been the only time she could guarantee Papa’s attention.

  Pru gave the office door a cursory knock and simply let them both in without waiting for a response. Charles sat with his back to her, frowning at a mound of papers.

  “Over there,” he gestured without looking up.

  Finding the desired surface on which to place the tray was more difficult than Pru had imagined. This office was nothing like the polished order of Papa’s mahogany desk and chairs.

  Mounds of papers teetered on every surface that didn’t sport stuffed birds. The glassy eyes of feathered specimens gleamed throughout the room. Birds of prey, exotic tropical-looking creatures, muted little songbirds and broad-footed waterfowl stared at her from all directions.

  She swallowed hard.

  Life with Hatterly would take some adjustment.

  Nonplussed by the feathered audience, Lizzy balanced the tray on a footstool. With a quick curtsey and a curious glance Pru’s way, she took her leave.

  Pru clasped her hands, certain he would look up in a moment. When he didn’t, she scowled. Was he always so absorbed with his birds? Well, she had been warned.

  She cleared her throat.

  Charles gradually became aware that someone else was in the room with him. Lizzy generally left a tray and vanished. He roused himself from taxonomy to discover Miss Wemberly watching him with an expression that matched his own: one part annoyance to two parts bemusement.

  “Is this a typical day, then?” she asked.

  Charles blinked.

  No, it was not a typical day.

  It had been a thoroughly surreal day. He had repaired a woman’s bonnet. He had applied for a special license to be married on the morrow. He’d had a bizarre conversation with the man who had ruined his future wife, resulting in a wager. Oh yes, he had also presented a paper and sequestered himself in his study to work. That part was normal. The rest was most assuredly not normal.

  She watched him expectantly.

  “I don’t know how to reply,” he finally confessed.

  That seemed to satisfy her and she nodded. “I’m at loose ends myself. This is so far from my normal that I might as well be in China instead of still in London.”

  “I know exa
ctly what you mean.”

  “I brought you tea.”

  He forced a smile. Having a wife meant concessions. In spite of his bold words about separate lives, he knew marriage would change things, had always known it would erode his autonomy. Self-preservation was why he’d fought the idea of marriage with such vigor for so long.

  “I don’t know if you take tea with cream or sugar.”

  She was proffering tea that he hadn’t even seen her pour. Charles took the cup and his smile was more genuine this time. “It’s fine as it is.”

  Having a woman about was distracting. But as distractions went, she was a charming one, infinitely preferable to his brother interrupting him with his infernal inventions or his sister with her horses.

  She plopped a stack of papers down on the floor, wincing at the dust that arose. He really should let Mrs. Forbes into the room more often, but this was his sanctum. He knew where everything was.

  Almost.

  “I prefer my morning tea without enhancement, but for afternoons, I do enjoy a bit of cream.” Miss Wemberly stirred her drink serenely. “I found the perfect dress today. Did I mention that? It will need to be picked up tomorrow from the modiste.”

  “You mean it wasn’t among all those boxes?” She’d bled him so freely this morning there had scarcely been room in the carriage for the two of them.

  “The gown required slight alterations. You can’t expect a wedding gown to simply fit, not like…other garments.”

  Now that was interesting. She’d blushed remarkably there. What had the woman bought? “I’ll send Johnny tomorrow.”

  “Johnny?”

  “The footman.”

  “We have a footman?” Her countenance brightened.

  “Of course we have a footman! I may not maintain much staff at my townhouse, but it’s adequate.” More than adequate for a place he visited only a few times a year. “Mrs. Forbes. Cook. Lizzy. Two footmen. That’s surely sufficient for a house I don’t keep as an actual residence.”

  Prudence’s lips twitched.

  “What?” He lowered the cup from his lips.

  “You travel without a valet. Most men I know would be too vain.”

  “Ah, but you forget my only interest in London was the Zoological Society. I’m no tulip.”

  “Even so…” she said.

  “Even so, the men of your acquaintance are indeed too vain.”

  “They are the men of your acquaintance as well, Mr. Hatterly, and all good ton…”

  “I am assuredly not good ton!”

  Gads, if she only knew how close she was to the truth. He’d no idea how she would react to learn Petworth was his cousin.

  “I’m invited places for the usual reasons,” He said, watching her face carefully.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Which are?”

  “Money. Pots and pots of it. That and the family name.” He sipped his tea and studied her puzzled face. He had to tell her and it would be better for her to know before they were riveted. He couldn’t feel good about marrying her under any sort of pretense. “Not Hatterly, of course.” He set down the cup. “There really isn’t a good way to do this.”

  “Of course.” Pru set down her cup as calmly as she could, but her heart was racing. He looked positively guilty and that couldn’t bode well. She should have known there would be a terrible secret.

  If Tommy Petworth was the villain of her tale, Hatterly was certainly the hero and Pru had read enough novels to know that the hero always had a terrible secret.

  She only hoped there wasn’t’ a wife locked in the attic.

  “My mother’s family is…well known. Her father was a duke — is a duke. He’s still alive.”

  “Her father was…then you are the grandson of — !” She goggled at him. That was not what she had expected him to confess.

  “ — a duke who begat three surviving sons who’ve been busy begetting heirs and spares, so don’t expect the title ‘Your Grace’ in your future.”

  “But your title? If she was the daughter of a duke — ”

  “Mr. Hatterly is the only title I aspire to!” he said ferociously.

  She sat back. His color was high and if he gripped his cup any tighter, he’d break the delicate porcelain.

  Instinctively, she reached across the desk to touch his hand. “Is your mama’s family so awful?”

  He turned his palm upward and she placed her hand in his. Earlier he had held her hand as she became overwrought. Now it was her turn to comfort him.

  “I barely know them. Her father disowned her after she married an American. He’s never spoken a word to us. We would have nothing from them, but my grandfather had already willed property and an inheritance to Mother in trust until marriage and there was nothing her father could do. That’s why we have Strayfield Manor. I have a passing acquaintance with some of my cousins but nothing more.”

  “Well.” She sighed in relief. As terrible secrets went, that wasn’t terrible at all. “How terribly romantic.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My parents had an arranged marriage. I don’t think they met more than a dozen times before taking vows. My sister, Constance, knew her husband but marriage was rather convenient for them both, hardly a grand passion. Your mama must have loved your papa to defy her family for him. It’s very romantic.”

  “I never saw my parents in those terms.”

  “One never does. I expect our children won’t either.”

  “Our children?” He made a strangled sound.

  “You do expect us to have children.”

  “Oh. Children. Of course. Someday. I…” His forehead had the most adorable wrinkles when he was flummoxed. “I thought we might know each other first. I realize I’m a virtual stranger and I did promise not to molest you.”

  “How disappointing.” Did he imagine her to be of such a delicate sensibility? How quickly he had forgotten the circumstances of their acquaintance. She must disabuse him of that notion immediately. “I understand what happens between a man and a woman. I do have two married sisters and naturally I asked my Aunt Hetty about it.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Aunt Hetty wasn’t much help. She said the cattle in the field were able to manage without guidance and that when the time came I only had to lay back and do my duty. As she’s never been married I realize she lacks empirical knowledge. Are you all right?”

  He appeared to be choking.

  “Fine,” he gasped.

  “Should I ring for help?”

  He really was the most alarming shade of red.

  “Truly. I’m fine.”

  They ate in companionable silence for a moment. Cook was clearly a genius in the kitchen; the scones were light as air. She was contemplating whether a third scone was unnecessarily greedy when she noticed Hatterly studying her.

  Caught in this endeavor, Hatterly raised an eyebrow and examined her over the rim of his cup. The look was neither flirtatious nor the look of a man assessing a woman’s beauty — not even especially flattering.

  She felt like one of his specimens.

  Yes, that was the look, as if he was studying her, making field notes and little sketches in his mind.

  Eating Habits of the Lesser Wifely Heron, by Mr. Charles Hatterly.

  “Why have you never married?” She blurted it out without thinking, but it was a fair question and one that startled him. She knew because he choked on his tea. Good. She liked having that effect on him.

  “Haven’t we covered that already?”

  “No, not precisely.”

  “I dislike change. My life was fine the way it was.”

  “But you’re a man.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “Marriage doesn’t have to change things for a man. You have your clubs and your mistresses and your gaming hells.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Oh, I meant you in the universal sense, you as a man, not you personally. Don’t look so offended. I merely meant that if y
ou don’t want marriage to change your circumstances, it doesn’t have to. Marriage is one of those things that a man does and then continues on, but for a woman marriage is everything, her entire future. But I digress. We are not speaking of the universal man, but of you. You detest the marriage mart and yet you have so much to offer a woman. Why not take a wife and be done with it?”

  “I was adverse to the notion,” he said stiffly.

  “Which is no answer of any sort.”

  “It is the only answer. I cannot stomach the notion of yoking myself to some woman for whom I have no regard. Marriage need not be a love match, but there should be something there, some admiration or affection.” His fierce expression gentled. “I’m hardly the prime catch you seem to think, my darling.”

  “You grossly underestimate yourself. You’re very handsome and your clothes are cut well, although I can’t imagine how you make do without a proper valet.”

  “Good looks are common enough. I should warn you the filthy lucre you spent so freely today was earned by trade.”

  “I don’t care about that.” Ah. She’d expected the Hatterlys were in trade.

  “I didn’t believe that you did. There are many women for whom bloodlines are everything; not only my bloodlines, but that of my blunt is of some importance. Only desperate mamas fling their daughters in my path and they’re bland, half-formed offerings at that.”

  I cannot stomach the notion of yoking myself to some woman for whom I have no regard…

  He was choosing to yoke himself to her. She smiled just a bit to herself. “Half-formed? I take it I am exempt from such scornful insights?”

  “You are charming and lively and…comfortable to be with,” he finished. “I never know what you will say next.”

  Pru stood. “I’ll leave you to your birds now. While I can’t say I’m thrilled to be called comfortable, I accept your explanation. And in the interest of honest disclosure, I did not spend your filthy lucre this morning. I spent Papa’s.” Hatterly’s mouth gaped. He really was adorable when shocked. “Madame Roquefort is accustomed to sending the bills to him and when she mentioned it,” Pru shrugged. “I did nothing to dissuade her from that notion. Papa will pay the account as well he should. If I am to make my way without a dowry, the least I can do is bring my own trousseau.”