by Regina Darcy
Prudence rose from the edge of the bed and left her room, taking care as she passed her sister’s room to tiptoe silently. Poor Phoebe, she really was quite worn out by all that had taken place since Papa’s death and the news that they were to be consigned to the guardianship of a man they had never met. She needed to rest, that was for certain. She would need her strength when they left the manor and set out to seek their fortune.
The house was quiet. The servants were no doubt busy with their duties, but they must have been working elsewhere in the manor because she saw no one, not even Benton the butler. She hesitated; did she dare to go downstairs to the kitchen, where the servants might be working? She had not met them, except for Benton, who was unlikely to be labouring in the kitchen.
She knew very little of domestic service, she realised; Madame had servants, of course, to take care of the cooking and cleaning at the school, but that was different and the servants were very nearly as strict as Madame herself when it came to chastising the girls for tracking in mud on their boots or making up their beds in a sloppy manner. The household of an Earl was unlikely to be quite so impudent as that.
As always when Prudence was faced with a decision which required thought, she went boldly forward. This occasion was no different, she marched ahead opening the door that led downstairs. All was quiet here, too.
Surely the Earl had servants; the house testified to their efforts, even if their presence was invisible. Someone had cooked the breakfast that morning. Where was the Cook? The parlourmaid, the kitchenmaid, the footman . . . the downstairs was remarkably quiet.
She turned the corner after descending the stairs and entered the kitchen. She was not the only one in the large room. The Earl was there, his back to her, rummaging through the contents of a small wooden cupboard. She did not want to see the Earl! Prudence turned to go back up the stairs.
“Running away?” the Earl inquired.
“Of course not!” she replied, determined to stand her ground. How had he known that she was there?
He turned around and as he locked the wooden cupboard, she realised that he had seen her reflection in the glass window of the cupboard door.
“This is the place where Mrs Turner keeps medicines,” he said. “I have become a regular patron of this cupboard since you so violently struck me yesterday.”
“The violence was not my doing, my lord! You attacked me!”
“The bottle left glass splinters in my head,” he returned. “Benton had to remove them with tweezers. I assure you, it was not a pleasant experience.”
“Neither was being forcibly kissed by you, my lord! I took no pleasure in being an unwilling participant in your orgy.”
“My what?”
“Your orgy last night, when your friends—a term to use dubiously, given their loose manners, I should rather describe them as miscreants—behaved in a manner which I am sure is quite unlike that which was familiar to the Greek philosophers of renown.”
“In the first place,” he said, coming nearer to her, “not all the Greeks were philosophers but men and women who shared the same desires and needs as we all have. The species is not promulgated by philosophy. In the second place, I have no idea what an orgy is. If you mean to say orgy, you ought to know that the “g” is pronounced as if it were the letter “j” as in jam, and not as the hard “g” heard in gam. I only mean to be helpful,” he said pleasantly as a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance brought colour into her face, “so that, when next you introduce the subject of an orgy into the conversation—and I hope to be there when you do, for it is sure to ignite a most lively discourse—you will not find yourself the subject of laughter. In the third place, regardless of what you have chosen to think, an orgy did not take place last night.”
“I know what I saw.”
“No,” he said, coming closer. He was very tall; she had to tilt her head to look up at him and meet his gaze, a posture which was demeaning and irritating. “No, you do not. Although I am intrigued; how does a young girl, presumably virtuous, learn the word orgy while attending a reputable girls’ school in France? What sort of education does Madame inculcate in her pupils?”
“I have no wish to continue this conversation.”
“Indeed? Well, I had no wish to be left scarred for life thanks to your actions of last night.” He took her hand and placed it over the bandage on his temple. “I have a thumping headache thanks to you. I trust this—,” he lifted his hand containing the small bottle that he had taken from the cupboard, “—will help to ease the pain.”
“You cannot blame me for defending myself.”
“Against a kiss? What woman with blood in her veins needs to be defended against a kiss from a man who appreciates her charms?”
“A great many, I should think! Men are forcing themselves upon women daily.”
“I should never force a woman to surrender what I could not persuade her to give me,” he said.
“That is a lie! I did not wish to be kissed.”
“How do you know?” he asked, leaning idly against the kitchen entrance door. “How many men have kissed you?”
“You are despicable and debauched! Until last night, my lips were pure.”
His alert eyes lingered over the lips in reference.
“I suggest that you continue to regard them as pure, Miss Connolly. Your future husband will not appreciate any intimations that he is marrying a mouth which has enticed other men.”
“I have never—what future husband?”
“You do not have to escape to a nunnery to flee my debauchery, as you put it. I will be doing my duty as your guardian and letting the word get out that my wards, lovely debutantes, are on the marriage market. I expect that you will both be married before I return home to Ambrose Manor for the hunt.”
“I can only be relieved that you recognise the significance of virtue for a woman who is to entertain suitors.”
“Virtue . . . what a homely concept,” he mused. “I believe there are men who find it irresistible.”
“Do you mock virtue, my lord? Perhaps because you are so unfamiliar with it.”
“Oh, I have encountered virtue in my years,” he assured her. “But I find that virtue without passion is pallid and unappetising. You see . . . ” Without warning, he took her hand in his, his grip unbreakable. He was not hurting her, but she could not escape his fingers. “You see here?” he bent down and pressed his lips against the place in her wrist where her pulse beat. “This is what I mean. Virtue is all well and good, but there comes a time when a man and a woman must acknowledge that the beating of their hearts is what drives their desire. Instead of shunning it, or fleeing it, they must embrace it. Virtue is an impediment if it gets in the way of the fulfilment of that desire.”
“You are a lout!”
“So you have already said. And yet, I assure you, that if you are truly ever in love, you will long for the man you love to kiss you as I did last night and to make your pulse beat faster. If you do not abandon your prudish, self-righteous, sanctimonious airs, you will find yourself in a very cold bed.”
The fact that his speech was delivered to the beating of the pulse in her wrist, while his eyes were intent upon her face, created a duality of emotions within her that she could not understand. She felt as if she were trapped by the wizardry of his brilliant blue eyes, while her skin was enslaved by his lips against her wrist. His words were bewildering.
He spoke of passion, desire, kisses, all the things which the Rector warned against. And he called her prudish and self-righteous!
“Your pulse is beating very rapidly,” he commented, brushing his lips across her wrist. “I think that virtue, which you prize too highly, and vice, which you condemn too readily, will war in your veins as you decide which will win.”
“I will not be spoken to as if I were one of your—your—”
“Orgy participants?” he suggested, breaking into laughter as she wrested her arm away and ran back upstairs.
The peal of his laughter followed her, even after she slammed the door closed behind her. She thought she could hear it still as she raced up the staircase, startling Benton who was descending it.
“Miss Connolly—”
But she did not stop until she had returned to her room and bolted the door closed behind her.
FIVE
The Duke of Summersby perceived the dilemma in which the Earl found himself but could not devise a solution. It was difficult enough to marry off one charge during the Season; marrying off two, when they were strangers to England, the daughter of a man known for his scandalous lifestyle, and neither an heiress, was likely to be even more challenging.
“You could marry one of the girls yourself,” Summersby suggested over port. “As they are twins, it would not signify which one you married.”
“It would signify very much,” Christopher replied in dark tones, thinking again, as he was wont to do far more often that he liked, of Prudence Connolly’s luscious berry-red lips and the remembered thrill of kissing such forbidden fruit.
“I don’t see why,” James said. “If they are identical twins, and one looks like the other, then what difference does it make?”
“They look the same. They are not the same. And even in looks, there are . . . differences.” A pulse, beating fast against the thin skin of her wrist, revealing what her prim words never would. A flash of ardour in her eyes which she recognised only as spirit, unwilling to acknowledge that her body could not be tamed by sermons and prayer books.
“You can tell them apart?”
“Certainly.”
“But they are identical twins?” James pressed.
“I have already said so. Yes, they are identical. It is of no importance, I am not marrying my wards. My objective in coming here tonight is to seek your help in drawing up a list of eligible bachelors of decent reputation and means who offer promise as suitors. I had hoped that the Duchess would be here to help.”
“Oh, Georgette is unlikely to be of help,” James said. “She’s new to society herself, you know. She lived quite like a hermit before we married.”
‘Yes . . . but she has entered society now.”
“Yes, of course, but I don’t know that she involves herself much in the marriage business. It isn’t as if she’s one of the Patronesses of Almack’s, you know.”
Christopher shuddered. “I am thankful that the Misses Connolly will not be expecting to have a full Season,” he said. “It is quite enough to round up a sufficient number of suitors and then arrange for such entertainment as will allow the girls to decide which ones they favour. The gentlemen in question shall request my permission to court the sisters, which I shall give without delay and they shall be married and off my hands.”
“It’s not quite as simple as that, you know,” James said. “Marriage is rather complicated.”
“How would you know? You kidnapped your wife.”
The Duke of Summersby looked pained. “It wasn’t quite like that.”
“She was on her way to marry another man. You disguised yourself as the coachman who was to drive her to the church and instead, you abducted her. It’s very fortunate that you fell in love with her and she with you; otherwise, you’d have had to marry her anyway because she’d have been ruined. Have you ever thought how foolish we British are?”
“No, I have not, and I hope that you will not relate the story of my courtship of my wife in quite such stark a manner. It is a love match and I remind you that, in these cynical and avaricious times, it is most unusual for a man and woman to marry for love.”
“It is even more unusual for a man to kidnap the woman he ends up marrying before either one of them is in love with the other.”
“Do you want my help or not?” Summersby demanded annoyed. “If you’ve come to my house only to plaster me with insults, it’s a waste of my best port to entertain you.”
“No insults intended.”
Christopher grinned at his offended host.
“I’m intrigued by the manner in which you accomplished it, that’s all.”
“Oh, well, I—”
The door to the Duke’s study opened and his wife entered.
“You’re back earlier than I expected,” the Duke said, rising and crossing the room to give his wife a kiss.
Christopher, who had also risen upon the entrance of the Duchess, marvelled to himself at how naturally the couple displayed their affection. None of the traditional British reticence when it came to exhibiting physical demonstrations of their feelings for one another. Nor were they excessive in their actions. He thought of Prudence Connolly and her absurdly Puritanical views. She ought to meet the Summersbys; then she would see for herself that passion was not a flaw.
“My lord,” Georgette inclined her head courteously as she sat down. Although she knew that her husband and Christopher were friends, she was also aware of the Earl’s reputation as a man who had kept the tongues of London wagging during his wilder years. She was new enough to beau monde, but still found the tales disturbing, even if her husband assured her that those exploits came from the Earl’s past, before he had taken on the title and its responsibilities.
“Your Grace,” he returned the greeting, aware that the Duchess was not entirely approving of him or happy about his friendship with her husband. “I am imploring Summersby to assist me in a matter which cries out for a women’s wisdom.”
“And what is that?” she inquired, casting an evaluative eye upon the port to determine whether the amount drunk was an indicator of the dilemma which required her wisdom.
“I have, perhaps you are aware, recently been made the guardian of two nineteen-year-old young women, twin daughters of the late Baron of Bractonby.”
“The Baron of Bractonby was a scoundrel, was he not?”
“Quite, but his daughters were strictly brought up in a French boarding school and they are as innocent as a pair of angels.”
Georgette raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“That must be quite a novelty.”
“My dear,” her husband said in reproach. “Henton has come here seeking our help.”
“Yes,” his wife said, “but there is the matter of the Greek entertainment and the Cyprians. . . ”
“That was before the girls arrived,” Christopher said hastily. “Or rather, before I knew that they had arrived. I assure you that no such diversions are planned for the future.”
“Until they are married off?” she persisted.
“I find that those pastimes are losing their lustre,” he said.
“Indeed?”
“You do not believe me, I can tell by your tone.”
“Georgette is inclined to disbelief,” her husband said fondly as if her lack of credulity was a virtue. “Georgette, my love, Henton is asking for our insights with regards to the pool of marriageable young men. I suppose you’re looking for young men?” he queried Christopher. “You’re not planning to marry the girls off to some old, doddering greybeard?”
“No, no . . . I haven’t given it a great deal of thought. They’ve only been living with me for less than a week and I need to come up with some sort of a plan for them. They’re very proper girls and between the Connolly sisters and Mrs Truman, I feel as if I’m an experiment in the reformation of character. Miss Prudence Connolly has seen visitors arrive who—female visitors—are interested in resuming prior arrangements which are no longer suitable.”
“Don’t look shocked, my dear,” Summersby advised his wife, “you’re a married woman now and it’s quite permissible for you to hear about these sorts of things.”
“I am not shocked, James, I am merely questioning; my lord, are you reforming because you wish to change your conduct or because you wish to provide a sound moral influence on the girls while they are in your guardianship?”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” Christopher said. “I suppose . . . well, I’m seven-and-twenty now, and I suppose there comes a time when a man must
forsake his wilder youth.”
“Are you thinking of matrimony?” the Duchess of Summersby asked.
“Matrimony? No, no, nothing of the sort. Not me! I’ve no interest in marrying. No, I simply meant that I’m . . ” he halted. “I’m not really sure what I mean,” he confessed. “See here, may I ask a question of a somewhat personal nature?”
“Ask away, old man,” Summersby said with a wave of his hand.
His wife looked alarmed. “What sort of personal question?” she wanted to know.
“You see . . . men and women are accounted to be very different.”
It was Summersby’s turn to show alarm.
“If you find that a matter of supposition rather than fact, Henton, you’re far from the man I believe you to be.”
“You know very well what I mean. Physically, yes, of course the sexes are different and thank God for it. I mean something more, however . . . Your Grace,” Christopher directed his attention to the Duchess, sitting very close to her husband, so close that the folds of her frock brushed against his trousers. Their fingers were intertwined. It was most unusual for married couples to show their fondness for each other and yet the Duke and Duchess of Summersby were visibly enamoured of one another.
“Did you fall in love with James immediately?”
The Duchess broke into laughter.
“Indeed, I did not! But you are already aware of the circumstances of our introduction to one another.”
“Yes, he is,” Summersby said peevishly, “and there is no need to rehash that old story.”
“It’s not such an old story,” his wife retorted with a wicked grin. “It’s very fresh in my mind. I slapped him across the face, you know,” she recalled, not at all distressed by the recollection.
Summersby sighed dramatically. “What is it exactly that you want to know, Henton? As has been made abundantly clear, no, Georgette and I did not fall in love from the very beginning. We were intrigued by one another, I venture to say.”