by Regina Darcy
“You are very kind, ma’am.”
“I shall call upon you,” Lady Delafield said. “I am eager to learn more about this school.”
“That would be an honour, milady.”
By no gesture or tone or word did Prudence reveal that she did not anticipate a call from the redoubtable Lady Delafield. But the truth was that she did not relish such an occasion. Even the half-hour stay which constituted an acceptable call would be too much, she felt, for Her Ladyship’s scrutiny was more than Prudence wished to endure. But when she told the Duchess, Georgette was delighted.
“You have truly arrived, my dear,” she said happily. “You will find it much easier now to begin to select a husband. Lady Delafield is quite a force in society and after she has called upon you, you will find many other ladies following suit.”
Phoebe shared her sister’s apprehension and the two spoke of it as they returned to the Henton manor in the Summersby carriage.
“Whatever could she want to talk to us for?” Phoebe fretted. “What shall we say to her?”
“I suppose we had better alert Mrs Truman,” Prudence sighed. “And Benton.”
“What about the Earl?”
“He is unlikely to be receiving callers,” Prudence said. “You saw how readily he abandoned us tonight. Why should he choose to stay and entertain the ladies?”
“It is his home, after all,” Phoebe said.
“And we are his wards,” her sister replied impatiently. “You notice that he foisted us off on the Duchess tonight. But if you wish, I shall let him know.”
Benton was at the door when they arrived home. Phoebe went up to bed.
“Is the Earl available?” Prudence asked Benton. “I know that it’s late, but I wish to let him know that Lady Delafield will be calling.”
“He is in his study, Miss Connolly.”
“Thank you.”
The hour was late and the halls of the manor were swathed in darkness. The servants were long since abed. The sisters, having grown up without the services of a lady’s maid, would manage for themselves in undressing for bed. She felt as if she were the only person in the entire house, that everyone else was slumbering. Except for Benton, who never seemed to sleep. And the Earl.
She knocked on the study door.
There was no answer.
Prudence sighed and turned the doorknob.
Candles were burning low on the study desk, but there was enough illumination to show that the chair behind the desk where the Earl typically sat was empty. Alarmed, Prudence looked around her.
The Earl was sprawled upon the chaise. Upon the table beside him, empty bottles testified to the manner in which he had passed the hours since leaving the ball.
The Earl, his coat discarded and his cravat removed, reclined in his rumpled shirt and trousers, his habitual dapper appearance quite gone.
“My lord?” Prudence bent over his recumbent form, wrinkling her nose at the mixed odours emanating from him. Had he drunk too much or drowned himself she thought with a twinge of irritation.
“My lord! My lord, are you ill?”
She shook him and in response, he groaned. He was at least alive.
“My lord, you cannot remain here like this,” she said. “Wake up and go to bed!”
“Married . . . not to me.”
Prudence frowned. What on earth was the Earl mumbling about marriage for? If anyone was unlikely to be pondering matrimony, it was the Earl of Henton.
“Never mind,” she said, struggling to make him sit upright. But he was too tall and she too petite and he merely slumped back against the chaise.
But he seemed to be awakened on some level of consciousness, although his eyelids remained shut and his words were incoherent.
“Prudence . . . “
“Yes, my lord?”
“No one else, you see. No one. Only Prudence. No one else for me. But never. . . “
Prudence grew still. What was he saying? He could not mean it. Not the philandering Earl of Henton, celebrated for his conquests.
“Beautiful Prudence . . .”
“My lord . . . do you know who I am?”
“So beautiful. No one to match her. Puppy Viscount Lewis . . . “
“My lord!”
His eyelids fluttered as if he were trying to open them but the effort was too great.
“Prudence . . . her fragrance.”
Prudence stared at the Earl as he lay upon the chaise. He had noticed the perfume that she favoured? It was a lavender-based scent, light but lingering.
“My lord,” she said softly, her heart was beating wildly in her chest. “It is Prudence.”
His eyelids moved again and slowly opened. Did he recognise her? He gave a deep sigh but said nothing. Prudence could not leave. This was a moment unlike any of the others that she had shared with him, a moment not rife with the passion of which he spoke so dramatically, but still, laden with the weight of the unspoken bond between them.
Suddenly, he sat up and put his arms around her, not in an embrace that made her a captive, but in need, signally that he wanted her closeness. She sat down beside him and the embrace was prolonged.
She ought to leave. It was very late and they were alone. It was beyond the tolerance of convention that an unmarried schoolgirl should be alone with her rakehell guardian in such a setting. She knew this. And yet, she could not leave him as he was.
She would not leave him alone.
TEN
Benton’s voice. The fragrance of lavender. The odour of brandy. A woman’s body in his arms. A deucedly uncomfortable chaise which was very well for one but not for two.
Christopher Ambrose, the Earl of Henton, opened his eyes and knew, the moment that he saw the censure in Benton’s eyes, that something was very wrong.
“My lord,” Benton said stiffly, “I came to awaken you. Mr Skeller is here with the papers you asked him to draw up.”
“I can’t—tell him I’m foxed, Benton—”
“I shall tell him.”
Christopher cursed as he watched the unyielding back of his butler depart from the room. He knew he was avoiding the obvious – the problem of the young maiden that had clearly slept in his arms all night long.
The young woman who was still in his arms. Prudence, her hair a-tumble on her shoulders, her dress creased, her face rousing from slumber, began to stir. She opened her eyes, saw him, and in an instant, horror-filled her expression.
Christopher’s heart sank.
He’d really done it this time.
Prudence got up from the chaise and prepared to flee.
“No!” he exclaimed in a fierce whisper. “Not yet! There’s someone out there! You must not be seen as you are.”
“What—”
Christopher stood up, not without effort, for he had been very drunk the night before and his head rebelled against the act of becoming upright.
“My friend and lawyer is here. Benton is explaining that I am indisposed. But you must not go out until Gavin is gone, or he will think—he will think the worst.”
“What difference does it make? Nothing happened.”
Was she so immune from public opinion that she truly believed there were no consequences from a night spent together with a man to whom she was not wed? He did not know whether to be appalled by her naiveté or intrigued by such innocence.
“If Gavin sees you, he will be bound . . . he is a lawyer.”
“Who is Gavin?”
“It does not matter. He has a number of clients in the ton. He is a very good lawyer. When there are marriages, he draws up the agreements. You would be compromised—dear God, my head! I must have coffee.”
Making his way in spurts, gripping the desk, the chaise, the chair, until he reached the door, Christopher stood there waiting, listening for the sound of his butler returning. Where the devil was Benton?
Minutes passed. They felt like hours. For Prudence, this inexplicable puzzle seemed to have no solution. Why was he stand
ing at the door and who was Gavin and how was anyone to know how she had spent the night? She would go to the nunnery; that, obviously, was the only possible answer.
The Earl swore and opened the door. He stepped out of his study.
“Benton!” he called.
“Sir?”
“Did you deliver the message?”
“I did, my lord.”
“Excellent. Bring me coffee, my head is throbbing.”
Benton appeared. His expression was forbidding as he gazed upon his master.
“I shall ask Cook to brew it,” he said formally.
“She always has coffee for me in the morning.”
“The morning is almost past, my lord. It is nearly afternoon and we did not know when you planned to rise.”
“As you can see, I have risen now and I need coffee!”
“Does Miss Connolly require anything?” Benton asked coolly.
“Don’t be insolent!” Christopher ordered, alert to the scolding beneath the words.
Benton bowed and left. Christopher cursed again. He didn’t want to antagonise Benton; the man was the conscience of the Henton household.
Prudence stole past Christopher on her way out of the room, saying nothing to him. As she left, Christopher felt as if he had been abandoned by all that he held most dear and that he was marooned on a desolate island of his own creation.
Prudence went straight up to her bedroom. Phoebe was there, worried.
“Prue! Where have you been? Your bed hasn’t been slept in, I didn’t know where you were—whatever is the matter? Why haven’t you changed from last night? Prue?”
“I’m not feeling well,” Prudence lied. “I just want to go to bed and sleep.”
Prudence was never ill. It had been a shared joke at the school that, no matter what ague or malady made the rounds, Prudence was immune to it. One of the more outspoken girls declared that the illnesses themselves feared her temper, but Madame said it was because Miss Connolly walked daily, ate sparingly and never missed a Sunday service.
“Prue—” Phoebe was entirely confused. What had happened? They had arrived home together in the Summersby carriage; Phoebe went up to bed and Prudence had intended to tell the Earl that Lady Delafield was planning to call—
“Prue—” Phoebe inhaled slowly and with the air that entered her lungs came the unbidden thoughts, each worse than the last. “Did the Earl—?”
“No! Certainly not! I am not well and I must rest. Please, Phoebe . . . ”
“I shall call for tea,” Phoebe said.
“I don’t want anything except to sleep. Please, Phe, will you only leave me to myself for a time? I need to sleep.”
Never in all their nineteen years had either girl voiced the wish that the other would leave her.
Phoebe was at first hurt, and then, emboldened, she realised that something had happened, regardless of what her sister said. “I will leave you, Prue,” Phoebe said. “But you must tell me what happened when you are ready to do so.”
Prudence just nodded mutely. Phoebe came over to her to help her with the buttons on her dress and to pull back the sheets and assist her as she got into bed.
“Go to sleep,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry about . . . anything. If you wish to, we can go to the nunnery.”
Christopher was relieved to encounter no one as he went up to his room. The house felt strange to him, a foreign, alien place where he was an intruder.
But that was an absurdity; no one except the butler knew what had happened. And Miss Connolly, certainly, but neither of them was likely to tell tales. Miss Connolly might tell her sister, but he rather suspected that she would not. He could not conceive why he felt so, but he sensed that discretion, that characteristic which had thus far been absent in her, was going to make an appearance.
He needed a bath before he did anything. After his valet brought hot water, Christopher dismissed him and soaked in the water as if he could purge himself of his sins. It was time for an accounting. He had left his wards at the ball, gone home, and drunk himself into a stupor.
When Miss Connolly came into the study, he had been unable to respond in a manner appropriate for a guardian. Somehow, and he had no recollection of it, she had fallen asleep in his arms. Nothing had happened, of that he was certain, although he could not have provided testimony as to the reasons for his certainty. Their clothing was rumpled after the night spent together but nothing had been removed. No, nothing had happened. But she was his ward and an innocent and he was her guardian and known for debauchery.
He must marry her. For one thing, he did not know how she would react to what had happened. Although she was not prone to airs and vapours, she was still a young inexperienced schoolgirl. She must have the security of marriage. For another . . .Benton would expect nothing less. The master and servant had never discussed their views on morality and Benton had undeniably put up with the most extreme of the Earl’s extravagant entertainments, but they had never involved an innocent girl who depended upon her guardian’s protection.
They must marry soon.
It would be a tale for the gossips, but they would suspect only that Henton had been smitten by the charms of his ward, who had made such a dramatic and favourable impression in her initial appearances in society.
It would be regarded as a love match, for she was known to have no money. London would titter until the next escapade by the next titled rogue captured the imagination of the ton and the story would fade out of memory. Phoebe would be able to continue to accept invitations, with her sister now suitable as a chaperone because she would be a married woman.
A countess.
She would be responsible for the social obligations that fell to a household, as well as the other duties which were a wife’s province. Mrs Truman would help her, and Prudence’s own phenomenal competence would do the rest.
The truth need never be known. But it would not be a marriage in any real sense, for having failed as a guardian, Christopher knew that he had no right to claim his place as her husband.
After his valet had shaved him, and Christopher had dressed and had his morning coffee hours after the morning was over, he sent the maid to fetch Prudence and bring her to the library, not his study. He had no wish to return to the room himself and he was quite sure that she would not wish to do so either.
He wasn’t sure if she would respond to his request, but she did. She appeared curiously emotionless when she came into the room, her usual snapping vitality drained from her.
“My lord?”
He extended his hand toward the wing chair beside him. “Please, sit down. I—have you eaten?”
“I am not hungry, my lord. Thank you for asking.”
Phoebe had asked the same thing when Prudence, who had not slept at all, had finally risen from bed and dressed. She had not satisfied her sister’s anxious curiosity and Phoebe had not pressed her, except to ask whether she wanted anything to eat or drink. She did not.
“I am sorry,” he began, “for what happened. I am entirely to blame for inflicting upon you a potential scandal which is none of your doing. It is your right to despise me for what occurred. You are here as my ward to be introduced to society and to find a husband. That is now impossible.”
“It is not impossible,” she said. “But I don’t wish to have a husband now.”
Christopher’s smile showed how tired he was. “Prudence,” he said. “now is precisely when you must have a husband. If word should get out, you would be shunned by society. That would do nothing to improve your prospects. I am very sorry, sorrier than I can put into words, but you must accept my proposal of marriage.”
She did not answer. Did she not understand? There was no time to dally.
“Prudence,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“No.”
He tried again. “I realise that a young girl dreams of marrying for love and this sometimes happens. As my ward, you certainly were justified in having those hopes. I am
sorry to have dashed them. Upon my honour, such as it is, I did not wish this to happen. But it has. We must marry.”
Her green eyes, brilliant like a well-cut gemstone, examined him as if she sought to find an answer in his countenance that his speech had failed to provide.
“Nothing happened.”
“I know that. But we spent the night together. In each other’s arms.”
He saw her wince at his words and was ashamed.
Was the thought so reprehensible to her?
Did she loathe him so intensely that, even though they had not been intimate, it was enough that they had been in such close contact?
She looked away. It must not make sense to her, to be punished for something which had not happened.
“Surely you do not wish to bring scandal upon yourself and so ruin your sister’s prospects of a good marriage,” he told her.
Her gaze returned to his.
“Phoebe? Why should she be affected?”
“Because London society is like a great spider’s web,” he said bitterly, “and we are all flies, caught in its threads, that is why. If you are not respectably married, then she will lose her opportunities.”
“That is vile.”
There was a bare trace of her former spirit but it would do her no good now.
“After we are married, Phoebe will continue to receive invitations to balls and other engagements. She may very well find herself engaged before we return to the country in the fall. Unless you prefer to live apart,” he said. “It is not unusual for husbands and wives to do so. I can return to the country and you may choose to stay in London. But in the interests of safeguarding your sister’s prospects, I should recommend that you wait to pursue that particular option until Phoebe is herself married, so as to avoid any consequences from our misfortune. Do you agree?”
“I must agree. But I will not be abused or mistreated by you.”
He thought of the kisses that he has forced upon her.