by Regina Darcy
That mumbled remnant of a conversation he had had while unaware that he was conversing remained in her mind, a stumbling block for her as she tried to decide what to do.
A marriage of convenience was merely another form of imprisonment, one where they would be incarcerated behind the hidebound traditions of society and its expectations of behaviour for husbands and wives.
Was it irony that the Earl, that most hedonistic of aristocrats, should be held captive behind the walls of convention which he held in such contempt? Was the Rector correct when he made the point that sin brought about the downfall of the sinner who did not repent? The Earl and his infamous parties where apparently every form of excess was tolerated and even encouraged . . . was he the victim of his own outrageous practices? Should a man so famed for his indulgence now be excoriated because he had been trapped into marriage with an innocent? Was that what the Rector had meant? He had been of the view that it was women who had failed the covenant because Eve had not been able to resist the snare of the tempter. The Earl had not even tried to resist temptation. From all accounts, he was temptation’s willing acolyte.
What was he thinking now that he knew she had fled? Did he regret his behaviour or did he think her a coward for shirking from the desire which she had felt within? Did he know that she would forever yearn for the kisses he had given her and that if she remained apart from him, she would crave what could not be hers?
But if she returned to him, how could she accede to the barrenness of a marriage which did not exhibit the passion that he had told her was as vital to human life as food and air? He had praised her beauty and had said he did not want another to marry her. But he had been drunk when he spoke those words. Where was the truth? Could she credit in vino veritas? Or was it better to disregard the drunken words of a man who had the reputation of one who preferred to take his carnal pleasures outside of marriage?
Could he really have affections for her?
TWELVE
Christopher had escaped to the library after the appalling marriage ceremony that left such a bitter feeling when it was over.
He was trapped inside his own house when he would have preferred to go for a reckless gallop on his most spirited horse in order to outrun the desperation that he felt inside. But he could not do so. Newlywed husbands did not go for a ride on horseback. They celebrated their marriage, publicly with family and friends and then privately, in the bedroom. Because his marriage was nothing more than a charade, both of those options were denied to him.
And so he sat in the library, staring at the pages of a book he had no interest in reading. That is, until the door to the library and Phoebe burst in without ceremony, without even knocking.
“Prudence is gone!” she told him. “I have looked for her everywhere.”
“Did you look in the Countess’ bedroom?” he asked wearily. Of course that was where she should be.
“Of course I looked there,” Phoebe replied with a sharpness that he had never seen her exhibit before. “She is not there. I have looked everywhere, I told you. I asked Benton, and he has not seen her either. But one of the horses from the stable is missing.”
A horse was missing? Christopher was aware that, in the days leading up to their wedding, she had taken to riding early in the morning. He had done nothing to stop those morning rides, understanding that she had her own way of coming to terms with circumstances which she could not alter. But this was a different matter.
“Where could she be?” he asked. “Does she know anyone in London?”
“Not on such terms as would be required for her to leave here and find lodgings elsewhere,” Phoebe replied candidly. “How can we find her?”
How, indeed? How could he search for a runaway bride when all semblance of order must be maintained in order to avoid creating a scandal which could compromise Prudence and ruin Phoebe’s chances of finding a husband? It was a dilemma well beyond his experience. ,
There was nothing else to do but solicit Benton’s help. There was nothing happening in London that was not known to the servants and Benton had connections with all the best houses in London.
In an unemotional manner, he relayed to his butler the news that the Countess had disappeared and must be found without attracting attention to the search. Benton of course, understood that scandal was forever poised over the aristocracy, waiting a chance to land. That it would, if it landed, bring unwelcome drama to both sisters—one for being a runaway wife, the other for being in the house with the husband whose wife had bolted—was apparent.
“I shall make inquiries, my lord.”
“Discreetly.”
Benton raised his eyebrows. “I would not manage it in any other fashion, my lord.”
No, Christopher knew that Benton would not. While his butler investigated the network of servants for their gossip and disclosures, Christopher made the rounds, calling upon the households neighbouring his.
When asked why his wife was not with him, Christopher explained that she was very busy, learning the management of the household so that they could schedule a supper, a ball, a rout—his excuses expanded in order to accommodate the growing list of people who would be expecting invitations to this imaginary event—and he had been sent as the emissary.
The ladies tittered in appreciation at the thought of the roguish Earl now subdued by the fetters of matrimony and assured him that they would eagerly await the arrival of the invitation.
He was surprised upon calling three times in as many weeks at the Summersby manor to find that the Duchess was not present. The Duke had been delayed in Bath on business, he was told. Christopher supposed that it was something to do with the business of producing the heir; pregnancy was not a topic which a well brought up woman was going to discuss with a bachelor friend of her husband. He left his card and returned home.
Home was not a pleasant place to be these days, for Phoebe’s eyes were forever red from crying. She missed her sister terribly and Christopher realised that the pair had never been apart until now. Moreover, Phoebe was worried. So was he. Where could a nineteen-year-old young woman disappear to in the city of London when she had no family or circle of friends to go to? It was as if she had completely disappeared from the face of the earth and all his efforts to remain hopeful, for Phoebe’s sake, were strained by reality.
It was late at night when Benton knocked upon the door of the library. He had become accustomed to his master’s late nights of solitude spent in the library, alone with his fears for the safety of his wife.
“My lord?”
“Yes, Benton?” Christopher responded. Nothing had yet transpired from his butler’s surreptitious investigations and the Earl had lost hope that anything would.
“I have received a puzzling bit of information, my lord.”
“Oh?” Christopher rose. Anything, after such a drought, inspired hope. “News of the Countess?’
“It seems that there is a mysterious guest in the Summersby estate, my lord.”
“I have been there three times, Benton. The Duchess has not received me and I believe she is—” his eyes met his butler’s gaze. “Perhaps she is hiding my wife? But why would she do that?”
“There is no telling, my lord. I believe that, perhaps, the Duchess may have a soft spot in her heart for a young bride who has married under unusual circumstances?”
“Of course . . . Prudence would know that she would receive a welcome there. Benton, once again you have proven yourself to be the foundation upon which I depend. I shall go there immediately—”
“My lord, morning would be better. No one will receive visitors at this hour. But should you arrive early in the morning, before anyone has an opportunity to devise an alibi, you may have more success.”
He followed Benton’s advice. He would be foolish not to; the butler was clearly the wisest man of his acquaintance. Despite the early hour, the Summersby butler informed him that the Duchess would receive him.
She was in the morning room.
&n
bsp; “Good morning, my lord. You are about early.”
“And you know why,” he said.
“I—”
“I am searching for my wife. The last couple of weeks have been hellish. I’ve been driving myself crazy with worry that something terrible has befallen her.” The Duchess looked at him with compassion in her eyes. “I know that you will not credit it, but I fell in love with Prudence upon meeting her, although I did not know it. I am a stranger to love, although not to its more numerous imitations. I attempted to resist my feelings, but there is a tie between Prudence and myself that cannot be broken. You must believe me.”
“Strangely enough, my lord, I do believe you,” The Duchess replied.
“Then you will bring me to her?”
“I cannot. She is not here. She was here, but she has gone.”
“Where the devil has she gone now? I have been searching for her since she left.”
“Yes, I know,” the Duchess said with a smile. “I daresay that your dedication to finding her has made quite an impression. She is not here. I sent her to your manor in the country.”
“To Ambrose?” he said in disbelief. “That’s fifty miles away!”
“Then you had better begin your journey, hadn’t you?” she said. “If you love her, as you say you do, then you must go to her. She has been considering returning to France—”
“The deuce she is!”
“My lord,” the Duchess counselled him. “Remember that your wife is a woman of independent spirit. You cannot tell her what she may or may not do, lest she chose to do the very opposite, merely to prove her own will.”
As he returned home, changed into more suitable attire for his journey, ordered his fastest horse saddled and made ready, and informed his sister-in-law that he was on his way to where he would find Prudence, the Earl considered what the Duchess had told him.
He had married a woman who would make up her own mind and not depend upon him to decide for her. He must remember that if he wished to keep his beloved Prudence happy in the bonds of matrimony.
“My lord!” Phoebe announced. “I intend to follow in the carriage, if you permit. Mrs Truman will accompany me. We will not arrive so quickly as you, but we will make our way as quickly as we can.”
“Of course I permit,” he said. “Now I must be off before another moment is wasted. See Benton, he’ll make certain that you have funds for the journey.
Impulsively, he hugged his sister-in-law, this young woman who looked so like his own wife and was entirely her own person. He had learned not to underestimate her, for while she did not match her sister in boldness of speech, she was formidable in her own right and in her loyalty to her twin.
It was a long journey by horse to his country estate and he resented the night that he was obliged to stop and rest. He awoke before the sun came up the next morning, hastily downed a generous cup of coffee and purchased a loaf of bread for his meal, and he was once again in the saddle, his mount refreshed by the night’s rest.
At last, Ambrose was in sight, the stately country manner where his ancestors had enjoyed their lands for generations. It was not London, and for too long, he had felt that it was deficient because of that. But it was the place where he and his Countess would raise a family, he hoped. If she were willing to be his wife as he wanted her to be.
The butler at Ambrose had not Benton’s infinite store of wisdom, but he knew his work and did not seem surprised to see His Lordship entering through the doors, asking for Her Ladyship.
“She is in the drawing-room, my lord.”
Christopher burst into the room.
There was Prudence, at the table, drinking tea and perusing a newspaper. She looked up at him in surprise.
“You do not appear pleased to see me,” he said, his voice cold and his visage expressionless.
“I did not expect to see you,” she answered with a stammer.
“I . . . may I sit?”
“It is your table.”
“As we are wed, it is your table as well,” he replied, sitting to her right. “Everything that I have is yours, should you wish to claim it. But I must understand your wishes if you do not wish to claim anything of mine. And I must repeat the apology I offered before at foisting myself upon you in a manner which gave you no freedom to choose for yourself.”
“My lord,” she said, her eyes shining brightly, “if you continue to apologise, I must assume that you regret the circumstances which make me the Countess of Henton.”
“That is not so! I do not know how you feel. I have not seen you for three weeks. The Duchess of Summersby has been your confidante,” he replied acidly.
“She offered to provide me with the money, should I require it, if I wished to leave England and go to America or France. But she advised me to come here first to think my decision over before making it,” Prudence said in a quiet voice as she put down her tea-cup.
“And?”
“I have done much thinking. You are, although it pains me to admit it, correct in your views. I have been too much the slave of the rules which I adhered to, without considering whether or not they are designed to nurture the emotions which a man and woman share when they are . . . when they have known passion together,” she said with a faint reddening of her skin. “I did not wish to admit to myself that I found you a temptation. I have always regarded myself as above temptation.”
Christopher looked at her in surprise.
Before she could go any further, he had pulled her towards him and into his firm embrace.
“We are a pair, are we not? I succumbed to every temptation merely for the momentary pleasure of it, and you denied yourself because of the lasting delight it would bring. Perhaps we have brought ourselves to this reckoning?” he whispered against her cheek.
“Perhaps,” she said, leaning closer to him in invitation. “I have decided that I will gladly spend every infuriating moment with you at my side as my husband.”
Without hesitation he put his finger underneath her chin and lifted it up towards him. As his delicious aroma assailed her sensed, Prudence sighed in delight.
His lips met hers in a dance as old as time.
“Every infuriating moment,” he repeated softly between the kisses.
The kissing lasted rather long, but there was no need to end it, for they were married. The rules of society did not intrude upon the married state.
“May I propose,” he said once the both managed to catch their breath, “a honeymoon in France? I think I should like to meet this Madame whose instruction has been so integral to your character.”
Prudence leaned into his strong arms. “I should very much like that. But we must not forget, now that we are married, that we are responsible for finding Phoebe a good husband. I wish her to be as happy as I am. But perhaps, she will not wish to spend eternity as infuriated as you and I.”
THE END
Saving a scoundrel
Copyright © Regina Darcy 2020
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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Table of Content
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
ONE
It was the considered opinion of George Devon, Earl of Gilberton, that a man who had been loyally serving
king and country for the entirety of his adult life ought to be allowed a peaceful homecoming on those occasions when he was released from royal duty.
Unfortunately, his Great Aunt Elspeth was not of the same opinion. She had come to stay at his London home while he was away so that the residence would not be vacant or the servants turned idle in the absence of the master.
No one would shirk his duty or her tasks in the presence of Great Aunt Elspeth, who seemed to have an unerring instinct for knowing who might have been careless in polishing the silver or lazy in sweeping the ashes from the grate. It was not merely that she required the servants to do their work in a satisfactory manner, but that they must, at all times, exceed their best. Great Aunt Elspeth was a great believer in self-improvement.
George suspected that the reason that her husband was so generous in permitting her to leave him in order to be a benefactress to her nephew was because marriage to Elspeth Devon Gardner was a form of self-improvement which, having been sanctified by God and matrimonial vows, was almost more improvement than a man could endure.
Despite this, her nephew loved her dearly.
However, after three months of work in the furtive field of spycraft: investigating clues from London to Paris, unmasking liars and thieves for the sinners that they were, and meeting with the sort of people of whom Great Aunt Elspeth would not approve, George wanted nothing more than to be idle in his London home.
He yearned to isolate himself from the busy beau monde and its silly chatter and read a novel. Instead—
“You are seven-and-twenty years of age, George, and it is high time that you were wed!”
Great-Aunt Elspeth was emphatic on the duty of titled Englishmen to sire legitimate offspring. Her zeal in his case was fanned by the unfortunate fact that, although he had been born the third son to the Earl of Gilberton, it was he who currently bore the title.