Candice Hern (14 page)

Well, he would not be cajoled or shamed or bullied into using his wife’s money like some toadeating freeloader. He had never wanted to marry an heiress. He was
not
a fortune hunter.

“I did not marry you for your money, Pru, as you well know. I am sorry,” he said, his voice dripping with scorn, “that you are forced to live in such a small, crowded, unimpressive little house on such an unfashionable square. Something so far beneath your fine aristocratic upbringing. But you are stuck with both me and this house. I suggest you get used to it.”

Her face crumbled and tears filled her eyes. Without a word, she jerked to her feet and fled the room.

Good God, what had he done?

He folded his arms on the table and dropped his head on them. Damn. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. He despised himself for doing so. He wished he could take back his words, that he hadn’t spoken so harshly, so sarcastically. But, dammit, she’d made him angry. Why did she have to bring up her money again? He hated being reminded that he had none of his own. Not yet, anyway.

The sound of music caused him to lift his head. She was playing. Something loud and angry.

Pru sent all her emotion into her fingers as they flew across the shiny new keys of the Broadwood. She would not think of Nicholas or what he’d said. She ignored the hard lump in her throat and the sting of tears in her eyes. Never very good at expressing her feelings in words, she had learned to use music to cleanse her soul.

And she did so now as she pounded out the allegro movement to one of Herr Beethoven’s recent sonatas. Pru did not know the piece well and played it badly. But she did not care. The notes perfectly expressed the turmoil of her emotions and would ultimately, she knew, soothe her tattered nerves.

She played and played, lost in the passion of the notes, until she felt a presence at her side. She stopped abruptly when she realized Nicholas was standing next to the bench, watching and listening.

She dropped her hands into her lap. She could not look at him. She recalled his words again—she had not quite yet purged them from her mind—and did not want to see him.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Please finish the piece.”

“No. I don’t wish to play anymore.” She made a move to rise, but he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. There was such warmth in his touch, she wanted to lean into it, to absorb his heat into her skin. But he had said hateful things to her, and she should not be wanting anything of him just now.

“Please, Pru. I know I hurt you with what I said. And I also know you will never tell me so. But your music. Ah, Pru, such emotion! Finish the
piece. Send your anger into the music. But please, let me stay and listen.”

She did not look up at him. It shook her a bit that he knew what she was doing. It was cowardly, she supposed, to use music as an escape, but she had done so all her life. Besides the simple enjoyment of entertaining herself, she played for two reasons. One was to challenge herself. She played well enough, but always sought to improve. Even if no one heard, there was a keen thrill of accomplishment when mastering a difficult piece. Afterward, she would often reward herself with a simple country song or ballad, which she loved. But pushing her considerable skill to the limit helped to make her real world—where all was awkwardness, strain, and uncertainty—recede for a short while.

The second reason she played was to give vent to feelings she could not express verbally. As she had been doing a moment ago. Could she do it with Nicholas listening and knowing what it meant?

She was not sure.

Her fingers crept back up to the keyboard, almost of their own volition. She rested them softly on the keys a moment, then started the allegro once again.

No longer as angry, she played with more skill. But the power of the notes soon overwhelmed her again, and she was lost to their passion as the music moved from somber to frenetic and back again. When she finished, she took a deep breath and realized the allegro had done its work. She had been soothed. She was no longer angry or hurt.

“Pru?”

Lord, she’d almost forgotten Nicholas was there. Such was the power of Herr Beethoven. She looked up and was surprised when he sat down beside her on the bench. It was a small bench. Their bodies touched all along one side, from shoulder to thigh. She gave an involuntary little shiver.

“What was that piece, Pru? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it.”

“It is part of a sonata by Herr Beethoven. It is known as”—she gave a little smirk at the appropriateness of it—“the
Pathétique
. Edwina sent it from Vienna.”

“Edwina knows you play? Am I the only one who didn’t know?”

“She didn’t know, either, until I asked if she could procure some music for me. Herr Beethoven’s music is not yet published here in England. But I am very fond of his work and hoped Edwina might be able to find copies for me.”

Pru was drawn to modern musical works, especially those of Beethoven, when she wanted to vent her emotions. She used earlier works of the last century to hone her technical skill, but sometimes they were too mechanical, almost mathematical, and did not stir any passion in her.

These latest sonatas by Beethoven were something quite new. She could not play their rich tones and chords without great feeling and passion. She often wondered what sort of man he was, to be able to compose music with such honest, even raw, emotion.

“It is powerful music,” Nicholas said. “And you play it beautifully, even turning your own pages. Pru, you truly are an artist.”

“No. I just play a little, for my own enjoyment.”

“And to let out your anger. At me. I was horrid to you, Pru. I had no right to say such things. I am dreadfully sorry.”

Pru shrugged, and her shoulder rubbed against his. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have brought up the subject.”

“Listen to me, Pru.” He touched her cheek and turned her face toward his. “I really do not want your money. Truly. I have investments that are due to pay off any day now, and then I will be able to support you in better style. You may spend your money on yourself in any way you like. But for us together, I am responsible. Please allow me to take care of our living expenses. All right?”

She nodded her head. “All right.” She wondered what he would think if he knew how much of her own money she’d already spent on various small household necessities. He was obviously very sensitive about such things, so she would simply take care that he did not find out. What he did not know could not hurt him.

Then he did something quite unexpected. He put an arm around her shoulder and gave a squeeze. “You’re a good sport, Pru. Have patience with me, and I have no doubt we’ll work out all these little kinks in this marriage of ours.” With his free hand he reached up and rubbed a thumb beneath her eyes. “And I promise never to make you cry again.”

“Oh. I do beg your pardon.”

Pru dragged her gaze from her husband’s beautiful dark eyes to see Bartholomew standing in the drawing room doorway. To her regret, Nicholas dropped his arm from her shoulder, stood, and walked away from the pianoforte.

“Come in, Father. You just missed a superb performance.”

“I am sorry I missed it. You must play for me sometime, Prudence.”

“I would be happy to,” she said, and rose to her feet. “But just now, I think I shall ring for tea. I hope you will join us, sir?”

After ringing for Lucy and giving her instructions for tea, Pru excused herself for a moment and dashed upstairs to her bedchamber. She splashed cold water on her face, hoping to erase any signs of her earlier tears. When she looked in the mirror, she instinctively reached up to adjust her hair, which, even with Lucy’s skillful arrangement with combs, was never entirely tamed. But then she remembered what Nicholas had said yesterday.

I adore your hair.

She had always found her hair a trial, and so it was quite unbelievable to her that Nicholas liked it. If he adored her hair, might he someday grow to adore the rest of her? She studied her face with its too-big eyes and smattering of freckles. Would it ever be tempting enough for him to want to kiss her again? She had hoped he had been about to do so when he’d apologized so prettily and put his arm around her. But instead he had simply called
her a good sport. She did not have the sort of face to tempt a man.

Foolish girl. It wasn’t about her face, as Flora was quick to point out. It was attitude and confidence. She had lost a bit of confidence when Nicholas had spoken so harshly to her. But she was determined to not allow his stubborn pride to impact her self-assurance. She was still madly in love with him, but she was no longer blind to his faults. And knowing he wasn’t perfect somehow made her love him all the more. What a foolish coil.

I am worthy of him
.

She stared at her reflection and repeated the litany a few more times until she felt more sure of herself. She had taken Flora’s rule about accessories to heart and removed a fichu this morning before coming downstairs, allowing the V neckline of the bodice to remain open. She did feel a bit bare without some sort of handkerchief or scarf to fill in, but had boldly gone forth without one. And looked better for it. Flora had been right about that.

She shook out her skirts, made one quick adjustment to her bodice, and returned downstairs to the drawing room. Lucy followed close behind and Pru helped her set out the tea service. She poured a cup for Bartholomew and for Nicholas, and passed them a plate of small cakes before pouring her own cup and settling down to enjoy it.

“I hope you will not think it presumptuous,” Bartholomew said, after savoring a bit of cream cake, “but I do believe I have come upon the perfect wedding present for the two of you.”

“But sir,” Pru said, “you have already brought us the painting.”

“That was a gift to you, Prudence. No, I have wanted to give something to both of you and I hope you will approve of what I have done.”

“Father?” Nicholas eyed him suspiciously. “What have you done?”

“I have found offices for the
Cabinet
.”

“Offices?”

A rush of panic danced down Pru’s spine. He
had
been angry about the magazine business taking over his house. Was he going to ask her to give up the
Cabinet
? “But sir,” she said, “I…that is, we…that is…” She took a deep shuddery breath to compose herself. “It is no tr-trouble to work on the
Cabinet
. I…enjoy it.”

Batholomew reached across the tea table and patted her hand. “I know you do, my dear. And I am proud of what you and Edwina and Nick have done with it. Exceedingly proud. But it is high time the magazine had offices of its own, don’t you think?”

“Oh.” As the full implication of his words sank in, the tiniest twinge of exhilaration began to flutter in her breast. “Oh.”

Batholomew smiled. “I can see you agree with me, Prudence. With the magazine business growing so much, it seems to me it is time to move it to its own premises. So you no longer have to share your home with a business, like some shopkeeper in Cheapside. So you can dine in the dining room again. So the library can be a restful place again.
So you can have the house all to yourselves—once I have returned to Derbyshire.”

Pru did not know what to think. She knew it was meant kindly and was in fact very generous of Bartholomew. The idea of having a home all to themselves was really quite…exciting. Before today’s confrontation, she had hoped, had dreamed, that someday she and Nicholas could have a real home together, either here at Golden Square or somewhere else. The skeptical look on her husband’s face, however, was enough to keep her excitement in check and her tongue between her teeth.

Please, God, don’t let him be too stubborn to accept his father’s offer. It was not as though it involved her money this time.

“It’s very kind of you, Father,” he said, “but we have always run the
Cabinet
from the house. For years now.”

“I know, and you have all done a wonderful job. But you have a wife now, Nick, and hopefully will have a family one day soon.”

Not all that soon, Pru thought, and felt her cheeks color up.

“It no longer seems right to keep the business here,” Bartholomew said. “So, I took it upon myself to secure a set of offices for you in St. Paul’s Churchyard. As a wedding gift.”

“St. Paul’s Churchyard?” Pru could barely keep the excitement out of her voice. “But that is where many of our booksellers are, as well as our printer and binder. And lots of other publishers.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, his eyes twinkling a little in triumph. “That is why I thought it the perfect place for
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
to be published. So, it is a wedding present for the two of you, by way of freeing up this house, and also for Edwina.”

“Oh, she will be thrilled,” Pru said. “Proper offices!”

Bartholomew chuckled. “Yes, with shelving and storage and lots of work space. Not to mention a good deal of furniture that I convinced the previous owner to leave behind. It’s all yours, now. Or the
Cabinet
’s.”

“Oh, sir, what a wonderful gift. How can we ever thank you?”

“It is my pleasure, Prudence. It is time this house was simply a home and not a business.”

Pru looked to Nicholas, who had said nothing and did not look thrilled about the idea. Why should he object? Surely he could not reject a gift from his own father?

“Nick?” Bartholomew must have sensed the same uneasiness in his son. “You are very quiet. Have I done something I shouldn’t? Ought I to have consulted with you first?”

“No, of course not,” Nicholas said, and he finally offered a smile. A genuine full-blown smile that reached all the way to his eyes, the sort that made him look his most handsome. “It is exceedingly generous of you, Father. And quite the most perfect gift. Of course, the magazine is not mine.
Pru is the editor in Edwina’s absence. And if the editor is happy, then so am I.”

The editor was definitely happy. It just might be the first real step toward a life of their own, a life together and apart from the business. A chance to make this marriage work.