Authors: Anne Gracie
“I am not scurrying!” Prudence moderated her pace in as dignified a manner as she could.
“No?” he said as if it were the most ordinary of conversations. “Would you say scuttling was more accurate? I wouldn’t have thought so, but—”
“I will not bandy words with you,” Prudence said frostily, tugging her giggling sister along.
“No? What will you bandy with me, then? I’ll bandy whatever you like, I don’t mind.” His voice lowered suggestively, bringing an irresistible image to Prudence’s mind of those stolen wicked moments when he had driven every proper thought from her head and swamped her body with wondrous sensations…And her mind, ever since, with impossible dreams…
Prudence could not bring herself to answer him. It was a ridiculous situation, she thought crossly. Like fleeing from a tiger, only the tiger persisted in loping along beside her, making conversational banter and looking at her in a way that made her hot and flustered. With fury, of course. She strode on toward the exit nearest to Great-uncle Oswald’s house, Grace skipping along on one side of her, Lord Carradice strolling on the other, and James, the footman, stolidly bringing up in the rear.
She suddenly remembered something and confronted him with it. “Why do you think Great-uncle Oswald’s dictum is foolish?” she asked, and then cursed herself for her own foolishness.
He gave her a direct look. “Your sisters’ entry into society could make no difference to your own likelihood of finding a husband. A beauty need not worry about attracting suitors. Sir Oswald is a man of enterprise. If there is a fly in the ointment, he will no doubt find a dowry large enough to sweeten the pot.”
It was as if he’d slapped her. It was not as if she didn’t know she was plain and undesirable; she had known it all her life. Still, the careless words, so casually uttered had…hurt. Deeply.
It was a warning that she would be very foolish not to heed, Prudence told herself. This man had the power to slip past her barriers. They were barely acquainted and yet he had already hurt her unbelievably, simply by uttering words—words she
knew
to be true.
It wasn’t only her fashionable Great-uncle and London’s leading mantua maker who thought her too plain to be desired in marriage; this was from a rake—a man who really would know. A man who had been teasing her from who-knew-what motives. Teasing. Flirting. Putting foolish, impossible dreams in her head. Making her feel attractive, desirable, almost pretty.
And then telling her she was a fly in the ointment.
How could she have thought he was kind?
She didn’t want his double-edged admiration. She didn’t need his false, foolish dreams or his false betrothal. She had a betrothed; Phillip. Phillip, who did not care that she was plain and had given her a ring to prove it. Four and a half years ago.
She strode blindly on, blinking fiercely to prevent the sudden uprush of scalding,
stupid
tears she could feel prickling behind her eyes and in her throat, just waiting to spring forth in front of…in front of everyone and humiliate her.
She stumbled over a cobblestone and his hand was there to support and steady her. “What is wrong?” he said, in a low, concerned voice. “What have I—”
She shook off his hand fiercely. “I have the headache. Just leave me alone,” she snapped. “Just go away!” She heard her voice crack. “Stay away from me, in future, Lord Carradice! And stay away from my sisters, too!” And snatching her sister’s hand, Prudence hurried away.
Gideon stared after her. “What the—” He glanced at her footman and received such a look of contempt that he was stunned. “What did I say?” he demanded.
But the footman merely shook his head and marched off after the two girls.
Chapter Eight
“There is nothing more unbecoming in a man of quality than to laugh ’tis such a vulgar expression of the passion.”
W
ILLIAM
C
ONGREVE
“A
LL
I
DID WAS OFFER TO ACT AS HER BETROTHED, SO THAT HER
wretched sisters could make their coming-out.” Gideon had arrived in the dining room that evening to find his cousin already seated at the table, gazing abstractedly at a silver bowl of fruit set in its center. “And she sent me packing and stormed off in a huff!” It was more than a huff. What the devil had he said that upset her so?
“Very unsettling,” responded Edward. “Shall I ring for the first course?”
Gideon frowned. Edward seemed a little preoccupied. Perhaps he was finding the whirl of London society a little overwhelming. But he had no time to worry about his cousin. His last words had upset Prudence, and he could not for the life of him imagine why. He’d gone over their conversation a dozen times in his head already, and still he was none the wiser.
He ought to have put it out of his mind. It was what he usually did. Women were odd creatures and often did get upset by the strangest things. But for some reason he couldn’t put it out of his mind. He decided to consult his cousin.
“I thought it was what she wanted, but she behaved for all the world as if I’d mortally insulted her.” He shook out his napkin and cast a worried look at the duke. “Even her footman gave me the blackest look. Am I so notorious?”
Edward shook his head. “I wouldn’t call you notorious. A terrible flirt, perhaps; a little too free with other men’s wives on several occasions—though it has to be admitted that the wives do seek you out—but notorious, no. What exactly did you say to her?”
Gideon made a frustrated gesture. “I simply assured her that her sisters could not make the slightest difference to her own marriageability, that beauty would always find suitors. And that if there was a fly, or flies, in the ointment, Sir Oswald would sweeten the pot with a fat dowry. And she behaved as if I’d insulted
her!
” He shook his head and helped himself to the nearest dish. “I’m sorry about foisting them on you this afternoon, by the way, but I wanted to get Prudence alone.”
The duke looked up and smiled, a smile of peculiar sweetness. “Oh yes. I didn’t mind. Not at all.” He sighed and helped himself to a dish of buttered crab with smelts.
Gideon, frowning, spooned something onto his plate. “So tell me, Coz, what’s wrong with them?”
The duke frowned. “Wrong? The crabs are excellent.”
“Not the crabs, the sisters. The flies in the ointment,” Gideon said impatiently. “What’s wrong with them?”
Edward blinked. “There’s nothing wrong with them, Gideon.”
“Not cross-eyed, or simple, or obviously deranged?”
Edward stared. “No, they’re quite, quite perfect.”
Gideon shrugged. “They must take fits, then.”
“Why in heaven’s name would you think so?”
“Apparently Sir Oswald is adamant that the other sisters would ruin Prudence’s chances—he doesn’t know about Otterbury, by the way—so he’s insisting that Prudence be fired off first. And underneath the bluster, he’s pretty shrewd, so there must be something to it. If he says the sisters could ruin her chances, there must be something very wrong with ’em.”
“No, it will be their looks that have him worried.”
Gideon raised his brows. “Ah, a trifle on the gargoyle side, are they?”
“On the gargoyle—” Edward paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. “Do you mean to say you didn’t notice?”
“Notice what?”
Edward shook his head in disbelief. “Far from being gargoyles, Prudence’s sisters are all quite extraordinarily beautiful.”
Gideon frowned. “Beautiful? Are they? Are you sure?” He lifted his fork and paused. He glowered down at his plate. He had unaccountably filled it with stewed cucumbers. He detested stewed cucumbers.
“They quite dazzle the eyes,” confirmed his cousin.
“As lovely as Prudence?”
The duke’s jaw dropped. After a moment he recovered himself and said, “Much lovelier than Prudence. That, I surmise, is the problem. Each one of her sisters, even little Grace, would outshine Prudence in every respect.”
Gideon stared at him in a moment’s disbelief. “I might not have taken much notice of the other sisters, but I did spend upwards of half an hour with young Grace, and though she’s a nice little thing and quite pretty, she’s not a patch on Prudence.”
Edward observed him solemnly for a moment and then gave a large, satisfied sigh. “This,” he said, “promises to be vastly entertaining.”
“What does?” Gideon asked, unaccountably annoyed by the smug expression on his cousin’s face.
But the duke would not explain.
“I don’t understand what you are hinting at, but you are wrong. I have no interest in Miss Merriweather. You know how I feel about marriage. And this is not about marriage, anyway. It’s merely a ruse to enable her sisters to find husbands.” Gideon speared a veal olive viciously. “I don’t pretend to understand why the whole thing must be shrouded in such mystery and subterfuge, but if a stand-in
fiancé
is what she needs, I’ll do it. I don’t mind helping her out—as long as it’s not the real thing, of course.”
“Very selfless of you, cousin.”
“You may scoff, but I think it is quite altruistic of me,” Gideon said. “There’s not many men who will risk parson’s mousetrap out of sheer disinterested helpfulness—”
“Extremely sheer,” the duke murmured.
“—to a female who is, after all, very little more than a stranger. But she is an orphan, you see, and—”
The duke was overcome by a sudden choking fit.
Gideon waited until he had subsided and added in an austere tone, “If she needs a false betrothed so badly that she must come calling on
you
to get one, there’s no reason why she cannot accept
my
assistance.”
“None at all, dear boy. Call on her great-uncle, by all means.”
“Well, as a matter-of-fact, I did earlier this afternoon, and he assumed I was there to ask for her hand. Silly fellow.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“Oh, well, it was complicated,” Gideon said in an offhand manner. “He was practically frolicking with delight, and I could not get a word in to disabuse him of the notion. But now, since the damage is done, Miss Prudence may take advantage of the misunderstanding. I don’t mind, if it will help her sisters out.”
“They being orphans, too,” the duke agreed in a choked voice.
“I don’t see what there is to amuse you so, Edward,” Gideon said crossly.
“Nothing. Nothing at all, to be sure,” the duke murmured solemnly. His lips twitched. “I don’t suppose Sir Oswald gets his brandy from the same supplier, does he? He might have received a bad batch, too.”
“He doesn’t drink brandy,” Gideon said, “but he did serve the filthiest-tasting wine.”
Prudence was cross. More than cross, she was furious. The moment she had arrived home from the park, Great-uncle Oswald had called them all into the front parlor and congratulated Prudence on her great good fortune. Lord Carradice, it seemed, had done the decent thing and had agreed to a betrothal with Prudence. And since they were all so keen on it, Charity could now begin her coming-out, starting tonight, in fact, by accompanying him and Prudence to Lady Ostwither’s private musical soiree. He had already sent Lady Ostwither a note.
“There must be some mistake,” Prudence had said, amid the general excitement caused by this announcement. “Lord Carradice has no interest in me.” Lord Carradice, in fact, had just told her she was more or less unmarriageable. So what was his game?
“On the contrary, my dear, the fellow is not such a scapegrace as I thought him. He must have a conscience, after all, for he was here, in this very room, dressed to the nines in his courtin’ clothes and announcin’ that he fully intended to do the decent thing by you, Prudence, my dear, dear girl. And of course, I gave my permission. Twenty thousand a year!” Visibly moved, Great-uncle Oswald embraced her.
With Great-uncle Oswald wreathed in delighted grins, blinking back tears and speaking ecstatically of the Carradice fortune, Charity fretting in instant pleasure-panic about whatever would she wear to Lady Ostwither’s, and the twins skipping in delight around the room predicting their own imminent coming-out and twittering on about how handsome Lord Carradice was, there was not much Prudence could do except grit her teeth and smile.
The wretch!
He was making mock of her, that was clear. One moment he was wheedling secrets out of her ten year-old sister, the next he was suggesting a false betrothal to Prudence—and in the next breath had told her she was plain and unmarriageable! And now—No, hold. Prudence frowned on a sudden thought. He must have spoken to Great-uncle Oswald
before
he met up with them in the park. It must be some devious ploy of his. But to what purpose?
She was brooding about the sequence of events when her great-uncle made an announcement that shocked her out of her reverie.
“I shall send a notice to the
Morning Post
immediately!”
“No!” exclaimed Prudence, horrified. “You must not!” Grandpapa would see it.
“Why on earth not, m’dear? You’ve made a conquest of a fellow the tabbies have been stalkin’ for years! Why not puff it off to the world? Nothin’ to hide, have we?”
“No, no, of course not. It is just that…er,” Prudence snatched an excuse from the air. “Lord Carradice is in mourning.”
Great-uncle Oswald looked surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hadn’t heard. Who was it who died, m’dear? And if he is in mourning, come to think of it, why does his raiment not proclaim the fact? He was wearing a blue coat—dash it all—
blue!
’Pon my soul, the fellow is a careless dresser!”
Prudence thought frantically. “Ahh, his great-aunt died. But…she had a horror of black so she requested that her family continue to wear colors for her.”
Great-uncle Oswald pulled a face. “Dashed peculiar, these modern notions. Colors for mourning. Pshaw! Which great-aunt was it? Not Estelle, was it? Or Gussie? I hope it wasn’t Gussie—although come to think of it, Gussie is Carradice’s aunt, not a great-aunt at all. Well, that’s a relief! Always been fond of Gussie.”
Belatedly, Prudence realized Great-uncle Oswald was likely to be acquainted with all of Lord Carradice’s more elderly relatives.