The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  Armand looked uneasily at the tooled leather chair the Earl had indicated and after an infinitesimal pause he accepted it with an ill grace which the Earl seemed not to notice.

  A moment later, a glass of amber liquid was thrust into his hand. He had never meant to accept Rathbourne’s hospitality. How he came to be sitting in Rathbourne House and sharing a glass with a man he detested, he was at a loss to explain. A frown gathered on his brow. He decided to take his lead from his host.

  “We have some business to transact, sir,” he reminded Rathbourne with a show of civility. “I have on my person a bank draft for five thousand pounds. If you would be so kind…”

  “Your vowels,” supplied Rathbourne easily. “Of course. I had supposed that you might be asking for more time in which to redeem them. You are fortunate to be able to lay your hands on such a large sum of money, and so quickly.”

  “I have friends,” was the quiet rejoinder.

  “And a lovely sister,” added the Earl gratuitously.

  Armand’s head snapped back, but Rathbourne’s expression remained innocent.

  “As you say, a lovely sister who is under my protection.”

  At the veiled threat, Rathbourne’s lip curled. “That must be a great comfort to her, I’m sure.”

  It was very evident that the Earl was in no hurry to conclude their business for he made no move to return the vowels for which Armand so anxiously waited. It puzzled and rather irritated the boy to find himself drawn into a conversation in which he inadvertently laid bare the details of his early life and schooling. But the Earl, he was coming to see, exerted an oddly persuasive influence once he set himself to please. Armand, more than once, had to remind himself that Rathbourne was an enemy, a detested member of the English aristocracy, “Le Sauvage,” whose cruelty to the French was legend.

  “Have you ever considered making a career for yourself in the diplomatic corps? With your talent for languages and grasp of politics surely Sir Thomas could find a place for you somewhere.”

  “I’d die of boredom.”

  “Then your sister’s enterprise, breeding thoroughbreds? Does that hold no interest for you?”

  “What, mucking out stables and birthing foals at some ungodly hour of the night? I’m not a groom nor a midwife. I prefer to confine my interest in horseflesh to Newmarket and so on.”

  The answer was facile, and Armand was rather ashamed of his flippant remarks. The truth of the matter was that he was rather embarrassed to have to explain himself to a man of Rathbourne’s kidney. In his own circle, such comments would have been greeted with guffaws, if not approval. But under the Earl’s stern eye, he was made to feel like an errant schoolboy. He shifted uncomfortably in his place. Rathbourne was beginning to sound remarkably like Deirdre. He looked keenly at the Earl.

  “I wonder at your interest in my affairs,” he observed coldly.

  “I have no interest in your affairs except insofar as they touch upon my own.” The Earl extracted some scraps of paper from a bureau that stood against the wall. “Your vowels,” he said curtly as he put them into Armand’s hand. “You’re not a bad player. Your mistake was in not knowing when to withdraw. Why didn’t you when you saw that you were outmatched?”

  “A matter of honor.”

  “Honor!” retorted the Earl. “Your honor has cost you dearly, my boy, but who am I to cavil when I am five thousand pounds the richer for it? Do you mean to make your fortune through gaming?”

  “And if I do?”

  “Then be advised, either sharpen your play or be prepared for debtor’s prison.”

  Armand’s eyes smoldered with hostility at this careless warning, but before he could utter a word, the door opened to admit an enchanting vision in white spotted muslin. Lady Caro’s eyes skimmed over her brother and came to rest on his young companion.

  Armand rose to his feet, his dark eyes softening as he made his bow. Not a word was said between them, but the silence was potent.

  Rathbourne was conscious of it, and stirred himself. “You wanted something, Caro?” he asked gently.

  Her eyes slowly focused on the Earl and she seemed to come to herself. “It’s Mama, Gareth. You’re wanted urgently,” she managed with some composure.

  Rathbourne bit back an unkind rejoinder. “Perhaps you would be good enough to see Mr. St. Jean to the door?”

  He left them in the foyer, not without some reluctance, and swiftly mounted the stairs to his mother’s apartments.

  Armand lingered, easing his York tan gloves over his long fingers. He studied Caro’s face. “You’re looking rather pale,” he finally observed.

  “You mean ghastly, don’t you?” she asked artlessly. “I’ve been couped up for more than an hour with Mama in her dressing room. It would appear that I am a long way from knowing how to conduct myself as a lady. I always get one of my headaches when Mama takes to scolding me. I feel as if a bell is tolling in my head.”

  Armand’s rakish smile made her heart skip a beat. “What you need is some fresh air.”

  “Yes, and the park is just across the street,” she said encouragingly.

  “I’d be happy to accompany you.”

  “Would you?” She held her breath.

  “You know I would.”

  “I’ll have to fetch my pelisse.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “And my abigail?”

  “I should say so! And don’t forget to leave word of your direction.”

  Caro flashed him a brilliant smile. “Nobody will miss me for ages. Mama has been saving up a million things to say to Gareth.”

  “Nevertheless, you’ll do as I say.”

  “Shall I? I thought you didn’t give a Tap for the proprieties?”

  “Not for myself, no. But you are an entirely different case.”

  Deirdre caught sight of them as they strolled through the gate of Green Park a few minutes later. They were within hailing distance and she called to them but neither of them spared a glance for her, so patently unaware were they of anyone outside their own charmed circle. Deirdre suffered a pang and she glanced involuntarily to Rathbourne House on the other side of the street.

  A footman in the Earl’s livery was descending the front steps to the pavement. His glance fell on Deirdre and she quickly looked away, but not before she had seen him summon a sedan. It was a ridiculous notion, but she could not dismiss the thought that Rathbourne’s lackey had been sent to spy on her. She called to her abigail, put down her head, and fled toward the refuge of Hatchard’s book shop, doing her best to melt into the fashionable shoppers who thronged Piccadilly.

  A good half hour later, having given in to the temptation to purchase a copy of Mansfield Park by the unknown lady whose novels were approved by no less a dignitary than the Prince Regent, Deirdre stepped outside the door of the book shop. She was cross and feeling a little guilty for having squandered a sum of money that she ought to have reserved for her next pair of silk stockings. It reminded her forcibly of the straits to which they had come with Armand’s latest peccadillo and her spirits sank even lower.

  They rose slightly when her eyes lifted to the splendid equipage that stood before Hatchard’s. Her glance slanted to the groom who held the heads of the lead horses and she recognized him instantly. She took a quick step to the left with some wild notion of escape and practically fell into the arms of the Earl of Rathbourne.

  “It took you long enough,” was Rathbourne’s only comment before he whisked her to the curricle and handed her up.

  She could tell that it was no use to protest or struggle. He was in one of his masterful moods. She righted her wilting bonnet, ignored the frankly speculative look of his lordship’s Irish groom, and took refuge in silence.

  The groom was dismissed, as Deirdre knew he would be, as was her abigail, and the Earl gave the bays the office to start. The curricle bowled along Piccadilly and Deirdre held on to her hat.

  Rathbourne made a few commonplace remarks which Deirdre did her b
est to ignore. But when the curricle missed every gate that led to Hyde Park, she was constrained to demand where the Earl thought he was taking her.

  He seemed in an uncommonly mellow mood. “Only to Chelsea,” he informed her gravely. “My bays need the exercise, you see. And I have something of a particular nature I wish to say to you.”

  “Indeed. What may that be?”

  “Only that I think courting is damnable. I’m no good at it. You must marry me, Deirdre, and soon. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre faintly, and fell silent.

  It was as if she were reliving a fantasy, an unattainable dream wish that persistently haunted her last conscious thoughts before she was claimed by sleep—that in-between time when the will is temporarily suspended and imagination, unfettered and reckless, comes into its own. At such times, as is the way of dreams where all things are possible, Deirdre had become another person, transformed, possessing a rare beauty and endowed with a noble title and no mean fortune. Not unnaturally, with such attributes, Lady Deirdre was the most sought-after marriage prize in London, and the Earl had fallen under her spell. But she remained proud and unattainable, scorning his soft words of supplication, spurning his offer of hand and heart.

  She realized dimly that what she experienced was a revenge fantasy, but when she cast about in her mind for old scores which she wished to pay off, nothing of significance presented itself. Until now! Until the Earl had coolly relieved Armand of the five thousand pounds which was to stock her stables, thus jeopardizing their very livelihood. For all Armand’s faults, she did not think they were to be compared to the ruthless way Rathbourne had used him, a mere boy.

  She assumed the cool half smile which the dream Deirdre of her fantasy habitually wore.

  “I think, Lord Rathbourne, that I explained my views on marriage to you once before. I have not changed my opinion, nor am I like to. I am sensible of the honor you do me, but my answer is, must be, no.”

  “In other words, you don’t trust me to treat you kindly? I haven’t forgotten the farrago of nonsense you spouted. In spite of what you think, Deirdre, a woman needs a man. You would gain far more than you would lose by marriage with me.”

  “I have no interest in your rank and wealth.”

  “That is what I like in you. But you would have my protection. That is not something to sneer at.”

  “I have my brother. I need no other’s protection.”

  His bark of laughter grated on Deirdre’s nerves. She clenched her teeth and said with commendable restraint, “My refusal is not personal, I assure you. A wife’s first object must always be to please a husband. Such a task would be beyond me.”

  “Don’t let that weigh with you. I intend to teach you all that is necessary to please this particular male.”

  The amused tolerance in his tone brought her patience to an explosive end. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on God’s earth! How dare you entertain such a notion? Your women, your gaming, your whole mode of living is repugnant to me. I have told you so before.”

  “I thought that there was nothing personal in your objection to my suit?”

  If Deirdre thought to have the upper hand in this contest of wits, she soon saw her mistake. This unrepentant roué was not the crushed lover of her fantasy.

  “I see nothing personal in the wish to avoid association with any man who keeps a stable of women. Your protection must be very extensive, my lord. How many women, in your long, lecherous career, have had the honor of naming you their protector?”

  “Not half as many as rumor would have it.”

  “As many as that?” Deirdre shot back, stung by his levity.

  “Oh, a different one for every night of the week and two on Sunday. Deirdre, this is a ridiculous conversation. If every man who had a past were to forgo the pleasures of marriage, there would be no such institution. You are being irrational. Forget the past. Look to the future—our future.”

  A silence fell between them. Deirdre would not admit the truth of what he said, but she was unwilling to argue the point further, knowing that he would deride her logic as naiveté. She flicked him a look of displeasure.

  His sordid bedroom exploits were as celebrated as Wellington’s glorious victories in battle, yet this did not detract from his appeal to other women. They were not burdened by her scruples. She had not been blind to the lures thrown out to him by the beauties who flocked to his side given half an invitation. She wished she had a hundred lovers that she might throw in his face—anything to shake him of that insufferable complaisance.

  “We have no future,” she said with what she hoped was crushing dignity. “I shall never marry. A woman should look to her own protection. I need no man to perform that office for me.”

  “It’s as I expected,” he replied as if she had just told him the time of day.

  “Then why did you ask me if you knew what my answer would be at the outset?” Try as she might, she could not quite match his tone of bland indifference.

  “Merely to oblige a friend. I told him this approach would be useless.”

  “A friend? You asked me to marry you for the sake of a friend?”

  “I’ve shocked you. I beg your pardon. I should never have allowed myself to be persuaded into a course of action I foresaw was doomed to failure. I shall wait for better odds next time.”

  “Then you shall wait for a very long time, sir.”

  His eyes mocked her. “My dear Miss Fenton, this is merely a skirmish. The battle has yet to be joined.”

  With that, he gave his horses their heads and they took off at a spanking rate along the Chelsea Road. Deirdre was compelled to hang on to the sides of the curricle as it jostled her about in a most undignified way. That his lordship drove to an inch with four in hand brought no amelioration to her sense of outrage. For a thwarted suitor, he looked to be remarkably carefree. She was glad that he meant to offer for her again. Next time, next time, she promised herself grimly as he took a particularly sharp bend at a dangerous speed, sending her sprawling, next time she would administer the coup de grâce.

  Chapter Twelve

  Deirdre was nervous. Even the tedious, hour-long drive in the closed laudaulet that Armand had procured for the evening did little to relieve the weakness that seemed to have spread to every part of her anatomy. Her knees knocked, her teeth chattered, and she stared sightlessly through the carriage window at a landscape that was shrouded in almost total darkness.

  The coach crested the rise of the Richmond Bridge and butterflies fluttered alarmingly in the pit of Deirdre’s stomach. She should be home, safe in her bed, not gallivanting to some gaming den in the wee hours of the morning tricked out as the lightskirt of the handsome young blood who sat stern and silent beside her.

  “Folly Lane,” said Armand as the landaulet made a sharp turn toward the Thames.

  The name seemed appropriate, but Deirdre said nothing. On their left was Marble Hill House, the former residence of Mrs. Fitzherbert, the discarded mistress of the Prince Regent. In the deepening gloom, however, nothing was to be seen of its Palladian grandeur.

  The right front wheel struck a pothole in the muddy lane and the coach lurched. Deirdre grabbed for the leather strap overhead to save herself being flung to the floor. Armand’s hand at her elbow steadied her.

  “How much farther?” she asked in a wavering voice that she scarcely recognized as her own. She could see only the chiseled outline of her brother’s profile in the darkened coach, and she sensed that his nerves were as taut as a bowstring.

  “Not long now. There’s still time to turn back if you have changed your mind.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been through all this before. This is the only solution, and you know it. My flair and skill at cards surpass yours. I am sorry if your vanity has been bruised, but you know I speak the truth.”

  There was no further conversation between them. They had done all their talking in the days before, when Armand
had confessed to Deirdre his gaming debt to the Earl of Rathbourne. He had sworn that he had tried every avenue open to him to raise the monstrous sum, but it had availed him nothing. His credit, even with the notorious three percenters, had inexplicably dried up. It was a chastened Armand who came to Deirdre, laying the whole sordid business before her. The debt was a matter of honor, doubly so since Armand’s creditor was a man he held in the utmost contempt. Deirdre understood this. She gave him the funds to settle the matter immediately. Never once had he blamed the Earl for his predicament, and for that Deirdre had been thankful.

  If it hadn’t been that she faced financial ruin because of Armand’s peccadillo, she might even feel grateful to the Earl for precipitating the crisis. Armand had changed. He had said very little, but Deirdre could sense that the threat of disgrace had forced her proud brother to face some unpalatable truths about his mode of living. She wondered idly for a moment if Caro had a hand in the new maturity she sensed in her brother, but that thought she shied away from.

  It was a notion too horrible to contemplate. Rathbourne would never permit the impoverished son of a French émigré to pay his addresses to his sister. Far better if Armand continued his pursuit of the elusive Mrs. Dewinters. But of late, he had said very little about his interest in that quarter, and Deirdre had come to the conclusion that the infatuation had run its predictable course. So much for undying love, thought Deirdre with a cynicism that had become almost second nature to her.

  “We’re here.”

  As the coach was slowly negotiated between the massive stone pillars of the ornate entrance to Winslow House on the banks of the River Thames, Deirdre drew in a deep breath to steady herself, and she wondered wildly what had possessed her to this night’s folly. It was madness to expose herself in this manner; even a rakehell like Armand said so. But then Armand knew nothing about the mortgage on Marcliff that had paid for his gentleman’s education. He knew nothing about the money she must retrieve and invest to stock her stables in the next month or so. She could lose everything if she failed to recoup her losses tonight. But that intelligence she had withheld from her brother. He thought her comfortably enough situated. It suited her to let him think so. But even he, reckless and careless as he was about money, had agreed that five thousand pounds was a loss that a small farm like Marcliff could not easily sustain. For that reason, he had been persuaded to accept Deirdre’s wild scheme to bring their fortunes about.