“Did you?”
“Yes, although ‘bathed’ might be a more accurate term. It was too shallow for swimming.”
“People say you were with a Russian countess at the time.”
She was Prussian, actually. Rhys schooled his features into an expression of earnest dignity. “As a gentleman, I am not at liberty to discuss the details.”
“Your discretion does you credit, and I do admire you for it, though I think it must be such a bore to be a gentleman.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A bore?”
“Ladies always discuss the details,” she told him, smiling. “You would not believe the fascinating secrets revealed in a dressmaker’s showroom.”
“Indeed?” He could only imagine what ladies said about him over the choosing of silks and muslins. “But now that you’ve patched things up with your family, you no longer have to work as a seamstress, I hope?”
“No, and it seems a bit unreal to me to be choosing gowns for myself instead of making them for others.” She turned, curling her gloved fingers around the cross brace of the scaffold, staring at Neptune. “In fact,” she added with a little laugh, “my entire life seems unreal nowadays.”
Having an income of millions of pounds a year would seem unreal to him, too, though he suspected he could get used to it. Because he wasn’t yet supposed to know about her inheritance, he pretended not to understand what she meant. “Unreal in what respect?”
“In many respects.” She turned toward him. “The day before yesterday, I went to my former employer to tender my resignation, and when I was in the showroom, I decided to have a few gowns made up, thinking it a lark more than anything else. Madame was so horrible to me when I worked there, and I wanted to lord it over her a little, show off, you know. I thought it would be amusing.”
“And was it?”
“It was at first.” She paused and a tiny frown knit her brows. “But the fuss they all made! Heavens, women I’ve worked with for years tripping over themselves to wait on me! And Madame, with all her gushing compliments that a child could see through. All because I had money to spend. It made me a bit uncomfortable. And the other seamstresses, seeming to be happy for me, and yet, I had the feeling that underneath all the gush, they were not happy for me at all. I didn’t…” She paused and took a deep breath, her troubled expression deepening. “I didn’t like it.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, and as he spoke those words, he looked into her soft, dark eyes and thought of what she would become, of what money would inevitably do to her, and something hard and tight squeezed his chest.
“Will I get used to it?” she asked, looking doubtful. “I have been earning my own wages and doing for myself a long time now. I don’t know that I will ever become accustomed to being waited on or fussed over.”
“Or being chaperoned every moment of the day?”
“Exactly! Though in that, at least, I do appreciate the responsibility that my aunt and uncle feel to watch over me.”
You and your millions of pounds.
Rhys drew a deep breath and suppressed that cynical rejoinder. “Their protectiveness seems a rather…recent phenomenon,” he said instead, choosing his words with care. “Part of your reconciliation with them, I take it?”
“You might put it that way.”
“What caused the breach? Did they toss you out? Force you to work as a seamstress?”
“Oh, no, please don’t think they were cruel to me,” she hastened to say, as if fearing he would receive the wrong impression of her relations. “Living out and working in London was my choice. My mother died when I was fourteen, you see, and her annuity died with her. Her brother and his wife took me into their home, but they had daughters of their own, and there was so little money. I was rather a burden to them. Having to pinch pennies made my aunt quite cross sometimes. It’s hard to scrimp and save, and measure out the coal each week and never have beef. And there were quarrels, with their daughters especially, and I hated that. I finally decided I had to go off and make my own way. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.”
“Gratitude is one of those things that can’t be rammed down our throats with any degree of success. It’s a bit like cod liver oil that way.”
She laughed. “How comforting it is to talk to you. You’re so straightforward.”
He didn’t even blink. “Quite.”
“Still, my uncle has always been kind to me. Whenever he’s been in town, he has paid a call at my lodgings to inquire after my situation and be sure I am well.”
How generous of him. Rhys did not say that aloud. “Does your uncle come to town often?”
“The first of every month, he journeys up from Sussex on matters of business.”
That sparked Rhys’s curiosity. What matters of business in London could there be for a poor squire from Sussex who couldn’t afford beef for his table?
“Anyway,” she went on, returning his attention to the topic at hand, “I am grateful to my uncle. The agricultural depression hit him very hard, and he took me in when one more mouth to feed had truly become a burden. And he sends me an allowance every quarter most faithfully. Besides, they are my only family. So you see, I do feel a sense of obligation to them now that I’m—”
Now that I’m rich.
Her unfinished sentence hung in the air, and he found her reluctance to tell him of her inheritance a curious thing. Any other woman attracted to a man of his position would have made certain he knew of her immense dowry as quickly as possible. And he was not mistaken in her regard for him. It was plain as day. He couldn’t understand why she was keeping mum. Didn’t she see the advantage money gave her in securing a peer of his rank? God, she truly was a romantic, idealistic sort.
“Oh, let’s talk of something pleasant,” she said, interrupting his speculations. “Tell me about your family.”
He grimaced. “I can’t. Not if you wish to talk about something pleasant.”
“You do not get on with your family?”
“We used to got on very well,” he answered with forced lightness, “when I lived in Italy.”
“I understand. My aunt and I rub along much better when we’re miles apart, too.” She sounded rather wistful.
“If we were in competition over which of us has the more odious relations, Miss Bosworth, I would win hands down. Your aunt is nothing to my mother.”
“You are a duke,” she said, giving him a look of mock reproof. “Bragging is so beneath you.”
“I’m telling you the simple, unvarnished truth. My dear mama is the queen of the cutting remark. She would slice your aunt into pieces, devour her in two or three bites, then feed her bones to the dogs.”
“I see.” Miss Abernathy tilted her head, considering that information. “Could we arrange for them to meet?”
He gave a shout of laughter. “That’s a terribly wicked thing to say, and most unexpected from a sweet girl like you.”
She did not seem pleased by his words. “Why does everyone think I’m sweet?” she demanded in consternation. “I am not sweet!”
She was a cream puff. “Oh, very well,” he said, making no effort to keep a straight face. “You’re hard as nails.”
She didn’t laugh. “I’m not so pliable as people think, you know,” she said earnestly. “It’s true I don’t like rows, and I do like to think the best of people. But that doesn’t mean that I’m weak or don’t know my own mind.”
“I never meant to imply either of those things. I simply meant what I said. You are sweet.” He paused, thinking again of all that money and how it would change her. “True sweetness is a rare and special quality, Miss Bosworth,” he found himself saying. “Don’t ever lose it.”
She frowned a little at those words and the intensity of his voice. “What do you mean?”
Rhys shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered, and changed the subject. “Last night when we talked about opera, I mentioned that Verdi’s Aida was coming on soon. It begins tomorrow night. W
ill you be attending?”
“Oh, I wish I could! It sounds lovely. But I have to have dinner with my cousins.”
“Sir Robert again?”
“No, no, my other cousins. Beryl is my uncle’s eldest daughter. We are dining with her and her husband.”
“You sound as if you were going to a dentist.”
“Oh, I am sure it will all be very pleasant,” she said, making a face. “Everything in the garden is lovely with Beryl nowadays. She’s being so nice to me, and it’s nauseating, because when we were girls she was horrible. She made fun of me all the time.” Miss Abernathy looked down at her hands and there was a long pause. “She used to call me a porpoise.”
Rhys studied her bent head, a pose that emphasized her chubby chin, and he felt a sudden, fierce flash of anger. He cast aside his hat and grasped her arm, turning her toward him. With his free hand he lifted her face, then leaned closer, ducking his head beneath the huge brim of her hat. He paused with his lips only a few inches from hers, looked into her eyes, and gave his own opinion on the matter. “I think you’re luscious. I thought so the first moment I saw you.”
Her eyes went wide at the savagery in his voice, and no wonder. He heard it, too.
“Luscious?” she repeated, and swayed a fraction of an inch closer to him. Her lips parted, and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. “Truly?”
Rhys’s anger evaporated at that tiny, feminine invitation, and arousal took its place, flooding through his body in an instant. He turned his hand, cupping her face, his thumb sliding back and forth over the soft skin of her cheek. “Truly.”
His other hand slid beneath her arm and around her waist, and he pulled her close, crushing stiff silk and inhaling the scent of fresh, sweet lavender. He almost groaned aloud at the feel of her lush curves pressed against his body, and everything in him wanted to give her what she was so innocently asking for.
He couldn’t do it.
He jerked back, letting her go with an abruptness that startled them both. He saw the disappointment cross her face, and it was a feeling he could fully appreciate. He was rather disappointed about it himself. But to win her, he had to court her, and it was too soon in that game for kissing. Anticipation and uncertainty were the essence of romantic courtship.
“I’d best escort you back to your cousin,” he said, and turned away, “before I forget I’m a gentleman.”
He picked up his hat and started for the door. She followed him out of the room, and they did not speak as they retraced their steps down the corridor to the galleries.
They found Robert in the main foyer, looking around in a clueless fashion, but at the sight of him with Miss Abernathy, that expression changed at once to one of displeasure.
“St. Cyres,” he greeted stiffly. “What are you doing here?”
“I fear I’m one of those bad pennies, Sir Robert,” he answered cheerfully. “Just keep turning up, you know.”
The other man recovered his poise with an effort. “Prudence, are you finished here?”
“Not yet. I’d like to see the Dutch exhibit. I believe they said there was a van Gogh. Will you accompany us, Your Grace?”
Sir Robert bristled at that, clearly displeased.
Rhys’s smile widened. “Thank you,” he answered her without taking his eyes from her cousin. “I should like that very much.”
“Let’s go, then,” Robert snapped, and moved to Prudence’s other side. Taking her arm, he began propelling her toward the Dutch gallery.
Rhys lingered behind, reaching into the inside breast pocket of his jacket for a lead pencil and one of his cards. He scrawled a few words on the back of the card and replaced the pencil in his pocket, but as he quickened his steps to catch up to Miss Abernathy and her cousin, he kept the card hidden in his palm, waiting for his chance.
Robert’s patience with van Gogh and other Dutch masters lasted about a quarter of an hour before he pulled his watch from his pocket and said, “It’s getting on for tea, Prudence, and I promised Edith most faithfully I’d have you back by five o’clock. We must be going.”
“Tea time already?” Rhys asked. “My, how time does fly. I must be on my way as well.” He turned to Prudence. “Forgive me?”
“Of course. It was a pleasure seeing you, as always, Your Grace. I hope—” She hesitated, then added in a rush, “I hope to see you again.”
“I hope that as well, Miss Bosworth.” He took up her hand, managing to tuck his scribbled note under her palm as he did so. Her eyes widened in surprise as she perceived what he’d done, and he gave her a wink just before he bent over her hand. “And I hope it will be soon.”
The moment he let her go, her fingers closed into a fist around his card, then she thrust her hand into her skirt pocket. Satisfied, he bid them both farewell and departed.
His valet was waiting for him outside.
“Fetch my carriage, Fane, will you? Once you’ve done that,” he added on impulse, bringing the other man’s departure to a halt, “there’s something else I want you to do for me.”
“Sir?”
“Mr. Stephen Feathergill makes a practice of coming to town from Sussex the first of every month. Find out why, discreetly, of course. And I want you to follow him for the next few days as much as you are able. Note where he goes and what he does.”
“Very good, sir.”
Fane departed, and as Rhys waited for his carriage, he thought about the events of the afternoon. He was quite satisfied with his choice of heiress, for despite her denials, Prudence Abernathy was sweet. She had a trusting heart, a forgiving nature, and a secret taste for the devil. All of which could only work in his favor.
Yes, he decided as he stepped into his carriage, getting Miss Abernathy to the altar was going to be easy. He settled back against the seat, smiling to himself. Like taking candy from a baby.
Chapter 6
Miss Abernathy’s second cousin, Sir Robert Oglivie, seems her favorite companion at present. He follows on her heels like an adoring suitor. Or like a watchdog. We are not sure which.
—Talk of the Town, 1894
She was luscious. Prudence smiled to herself as she stared into space, oblivious to the luxurious surroundings of the Savoy tearoom, not hearing a word of the conversation going on around her. All she could think about was what had happened that afternoon. No man had ever called her luscious before.
And so emphatic he’d been about it, too, a frown drawing his brows together and a spark of anger in his eyes. She gave a little shiver and a sigh and closed her eyes, remembering the delicious feel of his hand touching her face. Oh, the thrill when he had wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close to him! It was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. Just thinking about his masculine frame pressed against her with such shocking intimacy made her feel flushed and tingly all over.
And as if that hadn’t been exciting enough, there was the note. So daring of him to slip it into her hand right under Robert’s nose, but though that happened over an hour ago, she still hadn’t had the opportunity to read it, for she hadn’t been out of Robert’s sight a single minute. After leaving the National Gallery, they had come straight back to the Savoy, and he’d ushered her directly into the tearoom where Millicent, Edith, and Stephen had been waiting for them.
“You don’t seem particularly enthused, Prudence, dear.”
“Hmm? What?” At the mention of her name, she jerked upright in her chair. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid, Cousin Millicent.” She tried to look attentive. “What did you say?”
“I have obtained vouchers for us to attend Lady Amberly’s charity ball two nights hence. Rather a coup, if I do say so myself,” she added, trying and failing to appear modest about it. “This is one of the important events of the season, and most of the vouchers were given weeks ago. Yet, you seem uninterested.”
She would have been very interested if the Duke of St. Cyres planned to attend, but she didn’t suppose it would go over very well if
she inquired about the matter. She thought again of the note and felt as if it were burning a hole in her pocket. The suspense became intolerable.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, and pressed a hand to her forehead. “But I’ve developed the most beastly headache. I think I shall go to my room and lie down for a bit, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, dear.” Edith put down her teacup, eyeing her with concern. “Yes, go have a lie-down. You don’t want to miss the theater tonight.”
Trying to look as if she were in genuine pain, Prudence gave everyone a wan smile and departed from the tearoom, forcing herself not to run for the elevator.
“Fourth floor, please,” she told the boy attending the lift, and the iron grill of the door had barely slid across before Prudence was reaching into her pocket. The elevator jerked into motion, and as she read the words the duke had written, her heart gave a leap as well.
I must see you again. Meet me at Richmond Station. Noon tomorrow.
She gave a cry of delight, earning herself a curious look from the boy who attended the lift. She smothered her exuberance long enough to arrive at the fourth floor, but as the lift sank out of sight, Prudence read his words once more and her delight came flooding back, stronger than ever.
He wanted to see her again.
She laughed out loud, and as she went down the corridor to her suite, she felt as if she were dancing on air.
Prudence’s blissful mood was not lost on Nancy Woddell. “You seemed to enjoy your outing today, miss,” the maid commented, her pretty freckled face breaking into a smile as she watched Prudence fall back onto her bed with a happy sigh.
“I had a wonderful day, Woddell. I hope you did as well?”
“I did, miss, thank you. Some of your new gowns arrived from Madame Marceau’s showroom, and they are ever so nice. Would you like to see them?”
Prudence at once began to wonder which of her lovely new dresses she should wear for her rendezvous with the duke on the morrow. “Oh, yes, bring them out.”
The Wicked Ways of a Duke Page 9
