“They have daughters?” Prudence didn’t much care for the sound of that. No wonder St. Cyres’s arrival had caused such a stir. “Are they pretty?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“No,” he answered at once, but to her ears it sounded unconvincing. “Homely as can be, I swear.”
She looked at him and made a sound of disbelief. “I think they must be very pretty.”
He actually laughed, the wretch. “Are you jealous?”
“Not at all,” she said with dignity.
“Good.” He leaned close to her. “You’ve no reason to be jealous of any girl. I like you best.”
Prudence’s heart soared, but she immediately felt compelled to contain the happiness caused by his words, reminding herself it was foolish to harbor hopes of romantic attachment to a man so far above her. But despite her efforts, the exhilarating joy she felt would not be suppressed, and she was still smiling ten minutes later when the carriage halted beside a millpond.
There, a rather ramshackle boathouse stood beside a small dock where a rowboat was tied, motionless in the still water of the millpond. St. Cyres helped her step down from the carriage, grabbed the picnic hamper, and walked her to the edge of the dock, ordering the driver to bring the fishing gear and blanket from the carriage boot. The servant complied, putting the requested items in the bow of the boat, along with the picnic hamper. While Halston kept the rowboat steady, Rhys held out his hand to her. “Just step in slowly,” he told her, “and have a seat aft.”
She settled herself on the bench seat in the stern, and St. Cyres followed her in, taking the center seat, facing her. He reached into the bottom of the boat for the oars, locked them into place, and nodded to Halston. “Untie the lashings,” he ordered, “then you may go. Return for us in about four hours.”
“Very good, sir.” The servant complied, then gave the boat a shove with one foot, and they were off. Making good use of the oars, St. Cyres guided the boat across the millpond and onto the river.
Prudence watched him, admiring the way his powerful arms and shoulders rowed against the river’s current and kept the boat on a straight course. Still, after several minutes of watching him make all the effort, she felt compelled to offer some assistance. “You seem to be working much harder than I. Can I help you row?”
He grinned at her, leaning back as he once again pulled the oars through the water. “And have you sitting right beside me? I’d love it, but I’d still have to sit almost center or the boat won’t trim, and that would be a bit uncomfortable for you.”
She didn’t know what he meant about the boat, but she did think sitting beside him would be wonderful. “I don’t mind.”
“All right, though if I were truly a gentleman, I’d refuse to let you. Rowing upstream’s deuced hard work. But since we haven’t that far to go, I’m going to be selfish, take you up on your suggestion, and squeeze you into half a seat.”
“That’s all right,” she said shyly. “I’d like sitting beside you, so I’m being selfish, too.”
“Are you, now?” He laughed. “I like a girl who’s honest about her motives.”
He stopped rowing, and she settled herself into the offered half a seat, moving carefully in the boat to avoid tipping it. He kept his hand on her oar, and she placed both her hands behind his.
“Ready?” he asked her, and when she nodded, he said, “On three. One and two and three.”
They pulled back on the oars together, sending the boat shooting forward. “Am I doing this right?” she asked, feeling a bit awkward as she tried to lean forward and pull back in time with him.
“You’re doing it perfectly,” he assured her, and glanced over his shoulder to see if they were headed in the right direction. “We’re straight as an arrow.”
They rowed in silence for several strokes and soon developed a perfect rhythm. She liked the feel of his powerful body so close to her own, her shoulder and hip brushing his with each stroke. Following his instructions, she helped him guide the rowboat off the river and onto a smaller, more meandering stream, where immense weeping willows overhung the banks and dappled the water with sunlight and shade.
“I say, we do row together rather well, don’t we?” he asked as they both leaned back.
“Yes, we do.” She turned her head to look at him and smiled. “You’d think we’d been rowing together forever.”
Then, for no reason she could define, both of them stopped at once. She watched his lashes lower as his gaze slid to her mouth, and everything in the world seemed to stop. He moved closer, ducking his head beneath her hat, and she realized he was going to kiss her.
Excitement flooded through her, and with it, a powerful happiness. This was what she had been daydreaming of yesterday, this moment, hardly daring to hope it would happen. She tilted her head back, and he leaned even closer, until his lips were only a fraction from hers. He went still, and the blissful excitement within her deepened and spread until it was an ache so acute she couldn’t breathe.
“Prudence,” he murmured, and his voice seemed to echo her own emotions. Her lips parted, her eyes began to close. But just before his lips touched hers, he pulled back, his movement so abrupt, the boat rocked in the water.
Disappointment pierced her, and she looked away.
“Hell,” he muttered, the tone of his voice expressing just how she felt.
He started rowing again, and she helped him as before, reminding herself it was for the best that he hadn’t kissed her. Such things were highly improper; only engaged couples ought to be kissing.
Neither of them spoke as they rowed along the stream, and as they pulled the boat through the water in perfect time, Prudence was certain his kiss would have been equally perfect. As a virtuous woman, painfully aware of the shame that could result when a woman behaved otherwise, she knew she ought to be relieved. But she wasn’t. Instead, she felt a keen and profound regret that she hadn’t thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him first. He was better at being a gentleman, it seemed, than she was at being a lady.
Chapter 7
Rumor has it the Duke of St. Cyres is spending several days at Richmond with wealthy American railway tycoon J. D. Hunter and his family. Mr. Hunter, a little bird informs us, has several beautiful daughters. Could Britain’s most eligible and most notorious duke be considering an American to be his duchess?
—Talk of the Town, 1894
Prudence and St. Cyres didn’t speak as they rowed the short remaining distance to Rosalind’s Pond, but to her, it was a companionable silence. When they scanned the grassy bank for a place to lay out their picnic, both of them pointed to the same spot beneath the willows at the exact same moment. By the time they settled themselves on the blanket and opened the picnic hamper, Prudence decided this day ranked as the most wonderful one of her life.
“Let’s see what’s in here, shall we?” he said, and lifted the lid of the basket.
“Don’t you already know?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t a clue.”
She watched as he pulled out foodstuffs. “I’m amazed a duke isn’t already well-acquainted with the picnic hampers of Fortnum and Mason.”
“I’ve had no opportunity. I’ve been living on the Continent, remember?”
She laughed and sat back. “Yes, I know. Cavorting at the Moulin Rouge and bathing in Italian fountains.”
“Bathing naked, if you please,” he clarified as he set a box of chocolates on the blanket. “Though why every society paper in Europe seems to find that story perpetually entertaining is beyond my comprehension.”
Prudence knew why. A picture of him rising naked from the water of a moonlit fountain flashed across her mind, and it was an image so vivid, she caught her breath. She’d never seen a real man unclothed in her entire life, but she had seen paintings and statues, and the immodest image conjured by her imagination made her face grow warm.
When she didn’t reply, he glanced up from his task, and at the sight of her blushing
, he smiled just as he had that night at the opera, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking.
Prudence ducked her head, studying the foodstuffs on the blanket. “Oh, look! Chocolates.”
St. Cyres wouldn’t let her get by with a diversion as transparent as that. He reached out and touched her, cupping her cheek and lifting her face so he could look into her eyes. “Sweets for the sweet,” he murmured, his thumb brushing back and forth across her hot cheek in a lazy caress.
“I told you, I’m not sweet,” she whispered.
He laughed low in his throat. “Ah, yes, that’s right. I had forgotten you’re hard as nails.”
Letting go of her, he sat back and continued rooting through the picnic hamper. “Let’s see…in addition to chocolate, we have pâté fois gras, pickles, mustard, smoked salmon, tongue, a wedge of Stilton and one of cheddar, savory biscuits, sweet biscuits…ah, and a bottle of very fine claret.”
“It all looks wonderful,” she said as they began unwrapping packages and opening jars. “I’ve always wanted to sample foods like these, but one can’t afford such things on a seamstress’s salary.”
“I should imagine not. Pity there’s no lemonade, though,” he added, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “You’re so fond of it.”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I shall have to make do with the claret, I suppose.”
“This time, perhaps, but I’ll be sure to inform Fortnum’s that on our next picnic, you’ll expect their sourest lemonade.”
At the indication that there would be more outings with him, Prudence’s happiness was complete. “Only if it’s warm,” she reminded him, laughing. “To be truly bad, lemonade has to be warm.”
“All right, then. Their sourest, warmest lemonade.” He reached for the bottle of wine and the corkscrew and nodded to the basket. “There’s a pair of wineglasses in there. Pull them out, would you?”
She complied, bringing out plates as well as the glasses. She then closed the lid of the picnic hamper and put the glasses on top. As he opened and poured the wine, she removed her gloves, then began paring cheese, slicing ham, and arranging the various foods on the plates.
He set the bottle aside, helped himself to a piece of ham, then took one of the glasses and leaned back on his arm, staring at the tranquil scene spread out before them. “I’d forgotten how pretty an April day in England can be,” he murmured.
Prudence paused in her task to glance out over the pond. It looked even more beautiful in reality than it had in the painting done by his friend, with the bright green of the newly unfurled willow leaves and the vivid yellow of the buttercups in the meadow beyond the water. “‘Oh, to be in England,’” she quoted, “‘now that April’s there.’”
“You know that poem?”
The sharpness of his voice caused her to glance in his direction, and she found he was staring at her in surprise.
“‘Home Thoughts, from Abroad,’” she answered. “Robert Browning. My mother read it to me as a girl. It’s still one of my favorites.”
“It’s one of mine as well, though if you asked me why I like it so much, I couldn’t really tell you. There are many poems more beautiful. All I know is that I found myself reading it quite often while I was away. Like Browning when he wrote it, I was living in Italy, so perhaps I felt rather a kinship with the fellow.”
She leaned closer to him, smiling a little. “Or perhaps you were just homesick.”
“Homesick?” He tilted his head as if considering it. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I believe I was homesick.” He gave a short laugh. “How extraordinary.”
“Extraordinary?” she repeated, struck by that adjective. “How so? Living far away, anyone would feel homesick.”
“I never thought I should.” He resumed gazing out over the water. “I left England when I was twenty-one, and no young man could be happier to leave a place than I was. Sailing out of Dover, watching England fade into the distance, all I felt was a profound sense of relief.”
“That sounds like escape.” Prudence shifted her weight onto one hip and arm. “Why?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine. “What were you running from?”
“Running? Is that what it was? I thought I was just off to have adventures and see the world.”
Prudence was not fooled by the lightness of his voice. “What were you running from?” she repeated.
He lifted his glass and swallowed the rest of his wine in one draught. “Everything,” he answered without looking at her. “Especially myself.”
Prudence studied his profile, the hard line of his mouth, and she knew there was a great deal more to this man than his good looks, chivalrous manners, and scandal-ridden past. “What is there in yourself to run away from?”
He gave a caustic chuckle and set his empty glass on the lid of the picnic hamper. “You’ve read the stories,” he said as he refilled his glass. “I’m quite a shameless fellow, don’t you know.”
“I think you’re wonderful,” she blurted out, and could have bitten her tongue off for such a gauche remark.
He didn’t seem to like it much either. Frowning a little, he reached out to slide his hand around the back of her neck, and he leaned closer. His gaze locked with hers, and there was a strange, silvery intensity in the depths of his green eyes.
“I’m not,” he told her, sounding almost angry. “There’s nothing wonderful about me, Prudence. Nothing.”
She started to dispute his statement with a shake of her head, but his fingers tightened against the back of her neck, and his thumb pressed against the side of her jaw to keep her still. “I can appreciate that you would disagree. Given the night we met, I know you think I’m some sort of hero, but it happens you’re wrong. I’m a bad apple. The De Winter family barrel’s full of us.” His gaze roamed her face and his frown deepened. “God knows, if you had any sense, you’d run from me as fast as you could.”
Prudence stared at him in bafflement, wondering how he could speak of himself with such contempt. From the first, he’d shown nothing but consideration toward her. There was also the matter of how he’d saved Sally. Having worked as a seamstress for so long, she knew full well the vulnerability of women of her class to men of his. Faced with the situation St. Cyres had come across in that alley, most of his peers would have shrugged, walked away, and left the girl to be raped. Some might even have expected a turn. But St. Cyres was not the sort of man to think that way, nor would he stand by while a woman was assaulted against her will.
“I don’t believe you,” she said with quiet conviction. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she added, ignoring his exasperated sound, “but I think you are far too modest about yourself. Indeed, I have seen much in you to admire during our short acquaintance. I have certainly found nothing in you to condemn.”
“But you will,” he whispered, and pressed his thumb to her lips to stop her from further arguing the point. He closed his eyes, pulling her closer, so close his lips nearly brushed her cheek. “You will.”
There was something in those few whispered words, something so raw that it hurt her to hear them. She said nothing more. Instead, she reached up to brush back a lock of hair from his brow.
At the touch of her hand, his eyes opened and he pulled back. Her hand fell to her side, and he let her go.
“Now that I know what you think of me,” he said, “I might have to mend my wicked ways.” He smiled at her, but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes, and she had the strange feeling a door had just been slammed shut between them. “You’ve such a good opinion of me, I fear I shall have to make the effort to live up to it.”
His voice was careless and offhand, as if his strange mood had passed, but Prudence was not fooled. She could still feel the tension in him, though they were no longer touching. She wanted badly to know more, to open that door again and find out what was on the other side of his shuttered smile, but she sensed this was not the time for more questions.
“If you mean that,” she said instead, �
�would you begin by passing that box of biscuits? I’m terribly hungry.”
With those words, his tension seemed to ebb away, his smile widened into a genuine grin, and Prudence was glad she’d set her curiosity aside.
“So, you like Browning, do you?” he asked as he complied with her request.
“I do. But Tennyson’s my favorite. I love ‘Lady of Shalott.’”
He made a sound of derision. “Women always love ‘Lady of Shalott.’”
She made a face at him. “So?”
“‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ is a deuced better poem.”
“Better?” She paused long enough to eat a biscuit, then said, “I don’t see how you can say it’s better. It’s about a tragic battle. Into the jaws of death, and all that.”
“Exactly so. What could be more exciting?”
“But hundreds died.”
“Bravely and well, as the poem says.”
She began to laugh. “And you call me a romantic?”
He paused in the act of dunking a slice of cheese in the mustard pot. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you are a romantic, too.”
“That’s absurd,” he scoffed, and ate his bite of cheese. “I haven’t a romantic bone in my body.”
“So you say, but ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ is all about the romantic ideal of honor and bravery. You’re a romantic who just doesn’t want to admit it.”
He started to argue with her, then shook his head as if giving it up. “How did you develop such a love of poetry?”
“My mother.” Prudence smiled, remembering. “She had a great passion for poetry. When I was a little girl, she and I would often go for picnics in summer. I would draw or sew, and she would read aloud to me. Keats was her favorite, but she would always read Tennyson because I liked Tennyson best.”
“What about your father?”
Her smile faded. She swallowed painfully and looked away. She knew she ought to tell him the truth about the circumstances of her birth, but she just couldn’t bear to see his manner toward her change, which it surely would when he learned she was born on the wrong side of the blankets. “I never knew my father.”
The Wicked Ways of a Duke Page 11
