by Carola Dunn
“Is that lady your friend, Miss Savage?” Sophie enquired.
Lord Rusholme’s set mouth and drawn brows proclaimed his displeasure. He had flatteringly ignored Prudence’s unsuitability as an acquaintance for his nieces and nephew, but Aimée’s brazen vulgarity obviously reminded him. Prudence started to excuse herself, to say she must go and help fill another sack.
At that moment, the littlest girl set up a wail of fright. Instinctively Prudence ran to her and crouched at her side.
“Bella tried to pick up some holly,” her sister explained.
“It did sting me,” sobbed Bella.
“Did it feel like a sting?” Prudence said soothingly. “It was only a prick, my dear. Look, the holly-leaves are prickly. Let me see your hands. Goodness, you are wearing mittens just like mine.”
“‘Cept mine’s blue.”
“So they are.” Prudence pulled them off and examined the chubby little hands.
“Is there blood?” asked Sophie hopefully, which set off another wail from Bella.
“Not a drop. All it needs is to be kissed better. There, and there.”
Wails and sobs ceased. Prudence glanced up at Lord Rusholme, who stood there looking distinctly harassed.
She couldn’t resist: “Perhaps Uncle Garth should kiss it better, too.”
His expression martyred, he complied with the demand of upreaching arms. “It’s time we returned to the house,” he announced. “Your nurse will be wondering where you are. William, see if there is a sack to spare in the cart for your spoils. Yes, Miss Savage,” he said as the boy ran off, “I deliberately forgot a sack as well.”
“Unnecessary in the circumstances,” she agreed with a smile.
The girls went after William, to see the big horse. Once again Prudence was about to make her excuses and leave, but Lord Rusholme seemed to think it incumbent upon him to make polite conversation.
“Your name is Sarah?” he asked.
“No.” She felt an irrepressible blush rising. Why had she picked such a ridiculous alias? “Aimée calls me Sera, short for Seraphina.”
He grinned. “Seraphina Savage? As likely as Aimée Orlando! A stage-name, I take it.”
“Yes. I was going to call myself Seraphina Silver but it sounded too cloyingly sweet.”
“Savage is much better, an intriguing contrast. Your taste is impeccable—as I already have reason to know.”
Her cheeks grew hotter. “I was too flustered by my faux pas last night to apologize for my rudeness about your ballroom.”
“I’ll forgive you, provided you tell me your real name.”
She looked up at his teasing smile, the quizzical gleam in his brown eyes. He was dangerously charming, and she was an actress, fair game to gentlemen of his kind. Perhaps her staid, stodgy, commonplace name would protect her, depress notions romantical and erotic alike.
“Prudence Figg, my lord.”
He shouted with laughter. “Prudence! Could anything be less appropriate?”
His reaction was justified, she had to admit, although for twenty-seven years she had been the most prudent of females. Just a few months ago she had rebelled against her name and her upbringing. She had not regretted her choice until now, until she met this infuriating, exciting, alarmingly seductive nobleman who set her nerves a-tingle.
In her new life he took her for a lightskirt, fit to be his chère-amie, no more. Not that in her previous life he’d ever have regarded her as worthy of his hand, but nor would he have gazed down at her with open desire, making her feel as if her clothes had vanished in a sheet of flame.
She pulled her cloak about her and said reproachfully, “I did not choose my name.”
“I beg your pardon, I should not have laughed, particularly as mine is much worse. My surname is Warrender, which is tolerable, but I was christened Valentine Tregarth. As you have heard, my family calls me Garth. So do my most intimate friends,” he added in a voice full of meaning.
To her relief, the children were on their way back. “I really must rejoin my party, my lord,” she said, and bidding the children farewell she fled.
She looked back when she reached the safety of the cart, where the others were beginning to gather. Lord Rusholme was strolling down the hill, Lady Bella on his shoulders, Lady Sophie holding his hand. Young Lord Braverton and his eldest sister lugged their sack between them. An innocent scene.
Yet for the second time Prudence had run away from the earl.
For the next two weeks she’d be living in the same house. Surely the Easthaven mansion was vast enough for her to keep out of his way?
Chapter 3
A combination of factors drove Rusholme out to help bring in the Yule log. It was really an occasion for the servants, those who could be spared after luncheon when family and guests were for the most part repletely inactive. The servants’ hall, once the Great Hall of the old house, had the only fireplace wide enough to hold a log large enough to burn throughout Christmas Day.
The ancient country custom, repressed—like mummers and mistletoe—during the Puritan Commonwealth, had never widely revived. Lord Easthaven, an enthusiast for lost traditions, had proposed rebuilding the elegant Adam fireplace in the gold drawing room for the purpose. The marchioness had put her foot down. So much disruption for the sake of burning a Yule log once a year was not to be thought of.
Instead, his lordship encouraged his servants to observe the custom: those, at least, who could be spared for an hour or two from the duties attendant upon his lavish notions of Christmas hospitality.
Rusholme, having returned Maria’s offspring to the nursery, was cornered at the breakfast table by Lady Anne.
“I am so looking forward to gathering holly this morning,” she exclaimed, smiling to display pearly teeth. “Such a delightful, quaint tradition, is it not, Lord Rusholme?”
“Certainly, ma’am. Carriages will be waiting to take everyone who wishes to join in to the woods. The grooms know where to take you.”
“I am sure you know the best places.”
“No better than they, and I have already taken my sister’s children to pick holly this morning.”
“La, how excessively amiable of you! But we cannot go without you. The fun will be quite spoilt, I vow.”
“Then of course I shall go,” he said dryly, and turned to David’s mousy sister-in-law. David had explained that her presence was Lady Easthaven’s notion, not his or his wife’s, let alone her own, so Rusholme was feeling slightly more kindly towards her. What the deuce was her name? Ah yes, “Miss Wallace, may I hope for the pleasure of your company?”
She turned bright pink and mumbled acquiescence, while Lady Anne pouted and tossed her golden ringlets.
“Let’s all go, shall we, David?” said Mrs. Denham diplomatically.
Between Lady Anne’s affected gaiety and Kitty Wallace’s tongue-tied bashfulness, Rusholme’s second outing was an exercise in acute tedium. At least he easily avoided Lady Anne’s attempt to draw him deeper into the woods in search of the best berries. How he wished it was sweet Prudence enticing him onward!
When they returned to the house, Lady Anne needed his advice on directing the footmen where to place the sprigs of holly whose gathering she had personally supervised. Fortunately Henry Ffoliot was more than happy to advise her.
Unfortunately, Lady Estella Redpath, daughter of the Duke of Essex, had just come in from a ride. A robust, jovial young woman, she had apparently decided the way to Rusholme’s heart was to admire the hunting country around his home. This involved describing every hedge, ditch, and copse she had observed on her ride, interspersed with tales of her prowess in the hunting field.
“Let’s ride together this afternoon,” she proposed, “and you shall show me your favourite jumps.”
“You must be tired after being on horseback all morning.”
Her booming laugh half deafened him. “Tired! I’m no namby-pamby miss, Rusholme. When the scent’s high, I often ride eight hours at a str
etch.”
It was a perfect day for a ride, sunny and crisp. No use praying for rain, which doubtless would not give Lady Estella pause anyway. He racked his brains. “Then I...ah...nothing would please me more but...hm...I arrived rather late yesterday and my mother will be most displeased if I’m not on hand to greet her guests today.”
“Pity! Another day, then. Still, plenty of time, we’re here till after Twelfth Night.”
“Another day,” he agreed reluctantly, hoping she’d not consult the marchioness, who would certainly want him to ride with the duke’s highly eligible daughter.
In the circumstances, Rusholme was delighted when his sister Julia arrived and her children, who had missed the morning’s excursion, begged him to take them out.
“No more holly!” he insisted. He never wanted to see another red berry or prickly leaf in his life. “We’ll go to see the Yule log brought home. And we’ll take your nursemaid with us to look after the little ones.”
When they reached the spot where a lightning-struck oak had been felled and trimmed, the first thing Rusholme noticed was a leaf-green cloak among the spectators. Prudence! He was rewarded for his excessive amiability to his sisters’ children.
As the nearest servants greeted them, she glanced round and he caught her eye. She smiled, nodded, and turned back to speak to the man at her side.
Jealousy lanced through him. Who the devil was the fellow? Of medium height, he wore a capeless top-coat a trifle too tight in the shoulders and a rather dusty-looking beaver with a curly brim sagging at the back.
An actor, no doubt, one of her colleagues. Rusholme breathed again.
Prudence—somehow he couldn’t think of her as Seraphina—would be embarrassed if he sought her out in this crowd, he realized. In the world of the theatre, lovers were an accepted part of life. Among the respectable servants of a great house, chastity was the rule, lack of chastity cause for ignominy and dismissal. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. His pursuit would have to be discreet.
He took the children closer to watch a carthorse being harnessed to the log. The horse-brasses gleaming in the sun fascinated his littlest nephew. The two older boys had to be restrained from going to help.
The last buckle was fastened and the carter cracked his whip. The horse strained at the yoke. The log quivered.
Rusholme handed over the boys to the two nearest housemaids. “Hang on to them,” he ordered, then cried, “Come on, fellows, put your shoulders to it!”
Leading the rush of cheering footmen, gardeners, and grooms, he heaved with all his strength at the stubborn mass. He knew he was showing off and wondered at it. He hadn’t felt a need to impress a female since he was one-and-twenty, yet here he was displaying like a peacock, all for an actress whose only interest was undoubtedly his money.
All the same, when the Yule log at last slithered forward he was glad to see that her actor companion had not soiled his hands at a man’s task.
Prudence looked amused, but she joined in the applause of the watchers and even called out, “Bravo, my lord.”
He gave her a rueful grin, self-consciously sure she had guessed at his motives. Nonetheless, a few minutes later he found himself quite unable to resist temptation.
Once set in motion, the log slid along easily behind the horse. One of the grooms vaulted on top of it and balanced with windmilling arms as it bumped over the rough grass. Maids cheered; menservants jeered. Losing his balance he sprang clear. Another took his place.
Rusholme was the fourth up. It was more difficult than he had thought. The log was slippery as well as in erratic motion. He had to keep shifting his feet to stay on and he knew he soon must jump or ignominiously topple.
He timed his leap with care. As his boots hit the ground he stumbled forward, reached out for support, and grabbed Prudence’s arm.
She steadied him, laughing up at him. Then she was in his arms.
He held her close, distantly aware of the crowd now shouting for someone else. Gazing down at her tender mouth, he struggled against an overwhelming urge to kiss her—but while an embrace might pass as a continued effort to find his feet, a kiss would surely damn her.
A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “I believe you have recovered your balance, my lord,” she said coolly, pulling away.
“Yes,” he said with deep regret, which changed to relief as the boys dashed up. If they had caught him kissing her...!
“You were simply splendid, Uncle Garth!”
“A regular Trojan!”
They dashed off again. Prudence hurried after them. In a few strides he overtook her and walked alongside, careful not to touch her.
“I’m sorry. You’re so damnably tempting.”
Giving him a speaking look, she increased her pace. They caught up with the slow-moving log. The man riding it now made it look easy. Lithe in his shirtsleeves, he stood there barely swaying, arms outstretched with a dancer’s grace instead of flailing as Rusholme’s had. His audience fell silent, scarce breathing.
“Your friend, Miss...Savage?”
“Yes, Ben Dandridge.”
Rusholme looked up again just in time to see Dandridge perform a sudden handspring, returning to his feet without visible unsteadiness. A collective “aah” rose from the crowd, followed by a burst of cheers.
“Ben used to be a horseback acrobat in Astley’s circus,” Prudence said.
“A particular friend of yours?”
She frowned at him. “A colleague and a friend.”
“What part does he play in She Stoops to Conquer?”
“Tony Lumpkin.”
An uncouth bumpkin, not a romantic hero—good. Not that he feared competition from a tumbler, however nimble. “And you are Kate Hardcastle, among your other aliases.”
“Gracious no!” She shook her head, smiling. “Aimée is Kate. I have nowhere near experience enough to tackle that rôle. I hope I shall do justice to Constance Neville, though I daresay I can manage the maid, Pimple, well enough.”
“Pimple!” he exclaimed, revolted. “I wager you never had a pimple in your life.”
Laughing, she retorted, “You cannot expect me to admit it if I did. Now here come your nephews, my lord. I must be off.”
She slipped away into the crowd. As Rusholme responded to the boys’ thrilled comments on the acrobat, he watched for her green cloak.
He had annoyed her, first with his embrace, and then by questioning her relationship with Dandridge. Though she had recovered her humour before she left, she had left. He could not flatter himself she desired his company.
Besides, if she was interested in him as a lover, surely she’d not have drawn attention to the repulsive name of the maid in the play. Pimple, indeed!
He was disappointed he would not see her as Kate Hardcastle. Still, at least he’d not have to watch her flirting on stage with whoever played Young Marlow. Reflecting upon the play, which he had seen more than once, he recalled the scenes between Constance Neville and her betrothed, Hastings, as few and sedate.
Why he cared he wasn’t sure. He had often watched previous mistresses cavort on stage in breeches parts, or kick up their heels in the chorus line, with never a blink. In fact he had revelled in the envy of his acquaintances. Somehow Prudence was different.
Different enough to be worth taking the trouble of wooing her to his bed.
He watched her as she watched Dandridge dismount from the Yule log with a double somersault ending in a flourishing bow. The actor took his coat and hat from the maid who had carried them for him. To the applause of her fellow-servants he bussed her heartily, while Prudence looked on with a smile. Clearly she had no interest in him.
No one tried to match his feat on the log. As they approached the house, the indoor servants began to hurry ahead to return to their duties.
Gathering the boys and the nursemaid with the two little ones, Rusholme followed. In front of him, Prudence and Dandridge strolled together, chatting but a good yard apart, friends
and colleagues, as she said.
So what did it matter that—as he suddenly recalled—Constance Neville and Tony Lumpkin spent a good deal of the play pretending to be in love?
* * * *
Prudence dared not set foot outside the house for fear of meeting Lord Rusholme.
Not that she disliked his company. The trouble was she enjoyed talking to him; she did not remember ever feeling so comfortable with anyone, male or female—until the gleam of passion entered his eye.
If only he would stop his pursuit so they could be friends, at least as much friends as was possible between an actress and the heir to a marquisate.
Inside the house their paths had not crossed so far. She was busy with rehearsals. He was busy dodging the three eligible young ladies invited by the marchioness to entice him into marriage, according to a gossipy footman. The footman said none of the three was worthy of his lordship, surely the only possible reason for Prudence to find herself hoping he’d not be caught.
She certainly had no intention of being caught. She even missed church on Christmas morning because she learned all the family would attend, though many guests did not bother. Rusholme could hardly get up to much mischief in church under the eye of his parents and sisters, but Prudence thought it best to see as little of him as possible.
Yet her eyes sought him out immediately that evening when she entered the gold drawing room. Sought him out and found him in the vast room, almost as big as the ballroom, crowded with ladies clad in every hue of the rainbow and gentlemen all in stark black and white.
Evening dress suited Rusholme. Orange did not suit the lady at his side, but judging by descriptions circulating below stairs she was a duke’s daughter, Lady Estella something. He didn’t appear to be enjoying himself, not until he looked up at the sound of pipe and tabor and saw her.
