Willing Love

by Mary Jean Adams

  However, there were others in the room she knew quite well. And, frankly, loathed.

  Prudence sipped her punch, its sweetness stark against the bitter taste in her mouth as she watched the men whom she had known since they were little more than boys. Their sartorial splendor, powdered wigs atop their heads and English lace peeking from every cuff and hem, didn’t change who they were in her eyes.

  These were the classmates who had made her life a living hell. In the last four years, most had graduated from prestigious institutions of higher learning and were destined for important positions in the colonial government or in business. This would be their last summer in Rhode Island for some time, perhaps forever. She had heard rumors of a few going directly into trade, perhaps spurred on by need but more likely by ambition.

  She glanced around, trying to guess the fortunes of each of them. If their gazes lingered, she glared at them over the rim of her punch glass, defying them to taunt her in the Sheridans’ ballroom. It had been four years since she had seen most of them, but in their pretentious looks, she couldn’t help but see the taunting faces of the adolescents they had been.

  Suddenly, like a weight removed from her back, the pressure of all eyes upon her eased, and Prudence glanced up. Mr. Evan stood in the entrance to the ballroom.

  She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. At least she wouldn’t be left to face the wolves alone.

  Even if he hadn’t been the second half of tonight’s entertainment, Mr. Evan would have drawn attention. Undoubtedly, he had borrowed his suit of green silk velvet, but it fit like a glove across his broad shoulders and narrow hips. The only ornamentation, a piping of gold and silver, ran down the edges of his lapels. Even his neck cloth was understated, tied beneath a collar that extended nearly to his ears and made him look even taller and, perhaps, slightly menacing.

  He wore his dark hair tied back in a simple tail. No periwig or powder hid his thick, ebony locks. In more traditional colonies, it might be seen as a political statement, a rebellion against the formality that served as a symbol of a man’s position in society and fealty to English customs. In Rhode Island, such a statement would either be embraced or frowned upon, depending on the company one kept.

  Prudence decided she rather liked it. Tonight, even the shop keepers had dug out their finest, and compared to the embroidered, frilled and powdered guests around him, Mr. Evan’s elegant but minimalist attire made him appear somehow more of a man.

  He turned to Mrs. Sheridan, and the middle-aged woman beamed up at him as though she had discovered a prize on her doorstep. Mr. Evan bent and whispered something near her ear that made the woman blush and fan herself.

  Was her fiancé flirting with their hostess?

  A sudden surge of female possessiveness propelled Prudence forward, but a cantankerous voice from along the back wall stopped her mid-step.

  “I hear he grew up in an orphanage in England.”

  Mrs. Grendel. Prudence had heard the voice since she was a child. Most of Newport had due to the old lady’s dual misfortunes. First of all, she liked to gossip. Unfortunately, she was also hard of hearing and assumed everyone else was as well. Prudence had been the subject of her famous harangues more than once.

  “Shush, Mrs. Grendel,” her hired companion, Miss Avery, said.

  “Don’t shush me, girl. I know what I’m talking about. Thinks he can become one of us just by marrying the Ashcroft heiress.”

  Prudence really did wish Miss Avery wouldn’t hush her companion so much. She could be almost as annoying as the old woman at times. And besides, Mrs. Grendel had finally hit upon a topic worth listening to.

  Prudence had known Mr. Evan grew up in an orphanage, but he claimed to be Welsh, not English. Perhaps Mrs. Grendel had the details wrong.

  Besides, what did it matter where he grew up? The Ashcroft fortune had been built by men of average means and a doubtful lineage, as had most of Rhode Island. Women like Mrs. Grendel loved to pretend they were some sort of American aristocracy. If Grandma Rachel’s accounts were correct, Mrs. Grendel was the great granddaughter of a man who had chosen America over debtors’ prison.

  She scanned the guests, some staring with open curiosity toward the door, others whispering behind fans or gloved hands. Perhaps they didn’t mean to be cruel, but she knew all too well how barbed a whisper could be. Prudence sipped her punch and marveled at her sudden urge to protect her fiancé, all six-foot plus of him, from her neighbors.

  “Thinking about me?”

  The voice in her ear made Prudence jump, and a small droplet of punch dripped down her chin and landed just above her neckline. Mr. Evan came to stand in front of her just in time to watch it form a crimson trail over one soft lobe and snake its way down the valley between her breasts.

  “Here, let me get that for you,” he said, without a hint of suggestion in his tone.

  Prudence’s face heated until she imagined she was as red as the punch. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Very well, then.” Mr. Evan surveyed the assembled guests. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”

  “They’re no friends of mine.” Prudence covertly dabbed at her chest with a silk handkerchief.

  “Oh, come now. I see the way all the men follow you with their eyes. They are as fascinated with you as I am.” He pursed his lips. “The women, too, it seems.”

  “It’s not me that has them captivated. It’s us.” Prudence jammed the stained handkerchief back in her reticule. “You do realize we are tonight’s entertainment, don’t you?”

  “Ah, so that explains why I received an invitation to a party given by people I’ve never met.” Mr. Evan’s sardonic tone suggested he had already figured out the reason for the invitation. “As I see it, we have two choices. Either we give them what they want or we don’t. Either way, we should enjoy ourselves, don’t you think?”

  He looked down at Prudence as though the decision were entirely hers.

  He was right. They could behave as well or as poorly as they chose. They could have a pleasant evening or not. It really made no difference to those around her. They had been invited to provide the entertainment for the evening, and their audience didn’t care a whit how they felt about it. Certainly no more so than the audience at the theater cared about whether the actors enjoyed performing their parts. In the end, they might as well enjoy themselves.

  “Very well.” Prudence hooked a hand around Mr. Evan’s elbow. “Let’s go meet some of my friends, shall we?”

  Prudence led Mr. Evan into the ballroom and toward a small cluster of elderly men. She didn’t yet have the nerve to introduce him to anyone who knew her well, and these men seemed harmless enough. She recognized most of them as local merchants, the ones who bought the goods Ashcroft & Sons imported. During hard times, her grandmother had floated more than one business loan or allowed them to sell goods on consignment. Chances were excellent these men would have a vested interest in fostering a strong relationship with the new owners of Ashcroft.

  Now, if she could just remember their names.

  “Ah, Miss Prudence, how nice to see you again.” An elderly man sporting a well-fashioned wig that marked him as prosperous, whatever his business was, held out a hand to her.

  “Mr. Cowper.” She dug his name from the recesses of her memory. She set her gloved hand in his, and he gave it a squeeze. “It is good to see you again, too, sir.”

  “I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother, my dear. She will be profoundly missed.” His eyes held true kindness.

  “I thank you, Mr. Cowper,” she said, deciding she had chosen the first introduction well.

  It was now or never.

  “Mr. Cowper, might I introduce you to my fiancé, Mr. Evan? Mr. Evan, this is Mr. Cowper.”

  Mr. Cowper made an elegant bow. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Mr. Evan returned the bow.

  “What brings you to Newport, Mr. Evan?” He turned sparkling eyes on Pruden
ce. “Aside from the obvious attractions, that is.”

  Unexpected panic tightened like hands around Prudence’s throat. How much would Mr. Evan tell Mr. Cowper? She should have thought to take him aside and discuss it before making the rounds.

  “Oh, Mr. Evan is a cousin of mine.” Prudence concocted her own story and whispered a silent prayer that Mr. Evan would be willing to follow her lead for once. “A distant cousin,” she added, noting the confusion that settled on Mr. Cowper’s face. “He is visiting here from, um…Portugal.”

  Now what had made her say that? Mr. Evan cocked an eyebrow at her as if to ask the same thing.

  “I see, sir. Are you an importer as well?”

  Mr. Evan opened his mouth, but Prudence answered for him. “He is, Mr. Cowper.” She recalled some of the products her grandmother had imported from Portugal. “His company imports the most beautiful blue and white tiles you’ve ever seen.”

  “I see,” Mr. Cowper said again, with an interest that set Prudence’s insides to squirming.

  What kind of corner had she backed herself into? Aside from his dark hair and tanned skin, Mr. Evan didn’t look remotely Portuguese. To make matters worse, she suddenly remembered Mr. Cowper had been a business associate of her grandmother’s for years. His company specialized in a type of elegant porcelains made in only one country in the world. Portugal.

  “Sim, Senhor. They are called azulejos and are common in my homeland.” Mr. Evan gave a smart little bow that looked surprisingly European.

  Prudence almost giggled with relief even as she wondered how on earth Mr. Evan knew what the tiles were called when she couldn’t even remember herself. Perhaps he had spent time in Portugal after leaving Wales. What she didn’t know about her fiancé could fill volumes.

  After a brief but animated discussion about the prospects of covering the homes of Rhode Island with the traditional Portuguese tiles, Mr. Cowper said, “Well, sir, I congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials. I’ve known Prudence since she was a young girl, and she is something special. I wish you both well.”

  “Obrigado, Senhor,” Mr. Evan said, with such a pronounced Welsh accent that Prudence suspected he amused himself at the expense of her nerves.

  When Mr. Cowper didn’t seem to notice, she decided the introduction had gone as well as could be hoped, and the time had come to move on to deeper waters. Leaving off the Portuguese inspiration, Prudence introduced him to one after another of her schoolmates, neighbors, and assorted associates of Rachel Ashcroft’s. For the latter, she had to dig deeply to recall names and the basis for their association. It made her realize how being away at school had distanced her from the business.

  Mr. Evan chatted amiably with each of the people he met, amazing Prudence with his ability to discuss matters of all kinds. For a stable master, he knew a surprising amount about the business of importation.

  With the society matrons, he mostly listened, nodding at their wisdom. At one point, Prudence stifled a chuckle behind her fan as he enthusiastically agreed with the octogenarian, Mrs. Carter, that hooped skirts were positively scandalous.

  He readily joined in on discussions of business and political matters with the men, and Prudence found herself feeling rather proud of her future husband. He might not have the same education and training as the men around him, but they were so taken with his business acumen that they treated him as an equal. They even listened to his advice, hanging on every word.

  Even Prudence’s old schoolmates seemed to have forgotten the taunts they had leveled at her over the years. While she wouldn’t exactly call them friendly, they treated her with a certain level of respect. She supposed there was something to be said for having a fiancé at one’s side, especially one that still radiated a certain air of masculine strength despite his fancy clothes.

  The doors to the ballroom opened, and a soft draft brushed Prudence’s face. She glanced up to see who had entered, eager to continue her introductions to all comers. Her heart seemed to stop beating.

  Please. Not him. Not now.

  Prudence’s gaze darted about the ballroom. She could duck out onto the balcony, but she dare not go alone. She could easily run into one of her less-than-friendly schoolmates. Inviting Mr. Evan to join her on the balcony was out of the question, too. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  Prudence spied a door just to the side of the long buffet table. It was probably used by servants, but at the moment she didn’t care where it led. Even the kitchen would do.

  “Mr. Evan, I wonder if you might excuse me. I’m feeling rather weary.” Having never been faint in her life, Prudence had to conjure up images of what she had seen other women do in such a condition. She patted her décolletage with her gloved hand and attempted a wilted look intended to emphasize her frail condition. “I believe I’ll find the lady’s retiring room if you don’t mind.”

  Mr. Evan’s brows drew together over his slightly crooked nose. “Would you like to return home?”

  The idea had its merits, but right now, her old nemesis barred the way. She could hardly grab Mr. Evan’s elbow and drag him to the door without being seen.

  “No, that’s all right. I think I just need a few minutes away from the heat of the crowd.”

  “All right, then,” Mr. Evan said.

  “Don’t be too long, Miss Ashcroft,” Mr. Pettigrew said. Prudence remembered him as one of the bankers her grandmother had visited from time to time. “The dancing will be starting soon, and you won’t want to miss the opportunity to dance with your fiancé.”

  “No, of course not, Mr. Pettigrew. Thank you for reminding me.” She gave him a smile she hoped appeared convincing then headed for the small door.

  Prudence cracked open the door only to have her suspicions confirmed. Had guests been meant to head in this direction, the hallway would have been lit with wall sconces, and there would be servants stationed at every turn to provide directions. After the bright light of the ballroom, this particular passage seemed as dark as a cellar.

  She glanced over her shoulder to be sure no one watched then ducked inside.

  At least she was unlikely to run into him back here. She could linger awhile then peek into the ballroom to gauge when she could safely collect Mr. Evan and leave. Prudence relaxed against the wall, ready to wait out her nemesis for however long it took.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Would you excuse me, Mr. Pettigrew? I think I need to check on my fiancée,” Evan said the moment the loquacious banker paused to catch a breath.

  Mr. Pettigrew had been expounding on the rebellious behavior of some of his fellow “Rogue Islanders” as he called them. Evan would have listened with interest at any other time, but right now, he was concerned for Prudence.

  “Yes, of course. You should do that.”

  Mr. Pettigrew scanned the guests around him, caught the eye of one, and was off without another word.

  Evan opened the door through which Prudence had disappeared and was surprised to find a narrow corridor on the opposite side. He turned to scan the ballroom, as though she might have slipped past him while he was engaged with Pettigrew. There was no sign of her among the brightly dressed guests mingling about the buffet tables and dance floor. He turned and took a few hesitant steps into the darkness.

  “One, two, three. Now twirl. No, Peter, you take Celia’s hand and walk counterclockwise.” Prudence’s lively voice pierced the gloom like a ray of sunshine.

  “What’s counterclockwise?” a young voice asked.

  “It’s this way, silly,” and even younger voice answered.

  Evan followed the sound up a flight of stairs, each step creaking under his tread. Nestled in the farthest corner of the house, the door to a room stood open, warm yellow light pouring from within. Evan crept toward it.

  Prudence stood in the middle of what looked like a nursery surrounded by six children of varying ages. With what little he knew of children, Evan judged the youngest, a girl, to be about three while the oldest was a
boy of no more than eight or nine.

  Prudence demonstrated a dance to the oldest boy and another girl of about six or seven. She twirled about in time to the music drifting up from the ballroom. The boy screwed up his face, clearly confounded by the steps. The girl, who looked enough like the lad that Evan surmised she was his sister, pursed her lips as though she would like nothing more than to throttle him.

  Evan stood in the doorway of the nursery, enthralled. He hadn’t even considered whether Prudence wanted children. Hell, he hadn’t even considered whether he wanted them. But here she was, delight shining on her flushed face, surrounded by them. It was where she belonged.

  If he had any control over it, the notion that Ashcrofts could only have one child would be put to rest.

  “I want to dance, too!” the youngest wailed, tugging at Prudence’s skirt.

  “Of course you do, Elizabeth.”

  She scooped the toddler up and twirled about the room with her. The joy on the little girl’s face nearly matched Prudence’s. Evan ducked into the shadows of the hallway when an enthusiastic pirouette that had Elizabeth giggling in delight brought them close.

  “I want a new partner.” The girl who Prudence had been instructing said with a stamp of her foot.

  “Fine with me, Celia.” Her brother rolled his eyes and plopped into a settee at the edge of the room. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  All eyes turned toward Evan. Prudence stopped twirling just an arm’s length away. She turned and teetered precariously with little Elizabeth still in her arms. Evan reached out to grab her elbow and steady her.

  Prudence’s cheeks were flushed from exertion and her eyes bright with merriment. Elizabeth ducked her face into Prudence’s shoulder, turning only slightly so she could cast a sidelong glance at the strange man who had captured her new friend’s attention.

  “I can’t dance with him. He’s much too tall,” Celia said.

  Neither Evan nor Prudence turned her way.

  “Miss Prudence could dance with him,” one of the other children suggested.