Her words ran eerily through him, dragging forth the never gone and buried guilt of Toulouse. Christian tightened his mouth. “That is the way, isn’t it,” he responded more to himself.
Prudence dropped her gaze to the frozen ground. By her sudden quiet, she’d erroneously drawn the conclusion he spoke of her circumstances. “I assure you,” he said with a powerful need to restore her to her previous cheer. “I am not one who would hold another’s missteps against you. Nor would I fault you for any you yourself might have made.”
The lady’s eyes were a window into her soul. Admiration, joy, gratitude all lit their expressive, blue depths. Uncomfortable with that show of undeserved emotion, he was grateful as they came to a stop beside a small, leather book, opened haphazardly upon its spine. The wind tugged at one lone page. Christian knelt to retrieve the sketchpad. “May I?”
She hesitated. A becoming, pink blush stained her cheeks and then she gave a short nod.
Christian picked the leather-covered book up and slowly turned the pages. She was…He wrinkled his brow. She was…
“I’m rather horr—er dreadful,” she said, scuffing the earth with the tip of her black boot. That faint, distracted movement stirred her skirts ever so slightly that, at his respective angle, he detected the flash of trim ankles.
“There is nothing—” he froze mid-sentence, transfixed by that slim ankle. He who’d taken countless beauties to his bed and reveled in their lush, naked forms, now found himself captivated by…of all things…an ankle. Her ankle? God help him. “There is nothing dreadful about you,” he managed to finish, his tone gruff.
She snorted. “That is very kind of you, my lord, but I know my talents.”
By God, she had no idea he knelt at her feet, hungering after that point where her foot met her leg. Lynette had been such a practiced coquette, she would have tugged the fabric of her gown higher and exposed the length of her leg for his pleasures. Yet, a powerful wave of lust slammed into him at the innocence of Prudence’s artlessness. What in blazes? Christian gave his head a shake to dispel the unwitting comparison. He lifted his gaze to hers and forced words out past tight lips. “You do not give your talents enough credit, my lady.”
Prudence pointed to the book in his hand. “Or in this case, lack of talents. But I do enjoy it and so I try because not trying is worse than failure.” The young woman wrinkled her nose. “Or that is what my governess…er…my now sister-in-law used to say. I didn’t quite realize what she meant at the time but…” Her words trailed off. And then she scuffed the tip of her boot once more.
He stared bemusedly up at her; this woman, so wholly lacking in artifice. Lynette had been so very skilled in batting her lashes and forcing heat to her cheeks that he’d come to believe all women masters in the skill of contrived innocence where matters of the heart were concerned. As such, he’d vowed to avoid those naively innocent, sweet young ladies with hope in their eyes. Something about this particular woman pulled at him. Christian looked down at the book in his suddenly unsteady hands and turned the pages one at a time.
A rose bush.
“I used to sketch inanimate objects.” Prudence pointed a gloved finger at the top of the page. “I love the way summer leaves dance in the breeze, more graceful than any waltzing couple.”
At the wistful quality to her tone, he looked up. Eight years ago, he’d traded his innocence for the adventure to be had upon the battlefield. Only, life had proven there was nothing grand or good about war. It was a glut of death and dying and in the midst of that loss of life, was the death of goodness as well. Prudence possessed a joyous youthfulness that pulled him so that he wanted to lose himself in all the good that still lived.
She wetted her lips. “What is it?”
Shoving aside the foolish yearnings of what would never be, he snapped the book closed. “You are a romantic, Prudence.” Those words were spoken as an intended reminder, a warning to him. He did not dally with romantics. They were the ones who made him out to be a war hero and only deepened the guilt for his past failures.
“My brother accuses me of such,” she said. She gave him a slow, impudent wink. “But I prefer to think of it as hopeful.”
Once, he’d clung to that fragile sentiment called hope. After bearing witness to the countless men felled by the edge of a blade or a musket ball, he’d learned hope was nothing more than a dream with which to hang your life upon. “Hope and romance have no place beyond anywhere but the pages of a book or sonnet.”
She looked as though he’d kicked her kitten. “Surely, you do not believe that.”
“I do,” he replied without hesitation and climbed to his feet. “Hope and romance are artificial sentiments a person takes on to give oneself an escape from life.”
By the disapproving frown on her lips, the lady was unappreciative of his candid opinion. “It is a sad way to go through the world believing romance and hope are nothing more than mere fiction, my lord.”
Deep inside, regret pulled at him. Before he’d been jaded by life, war, his own failings, he’d also been of a similar opinion on the sentiments the lady so valued. And for one foolish moment, he wished he’d retained a piece of the youth he’d been. Wished he’d not been scarred inside and out, in ways that would shock the joyful innocence from her. “Christian.”
She cocked her head.
He moved closer, angling his body in a way that shielded her from the furious gaze of her maid some twenty yards away. “If we are to talk on intimate matters, at the very least you can refer to me by my Christian name.”
The lady trailed the tip of her tongue over the seam of her lips and shifted back and forth on her feet. At that innocent gesture, he dipped his gaze to the full flesh of her plump lips and a sudden hunger slapped at him to explore the contour of her mouth. His request made her uneasy; that much was clear. Then, she was far bolder and braver than all the simpering young debutantes he’d avoided before this one. “Very well. It is a sad way to go through the world believing romance and hope are fake, Christian.”
His lips twitched at her stern admonishment as with her tart response she drove back all the haunting thoughts that had previously intruded on the joy of their meeting.
Prudence narrowed her eyes into impenetrable slits. “Are you laughing at me?”
Christian schooled his features. “Never.”
She studied him for a long while, taking in the sincerity of that pledge, and then nodded.
He held up her sketchpad. “May I?”
The spirited miss folded her arms at her chest. “Are you attempting to change the subject, my lord?”
“Christian,” he corrected. “And yes.”
A sharp laugh burst from her lips. “Oh, very well, then.”
He resumed his examination of her work. A dog. Or at the very least it had four legs and whiskers. It could very well be a cat. The black mongrel who’d nearly unseated him yapped in the distance. Christian narrowed his eyes. Yes, it was very likely the dog. He continued flipping through the book.
A flower.
A…
A…
If his penniless marquisate were dependent upon his answering, he’d be stripped of his title in an instant.
“A canary,” she supplied helpfully.
“Of course,” he said instantly, swiftly turning the page. He made to turn the next, when she shot a hand out and retrieved her folio from his grasp.
“Well.” The high-pitched quality of that one word utterance hinted at her unease. “I should return to my sister.”
Christian followed her gaze to her sister, happily chatting off a weary-looking Maxwell’s ear. He looked again to Prudence and inclined his head. “Shall we?”
The young lady stared at his elbow a moment and then placed her fingertips upon his sleeve. Christian slid his gaze to her hand and stilled. He locked his eyes on those long, graceful, gloved fingers curled about his bicep. What bliss would it be to know that hand curled about his length. His mouth went dry with
the need.
“Is something the matter?”
That hesitant question yanked him back. Heat burned his neck. “Not at all.” What madness had she wrought upon him?
They moved along the same path they’d walked a short while ago. One thing was certain, whatever image had been contained upon the next page of Prudence Tidemore’s sketchpad had been something very important to the lady. His interest redoubled and he felt a wave of disappointment when they reached her maid’s side.
The servant’s shoulders sagged in apparent relief. Ah, the young woman had sense enough to know that her mistress had no place with his roguish self. Ignoring the maid’s stern countenance, Christian captured Prudence’s spare fingers and raised her gloved hand to his lips. If the lady were wise, she’d draw her hand back from his roguish grip. Instead, her eyes formed wide moons and she allowed him to continue clasping her fingers. “It was a pleasure again seeing you.” How many previous times had he uttered those very words to other women, words that had been nothing more than the polite, expected response? This admission to Prudence, however, was born only of truth.
She smiled softly. “It seems you are always there to save me. The soppy water. The waltz. Now, Poppy.”
“I certainly did not require saving,” the youngest Tidemore sister groused from where she stood beside Maxwell.
Prudence glared at her sister and then cleared her throat. “Regardless, I thank you for coming to my rescue. Again.” The young lady lingered with hesitancy in her expressive eyes but then with another quick curtsy, hurried off.
He stared after her a long moment. The wind tugged at the lady’s cloak and he squinted in the distance, hoping for another glimpse of her trim ankles. As though feeling his gaze upon her, she stole a glance over her shoulder and he’d have to be blind to fail to see the wide smile on her full lips.
“You should marry her,” Maxwell said at his side, pulling him back to the moment. Humor laced his words. “I’ll remind you again the lady is purported to possess a fat dowry. With the scandal surrounding her family, she can hardly be particular where her marital prospects are concerned.”
“Why, thank you for that generous endorsement.” He feigned a nonchalance into his response. Yet, he fisted his hands at his sides detesting his friend’s blunt, if accurately spoken, opinion on the lady’s circumstances. “Alas, I am in the market for a specific wife.” In a manner he hoped was dismissing, he turned and strode off in pursuit of his mount who was now chewing at a patch of grass under a barren elm tree.
“Ah, yes,” Maxwell said, effortlessly matching his stride. “An experienced, wealthy widow perhaps? A woman who will not mind your philandering ways and roguish reputation.”
He frowned at having his thoughts these past months tossed back at him. Uttered in that coolly mocking way, there was, well…something wrong with that particular marital goal. That something which moved beyond the whole loathsome, fortune hunting business. Regardless—“The lady does not fit into my marital schemes,” he said, collecting Valiant’s reins. Christian was too jaded for the Lady Prudence Tidemores of the world. She, with her talk of hope and romance, could never fit into his skeptical, broken existence. He climbed astride and then guided his mount around, back toward the riding path.
“Ah, that is unfortunate then, my friend.” Maxwell hooked his foot within the stirrup of his horse and swung his leg over the powerful creature’s back. “A lady looking at you with that adoration would be easier to pluck than a piece of low-hanging fruit.”
“Shove off,” he mumbled and then nudged Valiant forward. The early morning ride taken by him and Maxwell each day since they’d returned from war, and when they found themselves in London was an effort on both their parts, he suspected to clear the horrors that were made all the more vivid in the nighttime hours. Oh, they never spoke on it, but Christian had little doubt. They’d lived the same hell. Fought it. Side by side. Their morning customs generally had the effect of clearing those dark thoughts. Yet, this time it had not been a frantic ride within the empty grounds of Hyde Park to drive back the demons, but rather drive away the white skirt-wearing young lady with her rather deplorable sketches and her candid thoughts.
Chapter 7
Lesson Seven
Whatever you do around your family and friends, do not give any indication you are secretly thinking about a roguish gentleman…
Prudence shoved her fork around her plate. The noisy chatter of her siblings, mother, and sister-in-law echoed off the walls of the breakfast room. With such a chaotic gathering of family, it was deuced impossible to get a word in edgewise. The sometimes benefit, is that one could sit and mull one’s thoughts. Or, as best as one was able with the din of the bickering Poppy and Penelope. Her family’s preoccupation with anything but her allowed her to contemplate the Marquess of St. Cyr.
Christian.
…If we are to speak on intimate matters, at the very least you can refer to me by my Christian name.
An odd fluttering sensation filled her belly. The moment he had defied the whispers and gossip about her and her family to partner her in the most intimate of dances, she’d been hopelessly captivated. Then there was his bold, blatant dismissal of the gossip when she’d scandalously mentioned it to him earlier that morning. In a world where Prudence had long grown accustomed to cut directs and the uncertainty of honorable intentions from worthy gentlemen, Christian had demonstrated first in his actions in Lady Drake’s ballroom, then in his words at Hyde Park, that he was a man very different than the others.
She propped her chin on her hands and stared at the uneaten contents upon her plate of eggs and buttered bread. The rub of it was, Christian did not believe in love. Or romance. Or even hope.
This was dreadful, indeed. A gentleman who’d defied the whispers and gossip, and yet was so hopelessly unromantic.
Why, what manner of rogue was he? She wrinkled her nose. Not that she wanted him to be a rogue, per se. She rather detested the idea of him flirting with and smiling that half-grin which made her heart flutter on some other young woman. Or old matron. Anyone, really that was not her. But still, the scandal sheets indicated he was one of those sought-after gentlemen who was so at odds with the serious gentleman who spoke in such bleak terms.
“Why are you so quiet, Pru?”
Her brother’s booming question brought her head up. And of course, the heads of every other member of the Tidemore clan present. Her family fell silent and stared at Prudence.
Alas, she could always rely upon Poppy for a necessary distraction. “Bah, Prudence is never quiet.”
Her brother glowered and opened his mouth to say something.
“Jonathan,” his wife said quietly. Juliet shifted the two-year-old babe on her lap and, over the tiny girl’s red curls, gave him a long look.
The tense frown on Sin’s lips lifted as he turned a gentle smile on his wife and daughter. And sitting there, with his whispered words to Juliet and Rose lost to the length of the table, a potent longing slammed into her to know the joy and beauty of her own family. Sin looked to the nursemaid, who hopped to her feet. The young woman rushed over and collected Rose in her arms. Prudence curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. Well, drat, this indicated trouble indeed. Waiting until the child and nursemaid were gone, she hastily lowered her arm to her lap. “I was merely thinking.” She shifted under the scrutiny of the remaining Tidemores.
That should indeed silence her brother. He always said the last thing he cared to know about was what wickedly troublesome thoughts were turning through his sisters’ heads. Except Sin picked up his white napkin and brushed it over his lips. “Thinking,” he repeated as he set it down.
Oh, blast. He’d choose this moment to be the inquiring older brother? Prudence feigned her winningest smile. “Indeed, thinking.”
Her sister-in-law caught her eye. The fiery-haired woman blinked slowly and then she must have seen something revealing in Prudence’s smile for she placed a hand on her husband
’s. “I daresay it is hardly your responsibility to be the keeper of your sister’s thoughts.”
Ah, God love Juliet for never having been afraid to go toe-to-toe with the obstinate Sin.
“You have an odd look about you.” And damn her brother for being in one of his uncharacteristically stodgy, bothersome moods.
“Jonathan,” their mother and Juliet spoke in chiding unison.
“Do hush.” Juliet turned her gaze to Prudence and then held her stare. “I am certain if Prudence had something she wished to say, or something she wished to speak about, she would know she could confide in us, in the absolute strictest of confidence.” She gave her a meaningful look; the knowing kind that indicated she’d noted her silence and likely suspected her woolgathering had to do with a gentleman.
Prudence swallowed hard. She really wished, now more than ever, that she’d been a better charge to that woman who’d had the unenviable task of governess to her once-miserable, now hopefully improved, self.
“It is likely the scare we had this morning in Hyde Park,” Poppy intoned. She popped a piece of sausage into her mouth and chewed, as though not every member of the Tidemore clan now stared attentively at her.
“What scare?” their mother squawked. She looked to Sin, clearly expecting an earlish answer from the son who’d not even been present. “What scare?” she repeated when Poppy and Prudence said nothing.
“What scare?” Oh, bloody wonderful. Now Sin was parroting back their mother. These were dark days, indeed, if Sin was echoing the propriety-bound older woman.
“It is nothing,” Prudence said calmly to her mother. She gave a shudder praying that when she finally found love and had a family of her own that she’d not be the stodgy, overprotective sort.
“It is nothing? Or it was nothing?” Penelope piped in. “Because they are entirely different things. One suggests that particular something might still be happening. The other indicates it was in the—” At the glowers trained on her, her words trailed off. “What?” she asked defensively. “I’m merely pointing out that if something happened—”
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