“What happened?” their mother cried. Horror wreathed the unwrinkled planes of her face.
“I was nearly trampled by a horse.” Poppy happily buttered a piece of toast. She spoke with the same casualness of one remarking upon the weather.
Sin propped his elbows on the edge of the table. “Trampled by a horse?” Concern laced those four words.
She released a slow, relieved breath. That had always been the manner of brother he was; exasperated with his sisters’ scrapes and schemes, but ultimately he’d lay down his own life for their happiness. Poppy had the good sense to realize as much and it appeared her sister had sense enough to not mention—
“But Lord St. Cyr is rather impressive upon his mount and stopped just before I was trampled.”
A whole stream of frustrated curses ran through Prudence’s head at her garrulous sister’s generous sharing of information.
Their mother sank back in her chair, flummoxed. “Lord St. Cyr.”
Prudence wished to know just what those three particular repeated words indicated. Displeasure? Approval? By the panic lighting their mother’s eyes, she’d wager it was not the latter.
“And Lord Maxwell saved Sir Faithful.” Poppy edged forward in her seat and directed her question across the table at Sin. “Do you know him well? The earl has three dogs and I do very much prefer gentlemen who have dogs. You can tell a good deal about a man who keeps a dog.” From the foot of her chair, Sir Faithful yapped twice, in apparent canine agreement.
Their befuddled brother gave his head a slow shake. “Prefer gentlemen who have dogs?” He scrubbed his furrowed brow. “You are not to prefer any gentlemen,” he bit out. “Dogs or not.”
For a sliver of a moment, Prudence hung on to the hope that Sin would be content to direct his ire at his youngest sister. Alas, Sin had always been too savvy. “And you,” he snapped, swiveling his focus back to her. “What is this of Lord St. Cyr?”
Her mind raced in search of a pacifying response. Prudence feigned a smile and then dabbed her lips with her white napkin. “What of him?” It mattered not that she’d been so fixed on thoughts of Christian she’d not touched a bite of her food. And more importantly…what did her brother know about Christian? “Just how do you know him?” she asked with a deliberately infused boredom in her tone.
“His mother is hosting a ball later this week. We are to attend,” Juliet supplied for her husband. “Beyond that and his reputation as a war hero, I do not know much about the gentleman.”
Prudence’s heart thumped madly and she swung her attention over to her sister-in-law’s gently knowing gaze. They were to attend a ball hosted by his mother? Suddenly, she who’d despised any and every single invite issued that Season, found herself energized with excitement. Schooling her features, she looked to her brother. “So you know him well, then?” she asked with a flounce of her curls.
“What would make you believe I know him?” Sin rejoined. “Could it have been the pointed warning I gave you after Drake’s ball last evening to steer clear of the man?”
“Yes.” After all, a pointed warning, as he referred to it, really didn’t tell a woman much about a gentleman and instead only intrigued her all the more. At the low growl rumbling in Sin’s chest, Prudence frowned. “You were being sarcastic.”
“I was,” he snapped.
Then, she’d always been dreadful at sorting through that sarcasm. More so now that it pertained to her marquess.
“Sarcasm is not at all becoming of anyone,” Penelope pointed out, as she buttered a roll. “Isn’t that correct, Juliet?”
“Indeed, it is.” Their sister-in-law favored her husband with another frown.
Prudence scrambled forward in her chair, hopelessly ruining all earlier attempts at indifference. “You failed to mention last evening just what you know of the marquess.” How could her brother, all these years, not have made mention of the gentleman who’d been the first to brave the gossips to partner her in a set? Or who’d looked upon her artwork and done so without a hint of judgment.
Mother and Sin replied in unison. “He is a rogue.”
“So are you,” Poppy pointed out and this time Prudence could have kissed her for that very accurate, very reproachful charge. Her youngest sister looked to their pinch-mouthed mama. “Not you, Mother. You are not a rogue. I was referring to Sin. Sin is a rogue. Er…” she glanced over at Juliet who wore a wry smile. “That is, he was a rogue. He has not been since he fell so hopelessly in love with you, Juliet.”
With attention on Poppy, Prudence used the well-orchestrated diversion to quietly push back her chair and rise slowly to her feet. The last place she cared to discuss the man who’d set her heart aflutter was before the entire Tidemore family.
“Why, thank you for that reassurance, Poppy,” Juliet murmured.
“Will everybody stop talking about me and focus on the person who should be focused on?”
Five pairs of eyes swung to Prudence. She gave a sheepish grin and glanced about. “Me?”
“Yes.” Her brother sat back in his chair and folded his arms at his chest. “You.”
She lifted her shoulders. “There is really nothing to discuss. Chris—Lord St. Cyr,” she swiftly amended when her brother’s black eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Rescued Poppy at the park.” Rescued her in the most heroic manner, just as he’d done for Prudence on two previous occasions. She gave a toss of her curls. “Perhaps it is Poppy you should look to for questions.”
“Does he have a dog?” Poppy called out. “I am not interested in a gentleman who does not have a dog.”
Penelope dissolved into a fit of laughter, which earned several reproachful stares that immediately silenced the only Tidemore sister who, at least on most occasions, made an effort at appeasing their mother.
“There is much to say,” Sin said tersely.
Annoyance unfurled through her at his highhanded treatment before a room of nosy family, no less. It mattered not that these were her family members, but rather that he’d still treat her like a child, who didn’t know her mind, and shouldn’t have an opinion. She placed her hands on the top of her chair and leaned forward, dipping her voice to a hushed whisper. “I will not discuss my affairs in the midst of the breakfast room—”
“Your affairs?” their mother cried. She looked to Sin. “What manner of affairs does she have with the Marquess of St. Cyr?”
“You are, correct, Prudence,” Sin said, ignoring their mother’s panicked question.
She blinked several times. She was? She was never correct. Not where he, Mother, and the occasional sister were concerned. “I am?”
“She is?” her mother said, shock underscoring her terse question.
“Indeed.” He shoved back his chair. “We will discuss this in my office.”
Oh, blast. However—She pursed her lips. When presented with this very public discussion of the marquess before her family, and the infuriating summons to his office, she opted for the latter. “Very well,” she said with a toss of her head. With that, Prudence turned on her heel, head held high and marched from the room. She did not break her stride, aware of him trailing behind her at a safe distance. “No doubt composing whatever it is he’ll say,” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” he called from behind her.
Knowing it would infuriate him, she remained stonily silent. He likely expected her to stomp as she’d done as a small girl and so it took the patience God gave a saint to maintain a ladylike pace. As they continued in a combative silence down the hall, annoyance with Sin and her mother grew. They would berate her and chide her as though she were still a troublesome girl about Christian, the Marquess of St. Cyr. What did they truly know about the gentleman? That he was a rogue? Well, that rogue had partnered her when no others had and had dismissed talk of scandal. Her rising fury with her family’s condemnation of him as well as her brother and mother’s public censure of her for merely mentioning his name fueled her steps.
&nbs
p; She reached Sin’s office, tossed the door open, and sailed inside. He’d no sooner closed the door behind him than she launched into her tirade. “How dare you question me before the family as though I’m a mere girl?” Prudence propped her hands upon her hips.
Her brother blinked rapidly, properly disarmed.
Then, she’d learned long ago how to silence Sin, if even just temporarily. “Chris—” Blast! He narrowed his eyes. “The marquess,” she belatedly substituted, “has been nothing but gentlemanly and kind.” Kind when nearly everyone else had been cold and cruel. Her brother’s easy dismissal of that commendable quality only further increased her ire. “It was only a dance, Sin.” A magical, wonderful exchange where his body had been flush to hers. Her cheeks warmed and she prayed her brother blamed the color on her temper.
Sin opened his mouth to speak.
“And yet you and Mother should act as though he absconded with our family jewels in the park this morning and not rescued Poppy?”
He tried again.
“Would you have had him trample her with his horse?”
Her brother folded his arms at the chest and quirked a single eyebrow. “Am I permitted to respond this time?”
“Yes.” His drawn out sigh indicated she’d missed his very subtle sardonicism once more. “You were being sarcastic,” she complained under her breath.
“Indeed.” Wordlessly, he strolled past her and made his way over to the sideboard. He quickly poured himself a brandy, and then seemed to think better of it, and splashed several more fingerfuls into his glass.
Prudence folded her hands primly before her. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that it was entirely too early for a person to be drinking spirits, but considering the discussion her brother had planned, she rather thought needling him about his early morning drink preference hardly seemed wise.
Glass in hand, Sin carried it over to his desk. He pulled back the leather winged back chair then sat. And Prudence was left to stand there like the recalcitrant child, awaiting an audience with her brother who’d never had a hope of taming either her or any of their sisters. Taking away his upper hand, she strode over with bold steps and took the seat across from him. “Well?” she prodded when he said nothing else on it.
“What would you have me say?” he asked, studying her over the rim of his glass.
She snorted. “Surely something, as you called me away from the breakfast table like a child who’d been caught sneaking pastries from Cook’s kitchens.”
The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips and he shook his head in a sad, almost regretful manner. “You are grown up,” he said, more to himself.
As such, she didn’t think it necessary to point out she and all her sisters had been forced to grow up nearly three years ago with the scandals that had rocked their family. “I do not need to be lectured,” she said quietly. “Not where Lord St. Cyr is concerned.”
“Not lectured,” Sin reclined in his seat. “Warned.” He rolled his snifter between his palms. “The man is a rogue.”
“You were a rogue,” she pointed out Poppy’s earlier reminder.
His mouth tightened. “This is different.” Only in an older brother’s world could it be considered so.
Prudence pursed her lips. “No, no it isn’t. You were a rogue and you have been reformed.”
He swept his dark lashes down. “Do you want to know the marquess’ story?”
She hesitated, for it somehow felt like a betrayal of sorts taking pieces of gossip about him, even the kind that came from her brother. Prudence gave a slight nod.
“Then allow me to tell you. He returned from war, heralded as a hero. In that time, the man carried on, and still carries on,” he said placing a strident emphasis on those words. “With scandalous ladies.” Her heart tightened at that information so casually tossed out. “He frequents clubs that I myself no longer frequent. And…” She braced for his response, holding her breath with dreaded anticipation. He leaned forward and pressed his arms upon the surface of the desk, his glass between his hands. “And there are rumors he is in quite deep.”
In quite deep? Prudence angled her head.
“In dun territory,” her brother said bluntly. “Which is only lent credence by his sudden foray into respectability.” He held up a finger. “And that is the difference between St. Cyr and myself. I never sought out a lady because of her material wealth.” Sin downed a long swallow of his brandy and then set his glass down with a hard thunk.
Prudence stared at the immaculate surface of her brother’s desk. Could it be? Christian was in the market for a wife. Yet, for a waltz and a chance meeting in the park, there had been no indication of real interest on the gentleman’s part. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true. “…If we are to speak on intimate matters, at the very least you can refer to me by my Christian name…” A gentleman who was merely being polite to a stranger in the park would not volunteer the use of his Christian name. “I don’t know why you are telling me this,” she said at last, hating that faint quaver to her words.
“You do, Prudence.” Sin spoke with such a gentle concern that some of the fight drained out of her.
And yet, she tightened her mouth and held her brother’s gaze square on. “Very well,” she said, capitulating. “You would question an interest I’ve never openly declared to anyone about the Marquess of St. Cyr based on what? His reputation as a rogue?” She gave her head a disgusted shake. “You would condemn him and judge him for the words bandied about the gossip columns. You would do that when I, and Penelope, and Poppy, are all victims of that same gossip for decisions made by you in wedding our governess and Patrina in eloping with that same woman’s brother? We are all immoral, shameful people,” she said, bandying those words whispered loudly by society. “Blood will tell.”
A spasm briefly contorted Sin’s face, but she shoved aside guilt. “I do not know the marquess. I do not know his personal circumstances.” She knew but the faintest pieces of himself he’d shared in Hyde Park; small slivers, yet revealing words that said so very much about him. “But neither will I play judge and executioner to his reputation. I am not that person and you,” she gave him a hard look, “are not that man. We both don’t wish to be judged, so who are we to do the same to someone else?” Considering the matter concluded, Prudence pushed back the chair and the legs scraped along the hardwood floor. She stood then started across the room, only pausing when she reached the door. She stared at the wood panel a long moment and then cast a final look at her brother. “And for what it is worth to you, he merely danced with me, Sin.” A dratted sheen of tears stung her eyes. “Danced with me when no other gentleman has.”
“Drake—”
A half-sob, half-laugh burst from her lips. Lord Drake and Sin’s relationship went back to their days at Eton. Those two men would walk through the bowels of hell for one another. “If you say Lady Drake’s husband danced with me, I am going to wallop you.” Such a man and his kindhearted marchioness would never dare give the cut direct to the Tidemores—or anyone for that matter.
Regret flared in his eyes and he wisely fell silent.
“So, please just allow me the pleasure of having waltzed…” She continued over him when he went to speak. “…with a gentleman who is not my brother or coerced by my brother.”
Her brother stood slowly. “Prudence, it is just the start of the Season—”
She held up a palm. “Please don’t.” If she had to sit through month after month, year after year, of such unbearable disdain and open censure, she’d go mad. “Now, if you will excuse me?” she said stiffly and giving a snap of her ruffled white skirts, she turned on her heel and left. Wishing, as she did, that she would know the pleasure to be had on the dance floor once more—but not with any gentleman.
Rather, Christian, the Marquess of St. Cyr.
Chapter 8
Lesson Eight
Most balls are tedious. But some are beneficial in garnering the attention of the gentleman whose af
fections you desire…
Only in the glittering world of London Society with a man facing financial ruin, would hosting a lavish ball with every and any member of the peerage invited make logical sense to all.
From across the ballroom, Christian took in his mother, the consummate hostess conversing with Lady Danvers, a widow, rumored to be worth a fortune, and notoriously lusty in bed. He could only speak to the latter with any real certainty. Just then, his mother looked up. A frown turned her lips and climbed all the way to her eyes as she made her leave of Lady Danvers then started with a military precision through the ballroom, past her guests, and over to his side. He gave her a lazy grin. “Mother—”
She swatted him with her fan. “Oh, Christian, you are to be looking for a wife.”
Christian silently cursed and stole a glance about to determine whether anyone had heard his mother’s too-revealing statement. “This is hardly the place,” he said from the side of his mouth. God love his mother. Sweet, kind, and usually smiling, she was not at all like the stern-faced Society matrons. Neither was she, however, the most clever of ladies. He took a swallow of his champagne.
She wrung her hands together. “You are indeed, correct.” Then a cheery smile lit her plump cheeks. “Would you allow me to introduce you to Lady Danvers—?”
Christian promptly choked on his drink. Egads, surely this was his punishment for spending the better part of these years a rogue.
“Oh, dear,” his mother said and slapped him on the back in the same way she’d done when he’d been a boy of eight who’d choked on his peppermint. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine,” he hurried to reassure her. There was something sinful in the prospect of being introduced to a former lover by one’s mother.
“You’re certain?” she asked, worrying her lower lip.
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