Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Prudence’s heart started. “That is beautiful,” she blurted. Unlike her, who was not at all poetic.

  “You will find your forever husband.” And when said like that, so very romantic and very hopeful when Prudence herself wasn’t, she sighed. A mischievous and not at all marchioness-like twinkle lit the other woman’s eyes and she shifted closer. “Though,” she glanced about and her gaze landed on Prudence’s brother a moment, “sometimes you require help, too. We all do.”

  Her eyes flew wide as she followed the woman’s stare to over where Sin stood conversing with Juliet. “Sin helped you?” Before he’d been wed, he’d been a hopeless rogue. And yet, he’d apparently brought his best friend, the Marquess of Drake up to scratch for his forever betrothed. “Hmm,” she said to herself. “Well who knew he had a romantic soul before Juliet?”

  “Do not tell him I uttered a word on it,” the marchioness warned.

  Prudence marked an X on her heart. “Oh, you have my word, Lady Drake.” Suddenly, being the un-danced about lady at the edge of the ballroom was a good deal less dreary with the other woman near. Granted, it would be far better to have a gentleman who wanted to be near, coming over and asking to partner her in a—

  “Lady Drake, it is a pleasure.”

  Her heart started and she knew before she even fully faced the gentleman in possession of that voice who he was. She knew because she’d dreamed of him since that day outside Madame Bisset’s shop. Knew because she’d read of his name in the gossip sheets and knew he was purported to be a rogue. And knew because…well, she’d been looking for him not even moments ago.

  Lady Drake cleared her throat. Loudly. Which only served to indicate she’d likely cleared her throat in a like manner when Prudence had been woolgathering. “Lord St. Cyr, allow me to present Lady Prudence Tidemore, my dear friend.” Her heart warmed at the woman’s kind introduction. “Prudence, the Marquess of St. Cyr.”

  That effortless greeting belonged to a woman who knew the gentleman. A million questions that all necessitated an afternoon visit with the marchioness sprung to her lips.

  Lord St. Cyr sketched a deep bow, dislodging a loose, golden curl that tumbled over his eye. “Lady Prudence, will you allow me to partner you in the next set?”

  “Yes.” She winced at the breathless, and worse, desperate quality of that capitulation. Striving for the cool evinced by the marchioness herself, Prudence smoothed her palms over her skirts. “Or rather, that would be most agreeable, my lord.” Beyond agreeable for one who loved to dance as much as she did.

  The ghost of a smile played on his hard lips as he reached for the dance card dangling from her wrist. He quickly penned his name to her abysmally empty program.

  Prudence dipped her gaze and her heart tripped another beat. The waltz. The next waltz.

  “May I?” he asked, extending his elbow.

  Warmth unfurled within her belly at the intensity of his brown-eyed stare and she managed a nod. Placing her fingertips upon his midnight black coat sleeve, she allowed him to usher her onto the dance floor, to where other couples were now filling in for the respective dance.

  Prudence’s mouth went dry as he guided her hand upon his shoulder and then settled his large, heavy palm at her waist. The heat of his touch penetrated the thin fabric of his immaculate white gloves and the…well, the immaculate white of her gown. All the years of being the garrulous Tidemore went out Lady Drake’s proverbial window when presented with the dashing stranger who’d saved her those two months ago. From a bucket of water.

  The orchestra struck up the tune of the waltz and Lord St. Cyr guided her through the movements of the beloved dance.

  She stumbled a step and he expertly righted her. “I did not properly thank you for your rescue that day,” she said softly. Then it occurred to her that perhaps their first meeting was a good deal less memorable for the blond-haired man who could rival Apollo in his golden perfection. “We met at Bond Street,” she explained. “A shopkeeper tossed a basin of water out the steps and—”

  “I remember you just well, my lady,” he said quietly.

  “You do?” She was grinning like a lackwit but could not stifle the expression of joy.

  He nodded. “Indeed.”

  Prudence’s heart warmed. He remembered. Nay, he remembered her just well. What precisely did he mean with that just well? Just well enough. Just very well. Regardless of what manner he remembered her, people did not think of her beyond anything more than the scandal—that was not her own.

  “I was fascinated and left with questions.” He lowered his head and his breath fanned her lips. Prudence stumbled once more, but this faltering step had nothing to do with her uncooperative feet and everything to do with his nearness. Lord St. Cyr caught her closer to him. “Yes,” he said, drawing out that one syllable utterance. “I remember you very well.”

  “Wh-what did you remember about me that day?”

  He paused and she silently cursed her runaway tongue. “Not that you need to tell me,” she rushed to assure him. He cocked his head. “Unless you want to, that is.”

  “Well, for one,” he said quietly, his breath tickling her ear. “I—”

  She giggled and faltered and was quickly righted once more.

  “I—,” he began again, his lips so blasted near to the sensitive skin where her ear met her neck.

  A laugh burst from her lips and he angled his head as though trying to sort out whether she was having a laugh at his expense.

  “Th-I—” Oh, bloody hell, she was going to go and ruin all of this. Whatever this was. But one thing was certain. It would assuredly never be anything as long as she was openly laughing at the gentleman, in the midst of a crowded ballroom, no less. “I-I am sensitive on my neck and your breath has quite tickled me.”

  Blast, now she’d gone and mentioned her neck. Instead of a scandalized look from the young lord, a half-grin slowly turned his lips upward. “Are you always this honest?”

  “Yes,” she answered automatically. “My mother does not approve.” And hadn’t since Prudence had been a girl of five and had mentioned the chin whiskers upon just one of many nursemaids to be given the unenviable task of caring for the Tidemore girls.

  “I imagine not,” he said with an equal honesty.

  They shared a smile and in that instant, the hum of the crowd whispering and conversing dulled and faded so all Prudence heard was the haunting strands of the waltz and all she felt were his hands upon her person.

  No scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages. You are to be everything and all things proper. All the time.

  Now she knew why Mama had come up with that very important mantra. Well, that and the whole business of her elder sister being ruined by a scoundrel.

  “It is a crime that you do not dance more,” he said quietly.

  Uncertain how to respond to that softly spoken declaration, she wet her lips. “I am a horrid dancer.” She chose that unfortunate moment to miss a step and stomp upon his feet. “Th-that is horrible. Not, horrid. Mustn’t say horrid.” Mustn’t do all manner of things, such as stammer, and falter, and appreciate him in this openly, surely scandalous manner.

  “And whyever is that?”

  Had she said something? Her mind raced in an attempt to sort out what that something might have been. Horrid! Of course. “My governess observed my and my sisters’ overuse of that particular word—” He angled her close, burning her with the heat of his touch. “And advised us against using it,” she finished lamely. Oh, dear. Surely all the lords and ladies present saw the effect this stranger’s whispered words and firm touch were having upon her flyaway senses. She should care a good deal more about it, too. Then, she’d never been the proper sort.

  “You are an interesting young woman,” he murmured, his tone the same level of contemplative as though he now puzzled through life.

  A warm fluttering danced in her belly. In a world where she, in her dull skirts, blended with the sea of other white-wearing ladies, he
’d somehow found her interesting. “Thank you.” Her gaze landed on her mother. Who stood beside her brother. Who stood beside Juliet. All three wore matching frowns. Prudence quickly yanked her attention upward and tripped over the marquess’ feet.

  Lord St. Cyr tightened his grip upon her waist and a small gasp escaped her at the intimacy of that movement. Oh, dear. Her brother would sever the man’s hands from her person if he was still watching. “Nor do I require your thanks for my assistance that day.” The young marquess lowered his lips closer to her ear. “You were plenty thankful.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “Was I?” Her details of their first meeting involved breathless sighs and a fast-beating heart and the hope of seeing him again.

  “Indeed,” he said slightly inclining his head.

  The music drew to a slow, regretful stop and she mourned the end of this most magical of sets. They stood there a moment while couples filed from the dance floor, so that only they two remained. “I should go,” Prudence said, catching her lower lip between her teeth.

  Did she imagine his lingering gaze upon her mouth? “Yes, yes you should.” He made no immediate move to leave.

  Alas, the swift advancing figure of a scowling Sin from beyond the marquess’ shoulder propelled Prudence into reluctant movement. She dropped a curtsy and paused, wanting to ask if she’d see him again. But even that was a question too impolite for her. “Good evening,” she whispered instead. With her brother nearly upon them, she did what she’d always done when her brother was in one of his tempers after her shows of difficulty—she spun on her heel and made to storm off.

  “Prudence.” The marquess’ shockingly intimate use of her Christian name, uttered in that deep, husky baritone, brought her spinning back around, angry brother be damned. “It was your eyes.”

  She angled her head.

  “You asked what I remembered of you that day. It was the blue of your eyes.” And with his words rousing another fluttering in her belly, he took his leave.

  Couples made their way to the rapidly filling dance floor, jerking her to the moment.

  No scandals. No elopements or rushed… What was that whole other part her mother was forever stating? Staring after the broad retreating back of the tall, powerful Lord St. Cyr, Prudence was hard-pressed to remember a single thing, including her name. Which unfortunately accounted for her belated remembrance of Sin. Oh, blast.

  “Dance with me,” her brother bit out as he came to a stop before her.

  She swallowed a groan. “Must I?”

  His answer was to take her by the arm and steer her into the proper row for the quadrille. “You love to dance.”

  “Not with my brother,” she complained. She loved to waltz in the powerful arms of Lord St. Cyr. As though he’d followed the scandalous path her thoughts had traversed, Sin dipped his dark brows menacingly.

  Prudence braced for the impending lecture on rogues and emotions and scandal, which was really quite silly coming from a one time, long time, rogue. Fortunately, the steps of the dance separated them and she gave silent thanks. From the opposite side of the circle of dancers, he caught her gaze; the frown on his lips proving he sensed that relief. She stumbled and crashed into the couple just crossing opposite her and her partner. The result was catastrophic…if a welcome, unintended distraction.

  A young lady knocked into her dance partner and crashed upon the floor and, with that stumbling move, took down her slight and slender dance partner.

  From across the rather humiliating jumble of limbs created by her faulty step, Prudence looked across the ballroom. Her mother had a hand to her forehead and shook it back and forth.

  Long accustomed to endless scrapes at his sisters’ hands, Sin, quickly took Prudence by the arm and neatly extricated her from her latest, unintended mess. “I think we are done here,” he drawled.

  Yes, that was assuredly the case now. However, as she walked arm in arm with her brother from the dance floor, her head held high in the light of whispers and censorious looks, she readily acknowledged there was one particular matter that was not concluded.

  She felt his eyes upon her and found him standing beside a column with a glass of champagne in his fingers. Unlike the contempt and derision marked on the other peers present, the hint of a smile marked his hard lips. He lifted his glass in the faintest salute. Warmth unfurled in her belly and she smiled in return.

  “Prudence,” her brother snapped, jerking her gaze away.

  Yes, there still remained the matter of Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr.

  Chapter 5

  Lesson Five

  Some gentlemen are worth bringing up to scratch…

  Christian had always preferred words to numbers. Words could be shifted and altered into fragments and sentences that altogether changed meanings. It afforded one a good deal of control—over all manner of relationships and situations. Numbers however, could not be changed. They were bloody firm in their unbending meaning. And no matter how many times he stared at the bloody numbers upon the pages, they did not change and they were not altered.

  He pulled off his wire-rimmed spectacles and tossed them down onto the edge of his mahogany desk atop the leather copy of Sir Walter Scott’s work. The desk, just another gift inherited by the late Marquess of St. Cyr—the scratched, ink-stained desk and an enormous mess of those inherited estates. Christian stared at the stacks of ledgers littering the surface. Yes, no matter how much he sorted through the numbers, not a thing changed. He was in dun territory. And for his friend’s flippancy earlier that evening in Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom, there was nothing humorous or casual about the circumstances.

  Having been born the son of an impoverished baronet, Christian and his family had never lived the extravagant London life celebrated by members of the peerage. He’d endured a mundane existence all the while craving a world beyond the Kent countryside. And his father, a man with an adventurer’s soul, who’d never gone anywhere himself, indulged Christian those foolish fancies.

  He stared across the room at the small fire contained within the hearth. The orange flames cast dark, eerie shadows upon the wall. His lips pulled up in a bitter smile. And Christian found just the exciting, grand escapade for a young man of seventeen. It hadn’t been upon the marble floors of European ballrooms but rather upon the battlefields, soiled with blood. What if his father had been the coolly practical, lesser lord who guarded his heir as though he were a cherished artifact? How very different would Christian’s life be now? He pinched the bridge of his nose as a familiar and unfair resentment toward a father who’d died in his absence, crept in. With a steely resolve, he willed back the memories to the far recesses of his mind. There were more pressing matters to attend than the loss of his youth, and the folly to go off, a young, passionate man, to fight that bastard Boney.

  The faint creak of the door jerked his attention across the room. His sister stood in her cotton nightshift, framed in the entrance, a wide smile wreathing her face. “Christian,” she said excitedly. “You’ve returned!”

  This, of course, being the more pressing matter. Or at the very least, one of the many pressing matters. “Did you expect I should have spent the evening at Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom?” he teased.

  His fifteen-year-old sister giggled. “Oh, hush. You know what I mean.”

  He found the long case clock. The broken long case clock. With that unnecessary reminder of his financial circumstances, he looked to the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantel. He squinted in the dark. “Egads, it is well past two o’clock. Should you not be sleeping?” He swiftly snapped the ledgers closed.

  “I should not,” she said with a wink. “Should you not be sleeping?”

  He gave a wry shake of his head. With her probing questions and tenacity, Lucinda was oftentimes worse than their mother.

  She propped her hands upon her hips. “I thought you would never arrive.” There was a faintly accusatory edge to her tone.

  “I assure you I w
ould far rather be home,” even in this crumbling home, “than,” hunting for a marriageable young lady’s fortune, “attending any ball or soiree,” he substituted instead.

  She skipped over and he abandoned work for the evening, coming to his feet. Lucinda stopped before his desk. “I expected you would return and tell me all about the ball. Were the gowns wonderful?”

  One particular gown slipped into mind; one that was not at all wonderful with its hideous ruffles and flounces and yet there was something intriguing about the wearer of that gown. He came around the desk and chucked his sister under the chin. “As a non-wearer of gowns, I am afraid I cannot say.”

  Her lips formed a moue of displeasure. “Oh, pooh. You know I am living vicariously through your grand adventure.”

  His grand adventure. There it was again. That foolish phrase. The idea his sister craved that stirred unease within him. He propped his hip on the edge of his crowded desk. “The orchestra was lively and the dancers exuberant.”

  Lucinda sank into the cracked leather winged back chair. She pulled her knees up much the way she’d done as a small girl and dropped her chin atop them. “Do tell me more,” she pleaded. More than ten years younger than his own twenty-six years, he’d never been one to deny his sister anything. After despairing of the spare to Christian’s heir, news his mother had been expecting had been the shock of his parents’ marriage and the bane of Christian’s then ten-year-old existence. Until he’d first beheld her glassy, brown-eyed stare. Then he’d been helplessly lost to be anything but her protector. She leaned over and swatted him. “Will you not speak?” Before he could open his mouth, she said, “Mother says you are searching for a wife.”

  He choked on his swallow. Bloody hell, his mother had loose lips. “Wherever did you hear that?”

  “Well, I heard her muttering to herself about you hurrying up and wedding…” She wrinkled her brow. “Have you found a bride and you’ve not told me?”