Lord St. Cyr.
The winter wind whipped at her cloak and sent crisp, brown leaves tumbling down the path before her. She continued walking onward to a familiar boulder in the distance. Prudence sank onto the ground and winced as the cool earth penetrated the fabric of her cloak. Shoving aside discomfort and instead choosing to focus on her moment of solitude, she fished around her reticule and withdrew her charcoal. Then popping open her sketchpad, her fingers flew over the page.
Prudence angled her head periodically, chewing her lower lip as she sought to bring Lord St. Cyr’s face into focus. Nay, Christian. In the privacy of her thoughts, he could exist as Christian. Her lips moved as she mouthed that name. And he was a marquess. Why, the gentleman who’d rescued her from the sopping water and danced her first non-familial obligatory dance was a marquess. Whatever were the chances that—?
A scream penetrated her thoughts and snapped her head up. Heart hammering, she quickly found Poppy with her gaze, in a furious chase for her dog. The maid trailed along after her, wearing a sheepish expression on her flushed cheeks. With a sigh, Prudence hopped to her feet as her sister sprinted through the park after a swiftly fleeing Sir Faithful. His leash trailed uselessly after him, with Poppy making frantic grabs for the thin lead. Their maid, shamefaced at having lost control of the unruly pup—again, followed along behind her young charge. Poppy made for the riding path.
On a curse, Prudence set down her book and heart racing, she took off after her sister. Do not be a fool, Poppy…heed your own advice. Prudence’s chest heaved with the exertion of her efforts and she stared on hopelessly as two monstrous horses appeared over a slight rise and thundered directly for her sister. Oh, God, no. “P-poppy, no!” Her breathless cry fell useless on the winter air and she willed her legs faster.
To no avail. Sir Faithful raced directly toward an enormous, black steed and a chestnut mount. Poppy’s bloodcurdling scream rent the quiet and sent several kestrels into flight. The two gentlemen, with an expertness that could have only come from the Lord’s divine hand, yanked on the reins. The hooves of the black beast pawed at the air as the gentleman effortlessly brought his mount under control. He leapt over the side and his horse took off in the opposite direction before coming to a slow halt beside a barren oak tree.
And then the world resumed its normal course.
“Poppy!” she cried out and sprinted the remainder of the way to her sister who lay sprawled on her back, staring wide-eyed up at the morning sky. Prudence skidded to a halt beside her, kicking up gravel and dirt with the abruptness of her stop. She brushed past the two gentlemen at her sister’s side and sank to a knee beside her. “Are you all right?” Her breath came hard and fast from her exertions.
Poppy looked past Prudence’s shoulder. “There is a—”
“Whatever were you thinking racing upon the riding path?”
As though in answer to Prudence’s question, Sir Faithful bounded over and sank down obediently on his heels. He gave an excited yap and then promptly licked a still-prone Poppy’s face.
“But Pru, there is a—”
“You are never to do that again,” she demanded.
“Please allow me to extend our deepest regrets,” a deep voice sounded from over her shoulder.
“There is a gentleman,” Poppy said on a loud, unnecessary whisper.
Prudence snapped her head up and her heart tripped several quick beats. Oh, my. She stumbled over her skirts in her haste to rise. Lord St. Cyr was at her side in an instant. He quickly caught her by the arm and prevented her from falling in a humiliated heap at his feet. Her heart raced. Oh, my. Their gazes held a moment and then he swiftly looked away. And the world resumed spinning on its safe, familiar axis. She followed his stare to the gentleman helping Poppy to her feet.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, taking a step closer to Poppy.
At the evidence of his concern for her sister, warmth spiraled through her heart.
“Indeed, not,” Poppy said with a frown. “As though I could ever be harmed by a near trampling.” The gentleman’s lips twitched. “But thank you,” her sister belatedly added.
“If you’ll allow me to present my close friend, Tristan Poplar, the Earl of Maxwell.”
There was an air of familiarity to the man and as he sketched a bow and murmured a greeting to Poppy, Prudence tried to place him. Then she widened her eyes. Of course! “The shop!”
Three pairs of human eyes and one pair belonging to the four-legged sort swiveled in her direction. Oh, blast. Perhaps she could simply pretend she’d not said anything and that they’d merely imagined those two words. All of them.
“What?”
Prudence gave her perplexed sister a look and then swiftly returned her attention to the marquess.
Lord St. Cyr stared at her with the ghost of a smile upon his lips that had the same effect it had since their first meeting outside of Madame Bisset’s. That shop she’d just inadvertently mentioned.
“What shop?” Poppy pressed.
The trio continued to stare at Prudence. Her cheeks blazed with hot heat and she wet her lips. “That is to say, I believe I recall Lord Maxwell from one of our visits to Bond Street.” At that unwitting revelation, her shrewd sister narrowed her eyes. Of course she would remember Prudence staring out the windowpane at these two gentlemen. She continued to hold the marquess’ eyes. Well, not two of them. She’d been boldly staring at one of them.
“Ah, yes, I recall,” Lord Maxwell, said, inclining his head. A cool wind stirred the air and snapped his sapphire blue cloak against his legs. “St. Cyr remembered that particular exchange quite well.”
Her heart leaped. “Did he?” She swung her gaze to the marquess.
A mottled flush filled his cheeks and he cast a glower at his friend to rival the looks Prudence reserved for Poppy and Penelope.
“Undoubtedly,” Lord Maxwell confirmed. There was a faint mischievous glint she recognized in his eyes, which only came from years of mischievousness herself. The gentleman shifted his attention to Sir Faithful. He reached for the dog’s leash.
“No!” At Poppy’s sharp command, the earl stilled mid-movement. “He does not care for strangers.” Before her sister could collect the leash, however, Lord Maxwell captured the thin chord. The dog promptly set to licking his gloved hand.
“Why, look at that, Poppy. Sir Faithful likes the earl,” Prudence said with something akin to surprise.
“Sir Faithful doesn’t like anyone,” Poppy said, wonder in her eyes as she took the leash from Lord Maxwell.
“I have several dogs myself,” he said with a wink. Which was all the gentleman needed to say to fuel the tide of a thousand rapid-fire questions from Poppy about everything from the breed of dog he had to the treats preferred by the four-legged creatures.
Grateful for the diversion, Prudence tipped her head back to look up the tall, powerful frame of the marquess. “I am so sorry,” she said softly. “I am afraid we were not paying attention to our whereabouts.”
He took a step closer, shrinking the space between them. “You needn’t apologize,” Lord St. Cyr dropped his voice to a low whisper reserved for her ears alone. “Prudence.” His hot breath stirred cool puffs of air.
Oh, God, hearing her Christian name upon his lips wrought havoc upon her senses. There was a steely strength, underscored with honeyed warmth to his bold commandeering of her name. She fought to regain control of her muddled thoughts. “I would be at worst, ungrateful if I did not, and at best, impolite if I did not properly thank you.”
“Lord Maxwell and I should have paid closer attention.”
“You could not expect that a small girl—”
“I’m not a small girl,” Poppy paused mid-conversation with Lord Maxwell to interrupt and then promptly resumed her line of questioning about dogs.
Prudence pointed her gaze to the sky. “That a young lady,” she amended. “Would be racing along the riding path at this hour, no less.”
Amusement lit
his eyes. “I assure you, I am well-accustomed with the unexpected. I have a spirited sister.”
He had a sister. That shared piece of personal information somehow made him all the more real, in a very human, very approachable way. “Do you?” she asked. “How old is your sister?”
“She is fifteen. Her name is Lucinda.” He held out his arm. “May I escort you and your sister back to your earlier spot?”
Prudence managed a nod and then placed her fingertips upon his sleeve, allowing him to walk with her to the elm tree she’d long adored. All to the disapproving eyes of her maid who passed an equally conflicted look between her two stubborn charges. “I am unaccustomed to seeing any lords or ladies in the park at this hour and yet you are here.”
Christian took in the question in Prudence’s words; her wise observation. Most indolent lords and simpering ladies only strolled the grounds of Hyde Park in the fashionable hours when the pathways were clogged with carriages and walking couples.
And yet, he was here.
He was here because he’d spent all night battling demons and sought the reminder of light and quiet and peace that existed before the world stirred beside the row of elms. “And you are here, too,” he said at last.
The cool wind whipped about them. It knocked her bonnet askew and a tight golden curl tumbled over her eye. “I am here because I take care to avoid members of the ton when and where I can,” she said, shocking him with her candidness. She brushed back that strand and, for an instant, a hungering to claim that sole tress between his fingers and determine the silkiness of that lone strand gripped him. Lady Prudence looked up.
He recalled her as she’d been on the sidelines of Lady Drake’s ball; alone, tipping her head back and forth in time to the music and thought of the details imparted by Maxwell just yesterday.
Prudence must have seen something in his eyes for an unexpected wariness replaced the cheerful exuberance he’d come to expect from the unconventional lady. “I expect you have heard of my family and me.”
A lie formed on his lips and she stared hard at him, clearly expecting that mistruth. Only, his entire life from Toulouse to now was a fabricated myth. A hungering gripped him with a lifelike force to tell the truth to someone and have them believe that. “I have,” he said quietly.
She captured her lower lip between her teeth and worried that plump flesh. “We are a scandalous lot.”
A sudden conflicting urge overtook him to kiss the sadness from her. “Your family’s scandals are not your own.” Unlike him, whose own faults belonged to him and no other. “You are not responsible for their mistakes or missteps.”
She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Perhaps to some,” she said, adjusting her bonnet. He mourned the loss of the pale blonde curls as they disappeared under that hideous hat. “But then, isn’t that the way of our Society? A mistake made by one, is a mistake suffered by all?”
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 th
e 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.
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 24
