“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.
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 affections 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.
“I’m f—”
“Splendid! Then, about the introduction to Lady Danvers.”
He sighed. When his mother wrapped her mind around a particular thought, she did not shake it free. Thankfully, those moments were few and far between. “No introduction is necessary, Mother.”
His mother continued to worry her lower lip and looked out among their crush of guests. “I can think of several other young ladies who would make you an exceptional marchioness.”
With her misplaced faith in him through the years, the likelihood was that nearly all the names upon her unspoken list were deserving of more than Christian, the Marquess of St. Cyr. “I do believe I see Lady Maxwell motioning to you across the room,” he lied. After all, what was one more minor sin in the scheme of his life?
A widening smile on her lips, his mother straightened. “Is she?” She glanced about for Maxwell’s mother. Their families had been unfailingly close through the years. Though with Lady Maxwell’s stiff, coolly proper demeanor and his own mother’s flightiness, it was a pairing he’d never understand.
“She is,” he said. “Toward the front of the staircase.” And yet another lie to pile on to the mountain of his sins.
“You are a dear boy,” his mother said, patting him on the sleeve. “Always taking care of me and your sister as you do. You will make some young lady a splendid husband.”
He forced a smile. All the while, her words ravaged his conscience. There was nothing dear about him; least of all his failed attempts at caring for his mother and Lucinda, as she credited.
Leaning up on tiptoe, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then went in search of Lady Maxwell.
Free of his mother’s decidedly poor matchmaking efforts, Christian surveyed his crowded ballroom. He skimmed his gaze over the dance floor, past the wide-eyed debutantes staring at him, and those scandalous widows beckoning him with their come-hither stares.
…We are a scandalous lot…
How very matter-of-fact Lady Prudence Tidemore had been in her admission. Odd she should be so very candid about her circumstances when he should be so guarded about his own. She truly believed she was a scandal. He sipped from his glass. Only, the lady didn’t know the meaning of the word. Scandal was misfiring in a moment of panic and destroying another man’s life—a friend’s life. Scandal was returning from that same shameful moment, erroneously and mistakenly lauded as a hero. Scandal was inheriting a debt-ridden marquisate, only to be forced into the role of fortune hunter to secure his sister’s and his mother’s happiness. That was a scandal. Not a lady who, through no fault of her own, had been cast into that role for decisions made by two of her siblings.
That sobering truth should redirect him to his purpose in being here tonight. The sole reason he’d come to town at this godforsaken time of year was to find a wife, so he might then carry on with the roguish, purposeless existence he’d known these past five years. It was far better to forget in perfumed arms than remember his reality.
The orchestra concluded the quadrille and couples neatly filed off the floor. Christian took in those young women on the arms of honorable, respectable gentlemen. If he were the diligent and dedicated marquess, he’d have signed his blasted name to any number of those dance cards. Yet, standing here, as he’d been for the past hour, he’d not so much as brushed past one of those bright-eyed innocents. Instead, his gaze kept wandering to the front of the ballroom, in search of one particular lady slated to attend. He’d not given thought to who’d accepted an invite to his mother’s lavish ball—beyond Lady Prudence.
For his friend’s urgings that he pursue Prudence and make a match with the romantic young lady, he had a trace of honor left in his miserable being. Despite years of putting women into the same category as Lynette, his soul would have to be rotted black to fail to see Prudence was unlike that practiced whore. No, he’d not bind himself to an innocent debutante who spoke of hope and clearly dreamed of love. Such a woman deserved far more than a fortune hunter for a husband.
Christian directed his attention to his glass a moment, swirling the crystal flute in a smooth circle. No, the woman who would serve best in the role of his marchioness would be a title grasper. A woman who didn’t give a jot the man she’d wed had committed mistakes that had cost men their lives and irrevocably changed the lives of others. That ideal candidate would see a marquess and not the miserable rotter he truly was; for to that woman, he wouldn’t matter beyond his title.
With that cool logic restored, and his whole blasted reason for being in town, he downed the contents of his glass and sought out a servant. One of his liveried footmen, a former Waterloo soldier named Quinn, caught his eye and limped over. He accepted Christian’s empty flute and balanced the tray in his hands. “My lord.” Quinn winced.
The young man’s ashen cheeks and slowed gait hinted at the strain of the evening’s festivities. Christian frowned. He’d not have any one of his servants overtax themselves, not even to secure a fortune and a future for his family. “Quinn, you are relieved of your duties for the evening.”
Quinn opened his mouth to protest.
“As always, you’ve seen to your responsibilities admirably.” The fact Quinn would continue working despite his pain, spoke to a loyalty Christian did not deserve. “I would have you rest, now.”
The proud man hesitated. “Thank you, my lord.”
Christian stared after the young sold
ier as he hobbled off, and then returned his gaze to the sea of ladies all in the market for a husband.
Prudence was trying not to stare. After all, that was how the better part of the lords and ladies spent their evening—gawking and gaping at those around them. And yet, she could not remove her gaze from where Christian stood on the fringe of the ballroom. Lounging against the massive pillar, there was a smooth elegance to the gentleman that deserved a place in a true artist’s sketchbook.
The marquess’ mother ushered over a perfectly proper, blushing lady to meet Christian. Prudence fisted her hands at her sides. Even not knowing the young woman’s identity, she could be certain it was not a lady with scandal and gossip attached to her name. No genteel mother would dare seek an arrangement between her beloved son and one from her shocking family. A dull pressure throbbed in her chest. From where she stood alongside Sin and Juliet, she discreetly rubbed at the area to try and diffuse the odd aching there. To no avail. Then he bent over the lady’s hand. Kissed it in the same slow, roguish manner in which he’d first taken Prudence’s hand in Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom. Envy knotted her insides, momentarily sucking the breath from her.
From the corner of her eye, Sin and Juliet exchanged a look. Prudence bit the inside of her cheek, detesting she was the recipient of their silent, pitying exchange.
“Will you fetch us a glass of punch?” Juliet’s gentle request to Sin was met with a slight frown.
Unbidden, her gaze wandered back to the gloriously splendid pair Christian made with the young woman; he blond and broadly powerful, the lady voluptuous and darkly exotic in a way that no proper lady had a right to be. “I do not want punch,” she said to her brother, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into her tone. She bit her lower lip, hard. “I am not thirsty.” No, she wanted nothing more than to return home and seek out the privacy of her own chambers.
“Yes, you are,” Juliet said, catching her eye and holding it.
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 26
