Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Prudence trailed her tongue along the seam of her lips. He stilled as a wave of lust slammed into him to reclaim her mouth under his and swallow the desperate moans of her desire. “Oh.” She scuffed the stone patio with the tip of her slipper. Her cheeks flushed red from the cold and the taste of passion they’d shared, she dropped her gaze to the ground. “I see.”

  He studied that distracted movement. By the heightened color on her cheeks, that endearing shade of red, and the hesitancy in those terse utterances, she was not the practiced, experienced women who desired nothing more than a place in his bed.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  She shocked him once more with her directness. Prudence raised her head and tipped her chin back in bold defiance. Something stirred within him. He blamed it on the cold, sucking the breath from his lungs, or the flakes landing on his cheeks, but in this moment, he wanted to draw her into his arms and forever lose himself in the purity of her soul. The assurance that he’d intended to give, the words affirming that despite her uncertainty, she’d moved him in ways that no other woman had ever impacted him, died on his lips. “You should not be here,” he said, his voice deliberately devoid of emotion.

  She cocked her head.

  Prudence no more belonged here than he, a notorious rogue with a black reputation belonged in the hallowed halls of Almack’s. “If you were discovered, you would be ruined.” Or perhaps that was the lady’s game? She’d spoken of her remarkable lack of prospects. But surely even with that, she knew she could easily find a man more deserving than Christian.

  As though she’d followed the cynical direction his thoughts had wandered, her slender frame went taut. She cast a glance past his shoulder toward the door that represented safety and security. And then, she glanced at him once more. “I am already ruined.” Spoken in that sad, almost wistful quality, the lady took those words as fact.

  His fingers ached with the need to stroke the satin smoothness of her cheek. “You clearly believe that,” he said quietly. “But that is not true.”

  She folded her arms against her chest and he hungered with the need to take her in his arms and drive back the winter chill. “But it is.”

  He scoffed. “Why, because of your sister?”

  At that, Prudence squared her shoulders. A dark frown he’d not believed her capable of settled on her well-kissed mouth. “You know my circumstances.” There was a faintly accusatory edge to her words which were more statement than anything else.

  “I know what you have told me.” He also knew the brief pieces imparted by Maxwell; those pieces he’d sworn he’d not wanted for one reason, only now knowing he’d wished he’d never heard them because in hearing them he was no worse than those gossips. “Do you know what I believe?”

  She shook her head once. “What is that, Christian?”

  “I believe you deserve more than the shoddy treatment you’ve been given by the damned dandies who are too fool enough to see who is before them. I believe you deserve to dance every bloody set until your feet ache.” Christian took another step toward her, closing the space between them again. He spoke in hushed tones. “And do you know what else I believe?”

  In a bid to hold his gaze, Prudence tilted her chin. “What is that?”

  “I believe it is a crime you are out here, hiding on my balcony when you should be surrounded by suitors.”

  The wind howled around them so that her skirts danced in the air. The moments ticked by and as time lengthened the silence, a hot flush heated his neck at his revealing words. He felt exposed before her, this woman who’d slipped into his world several months ago and then disappeared, only to reemerge in this horrible world of Polite Society.

  “I don’t want to be surrounded by suitors,” she said softly.

  She did not want suitors? He scoffed. “All ladies desire those attentions.” Except, his throwaway statement roused an image of her with a sea of undeserving swains before her and he fisted his hands at his side. Even in his imagined scenario, he wanted to bloody every last one of those undeserving bastards.

  “Some ladies, yes,” Prudence conceded. She held up a long finger, encased in its white glove.

  Christian stared transfixed at that single digit.

  “But I am not most ladies. I do not want a swarm of gentleman. I just want a single, honorable, good man.”

  Her words sliced through him with the same vicious intensity of the bayonet cutting into his person. For with her admission, she’d merely served to remind him of all the reasons he had no place being around someone who’d not been jaded and destroyed by life. He retreated several steps and then sketched a deep bow. “Then, I suggest you return to the ballroom so you might find that man.”

  Her shocked gasp was drowned out by another blast of wind. She shrugged out of his jacket and handed it over to him. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice garbled. Prudence dipped a curtsy and then walked the length of the stone patio with a grace to rival the queen herself. As she reached the door, she hesitated, and he expected her to look at him once more.

  Christian braced for the moment, knowing he’d be lost, taking her in his unworthy arms once again. But then, wordlessly, she opened the door and slipped inside, leaving him—alone.

  Chapter 11

  Lesson Eleven

  Madcap schemes can be either dangerous or beneficial…and sometimes both…

  Throughout the course of Prudence’s eighteen years, she and her sisters had demonstrated an enormous originality where madcap schemes were concerned. There had been the time she, Poppy, and Penelope—in protest of being left alone with a horrid nursemaid, who’d been quick to rap their knuckles—had removed the stitches from all the hems of their mother’s evening gowns to prevent the countess from abandoning them with the harridan for that particular evening. Or another when they’d diligently collected crickets from the Kent countryside and unleashed them in that same nursemaid’s room.

  Her mother had despaired of Prudence, or any of her sisters, becoming anything more than troublesome hoydens. Their brother had been, and still clearly was, of like opinion. Through her foibles and scheming, however, both her mother and Sin had demonstrated a remarkable patience for the unconventional Tidemore girls.

  The following morning, perched on the edge of an ivory upholstered sofa in the Marchioness of Drake’s townhouse, Prudence admitted to at least herself that this latest scheme would never be met with any manner of patience or despairing acceptance. Not when it so violated the mantra her mother likely muttered in her sleep.

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

  Somewhere between listening at Christian’s keyhole and reflecting on their exchange upon the balcony, it had come to her. They were each other’s solution to their own, very different, problems. She nibbled her lip. Yet, what had seemed like a very good idea the evening prior now bore the hint of scandal. Unease turned in Prudence’s belly as she looked to the marchioness’ ormolu clock. As with each grating ticking of that blasted timepiece, her anxiety doubled. She brushed her damp palms over the front of her skirts.

  The woman was a friend of their family. She’d not betray her confidence. Certainly not to Society, but surely not to Prudence’s own family, either. Prudence drew in a slow, steadying breath and sought for resolve. After all, what choice did she have? The little pieces of the marchioness’ past she’d revealed in her ballroom had been testament to the fact that, at least in this regard, she was more like the marchioness than unlike.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and she jumped to her feet just as the ever-smiling, brown-haired marchioness stepped into the room. “Prudence,” she greeted, not breaking a stride as she rushed over in a flurry of pale blue skirts.

  “Lady Drake.” She held her hands out as the other woman reached for them and gave them a squeeze. The perpetual grin worn by the other woman and her freckled nose somehow made her more than a distinguished title.
It made her human. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.”

  The marchioness waved at the seat Prudence previously occupied. “Oh, come, surely with the friendship between our families you’ll not stand on ceremony. It is Emmaline,” she corrected.

  “Emmaline,” Prudence repeated and gratefully reclaimed her seat.

  “I will have refreshments called—”

  “No!” The denial burst from Prudence. “There is no need,” she said quickly when the other woman angled her head and studied her curiously. “Unless, you yourself would care for them.” Her mother’s head would be spinning with mortified shame at the bumbling mess she was making of an already scandalous meeting between her daughter and the marchioness. “But I do not need anything,” she finished lamely.

  Emmaline’s smile widened and she sat back in her chair.

  Except, now that the lady who’d given her hope was here and staring patiently at her, all the carefully crafted words she’d intended fled her mind. Prudence nervously plucked at the fabric of her white dress. Her gaze was drawn to Emmaline’s delicate, blue satin gown with a sheer lace overlay. She stopped playing with her muslin skirts. “Your gown is splendid,” she blurted. “If I were to wear gowns of something other than white,” she mumbled under her breath. “They would be tasteful and delicately beautiful like yours.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  Prudence drummed her fingers on the edge of her seat. A gentleman such as Christian would never be so enticed by a lady in frilly, silly lace. No, a man of his roguish sophistication would admire those ladies who wore cleverly constructed creations of colors other than white as the marchioness. She started as Emmaline reached over and touched her knee.

  “I suspect that whatever has brought you here today does not have to do with my gown.” The woman spoke with such gentleness and encouragement she could sneak the secrets out of the Home Office with her tone and smile alone.

  Prudence shook her head. “No, no it does not.” And then finding the resolve that had followed her first kiss, that magical moment shared with Christian, and then her determination that morning, she opened her mouth. And then promptly closed it. She looked to the front of the room. “May we close the door, my lady?” After all, if a loose-lipped servant overheard this particular meeting, it would be the ultimate ruin of her; not just the ruin that had come from her connection to Patrina or Sin.

  Curiosity all but spilled from the other woman’s eyes. “Emmaline,” she corrected. “And of course.” She made to rise, but Prudence, desperate to give her restless legs and hands a purpose, sprung from her seat, marched over to the door, then pulled it closed. The soft, definitive click served as the confirmation for the path she’d charted.

  Prudence stared at the wood panel a long moment, and then turned slowly back. The marchioness remained seated, with that patent, gentle look that marked her so very different than all the cold, unkind members of the peerage. It also served as the encouragement she needed. “You said Society has dictates they expect us to follow, but it is important to sometimes take control of your happiness.”

  The other woman stilled.

  “At your ball, while we were speaking,” she said on a rush, gesticulating wildly as she spoke, “you indicated that your future had been laid out before you and that you took control with the help of my brother.” At the other woman’s lengthy silence, Prudence’s courage flagged. Perhaps she’d made more of their exchange than there had been. “I am sorry,” she forced out past the tide of embarrassment. “I suspect I am not making much sense.” She paused to press her fingertips into her temples and rub, and then she took a deep breath, letting her arms fall back to her side. “I am a social outcast.” Emmaline opened her mouth, but Prudence would not allow her a word. “Oh, I know my circumstances,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I am gossiped about for decisions and actions that were not my own.”

  The woman did not seek to mollify her with false protestations. “It is not right, Prudence,” she said quietly, coming out of her chair.

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Whether it is right or wrong, it is the way of our world.” Prudence proceeded to tick off on her fingers. “I do not have a suitor. I have nary a dance partner.” Other than the one whom she now dreamed of with a staggering frequency. “I am stared at. Talked about.” She fixed her gaze on the floor-length, crystal windowpane. “And if I have to endure an entire Season of this, I’ll go mad.”

  The rustle of skirts and the creak of the floorboard indicated the other woman had stood and now moved toward her. “I have not shared your same experience,” she said softly, forcing Prudence’s attention up. “But I have known what it is like to have no suitors and to be gossiped about and stared at for reasons beyond your control. Do you know what the gossips would print about me in their scandal sheets?”

  Five years earlier, Prudence had been more focused on sending her governesses fleeing than in attending names of strangers in a gossip column. She shook her head.

  The marchioness’ lips pulled up in the right corner with a wry smile. “I was the gossiped about Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh, forever betrothed, never the bride.”

  “That is far better than never betrothed, never the bride,” she said under her breath. For the prospect of never knowing a hint of the love her brother knew with Juliet and Patrina knew with Weston, robbed her of sleep at night.

  “Is it?” Emmaline arched a brown eyebrow. “I had a betrothed, but what did I have? A gentleman who did not wish to wed me.”

  Which brought Prudence to the reason for her visit. “But you are happy now.” It wasn’t a question. All of the ton knew the Marquess and Marchioness of Drake were as in love now as they’d been four years ago. From beyond Emmaline’s shoulder, she stared out at the grey winter day. A faint white speck, followed by another and another danced past the window. Drawn to that hopeful sight, she continued past the marchioness and came to a stop at the windows. It was snowing.

  Prudence clasped her hands before her and directed her words at the streets below “You are happy because you took control of your own circumstances. With your husband and in your life.”

  The furrow of the marchioness’ brow was reflected in the window. She took a tentative step closer and then another before stopping. Her expressive eyes revealed the parade of thoughts spinning through the woman’s head—questions, confusion, and then a rapidly dawning of understanding. “There is a gentleman,” she said with the same surprised wonder of one who’d uncovered the secrets of the universe.

  Prudence bit the inside of her lower lip and slowly turned back. She gave a slow, hesitant nod. “There is a gentleman,” she said softly, breathing the words into existence before this woman she trusted to keep her secret.

  “Ah. I see.”

  Did she? Could she? Could she when Prudence herself did not fully understand? “I have met him but four occasions.” She turned her palms up. “He danced with me…”

  “Lord St. Cyr in my ballroom,” the marchioness murmured, putting together the pieces of the introduction she’d formulated.

  “Yes, Lord St. Cyr. But that was not the first of our meetings.”

  Surprise flared in the other woman’s eyes.

  Heat climbed up Prudence’s neck and suffused her cheeks. “We met by chance on Bond Street. He plucked me out of the way from a shopkeeper’s bucket of slop water.” And from that moment on to their every exchange since, he’d cast some kind of hold upon her senses, cemented by the magic of his kiss. A lone carriage rumbled past the window, drawing her attention downward.

  “And what would you have me do to help you?”

  There was no stern reproach or annoyance in the marchioness’ question, rather a desire to know what brought her here this day. In a world built on prevarications and polite pleasantries, Prudence admired the woman’s directness. She took a deep breath and turned about. “I want to take control of my happiness. I want to know how to…how to bring the marquess up to scratch.”
Silence met her bold pronouncement.

  The quiet marched on so long, she turned back to see if the other woman had, in fact, left the room. Lady Emmaline remained stock-still, her eyes wide. “Oh, Prudence…”

  She well knew the significance of the request put to this woman who was more friend to her brother and stranger to her than anything else. Sensing the woman intended to issue the necessary protestations expected of any and every young lady, Prudence pressed on. “You indicated that you’d brought your betrothed ’round—”

  “Our families’ connections went back earlier than my birth,” the woman put in gently.

  In other words, what did Prudence truly know about Christian, the Marquess of St. Cyr? “You worry that I do not know him?” The other woman’s silence stood as her answer. “But what do any members of the ton truly know about a person. Their familial connections? The respectability of their name? And those connections are often forged and cemented after a short courtship.”

  It appeared the marchioness intended to be the voice of reason. She sailed over to her. “But what do you truly know of him? Do you know the kind of man he is? Do you know if he is honorable and good? Whether he will be faithful to you?”

  Prudence wrinkled her nose at that last question. In the scenario she’d carefully laid out that involved her wedding Christian, she’d not allowed herself to think he’d be anything but faithful to her. Yet if he was a rogue as purported by the papers and her brother, would he truly give himself fully to her, in every way that she required?

  The marchioness claimed Prudence’s hands. “You want love. I understand that, for I was you…but as you said, our circumstances are not the same and I would not wish to see you hurt.”