Alas, Maxwell appeared unwilling to let the matter die, after all. “I do not see your reservations in making L—” Christian gave him another look. “The lady your wife. A man would have to be blind to fail to see her adoration—”
“Bah, the lady does not know me,” he scoffed. With quick movements, he grabbed the bottle and poured himself several fingerfuls of brandy, thought better of it and splashed in additional fingerfuls. “She knows as much as the rest of Society.” Which, in short, was nothing.
He braced for his friend’s amusement on his behalf. Some partially jesting comment about those fawning ladies and the pleasure to be had in their arms, but there was, instead, an uncharacteristic somberness to Maxwell that drove Christian’s attention to his glass. With a silent curse, he stared into the amber depths a sickening shade of brownish-red.
His gut tightened as he was transported to the muddied and bloodied battlefield of Waterloo. The ground slicked wet from the sticky blend of death and nature, mixed in an unholy harmony. A dull humming sounded in his ears and he blinked several times in a desperate bid to reclaim control of his senses.
Do not think of it… Do not think of it…
Except, invariably the memories would creep in and when they did, they’d not release their tentacle-like hold upon his sanity.
Get up, you bloody, weak bastard…
“St. Cyr.” His friend’s concerned questioning came as though down a long, empty corridor. Maxwell rested his elbows on the table and placed himself directly in Christian’s line of vision, but when the memories came, they held on and would not relinquish him.
His hand shook and he dimly registered Maxwell plucking the glass from his unsteady fingers and setting it down on the table with a loud thwack. That crack melded with the report of muskets.
I said get up…get up…
From under the table, Maxwell kicked him hard in the shins and that unexpected and very real pain yanked him from the precipice of madness. “Are you all right?” There was a frantic worry to Maxwell’s question that was at odds with the image of indolent rogue he presented to Society.
He managed a jerky nod and reached for his glass. “Fine,” he gritted out. Christian finished the contents in a long, slow swallow. He welcomed the agonizing burn as it blazed a trail down his throat and welcomed that momentary distraction.
“You are certain?” his friend pressed, all the while, eyeing a point beyond Christian’s shoulder.
“I said I am—”
“For the lady’s brother is headed directly this way.”
Christian made no pretense of not understanding just which lady in question’s overprotective brother now headed toward their table. He swallowed a curse, filled with an urge for another stiff brandy. The nausea still roiling in his belly from the stark reminder of his past left him muddled. He reclined in his chair and gauged the Earl of Sinclair’s pursuit by the look Maxwell trained over Christian’s shoulder.
“St. Cyr, a pleasure to see you,” the earl said as he came to a stop beside Christian’s table. With fury snapping in his eyes, Lord Sinclair deliberately ignored the other man.
Maxwell hooked his fingers onto the lapels of his jacket and leaned back on the legs of his chair. “Sinclair,” he drawled, giving the other man an insolent half-grin. “A pleasure to see you, as well.”
Prudence’s brother scowled and momentarily shifted his attention over to St. Cyr’s friend. “Maxwell,” he said curtly. Then dismissing him once more, he looked to Christian. “If you will excuse me, Maxwell, there is a matter of import I would speak with St. Cyr on.” By the austere command in the earl’s tone, he was not a man accustomed to having his wishes or orders gainsaid.
And for one brief moment, Christian entertained the idea of telling the man to go to the devil. He had no business with him. Prudence’s blushing visage flashed to his mind. Nay, there was her. The reason the earl was, no doubt, standing over him with the look of a duel promised in his eyes. He gave a slight nod. “If you’ll excuse us a moment?”
His friend hesitated and then rocked forward, properly righting his chair. He took another swallow of his brandy and then set it down. Wordlessly, Maxwell climbed to his feet and took his leave.
The earl did not wait for social niceties. He claimed the seat vacated by the other man and edged the chair closer to the table. A servant rushed over with a clean, crystal snifter. With a careless half-grin that conveyed nothing more than a casual meeting between two nobles, the earl accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks and waved the man off.
Lord Sinclair claimed the bottle as though he himself were the owner of the fine French brew and poured himself a healthy glass of brandy. Glass cradled negligently between his fingers, he sat back in his seat and hooked his ankle across his opposite knee. “St. Cyr,” he drawled, as if the previous exchange with Maxwell had never occurred. He continued to smile that cold, humorless grin. Only as one who’d donned a practiced grin, Christian easily recognized it on another.
He swirled the contents of his glass. “Sinclair, why don’t we avoid the need for false pleasantries and have you speak on whatever it is finds you at my table?”
The other man sat forward in his seat with alacrity better suited a tiger about to pounce. “Very well.” He settled his elbows upon the smooth surface of the mahogany table, that damned, infuriating half-grin plastered to his bloody face. “I know of you, St. Cyr.”
He stiffened. A dull flush heated his neck. Precisely what did the other man know? The secrets Christian carried were known by only a handful; and much of those secrets had been lost in the confused haze of battle. Inevitably, they’d come to light. The idea that it would be at Prudence’s brother’s hands dug at his insides. Then, in a bid to regain control of the exchange, he took another casual sip. “Oh?”
The other man snapped his eyebrows together in a single, furious line, but then quickly collected himself, adopting the casual, carefree veneer that was likely as much a façade as Christian’s bored, indolent rogue. He leaned even further across the table. “Very well, I will come to what has brought me here.” The earl paused and stole a quick glance about.
Christian braced, knowing there was no business he could possibly have with the Earl of Sinclair beyond the young lady whose lips he’d taken under his on his balustrade two nights prior.
“You are dancing with my sister.”
At that hushed, furious charge, he gave a lazy grin. “No, I am drinking.” And because he knew it would grate on the earl’s last nerve, he lifted his glass in salute and took a sip.
“Shove off, St. Cyr. You know what I am speaking of.” A muscle ticked at the corner of the earl’s mouth. “Lady Prudence Tidemore.”
Christian rolled the tumbler back and forth between his hands. He knew very well the lady in question. She’d occupied a corner of his mind since the moment he’d taken the innocent miss in his arms for a waltz at Lady Drake’s affair. “I know the lady.” And he wanted to know more of her in ways that would have landed him on the opposite end of the dueling field if he so much as uttered the truth to her brother.
It proved the wrong thing to say for a man who had the look of blood in his eyes—nay, the look of Christian’s blood. At the highhanded insolence of the other nobleman, he tightened his hold upon his glass. He braced for the earl to unleash his unchecked fury upon him. The other man, however, demonstrated a remarkable control. Lord Sinclair stretched his hands out before him and cracked his knuckles in what would only be perceived as a casual, relaxed manner by outside observers. Only opposite him as he was, Christian knew he was one wrong word away from the other man attempting to drag him across the table and bloody his face. “Let me be direct, St. Cyr.”
“Please.” He’d had enough of the man’s games.
“You are a rogue, and if the gossip is to be believed, a fortune hunter.”
At that stingingly accurate pronouncement, Christian went silent. Shame tightened in his belly at having his circumstances so male
volently dragged out before him and by this man, no less. The bloody bastard. He rolled his shoulders. “And my circumstances matter to you for what reason?” he said, winging an eyebrow upward.
“You do not deny it,” the earl shot back.
Christian gritted his teeth. “I will not explain myself to you.”
“Oh, you will though,” the Earl of Sinclair said on a low, menacing whisper. The chair creaked under the shifting of the other man’s frame. “You see, despite your protestations, your circumstances matter very much. If the gossip is to be believed.” He paused, at the very least giving Christian an opportunity to deny it. “Then my sister would be unsuspecting prey for one,” Sinclair ran a derisive gaze up and down his person, “such as you.” And by the details shared by Prudence, the earl would not have another of his sisters become the unsuspecting victim of a nefarious gentleman.
Coward he might be. Fortune hunter, yes. But he would never trap a lady into marriage. He’d not tell that to the earl, nor did he suspect it would matter much to the other man if he did. Christian downed the remaining contents of his glass and welcomed the fiery trail it blazed down his throat. His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace and he set the glass down with a hard thunk. The urge to tell the other man he could take his bloody conclusions and go to devil with them gripped him. Yet, something held him back.
Prudence.
For as much as he despised her brother’s arrogance in seeking him out and all but publically tossing around his circumstances, he commiserated as a fellow older brother. “For what you think you know of me and my circumstances, I have no interest in,” liar, “your sister.”
“You danced with her,” the earl quickly rejoined. “Twice.”
One and a half waltzes. And a stolen kiss on the balcony of his gardens. Christian might resent the other man’s reservations, yet had a gentleman of Christian’s reputation and history dared pursue Lucinda, he’d have shredded him with his bare hands before he let him near his younger sister. It was because of that shared bond he’d never dare admit to this man, a devoted brother, that he said nothing else on it.
The Earl of Sinclair broke the silent impasse. “You do not have intentions, honorable or otherwise toward my sister?”
He hesitated.
At that imperceptible pause that hinted at more for the lovely, spirited Lady Prudence, Sinclair narrowed his eyes.
“You may be rest assured, I’d not sully your sister with my attentions.” They were perhaps the truest words he’d spoken to the other man since the earl had stormed in making demands of him.
The Earl of Sinclair searched his face. Then, he gave a slow, pleased nod. He took another long sip of his brandy and then set his glass down. “As long as we are clear, St. Cyr.” He shoved back his chair.
Christian’s patience snapped. “I will have you know your warnings are not what are keeping me away from the lady.” His sense of his self-worth and her goodness are what did.
The earl stood. He made to go, but then stopped.
Christian stared questioningly up at him. What in blazes did the man want now?
“I understand I am indebted to you for coming to the aid of my youngest sister, Poppy, in Hyde Park.” That gruff expression of gratitude seemed forcibly pulled from the other man.
The last thing he cared to have from Prudence’s brother was his thanks. Christian swiped the bottle and poured himself another glass. “I do not need your thanks, nor do I care to have you in my debt. I have already assured you, I do not intend to hunt your sister’s fortune.” He leaned back and cradled his snifter in one hand. “Therefore, this meeting, I expect, is concluded?”
The earl tightened his mouth, and then with a terse nod, turned on his heel and strode back to his table, where the Marquess of Drake now sat taking in the exchange. Lord Drake had fashioned himself a kind of friend to Christian over the years. Just another undeserved friendship. As though he’d detected Christian’s gaze, the marquess looked past Sin’s approaching form. The revered and deservedly lauded war-hero tipped his head in acknowledgement.
Shame twisted and turned in Christian’s belly as he forced his head to return that silent greeting. Then, thankfully Prudence’s brother claimed the seat in front of the marquess, effectively blocking him from the other man’s line of vision. He released a slow breath. But for the vile task of hunting some lady’s fortune expected of him to save his mother, Christian was not unlike the Earl of Sinclair. Both of them were two men who’d fight and claw to protect their sisters at any costs.
That marquess across from the earl, however, was an altogether different matter. With his heroic exploits during the Peninsular campaigns, he epitomized everything Christian had never been on the field of battle. Yet, those bloody battles were not isolating moments. For amidst the volley of gunfire and cannon smoke and the agonized screams of men dying, a person learned his true worth.
Christian attended the amber contents of his drink—the color of mud and blood. He pressed his eyes closed a moment. The Earl of Sinclair wanted him far away from Prudence for he saw in Christian nothing more than a fortune hunter. But the truth was far worse. For in the heart of war, Christian had proven himself to be a worthless coward who’d lived when other more deserving men had died. And just then he hated that he’d ever collided with the bright-eyed Lady Prudence Tidemore who reminded him of his failings and left him wishing he was, in fact—more.
Forcing his eyes open, he took another long sip of his drink. He’d promised the earl he would stay away from the lady. What the earl did not realize was that he had no choice but to stay away from Prudence. With each meeting, she slipped deeper and deeper into his mind and if he did not steer clear of all hints and signs of her, he would be forever lost.
Chapter 15
Lesson Fifteen
A lady should not brood when a gentleman suddenly ceases to come around…
It was snowing. Those white flakes that often portended hope and goodness for her, now mocked her with the elusiveness of that emotion known as love. From where she sat, on the window seat of the Ivory Parlor, Prudence skimmed her gaze over the quiet streets below. She’d not seen him again.
She captured her lower lip between her teeth and tried not to think about the fact she’d not seen hint of the Marquess of St. Cyr in five days. But not thinking of him was as impossible as convincing her propriety-driven mama that she had nothing to worry about in terms of properness where her three unwed daughters were concerned. For five days, Prudence had dragged Poppy to the spot in Hyde Park where she’d met Christian twice. The cold, barren winter had heightened his absence. And night after night she’d suffered through balls and soirees and formal dinner parties, with not even a glimpse or whisper of him.
It was as though she’d merely imagined him and the brief time they’d shared together. Except… She touched her gloved fingertips to her mouth. She’d not imagined his kiss. Her lips still burned with the memory of his lips on hers. That kiss had clearly meant a good deal less to him. A viselike pressure squeezed around her heart. She took a slow breath to ease the hurt pressing down, and yet, it would not go away. For she missed him. Missed his teasing grin and the ease in talking to him and waltzing with him, even if it had only been two sets he’d expertly guided her through.
It was her blasted questions. By the tension in his tightly held frame, he’d no more wanted inquiries into his past than she wanted to have another London Season. And yet, she’d persisted and challenged his need for silence. Challenged, when it hadn’t been her right to do so. Who was she to put questions to him?
Only, even now she would have asked those questions anyway. Because ultimately she wanted to know who Christian was beneath the veneer of carefree rogue—a veneer she now knew from everything he’d revealed was false.
“Why are you touching your lips?”
With alacrity she dropped her hand to her side and spun her head to face a stern-frowning Penelope who stood framed in the entrance. “Penelope,” she
greeted, infusing as much cheer as she could into that greeting.
“And why are you frowning?” her sister pressed.
Poppy took her elder sister by the shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “Perhaps she is frowning because you are peppering her with questions.” She skipped past her and over to the tray of refreshments set out by the maid a short while ago. “Isn’t that right, Pru?” She plopped herself inelegantly onto the white ivory sofa and snatched a raspberry tart from the silver tray. From where she sat, she gave a discreet wink at Prudence.
Alas, not discreet enough. Penelope propped her hands on her hips and stormed into the room as though she were Wellington leading one of his infamous charges. Her younger sister somehow managed to look magnificent in her white skirts when Prudence had the look of Cook’s cakes with too much frosting. “And why are you winking at her?”
Abandoning all hope of the blessed silence of her own miserable company, Prudence swung her legs over the side of the sofa. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” And because she knew it would infuriate her younger by two years sister, she winked.
Poppy dissolved into a fit of hilarity which only deepened their sister’s frown. “It is about that gentleman, isn’t it?”
Which promptly killed all levity. Poppy’s eyebrows shot to her hairline and she gave an “I’m-sorry-I-have-no-idea-how-to-distract-her-now” look in her direction.
Prudence’s heart stuttered. “What gentleman?” she asked belatedly.
“Come,” Penelope scoffed. “Do you think I do not know of Lord St. Cyr?”
She wetted her lips. Actually, she had thought Penelope remained wholly ignorant about the man who’d thrown her world off-kilter. “And what is it you think you know?” she asked tentatively. For Penelope’s disapproval stemmed from somewhere, and she suspected that somewhere was over six feet tall, and lamenting the woes of having four troublesome sisters.
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