But flowers were, at the very least, a start.
Prudence stared morosely down at the sketchpad. The almost an elm tree she’d attempted to draw these past hours mocked her for the failed attempts. With a growl, she yanked out the sheet and crumpled it into ball. She tossed it to the floor where it sailed atop the ever-growing heap at her feet.
“You are destroying a perfectly good sketchbook, just because you are in one of your tempers.” Those words better reserved for a mama than one’s younger sister filled the room.
Prudence looked up at Penelope who stood framed in the entrance with her hands atop her hips; a serious set to her lips. She sighed and snapped her book close. “I am not in a temper,” she muttered under her breath. Nor was she welcoming company at this particular moment.
Which of course meant her sisters had nowhere else to be, just then. She sailed into the room with Poppy trailing close behind.
“Who is in a temper?” Poppy piped in. Sir Faithful bounded into the room and yapped noisily.
“No one is in a temper.”
“Prudence is,” Penelope called over her.
The boisterous dog raced over to Prudence’s discarded pile. The little scamp picked a rolled scrap between his teeth and shook his head viciously back and forth as he shredded that sheet.
There were some instances when she adored the company to be had in her loquacious siblings. This was not one of those moments. Prudence pressed her fingertips against her temple. No, when a lady was so humiliatingly rejected by a man who willingly admitted to require a fortune, just one that was not her own, the misery of one’s own company was far preferable.
“I am not in a temper,” she insisted as her sisters claimed the ivory sofa opposite her. With a humorous solidarity, they sank into the folds and looked pointedly at her. She shifted in her seat. “What?” As unnerved as she was by their knowing stares, there was solace to be had in the fact that they knew nothing of Christian—nothing beyond his rescue of Poppy in the park.
Her younger sisters exchanged a look, and when Poppy made to speak, Penelope held up a palm that said “I-am-the-older-sister-I-shall-handle-this”. Then, in a manner befitting of the seven governesses and four nursemaids they’d had through the years, she made a show of smoothing her skirts.
“Will you get on with it?” Poppy pointed her eyes to the ceiling, earning an agitated glare from the sister stuck in the middle of the Tidemores.
“I am trying to find the proper words,” she said in a loud voice.
Both girls looked to Prudence and she blinked, momentarily distracted from her musings. “What?”
Penelope folded her hands primly on her lap, cleared her throat, and opened her mouth to speak.
This time, Poppy shot a palm up. “It is the marquess.”
Oh, blast and double blast. Heat rushed to her cheeks. They knew! How could they know? Then, hadn’t she learned that a Tidemore was capable of unearthing all manner of scandalous bits of information? Oh, why had she shared those necessary, if now dangerous, skills with her youngest siblings? “Which marquess? Weston?” her voice emerged on a high squeak that earned disappointed stares.
Poppy fell back in her seat. “Come, surely you don’t think we’ve come to discuss our brother-in-law.”
No, but she had hoped.
Sir Faithful growled loudly, as though concurring with his young mistress’ sentiments. Prudence turned a frown on the dog, but he was as unimpressed as her sisters. He flopped onto his side and burrowed a spot into the stack of discarded sheets.
Penelope thrust a bent finger, broken years earlier when she’d been riding down the stairway bannister, at her. “You have the same look worn by…by…Patrina when she’d gone all starry-eyed over Marshville.”
Oh, dear. She did. On a groan, Prudence buried her face into her hands. She’d gone and become the person she’d sworn to never be—a lady who’d become so helplessly besotted by a gentleman and his kiss that she’d risk scandal or, in this case, her pride.
“There, there.” Poppy patted her head awkwardly.
“Do not coddle her,” Penelope chided.
“I am not coddling her. I am comforting her.” There was a defensiveness to the girl’s words. “Furthermore, I like the marquess.”
That rang a startled gasp from Penelope and brought Prudence’s head up. “You do?”
Their younger sister shifted back and forth, wrinkling her nose at the attention now fixed on her. “Well, I like that he’s friends with Lord Maxwell. His love of dogs and all.”
Penelope gave her a look as if to say “you-see-this-is-the-kind-of-support-you’d-seek”. Then, after months of Society’s palpable disdain, she’d not be so very particular with the encouragement thrown her way.
“Sin says he is seeking a fortune,” Penelope said.
Yes, that much was true, but apparently even a man in desperate need of a large sum of money could not be enticed by her. Embarrassment, regret, and the sharp stab of hurt all blended for what made a vicious maelstrom in her belly. She hugged her arms about her to dull the sentiments; her efforts proving futile.
“He is?” Poppy had the sound of one who’d just had her pup kicked by a cruel lord. Alas, she, too, clung to the shred of hope that more awaited the scandalous Tidemore lot.
Fury burned in her stomach. She’d not have any of her siblings disparage a man who’d fought Boney’s forces and now fought for his own financial survival and his family’s security. “It matters not. The marquess will not wed me. He was quite clear.” She curled her fingers into tight balls welcoming the sting as her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palms.
“Very good.” At Penelope’s pleased nod, she gritted her teeth. At least one of them would be pleased. Two if one counted Sin. Three if one continued counting and added Mama as the next.
Except, her younger sister froze mid-nod and tipped her head at an odd angle. “How do you know that?” That suspicion could only come from years of scrapes before she’d been transformed into this lady attempting biddable, proper miss. “How do you know that?” Penelope repeated, her voice climbing.
She silently cursed her inadvertent slip. “Er…” Her mind raced.
Penelope slapped her palms over her face. “Oh, dear. You did not.”
“What?” Poppy demanded. She reached for Prudence’s palm and gave a tug. “What is she on about?”
“It matters not,” she said quickly, pulling her hand free. As much as she loved her sisters and did not doubt they’d lay down their lives for her or any one of the other Tidemores’ happiness, she could still not lay forth the full extent of her shame.
“She offered for him.” Alas, Penelope was in one of her tempers.
“Will you hush?” Prudence glared at her and looked to the open door to avoid Poppy’s wide-eyed gaze. She could only imagine the scandal that would follow if word was discovered that a Tidemore girl had asked the charming Lord St. Cyr for his hand—and been so quickly turned down.
Several lines creased Poppy’s forehead and she scratched her brow. “Offered him what?”
Giving Penelope a look that commanded silence proved futile. “She offered him marriage.”
Poppy’s mouth fell agape. “Ladies do not offer for men.”
“Whyever not?” Prudence challenged. To give her hands something to do, she patted her leg once, urging Sir Faithful over. As truculent as always, Sir Faithful merely yapped at her, instead. With a sigh, she forced herself to meet the matching furious stares trained on her. “Can you not imagine how much easier this whole husband-hunting business would be if ladies were permitted to take control of their own marital destiny?”
Poppy sprang to her feet. “That is not the way it is done. A gentleman who is honorable should court you and bring you flowers and be public in his intentions.” That lesson learned by her was a credit to the vile Albert Marshville. “There is nothing romantic in a lady asking a gentleman for his hand.”
She looked to the rational, independ
ent Penelope who merely gave a shrug, silently echoing their youngest sister’s sentiments.
No, perhaps there was nothing romantic in the audacious proposal she’d put to Christian, and yet her lips still tingled from where he’d caressed her, and then the way he’d palmed her cheek. Her heart tripped a beat. A man who kissed her so, and whose eyes had glinted with hungry desire, must feel…something for her. Why could he not see the benefits for both of them in wedding?
Filled with restiveness, she jumped up and strode over to the window. Sir Faithful chose this moment to attach himself to her side. He bounded across the room and settled at her feet. “Now you’d be my friend,” she sighed.
He yapped in agreement.
Men, they were contrary creatures—all of them. Distractedly, she patted him on his mangy, black head. “It matters not whether there was anything magical or romantic in my exchange with the marquess.” Prudence dropped her forehead to the crystal windowpane and stared into the busy streets below. Her breath marred the glass with a soft white blurring the passing carriage below. “He said no.” And she would endure Season after Season…Except that is not truly what your hope was in wedding him. You wished for more than freedom from Society. You wished for him. The pressure squeezing about her lungs made it difficult to draw breath. She wanted him. God help her, she wanted to know those secrets he kept to himself. She wanted to make him smile and show him the world was not broken, even if he himself believed it shattered. She wanted to know his favorite color and his deepest secret and darkest dream.
“It is not that simple,” Penelope snapped. Her angry visage appeared in the crystal pane, just beyond Prudence’s shoulder. “You asked for his hand and the gentleman may very well bandy about that shocking piece to other lords and ladies who in turn will speak even more poorly about the Tidemores.” Her sister spoke in such a way that she’d removed herself from the familial equation. Perhaps that had become a careful ploy to protect herself from hurts.
Poppy wrung her hands together. “As you know, I do not like to agree with Penelope.” The sister in question shot her a frown. “But there is the risk—”
“He would not.” The denial burst from her lips. Prudence continued to present her back to her sisters. All the while, rage ran through her being. She told herself they did not know Christian. They did not know that even though he was pockets to let, he still would not allow himself to wed a woman who’d spoken of love for herself.
“But how do you know?” Poppy pleaded.
Prudence raked her frantic gaze over the streets. “I just…” A conveyance pulled up to the front of her brother’s townhouse. “I just…” She squinted at the unfamiliar crest emblazoned upon the door of the black barouche. “Who is that?” she spoke more to herself.
Though there was never “to oneself” in the Tidemore household. “Who is who?”
“Do not allow her to change the subject,” Penelope scolded Poppy as the youngest sister rushed over to the window and leaned around Prudence’s shoulder.
Together, she and Poppy peered below as the carriage door opened. Her heart started and uncaring about milling pedestrians below, she pressed her palms to the window as a familiar leg stepped down from the carriage. “Christian,” she breathed.
“What?” Penelope squawked and abandoning all hard won efforts at decorous behavior, shoved Poppy out of the way.
Poppy grunted and shouldered her way back between the pair.
Christian stood on the cobbled streets a moment and with one hand adjusted the black hat atop his luxuriant, dark gold locks. The muscles of her throat worked painfully as she took in the colorful blooms held in his opposite hand.
“Flowers.” Awe underscored Poppy’s whisper. “He brought flowers.”
As though he felt their gazes upon him, Christian looked up toward the windows. They jumped back and the curtains settled damningly into place.
Prudence pinched her cheeks. “He is here.”
“With flowers,” Poppy reminded needlessly.
Why would he be here if he’d not reconsidered her offer and desired to make her his wife? She slid her eyes closed as a lightness filled her chest.
“Sin will never allow it,” Penelope warned.
A triumphant smile tugged at her lips. “Oh, I daresay Sin may have met his match.” Then with her sisters’ cries punctuating her footsteps, she sprinted from the room.
Chapter 19
Lesson Nineteen
Sometimes Most times your family members will not approve of a gentleman…
The thick carpeting of the Earl of Sinclair’s halls swallowed Christian’s footfalls as the butler escorted him to a meeting with Prudence’s brother. Lit sconces cast a bright glow upon the corridor walls, bathing the spacious halls in light. He may have been born to a baronet and inherited a marquisate, but the earl’s home, with its elaborate gold frames containing painted landscapes and Chippendale furniture, far exceeded even a fraction of Christian’s own, non-existent wealth. The mahogany pieces and gold sconces merely served as a mocking reminder of Prudence’s worth to his own…well, his own rather dismal worth.
The butler led them toward a heavy-paneled, oak door and rapped once. Christian came to a halt beside the servant. He tightened his fingers around the hothouse flowers. A rogue such as he should be filled with panic at the prospect of marriage, and yet, there was none of that. Nothing but a desire to make Prudence his.
“Enter.” The earl’s thunderous voice indicated he’d been anticipating this meeting, and by the fury underscoring that two syllable command, was not in the least happy over it.
Christian cast another glance at the flowers. He strongly suspected Lord Sinclair was about to become a good deal more displeased by this particular visit. The butler tossed the door open and announced him.
“The Marquess of St. Cyr.” With an alacrity likely born of fear, the other man hurried from the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Prudence’s brother stood in front of his broad, mahogany desk. Not a ledger out of place, with the unchipped crystal inkwell and immaculate surface, the space was nothing like the cluttered mess Christian found himself working with of late.
They eyed each other a long moment. Silence marched on. Considering Christian had requested the meeting, nay insisted upon it, he forced himself to bow. “Lord Sinclair,” he said tightly.
The earl made no attempt at feigned politeness. “What the hell is that?” He jerked his chin in the direction of Christian’s hand.
Setting the fragrant lilies upon a nearby side table, he strode forward. “They are flowers.”
By the dangerous narrowing of the other man’s eyes, he well knew who those flowers were meant for—and more, what they indicated. A muscle leapt in the corner of Lord Sinclair’s right eye. Then, he surprised Christian. “Would you care to sit?” he motioned to the leather winged back chair opposite his desk. Lord Sinclair moved behind the massive, mahogany piece to claim his own seat. He sat back and rested his arms across his broad, powerful chest. The moment Christian sat, Lord Sinclair pounced. “I thought you had no intentions where my sister is concerned?”
“I did not.” Which had been the truth, until a spirited miss had enlisted his friend’s aid and put an offer of marriage to him. Unless he cared to meet the other man on the dueling field, he’d be wise to keep those particular details to himself.
“And now you do?” Prudence’s brother grinned. As one who donned a practiced grin, he easily recognized it on another.
Christian had never had the patience for Society’s games and he had even less tolerance for this man toying with him as if he were some sort of child called for a scolding. “I am here to ask for your sister’s hand in marriage.”
The earl’s grin froze. “My sister?”
“Prudence.” There were after all, in sum, three unwed Tidemore sisters.
“I know bloody well which sister you referenced,” he snapped. He unfolded his arms and layered his hands along
the sides of his chair. “Why?”
“Because I want her.”
At the quietly spoken words, Lord Sinclair snapped his eyebrows into a hard line.
“You want her?”
Christian shifted in his seat, feeling much like a charge taken to task before his tutor. “I do.”
Sinclair leaned forward and the leather groaned in protest. “I daresay the gentleman who comes to my home and asks for my sister’s hand in marriage should, at the very least, have an immediate answer as to why he’d wed her and not this befuddled silence.”
He’d not really been silent. He opened his mouth to say as much, but with the earl’s scowl thought better of it. After all, as an elder brother himself, he would have already thrown the roguish bastard out of his home who’d dared to ask for her hand. Christian held up his palms and offered him the closest thing to the truth. “I respect your sister. I enjoy her company.”
A menacing growl rumbled from the other man’s chest. “What do you know of her company?”
More than any respectable brother to a young lady would ever deem appropriate, and rumored to be a reformed rogue, the other man likely had a very good idea as to how a couple stole clandestine moments away from Society’s prying eyes. Christian tugged at his cravat. Perhaps it was best to move beyond the part about enjoying Prudence’s company. “I know she is clever, bold, and courageous, and I’d have her for my wife.”
Through his succinct speech the earl snapped his eyebrows together into a single, angry line. “What do you know of my sister’s company?”
A frustrated sigh escaped him. Yes, it was too much to hope the overprotective, or mayhap, not protective enough given the current circumstances, brother would not hold on with a dogged tenacity to that earlier admission. By the cynical glint in the earl’s eyes, he expected a cleverly crafted lie. As such, Christian was determined to give him the truth. “We have met in the park on several instances.” Fact. “I have partnered her in several sets.” One and a half waltzes. Also fact. And then there had been the stolen kisses on his terrace several days past. And the kiss in the bookshop. Fact, he’d never be so foolish as to mention those particular meetings. Not and expect to live. “And I wish to marry her.”
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 39
