Then she saw him, Lord Timothy Beasley. Quiet, bookish, calm. A viscount. She’d met him once before, and he’d been far more interested in reciting the Latin names of the plants in the conservatory from memory than courting her, but perhaps he was looking for a wife these days. He was pale and blond with the tendency to sneeze and sniff. He was reasonably tall—that would be good for the children—fit, and had nondescript hazy blue eyes. She sized him up from boot tip to the crown of his shining head. She waited for a sinful thought to arise. Nothing. No lust. No desire. He had an awkward smile on his face as if he wanted to run away from all these people as soon as possible. Awkward. Quiet. From a good family. Inspiring no lust whatsoever. He also had a sound set of teeth. He was, in short, perfect.
Her brother, Clayton, was standing to her right. “Find anyone you like?” he snorted. “Want me to tackle one for you?”
Pru elbowed him. Clayton loved nothing more than to tease his sisters and Pru, being closer to his age—Clayton was eight and twenty—had been one of his favorite subjects his entire life. After they’d ridden together in the carriage here and Mama had made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning to Clayton that Pru was in the market for a husband, well, he hadn’t let up on her in hours with no sign of stopping any time soon.
“Go away, Clay,” Pru said.
“With pleasure,” Clayton replied. “I’m off to the billiards room at any rate. I’m wholly uninterested in being hunted down like a hare by the marriage-minded mamas at this particular hunt, er, house party.”
Her brother took himself off without another word and Pru turned her attention back to the group. She suspected her childhood friends Jane, Winnie, and Lettie were here in the crush somewhere. She’d just have to find them. But thank heavens there was no sign of Christopher Chance. Stephen Pemberly was there, however. Perhaps his, ahem, friend, hadn’t accepted his invitation, after all.
She waited for Lady Weston to finish the introductions to all of the others. “I’m glad you’ve all come. Welcome, welcome. We’re going to have such a splendid holiday.”
Lord Beasley moved away from the crowd. Finding her friends would just have to wait. Pru fell back from the group and sidled over to stand next to Lord Beasley.
“Are you enjoying yourself, my lord?” she asked.
He looked rather startled as if he hadn’t expected her to be speaking to him. In fact, he glanced over both shoulders.
Pru pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
“Lord Beasley,” she added to indicate that she was indeed addressing him.
“We just arrived. I’m not having any sort of a time yet,” he replied, blinking at her as if she’d asked him to solve an intricate puzzle. Pru got the distinct impression that he’d rather she’d asked him to solve an intricate puzzle than make small talk about enjoying oneself at a party.
“Yes, that’s true,” she replied since there was little else to say. “Do you intend to be at the dinner this evening?”
“I don’t know where else I would eat,” Lord Beasley responded, looking at her again as if she’d lost her wits.
“Of course not,” she readily agreed. Oh, this man was perfect. Not a drop of sin would ever be inspired by him. “I just wondered if you planned to, er, ah—”
Whatever she’d been about to say was long lost in her mind as Christopher Chance strolled into the room. He wore all black with a white shirt and cravat, his hands were on his hips, and his hair was slightly mussed as if he’d been standing in the wind. He had a cocky smile on his face.
Sin had just walked through the door.
Chapter Four
The conservatory was as good a place as any to lie in wait for Lord Beasley. The viscount enjoyed plants, and Pru had seen him here before, hadn’t she? Besides, it was a lovely spot to spend time regardless. Minutes ago in the drawing room, she’d turned hastily and nearly run into Viscount Munthorpe (with one r—she’d found it in DeBrett’s) in her efforts to avoid an interaction with Christopher Chance. She’d mumbled some excuse to Mama about not feeling well and beat a hasty retreat. She’d scrambled down the corridor and away from the large group before she realized that Lord Beasley had also left their ranks. Now nearly an hour later, she was on the hunt for him. Alone.
She’d heard a rumor that he was in the conservatory. She squared her shoulders and marched into the huge room. The Westons’ conservatory took up nearly the entire back side of their grand estate. One could get lost here amongst the delicate flowers, perfectly trimmed bushes, and flowing trees. It smelled like summer with a humid, earthly feel. Pru fanned herself as she wandered through the small maze of orange trees.
She was staring at her slippers barely paying attention when she rounded a corner and ran straight into the large body of a . . . man. She toppled backward, vaguely aware that the man was attempting to grab her to stop her fall.
“I beg your pardon,” he was saying.
But Pru’s type of clumsiness was not the garden-variety sort. No. Her type of clumsiness was the sort of clumsiness that was going to take her rescuer down too. For instead of gracefully falling and being rescued by a convenient and helpful gentleman, her foot awkwardly jutted out and swept viciously to the side, pulling her would-be knight in shining armor off balance as well. They both toppled to the floor. The man managed to flip himself in midair with impressive dexterity to ensure that she landed on him and not the other way around. His back hit the mulch and he emitted a loud oompf.
When Pru lifted her head—certain her face was the same shade as the large velvet ribbons on Lady Weston’s giant Christmas wreaths—she realized she hadn’t just tripped and taken down any gentleman, and she hadn’t had the good fortune to have taken down Lord Beasley, excruciatingly embarrassing as that might have been. No. She’d managed to trip, fall, and be entangled in the arms of none other than Mr. Christopher Chance. She had succeeded in running into the one man she was avoiding at this party. That was the sort of clumsiness with which she was dealing.
Christopher’s eyes were wide but any hope Pru had of him not remembering her was quickly dashed. “Prudence, er, Lady Prudence?”
She tried to push herself up and off of him with some semblance of grace, but it only made the contact more unbearable. She was squirming about on his chest like a newborn pup. Oh, this was entirely undignified. “Mr. . . . Mr. Chance.”
He pushed himself up with a wrist to the ground, managing to scoop her into his arms as he rose, and deftly set her on her feet in a swift maneuver that Prudence never would have been able to accomplish. She took a reflexive step back and pushed at the pins in her coiffure and straightened her sensible gown. Then she dared a glance up at him. Yes, he was still as sinfully handsome as she recalled. Over six feet tall, broad shoulders, dark brown hair, rain-storm-cloud gray eyes, a perfect nose, and an arrogance that she found far too appealing. Though, admittedly, he did not seem arrogant at the moment. In fact, he’d been rather helpful, truth be told.
She swallowed and glanced away. Her eyes lit on an orange that was lying in the mulch nearby. Oh. The. Irony. She was Eve and this was the Garden of Eden. Obviously. Only there was an orange at her foot instead of an apple and she certainly hoped a serpent wasn’t anywhere nearby. Wait. That made no sense. The devil was right here, blinking at her. Not in serpent form at all. She sighed. Why did sin have to come in such a beautiful form? She decided not to look at him again. No good could come from that. Instead, she twined her fingers together and crazily considered whistling. As if she’d just been out for a stroll in the conservatory’s orange grove and this little mishap had taken place. Nothing to concern oneself over.
The silence stretched out interminably. Why didn’t he say anything? She wouldn’t look at him again. She kept her eyes trained on the orange tree’s shiny green leaves instead. Blast it. He was going to make her speak first, wasn’t he? Very well. Perhaps she owed him that much after knocking him over. It seemed fair. But what exactly did one say to a man like Christophe
r Chance after one had just tackled him in an earl’s conservatory?
She cleared her throat. “I hear you’re a pirate.”
Excellent, Pru. That was subtle.
His firm mouth—what was she doing looking at his mouth!—quirked up in the semblance of a smile just before his perfect white teeth flashed in an unmistakable grin. Oh, yes, the devil never showed himself in an unattractive form. There was no snake here. Just an inhabitant of Mount Olympus come down to see what the mortals were up to.
“I see you’ve been reading the papers,” he said simply, his deep voice sending tremors down her spine.
“They are quite informative.” That was asinine. Yes, Pru. Papers are quite informative. Given that they are filled with information. She wanted to smack herself on the forehead. She refrained.
“I’m not a pirate.” His voice was smooth, with an edge of humor, bringing back memories from eighteen long months ago.
“No?” She pressed her hand to her high collar.
He shook his head slowly from side to side and Pru was jealous of his shirt that was brushed by the ends of his longish hair. He certainly looked like a pirate or at least as if he could be a pirate. Though it occurred to her that she did not know what a pirate looked like precisely having never met one. But that was quibbling, wasn’t it?
“No,” he repeated, his stormy eyes boring into her and shaking her from her thoughts. “The rumors of my piracy have been greatly exaggerated.”
“But the papers say—” Oh, yes, tell him in no uncertain terms that you’ve been following his escapades in the papers. How well done of you.
“Don’t tell me you believe everything you read in the papers,” he replied, brushing mulch from his coat.
If God was good, he would cause her to trip on one of the oranges that lay strewn along the path and she could claim a back injury that would send Christopher Chance running for a doctor that would at the very least end this excruciatingly awkward conversation. Why did she never manage to trip when she wanted to? She glanced around for a convenient piece of fruit. Blast. It was nearly two paces away. She began to inch toward it. Might as well get started.
“Not . . . everything,” she said by way of stalling. Hmm. The orange was still too far. Perhaps she could simply pretend to have an attack of the vapors or something that involved no accoutrements.
“I’m glad to hear it.” There was that tempting smile again. She decided she would rather deal with a serpent. At least a serpent wouldn’t make her knees shake and her memory wander to the time when they had—
“How have you been, Lady Prudence?” he asked. “Since last we met.”
Pru jumped. How had she been since last they met? Hmm. Well, she’d been praying nonstop, filled with guilt, and angry with herself and him. That’s how she’d been since last they met. In the span of a few short minutes in Culpeppers’ gardens a year and a half ago, the man had made her forget every single thing she knew about decency and decorum and well, prudence! And then he’d disappeared and she’d been left to pick up the pieces of her conscience.
Hearing the next day that he’d been engaged and his engagement had been abruptly and inexplicably called off, well, that had merely been a fig on the top of the fruitcake that encompassed her overwhelming guilt. She’d spent positive weeks on her knees praying. She’d gone to church in wind, sleet, and snow. She’d even proposed a trip to the Holy Lands that her mother had considered but her father had vetoed. In short, she’d nearly turned herself into a nun. That’s how she’d been since last they met.
“Oh, you know . . . busy with the usual,” she said. For that, she wanted to kick herself. A slap on the forehead was not enough. No. Literally, kick. Hard. The only thing that stopped her was the fear that doing so would probably cause another fall onto him and that would be preposterous. No, better not to risk a self-induced kick. She’d rather remain standing for the duration of this second encounter with Mr. Devil.
“How have you been?” she ventured. It was only polite conversation, the type of reply that had been drilled into her since birth, but this time she immediately regretted asking it. She didn’t want to know how he’d been. What if he was married? Or in love? Or both? What if he really was a pirate and a confession was imminent? If that were the case, she might be forced to turn witness against him. She could picture it in her mind’s eye. Sitting in the drafty halls of Parliament, the Lord Chancellor and his powdered wig glaring down at her accusingly, his eyebrows waggling. “Yes, sir, Mr. Chance confessed all. We were in an orange grove at Christmastide, and I had just toppled him when he confessed. I remember every bit of the encounter. He smelled like wood smoke and I was jealous of his shirt.”
“I’ve been busy with the . . . unusual,” he said cryptically, pulling her from her nonsensical thoughts.
“But not piracy?” Oh, she couldn’t help herself. She was ridiculous.
“No. None whatsoever.” He cocked his head to the side and Pru felt sweat droplets bead on her forehead. Why did orange trees require such humidity? She plucked at the top of her gown. Why had she ever thought velvet was a good idea? Velvet with long sleeves and a stifling collar. On the other hand, it was green velvet. Perhaps she might blend into the leaves and be anonymous at some point.
“However, I’m thankful to say I’ve had no further discussions with statues,” he continued.
She glanced from side to side. He was going to bring that up? If he was going to bring that up, was there anything he wouldn’t mention? She needed to retreat and quickly. Or blend into the plants, or be bitten by the serpent and require medical attention or—
He cleared his throat. “Lady Prudence, I want to say something to you. Something about the last time we met—”
It would be impolite to run. Impolite and a touch insane, but Pru did contemplate it as Christopher began to speak. Yes, she did.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she said, backing away, surreptitiously searching again for a convenient orange upon which to trip.
“Yes, I think it is. I—”
“Chance, old boy, there you are!” Stephen Pemberly’s voice rang out from behind them and Pru swiveled, never so glad to see another human being in her entire life.
“Oh, Lady Prudence. Excuse me. I didn’t see you there,” Stephen said. Was it her imagination or did the two men exchange a look?
Regardless, she intended to flee as quickly as possible. “You’re not interrupting anything, Sir. I was just going for a walk in the conservatory and ran, ahem, into, Mr. Chance here. Good afternoon, Mr. Chance.” She bobbed a curtsey to both men and turned.
“Lady Prudence, wait.” Christopher’s voice held a note of pleading but Pru didn’t stop. She gathered her green velvet skirts in her hands, lifted them, and fled. She was halfway back to the corridor outside the conservatory before you could say tempted in the Garden of Eden.
Chapter Five
“Sorry to interrupt, old chap,” Stephen said after Prudence Carmichael practically ran out of the conservatory. Chance could swear she’d left a path of scattered mulch in her wake.
Chance raked his fingers through his hair and groaned. “You didn’t interrupt anything.” Well, anything other than the first time in his life a woman had actually run from him. Truly a smashing start to the house party.
“If you say so.” Stephen raised his eyebrows. He bent over and scooped an orange from the ground, tossed it into the air and caught it. He gave Chance a sly smile. “She’s even more beautiful than I remembered, actually. But still dresses like a nun.”
Chance’s chest tightened . . . which was ridiculous. He had no claim on Lady Prudence. In fact, he’d been surprised she hadn’t slapped his face the moment she’d realized it was him. Being tackled by her had been completely unexpected of course. He seemed to remember her being slightly clumsy the last time he’d met her too. In fact, that may have been how she had ended up touching his—
No. Stephen hadn’t interrupted anything. Chance had only wanted t
o apologize, actually. He’d acted a complete cad that night eighteen months ago. But she hadn’t let him speak today. Apparently, she didn’t want to hear it. He’d find his opportunity to apologize . . . later. But Stephen was right about one thing. Prudence Carmichael was more beautiful than he remembered. At the time she’d seemed like an angel, come from the heavens, a blond-haired, blue-eyed goddess who’d appeared right when his heart was breaking and comforted him, if only for a little while. He hadn’t forgotten her in these last several months, the angel who’d come to his rescue on a night when he’d needed it most. He hadn’t forgotten the silk of her hair, the sparkle of her eyes, the scent of her perfume. Or the feel of her lips. She smelled like . . . apples. He’d got a whiff of the scent again just now and it had made his mouth water.
“You’ll be happy to hear that Mother is pleased with your appearance,” Stephen said.
Chance snorted. “You cannot possibly mean my attire.”
Stephen laughed aloud at that. “No, I mean you’re being here. She says the papers have been abuzz about you for weeks and having you at her house party is sure to make it a smashing success.”
“I’m glad to hear she doesn’t want to kick me out.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“I got a few sour looks from some of the other matrons in the drawing room earlier, however,” Chance replied.
“Bah. Think nothing of it. They’ll adjust to your presence soon enough.”
A Very Matchmaker Christmas Page 26
