Now that I’m rich.
Her unfinished sentence hung in the air, and he found her reluctance to tell him of her inheritance a curious thing. Any other woman attracted to a man of his position would have made certain he knew of her immense dowry as quickly as possible. And he was not mistaken in her regard for him. It was plain as day. He couldn’t understand why she was keeping mum. Didn’t she see the advantage money gave her in securing a peer of his rank? God, she truly was a romantic, idealistic sort.
“Oh, let’s talk of something pleasant,” she said, interrupting his speculations. “Tell me about your family.”
He grimaced. “I can’t. Not if you wish to talk about something pleasant.”
“You do not get on with your family?”
“We used to got on very well,” he answered with forced lightness, “when I lived in Italy.”
“I understand. My aunt and I rub along much better when we’re miles apart, too.” She sounded rather wistful.
“If we were in competition over which of us has the more odious relations, Miss Bosworth, I would win hands down. Your aunt is nothing to my mother.”
“You are a duke,” she said, giving him a look of mock reproof. “Bragging is so beneath you.”
“I’m telling you the simple, unvarnished truth. My dear mama is the queen of the cutting remark. She would slice your aunt into pieces, devour her in two or three bites, then feed her bones to the dogs.”
“I see.” Miss Abernathy tilted her head, considering that information. “Could we arrange for them to meet?”
He gave a shout of laughter. “That’s a terribly wicked thing to say, and most unexpected from a sweet girl like you.”
She did not seem pleased by his words. “Why does everyone think I’m sweet?” she demanded in consternation. “I am not sweet!”
She was a cream puff. “Oh, very well,” he said, making no effort to keep a straight face. “You’re hard as nails.”
She didn’t laugh. “I’m not so pliable as people think, you know,” she said earnestly. “It’s true I don’t like rows, and I do like to think the best of people. But that doesn’t mean that I’m weak or don’t know my own mind.”
“I never meant to imply either of those things. I simply meant what I said. You are sweet.” He paused, thinking again of all that money and how it would change her. “True sweetness is a rare and special quality, Miss Bosworth,” he found himself saying. “Don’t ever lose it.”
She frowned a little at those words and the intensity of his voice. “What do you mean?”
Rhys shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered, and changed the subject. “Last night when we talked about opera, I mentioned that Verdi’s Aida was coming on soon. It begins tomorrow night. Will you be attending?”
“Oh, I wish I could! It sounds lovely. But I have to have dinner with my cousins.”
“Sir Robert again?”
“No, no, my other cousins. Beryl is my uncle’s eldest daughter. We are dining with her and her husband.”
“You sound as if you were going to a dentist.”
“Oh, I am sure it will all be very pleasant,” she said, making a face. “Everything in the garden is lovely with Beryl nowadays. She’s being so nice to me, and it’s nauseating, because when we were girls she was horrible. She made fun of me all the time.” Miss Abernathy looked down at her hands and there was a long pause. “She used to call me a porpoise.”
Rhys studied her bent head, a pose that emphasized her chubby chin, and he felt a sudden, fierce flash of anger. He cast aside his hat and grasped her arm, turning her toward him. With his free hand he lifted her face, then leaned closer, ducking his head beneath the huge brim of her hat. He paused with his lips only a few inches from hers, looked into her eyes, and gave his own opinion on the matter. “I think you’re luscious. I thought so the first moment I saw you.”
Her eyes went wide at the savagery in his voice, and no wonder. He heard it, too.
“Luscious?” she repeated, and swayed a fraction of an inch closer to him. Her lips parted, and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. “Truly?”
Rhys’s anger evaporated at that tiny, feminine invitation, and arousal took its place, flooding through his body in an instant. He turned his hand, cupping her face, his thumb sliding back and forth over the soft skin of her cheek. “Truly.”
His other hand slid beneath her arm and around her waist, and he pulled her close, crushing stiff silk and inhaling the scent of fresh, sweet lavender. He almost groaned aloud at the feel of her lush curves pressed against his body, and everything in him wanted to give her what she was so innocently asking for.
He couldn’t do it.
He jerked back, letting her go with an abruptness that startled them both. He saw the disappointment cross her face, and it was a feeling he could fully appreciate. He was rather disappointed about it himself. But to win her, he had to court her, and it was too soon in that game for kissing. Anticipation and uncertainty were the essence of romantic courtship.
“I’d best escort you back to your cousin,” he said, and turned away, “before I forget I’m a gentleman.”
He picked up his hat and started for the door. She followed him out of the room, and they did not speak as they retraced their steps down the corridor to the galleries.
They found Robert in the main foyer, looking around in a clueless fashion, but at the sight of him with Miss Abernathy, that expression changed at once to one of displeasure.
“St. Cyres,” he greeted stiffly. “What are you doing here?”
“I fear I’m one of those bad pennies, Sir Robert,” he answered cheerfully. “Just keep turning up, you know.”
The other man recovered his poise with an effort. “Prudence, are you finished here?”
“Not yet. I’d like to see the Dutch exhibit. I believe they said there was a van Gogh. Will you accompany us, Your Grace?”
Sir Robert bristled at that, clearly displeased.
Rhys’s smile widened. “Thank you,” he answered her without taking his eyes from her cousin. “I should like that very much.”
“Let’s go, then,” Robert snapped, and moved to Prudence’s other side. Taking her arm, he began propelling her toward the Dutch gallery.
Rhys lingered behind, reaching into the inside breast pocket of his jacket for a lead pencil and one of his cards. He scrawled a few words on the back of the card and replaced the pencil in his pocket, but as he quickened his steps to catch up to Miss Abernathy and her cousin, he kept the card hidden in his palm, waiting for his chance.
Robert’s patience with van Gogh and other Dutch masters lasted about a quarter of an hour before he pulled his watch from his pocket and said, “It’s getting on for tea, Prudence, and I promised Edith most faithfully I’d have you back by five o’clock. We must be going.”
“Tea time already?” Rhys asked. “My, how time does fly. I must be on my way as well.” He turned to Prudence. “Forgive me?”
“Of course. It was a pleasure seeing you, as always, Your Grace. I hope—” She hesitated, then added in a rush, “I hope to see you again.”
“I hope that as well, Miss Bosworth.” He took up her hand, managing to tuck his scribbled note under her palm as he did so. Her eyes widened in surprise as she perceived what he’d done, and he gave her a wink just before he bent over her hand. “And I hope it will be soon.”
The moment he let her go, her fingers closed into a fist around his card, then she thrust her hand into her skirt pocket. Satisfied, he bid them both farewell and departed.
His valet was waiting for him outside.
“Fetch my carriage, Fane, will you? Once you’ve done that,” he added on impulse, bringing the other man’s departure to a halt, “there’s something else I want you to do for me.”
“Sir?”
“Mr. Stephen Feathergill makes a practice of coming to town from Sussex the first of every month. Find out why, discreetly, of course. And I want you to follow him for the next few days as much as you are able. Note where he goes and what he does.”
“Very good, sir.”
Fane departed, and as Rhys waited for his carriage, he thought about the events of the afternoon. He was quite satisfied with his choice of heiress, for despite her denials, Prudence Abernathy was sweet. She had a trusting heart, a forgiving nature, and a secret taste for the devil. All of which could only work in his favor.
Yes, he decided as he stepped into his carriage, getting Miss Abernathy to the altar was going to be easy. He settled back against the seat, smiling to himself. Like taking candy from a baby.
Chapter 6
Miss Abernathy’s second cousin, Sir Robert Oglivie, seems her favorite companion at present. He follows on her heels like an adoring suitor. Or like a watchdog. We are not sure which.
—Talk of the Town, 1894
She was luscious. Prudence smiled to herself as she stared into space, oblivious to the luxurious surroundings of the Savoy tearoom, not hearing a word of the conversation going on around her. All she could think about was what had happened that afternoon. No man had ever called her luscious before.