The Wicked Ways of a Duke(21)
He started rowing again, and she helped him as before, reminding herself it was for the best that he hadn’t kissed her. Such things were highly improper; only engaged couples ought to be kissing.
Neither of them spoke as they rowed along the stream, and as they pulled the boat through the water in perfect time, Prudence was certain his kiss would have been equally perfect. As a virtuous woman, painfully aware of the shame that could result when a woman behaved otherwise, she knew she ought to be relieved. But she wasn’t. Instead, she felt a keen and profound regret that she hadn’t thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him first. He was better at being a gentleman, it seemed, than she was at being a lady.
Chapter 7
Rumor has it the Duke of St. Cyres is spending several days at Richmond with wealthy American railway tycoon J. D. Hunter and his family. Mr. Hunter, a little bird informs us, has several beautiful daughters. Could Britain’s most eligible and most notorious duke be considering an American to be his duchess?
—Talk of the Town, 1894
Prudence and St. Cyres didn’t speak as they rowed the short remaining distance to Rosalind’s Pond, but to her, it was a companionable silence. When they scanned the grassy bank for a place to lay out their picnic, both of them pointed to the same spot beneath the willows at the exact same moment. By the time they settled themselves on the blanket and opened the picnic hamper, Prudence decided this day ranked as the most wonderful one of her life.
“Let’s see what’s in here, shall we?” he said, and lifted the lid of the basket.
“Don’t you already know?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t a clue.”
She watched as he pulled out foodstuffs. “I’m amazed a duke isn’t already well-acquainted with the picnic hampers of Fortnum and Mason.”
“I’ve had no opportunity. I’ve been living on the Continent, remember?”
She laughed and sat back. “Yes, I know. Cavorting at the Moulin Rouge and bathing in Italian fountains.”
“Bathing naked, if you please,” he clarified as he set a box of chocolates on the blanket. “Though why every society paper in Europe seems to find that story perpetually entertaining is beyond my comprehension.”
Prudence knew why. A picture of him rising naked from the water of a moonlit fountain flashed across her mind, and it was an image so vivid, she caught her breath. She’d never seen a real man unclothed in her entire life, but she had seen paintings and statues, and the immodest image conjured by her imagination made her face grow warm.
When she didn’t reply, he glanced up from his task, and at the sight of her blushing, he smiled just as he had that night at the opera, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking.
Prudence ducked her head, studying the foodstuffs on the blanket. “Oh, look! Chocolates.”
St. Cyres wouldn’t let her get by with a diversion as transparent as that. He reached out and touched her, cupping her cheek and lifting her face so he could look into her eyes. “Sweets for the sweet,” he murmured, his thumb brushing back and forth across her hot cheek in a lazy caress.
“I told you, I’m not sweet,” she whispered.
He laughed low in his throat. “Ah, yes, that’s right. I had forgotten you’re hard as nails.”
Letting go of her, he sat back and continued rooting through the picnic hamper. “Let’s see…in addition to chocolate, we have pâté fois gras, pickles, mustard, smoked salmon, tongue, a wedge of Stilton and one of cheddar, savory biscuits, sweet biscuits…ah, and a bottle of very fine claret.”
“It all looks wonderful,” she said as they began unwrapping packages and opening jars. “I’ve always wanted to sample foods like these, but one can’t afford such things on a seamstress’s salary.”
“I should imagine not. Pity there’s no lemonade, though,” he added, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “You’re so fond of it.”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I shall have to make do with the claret, I suppose.”
“This time, perhaps, but I’ll be sure to inform Fortnum’s that on our next picnic, you’ll expect their sourest lemonade.”
At the indication that there would be more outings with him, Prudence’s happiness was complete. “Only if it’s warm,” she reminded him, laughing. “To be truly bad, lemonade has to be warm.”
“All right, then. Their sourest, warmest lemonade.” He reached for the bottle of wine and the corkscrew and nodded to the basket. “There’s a pair of wineglasses in there. Pull them out, would you?”
She complied, bringing out plates as well as the glasses. She then closed the lid of the picnic hamper and put the glasses on top. As he opened and poured the wine, she removed her gloves, then began paring cheese, slicing ham, and arranging the various foods on the plates.
He set the bottle aside, helped himself to a piece of ham, then took one of the glasses and leaned back on his arm, staring at the tranquil scene spread out before them. “I’d forgotten how pretty an April day in England can be,” he murmured.
Prudence paused in her task to glance out over the pond. It looked even more beautiful in reality than it had in the painting done by his friend, with the bright green of the newly unfurled willow leaves and the vivid yellow of the buttercups in the meadow beyond the water. “‘Oh, to be in England,’” she quoted, “‘now that April’s there.’”
“You know that poem?”
The sharpness of his voice caused her to glance in his direction, and she found he was staring at her in surprise.
“‘Home Thoughts, from Abroad,’” she answered. “Robert Browning. My mother read it to me as a girl. It’s still one of my favorites.”
“It’s one of mine as well, though if you asked me why I like it so much, I couldn’t really tell you. There are many poems more beautiful. All I know is that I found myself reading it quite often while I was away. Like Browning when he wrote it, I was living in Italy, so perhaps I felt rather a kinship with the fellow.”
She leaned closer to him, smiling a little. “Or perhaps you were just homesick.”
“Homesick?” He tilted his head as if considering it. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I believe I was homesick.” He gave a short laugh. “How extraordinary.”
“Extraordinary?” she repeated, struck by that adjective. “How so? Living far away, anyone would feel homesick.”
“I never thought I should.” He resumed gazing out over the water. “I left England when I was twenty-one, and no young man could be happier to leave a place than I was. Sailing out of Dover, watching England fade into the distance, all I felt was a profound sense of relief.”
“That sounds like escape.” Prudence shifted her weight onto one hip and arm. “Why?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine. “What were you running from?”
“Running? Is that what it was? I thought I was just off to have adventures and see the world.”
Prudence was not fooled by the lightness of his voice. “What were you running from?” she repeated.
He lifted his glass and swallowed the rest of his wine in one draught. “Everything,” he answered without looking at her. “Especially myself.”
Prudence studied his profile, the hard line of his mouth, and she knew there was a great deal more to this man than his good looks, chivalrous manners, and scandal-ridden past. “What is there in yourself to run away from?”
He gave a caustic chuckle and set his empty glass on the lid of the picnic hamper. “You’ve read the stories,” he said as he refilled his glass. “I’m quite a shameless fellow, don’t you know.”
“I think you’re wonderful,” she blurted out, and could have bitten her tongue off for such a gauche remark.
He didn’t seem to like it much either. Frowning a little, he reached out to slide his hand around the back of her neck, and he leaned closer. His gaze locked with hers, and there was a strange, silvery intensity in the depths of his green eyes.
“I’m not,” he told her, sounding almost angry. “There’s nothing wonderful about me, Prudence. Nothing.”
She started to dispute his statement with a shake of her head, but his fingers tightened against the back of her neck, and his thumb pressed against the side of her jaw to keep her still. “I can appreciate that you would disagree. Given the night we met, I know you think I’m some sort of hero, but it happens you’re wrong. I’m a bad apple. The De Winter family barrel’s full of us.” His gaze roamed her face and his frown deepened. “God knows, if you had any sense, you’d run from me as fast as you could.”
Prudence stared at him in bafflement, wondering how he could speak of himself with such contempt. From the first, he’d shown nothing but consideration toward her. There was also the matter of how he’d saved Sally. Having worked as a seamstress for so long, she knew full well the vulnerability of women of her class to men of his. Faced with the situation St. Cyres had come across in that alley, most of his peers would have shrugged, walked away, and left the girl to be raped. Some might even have expected a turn. But St. Cyres was not the sort of man to think that way, nor would he stand by while a woman was assaulted against her will.