Rhys opened his eyes and once again pulled out the top drawer of the desk. Pushing aside some letters, he removed a small book with a gray-fabric cover, a book tattered and stained from its many years in his keeping. When he opened it, the pages came apart at once to an oft-read page.
Oh, to be in England, now that April’s there.
As always when he read that line, a wave of longing swept over him, a longing for the England of Browning’s brushwood sheaf and singing chaffinch, a longing for the ideals of his country, for the ideals of his position, for any ideals at all. A longing for home.
Perhaps you were just homesick.
No perhaps about it. He’d been homesick for as long as he could remember.
“You sent for me, sir?”
He looked up to find his valet standing in the doorway, and he shut the book with a snap. “I did, yes,” he answered as he dropped the volume of Browning’s poetry into the drawer. “What are Miss Abernathy’s plans for tomorrow?” he asked, shoving the drawer closed.
“I believe she is attending Lady Amberly’s Charity Ball for the Benefit of Widows and Orphans tomorrow night.”
“Ah, a public ball. Did I receive a voucher?”
“Of course, sir, but you had declined the invitation.”
“Inform Lady Amberly at once that I’ve changed my mind. I will attend after all.”
“Very good, sir.” The valet started to turn away, but Rhys’s voice stopped him.
“And Fane?”
“Sir?”
Rhys paused for a moment, considering ramifications before he spoke. “Make certain Lady Alberta Denville learns of my plans.”
“That should make for some interesting developments, sir.”
“I hope so, Fane. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
Prudence grabbed one post of the immense four-poster bed in her room at the Savoy and sucked in as deep a breath as she could manage. She grimaced as Woddell gave her corset stays a hard pull and vowed she wasn’t eating any more of the Savoy’s cream tarts at tea.
The maid tied off her stays and slid a tape measure around her waist. “Twenty-eight and one-half inches, miss,” she announced a moment later.
Prudence groaned. “That’s not enough. I want to wear the pink damask ball gown, and for it to fit just right, I need you to bring me in another half inch.”
“The pink does look ever so nice on you, miss, but you’ll want to be able to dance, remember.”
Prudence wasn’t worried about that. The duke was attending Lady Amberly’s ball, and that fact meant she’d be floating on air all evening. “I’ll be quite capable of dancing,” she assured her maid with a laugh. “Try again.”
Woddell finally managed to whittle Prudence’s waist size down to the required measurement, and the moment the maid had fitted her into the confection of pink silk before the mirror, she knew their combined efforts had been worthwhile. She might not possess a fashionable hourglass figure, but this gown’s low neckline, puffed sleeves, and gored skirt made her look as if she did. Prudence inhaled as deep a breath as she could manage and let it out on a satisfied sigh.
“You are certain the duke will be at the ball, Woddell?” she asked for perhaps the tenth time as the maid bent to adjust the ruched and embroidered hem of her skirt.
“Yes, miss. My young man is valet to Count Roselli, as I told you already, and he says the count knows His Grace very well. I saw Mr. Fane only this morning in the laundry rooms belowstairs, and he swore to me the duke will be there.”
“It’s so nice that you have a young man. Is he handsome?”
“Oh, yes, miss.” The maid straightened and gave a laugh as she began to adjust the gown’s sleeves. “Quite takes my breath away, he does, when he smiles.”
Prudence laughed with her, a rather shaky laugh as she thought of St. Cyres’s devastating smile. “I know just what you mean, Woddell.”
At that moment Edith came bustling in, putting an end to their amusement at once. “Prudence, dear, is that as far as you’ve got?” she asked, glancing over her niece in obvious dismay. “Heavens, your hair isn’t even finished yet. Stop dawdling, dear. Robert and Millicent will be arriving at any moment.”
“We’ve plenty of time,” Prudence pointed out. “Why, most of the aristocrats never even arrive at a fashionable ball before midnight.”
“I daresay, but we are simple gentry folk when all’s said and done. We hardly need to assume the pretensions of the aristocracy.” She crossed the room to Prudence’s side and gave her a long up-and-down glance. “You look lovely, dear,” she said at last. “Robert will be so pleased to partner you. How many dances have you promised him?”
“Two. A quadrille and a galop.”
Edith gave a cry of dismay. “No waltzes?”
“No.” Prudence turned away as Woddell presented a shallow box of hair ornaments for her inspection, glad of the distraction. “Help me decide how to dress my hair, will you, Aunt?”
Edith, of course, would not be dismissed so easily. “Robert asked you most particularly to reserve three of your waltzes for him.”
Prudence pretended to give the aigrette of feathers her maid held up her full consideration, hoping Edith would let the matter drop. “No, Woddell,” she finally said. “I think something simpler would be best. Perhaps just these pearl combs,” she added, removing them from the box, “and a spray of fresh gardenias or lily of the valley from the florist downstairs. That will do nicely.”
“Prudence?”
Her aunt’s sharp voice told her that avoidance had not worked, so she tried diplomacy as Woddell returned the other hair ornaments to the dressing room. “I told Robert earlier today which dances on the programme I shall give him,” she said as she walked to her dressing table. “He seemed perfectly amenable to my decision. If he is content, why should you not be?”
“There are nine waltzes on the programme, and I insist you reserve at least three for the man whose admiration for you is genuine.”
Prudence already knew which man’s admiration was genuine. “Three waltzes in one evening would imply an engagement. Robert and I are not engaged.” She turned and met her aunt’s resentful stare with a determined one of her own. “Nor do I see us as ever being so.”
“But—”
“Besides,” she interrupted, “I do not believe in this idea of reserving waltzes for one particular man before the ball even begins. Such a practice makes men far too complacent. I shall give my waltzes to the men who ask me at the ball.”
“You mean you are saving them for St. Cyres.”
Prudence pulled out the chair in front of her dressing table and sat down. “I shall certainly waltz with him if he asks me. How could I refuse a duke?” At those words, anticipation bubbled up in her, but she felt impelled to add, “It is by no means certain he will ask me to dance.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” Edith snapped, crossing the room to stand beside her chair. “I think it is safe to say he will ask you for at least three waltzes.”
Recalling their outing the day before, Prudence thought it was a fair certainty he would ask her to waltz at least once. Perhaps twice. And if there were three? She could hardly dare to hope for that.
“As you said yourself, three waltzes imply engagement,” Edith went on. “Such implications suit him down to the ground, I daresay. And you as well, from the sound of it.”
Prudence had no intention of allowing Edith to ruin her lovely mood with an argument. “As I said, Aunt, other than the two dances I have already promised Robert, I will reserve the places on my dance card for those men who ask me at the ball.”
Edith made a sound of utter exasperation. “Time will tell if I’m not right about that man,” she said, and started for the door. “Until then, I wash my hands of it!”
She walked out, and the moment the door slammed behind her, Prudence forgot about her entirely. Thinking about waltzing with St. Cyres was a much more enjoyable subject for contemplation.
Lady Amberly was a popular patroness of charities, and her ball was a prominent and fashionable one. The subscription rooms in Mayfair where the ball was held were filled to overflowing by the time Prudence arrived. It was so crowded, in fact, that it took her party an hour to hand over their wraps and accept dance cards at the cloak room, mount the stairs, and be announced into the ballroom.
The entire time, her gaze searched the crowd for St. Cyres, but as it was barely eleven, she knew such efforts were probably in vain. As she had pointed out to Aunt Edith, aristocrats were always terribly late to the fashionable balls, and St. Cyres, being a duke, was bound to be among the last to arrive.
Though the duke had not yet made his appearance, Lady Alberta Denville was present. As much as Prudence hated to admit it, the girl was beautiful, tall and slender as a willow, with features of classic, perfect proportion. She also looked quite angelic, with her pale gold hair and ciel-blue satin gown. Prudence, however, couldn’t help indulging in a bit of speculation about which poor seamstress Lady Alberta intended to abuse this evening.
As she had promised, she gave two dances to Robert, and did not lack for other partners. Many young men approached Robert and Uncle Stephen for introductions to her, and most of those gentlemen asked her to dance, but Prudence had only one man on her mind. She sidestepped the requests of those gentlemen who wanted to reserve waltzes with her for later in the evening, though she tried to do it diplomatically so as not to hurt their feelings. All the while, she could not stop glancing at the door, her tension mounting as each new group of guests appeared.