The Wicked Ways of a Duke(26)

Her aunt and uncle seemed quite pleased to go, she noted as they waited downstairs for their carriage to be brought around. They were no doubt relieved that the unwanted duke wouldn’t be conferring his attentions on their niece tonight, or any night in the future now that he had made his intentions clear to all of London society.

Thinking it over as the carriage took them back to the Savoy, Prudence decided it was quite a suitable match. The hell Lady Alberta would put him through once they were wed was just what he deserved, the scoundrel.

As she prepared for bed, her anger stayed at a slow, steady simmer, controlled and contained beneath the smooth surface of her usual placid nature. She was even able to assure Woddell that her evening had been delightful until this beastly headache forced her to leave.

She refused the maid’s offer to order an ice poultice for her head, assuring the other woman all she needed was a good night’s sleep. After dismissing Woddell, she crawled into bed, but did not sleep.

Instead, she lay there in the dark, unable to stop thinking of the events of yesterday and today, and as she did so, her anger continued to rise.

How dare he toy with her? Pay her his attentions and engage her affections to no purpose? He’d been telling her the truth, obviously, when he’d said there was nothing wonderful about him. If Lady Alberta was the one he wanted, why hadn’t he taken her on a picnic?

Prudence tossed aside the sheets and got out of bed. She crossed to her dressing table, yanked open the drawer, and pulled out the card he’d slipped to her that day at the National Gallery, along with the note he’d given her at the opera. She stared at them for a long moment, and then, her hands shaking, she ripped both missives into pieces and tossed them into the wastepaper basket.

I like you best.

Suddenly, all the anger went out of her, and Prudence sank down in the chair of her dressing table. She stared at the notes that were now as shredded as all her hopes, and broke her resolution. She burst into tears.





Chapter 9


Though he has only been home a fortnight, it appears that Britain’s most scandalous duke has chosen his duchess. We can only commend him as a most expeditious suitor.


—The Social Gazette, 1894





By morning Prudence had shed all the tears she ever intended to shed over the Duke of St. Cyres. Assisted by Woddell, she applied compresses of cold tea leaves to her eyes, dabbed a bit of face powder to her nose, and by the time she attended second church service with her aunt and uncle, she was optimistic that her appearance showed none of the ill-effects of a night spent crying. She appreciated full well that her own unrealistic expectations were partly to blame for the hurt she felt now, and she had no intention of allowing herself to be so silly over a man again, even if he was handsome as sin.

After church, she overrode her aunt’s plan to spend the remainder of the day at Millicent’s, saying she intended keep to her usual custom and have Sunday-afternoon tea in Little Russell Street.

Her richly appointed brougham, open to the fine spring day, drew some interested stares from passersby as it stopped in front of the lodging house and her driver rolled out the steps for her. Prudence exited the carriage and paused on the sidewalk for a moment, studying the prim brick lodging house with its green door and lace curtains, and she felt overcome by a wave of homesickness. The Savoy was a luxurious place, to be sure, but it wasn’t Little Russell Street.

Only a week had passed since she’d last been here, and yet her entire life had changed. For the better, she’d thought, but now, staring at the building that had been her home for eleven years, still a bit raw from the heart-bruising events of last night, she was not so sure.

She didn’t ring the bell. Though she might not live here any longer, she wasn’t going to stand on ceremony with her friends. She opened the door and walked right in. “Hullo, everyone,” she called out with forced cheerfulness as she stepped over the threshold. “Kettle’s on, I hope?”

A round of delighted cries answered her from the parlor, and within moments her friends were pouring into the foyer.

Mrs. Morris was the first to greet her. “Prudence, dear, what a lovely surprise!” the landlady cried, giving her a wide smile. “We didn’t expect to see you today.”

“I can’t imagine why not,” she answered as she unbuttoned her cloak and hung it up. “You know I never miss Sunday tea.”

“We didn’t think you’d want to associate with our lot anymore,” Maria told her with a breezy offhandedness Prudence knew was a pose. “You being an heiress now and all, you might be too grand for the likes of us.”

Prudence looked at the smiling faces around her, and her heart tightened at the sight of all her friends. Dear, silly Mrs. Morris, who began fluttering and fussing, sure that afternoon tea at the Savoy must be far superior to anything served here. Rotund, cheery Mrs. Inkberry, Mrs. Morris’s oldest friend, who hadn’t lived in the lodging house since her marriage over two decades earlier but still came for tea every Sunday. And her fellow girl-bachelors—Miranda, Daisy, Lucy, and, of course, Maria, who gave her a warm hug and a cheeky grin and asked if she was engaged yet.

At that question, Prudence’s smile faltered. Her reaction did not go unnoticed. Questions were immediately asked, and moments later she found herself ensconced in her usual place on the horsehair settee, pouring out the humiliating events of last night to a very sympathetic audience.

“Oh, my dear, how awful,” Mrs. Inkberry murmured when she had finished, patting her shoulder in a comforting way and handing her a handkerchief. “What you need is a cup of tea, hot and strong, and a bite to eat.” She looked across the tea table. “Abigail?”

“Tea?” Mrs. Morris shook her head and rose from her chair. “Oh, no, Josephine, tea’s of no use at all to a girl at a time like this. A small glass of my damson gin’s what she needs to put her right again.”

There was an uncomfortable silence and a surreptitious exchange of glances around the room. No one had ever had the heart to tell Mrs. Morris that her damson gin was vile.

“No, no, please,” Prudence demurred. “I’d prefer not to drink spirits during the day, even for medicinal purposes. Tea would be ever so lovely, thank you.”

Mrs. Morris looked a bit doubtful, but resumed her seat. Prudence’s cup of tea was duly poured and passed around to her, a fragrant, steaming cup of Earl Grey, the tea most favored by the Queen, and therefore the only tea served on Sunday afternoons in Little Russell Street.

Mrs. Inkberry gave her shoulder another motherly pat. “Now, you down that, Prudence, and you’ll feel much better.”

Prudence took several sips and found that her mood was lighter, though she suspected pouring out her feeling to her friends had more to do with it than Earl Grey.

“He did not even speak to you?” Lucy asked, returning to the subject as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “Not once? Not after spending an entire afternoon in your company the day before?”

Prudence shook her head and took another gulp of tea. “Not even once.”

“Mind you, Prudence, you never should have spent an afternoon alone with him,” Mrs. Inkberry pointed out with gentle, motherly censure.

Prudence shifted guiltily in her seat. “I know, I know,” she mumbled, “and I suppose you’ll say I deserve what I got after such a lack of propriety, but—”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Inkberry interrupted. “You are a good girl, Prudence, and your romantic impulsiveness does not excuse his rudeness. For him to cut you directly—”

“No, no,” Prudence hastened to correct her, “he was not so rude as that. He did acknowledge me. He bowed to me most politely.”

“Well, now that’s not so bad, then, is it?” Miranda asked with a cheerfulness that sounded terribly forced. “At least he did acknowledge you.”

“He bowed from the other side of the room,” Prudence told her. “With Lady Alberta standing right beside him, looking like a cat swimming in cream.”

Lucy set down her cup and saucer with a decisive clatter. “I cannot believe he snubbed our Prudence to waste his affections on someone like this Lady Alberta. She sounds a horrible person.”

“I agree,” Daisy put in, “and I think if this Lady Alberta is the sort of woman he wants, then he’s too dim for words and not worth crying over. And he’s certainly not worthy of you, duke or not.”

There was hearty agreement on that point, but somehow Prudence didn’t find this collective opinion of much consolation.

Miranda spoke again. “Perhaps there was a reason for his actions,” she said with her usual hopeful optimism. “Something that we know nothing of.”

There was a round of groans over such a naive assumption, but Lucy, usually one to assume the worst, actually agreed with it. “That might be true. Prudence, you mentioned that he danced with this Lady Alberta, but perhaps he felt obligated to do so. You know how these things happen. Well-meaning friends shove two people together and suggest they have a go, and there you are, feeling you must dance with someone you’re not the least bit interested in.”

As much as Prudence wanted to believe that explanation, she knew it wasn’t viable. “They danced three times,” she clarified glumly. “Three waltzes.”