The Wicked Ways of a Duke(27)

“Ohhhhhh,” came the chorus of dismay that followed this news, for all of them understood the implications of it.

“The oddest part,” she said, “is that I hardly know him, and yet from the first I felt such a strong attraction to him. I know it was foolish of me to entertain hope he returned my affections, but—”

“It wasn’t foolish at all!” Maria burst out. “He invited you out that day because he wanted to be with you, that’s what I say. I saw how he helped you that night at the ball. Men don’t do things like that just to be kind. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you that night. From the start, it was plain as a pikestaff he wanted you.”

“I thought so, too. I was wrong, it seems.” Prudence stared down at her teacup, watching the pink roses of the Royal Doulton pattern on the saucer blend and blur. She dabbed savagely at her eyes before any tears could fall. “It doesn’t matter,” she lied, and shoved the handkerchief in her pocket. “I don’t care.”

Feeling in need of some gastronomic fortification, she reached for one of the tiny chocolate éclairs on the tea tray as her loyal and indignant friends pronounced their opinions of the Duke of St. Cyres.

He was a cad.

He was a brute.

He might simply be dense. Men so often were.

Or perhaps he was in love with Lady Alberta.

That made him a cad with bad taste.

Prudence ate another éclair, and then another, as her friends continued their attempts to interpret the inexplicable actions of gentlemen in general and the duke in particular.

Just as consensus had been reached that gentlemen could not be relied upon for anything remotely approaching good sense, and that their behavior often proved a test of even the keenest feminine intellect, the doorbell rang. As Dorcas bustled past the parlor to the front of the lodging house, conversation turned to speculation about who the new arrival might be. Prudence wasn’t much interested, but when the sound of a well-bred, distinctly masculine voice floated through the parlor doorway, she gave a gasp of astonishment.

“It’s him,” she whispered, feeling a wave of panic. “The duke is here.”

Surprised murmurs rippled through the room at this announcement, but Prudence scarcely heard. Struggling to be calm, she set aside her tea, brushed crumbs from her skirt, verified with a hasty touch of her fingers that she had no sticky trace of chocolate icing on her face. “Do I look like I spent the night crying?” she asked Maria, who could always be counted upon for an honest opinion.

“Yes,” her friend answered, and Prudence wished she’d asked Miranda instead.

“The Duke of St. Cyres,” Dorcas announced.

All the women in the parlor stood up as he entered. He paused just inside the door, and even though she was still stinging from the snub he’d given her the night before, she couldn’t help feeling that quixotic rush of pleasure and longing at the sight of him.

No other woman alive could blame her for that. Standing in this wholly feminine enclave of cabbage-rose wallpaper, bobbin lace curtains, and shabby gentility, his powerful masculine presence dominated. He seemed larger than life.

Prudence was not the only woman in the room feeling the heady affects of his presence, for there was a rustling of petticoats and a great deal of furtive primping going on. The duke didn’t seem to notice all these feminine flutterings, however, for his gaze was riveted on Prudence alone.

“Miss Bosworth,” he said, removing his hat with a bow.

Prudence curtsied in deference to his rank, but she did it grudgingly, and when he started toward her, she lifted her chin, determined to be self-possessed and aloof, despite a puffy face and a tummy full of éclairs. “Your Grace.”

She must have succeeded to some extent, for he came to a halt halfway across the room, and a hint of what might have been guilt shadowed his face. “Miss Bosworth, I know you must think me the most callous of men, but I beg you to believe I had reasons for my actions last night, reasons which I feel impelled to explain to you, if only you will be so good as to allow me the oppor—” He stopped and looked around, suddenly seeming to realize they were not alone. “Forgive me. I fear I have interrupted a party.”

Mrs. Morris gestured to the tea things. “No, no, just afternoon tea as usual. Prudence, shall you introduce us to your friend?”

She complied, but as she performed introductions, her thoughts were preoccupied with the crucial effort to appear unimpressed by his surprising arrival. She was so engaged in this attempt at indifference, in fact, that it took her a moment to realize the room had gone completely silent and everyone was looking at her.

She forced herself to speak. “Will you take tea with us, Your Grace?” she found herself saying, and then wanted to bite her tongue off, for what she should have done was ordered him to leave, told him to save his explanations and go take tea with Lady Alberta.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Morris put in, “please do take tea with us.” She picked up the teapot, gave it a little shake, then laughed. “Oh, dear, I don’t believe we’ve any tea left. I shall have to make a fresh pot.”

“I do not wish to give any trouble,” the duke said, but the landlady overrode this polite protest with an airy wave of her hand.

“It’s no trouble at all,” she assured him, and bustled toward the door. “We could all do with a second cuppa, I daresay, and a few more sandwiches. And some nice hot scones would be lovely, too, I think. Oh, but—” She paused at the door. “I fear I cannot manage all of that by myself. Will some of you ladies assist me?”

Prudence felt her panic rising as the other women in the room immediately volunteered to help, rose to their feet and began moving toward the door.

“Prudence, you stay here,” Mrs. Morris ordered as she ushered the other ladies out of the room, “and converse with your friend. We will return in ten minutes. Forgive us, Your Grace?”

Without waiting for an answer, she followed the other women out of the room, and in the wake of their departure, the silence seemed deafening. Prudence felt compelled to say something. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I called at Madame Marceau’s to gain your address. She wasn’t in, but a certain Miss Clark asked me to give you her best regards.”

“I see.”

There was another long, awkward pause. She wondered if she should talk about the weather.

“Miss Bosworth,” he said, saving her from a mention of the lovely day, “I must speak candidly to you.”

As if his arrival wasn’t enough cause for surprise, he proceeded to surprise her further by closing the door, a shocking action, the sort of thing only done when a man intended to propose marriage, and since he was for all intents and purposes engaged to Lady Alberta, the possibility that he was about to propose to her seemed as likely as Jules Verne’s rocket ships to the moon. He turned toward her, flattening his back against the door. “Miss Bosworth, that day in the National Gallery, you said you believed in marrying for love.”

The introduction of the topic of marriage might have been cause for hope, she supposed, but she suspected those words were simply a prelude to giving her the news about his engagement to Alberta. Prudence swallowed hard. “You said the same, I believe,” she reminded him.

“Yes, quite. I—” He stopped and shifted his weight, then gave an awkward laugh. “This is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

With those words, he proceeded to increase her suspense even further by walking to the window. Seconds passed that seemed like hours as she waited, watching him. The afternoon sunlight poured over him, glinting off the silver stick pin in his lapel and making his hair seem like burnished gold. Finally, she could stand it no longer, and gave a little cough.

He glanced at her, then away. “I also believe marrying for love is the most desirable course,” he said. “To choose a partner for marital life who is also one’s true love would be a happy thing indeed.” He turned toward her, his wide shoulders square, his jaw set. “For me, such a choice has never been possible.”

Her spirits sank another notch. “I don’t quite understand.”

“Of course you don’t. How could you understand the sordid realities of the aristocracy? For those of my class, love is never a consideration in choosing one’s spouse.” He drew a deep breath, his gaze locked with hers. “I am a duke. Position and duty, not love, must dictate my course.”

She swallowed painfully, well aware of the difference in station between them. “You mean that in choosing a wife, it is her background and breeding you must consider?”

“Breeding? God, no. That doesn’t signify at all nowadays. In these times of agricultural depression, it is money that matters, Miss Bosworth. Yes,” he added, making a sound of disdain through his teeth, “as crude as it is, I must marry a woman with a dowry. A very substantial dowry, for a dukedom is an expensive responsibility. I simply haven’t the blunt to maintain it all myself. Believe me when I say I wish it were otherwise.”

“So, Lady Alberta…”

“Has money. It is as simple as that. She has an enormous dowry.”