The Wicked Ways of a Duke(48)

“You, if I can ever manage to convince you to have me. I love you.” He kissed her, then he fell to one knee, keeping one of her hands fast in his. “I know it will take a miracle for you to agree to marry me, but I’ll wait as long it takes. I intend to obtain a new post, because when a man falls in love, when he wants to marry and settle down to raise a family, he has to have a steady job with a reliable income. I intend to work hard, save my wages and find a way to buy a house for you. For us. And every day, for the rest of my life, I’m going to ask you again to marry me, hoping that one day you’ll have a moment of madness and say yes. Will you allow me to do that?”

She bit her lip, staring down at him, but did not speak.

“Will you, Nancy?” he asked again, and then he waited, on his knees with his heart in his throat, sure that she’d never agree in a thousand years.

“Yes, Mr. Fane,” she said at last. “I will allow you to do that.”

He was on his feet in an instant. Pulling her hard against him, William Fane, gentleman’s gentleman, shocked all the ladies in Mrs. Oliver’s dressmaking establishment by giving Nancy Woddell, lady’s maid, a most passionate kiss.



Just as Emma had predicted, journalists swooped down on Little Russell Street the moment The Social Gazette announced the dissolution of Prudence’s engagement to St. Cyres. Hanover Square was a gated square in Mayfair and Marlowe’s house there provided Prudence the protection Emma had promised.

Because of the situation, the tradition of Sunday tea at the lodging house was not possible, but Prudence needed the support of her friends more than ever before, and Emma’s suggestion that all the ladies take tea with her in Mayfair instead was happily accepted.

As a result, four days after the dissolution of her engagement, Prudence found herself seated not on the horsehair settee in Mrs. Morris’s parlor, but on an elegant white brocade sofa in the drawing room of Lord and Lady Marlowe, discussing her future plans with her friends, and finding some solace in their validation of her ideas.

Her decision to take charge of her own money was heartily approved by all. If anyone knew how to manage an income with thriftiness and skill, it was a girl-bachelor. Gentlemen, it was agreed, had no idea how to spend money properly. Race meetings, club memberships, and port could not compare to important things like good quality bed linens and a well-stocked larder.

Her decision to send her relations back to Sussex and her refusal to marry Robert also received their endorsement. It was agreed that perhaps people who ignored a member of their own family for eleven years, paying attention to her and caring for her only after she was set to inherit millions, could not really be trusted. And since all of her friends had met Aunt Edith, they couldn’t help but deem Emma a far better chaperone.

Her plan to open her own dressmaking establishment met with unanimous approval, and Emma offered to assist by using her influence to gain Prudence clients in the top echelons of society.

These matters were easy for Prudence to discuss, but when it came to her broken engagement, she found the terrain much more difficult to navigate. She had vowed never to cry over Rhys again, and she knew that the pain was too fresh for her to keep that vow if she began to explain. Her friends, sensing her unwillingness to discuss the matter, took their lead from her and asked no questions.

Fortunately, Emma’s return from Italy provided plenty to talk about, for to a group of girl-bachelors, honeymoons were a favorite topic of conversation. Only weddings and babies could generate greater interest.

“Did you really have a view of the Arno, Emma?” Miranda gave a dreamy sigh. “Oh, how I should love to visit Florence.”

Emma crossed the room to a cabinet and removed from it a folio. “I have photographs. I purchased them from a photographic artist in Rome.”

Exclamations of delight greeted this news, and soon views of the Arno, the Roman Colosseum, and various other sights lauded by Baedeker’s travel guides and popular with English tourists were handed round.

Two months ago, viewing them might have been a welcome entertainment, but with every photograph, Prudence couldn’t help thinking of Rhys. After her soul-wrenching night on the train, she’d had little time to think of him. She’d moved her things to Hanover Square, ignoring the imploring letters from her relations to reconsider. She’d ensured that her aunt and uncle had left the Savoy. She’d met with Mr. Whitfield, clarifying that the allowance of fifty pounds per month was hers to do with as she pleased until next April and never had to be paid back. The coming months would no doubt keep her quite busy as she established her dressmaking business.

Right now, however, as she studied photographs of Italy, Rhys dominated her thoughts. She couldn’t help wondering if he had stood in that piazza, eaten at that café, bathed naked in that fountain.

Pain pinched her chest as she stared at an image of the Trevi Fountain in Rome and memories came rushing back of that day with him at the National Gallery.

How happy she’d been that day, never dreaming he’d arranged it all. Inquiring about her family and whether she still had to work as a seamstress, knowing all the while about her money, playing her for a fool. How smooth, how accomplished, a liar he was. It still amazed her.

I think you’re luscious.

Another lie. The pain in her chest squeezed harder. Deep down she’d always known she wasn’t really luscious, but how sweet it had been to hear lies like that.

She passed the photograph of the Trevi Fountain to Maria and took the next one from Mrs. Inkberry, but as she bent her head, she only pretended to study it. She closed her eyes instead, unable to bear any more views of Italy and thoughts of him.

Jackson, the viscount’s butler, entered the room. “If you please, ma’am, the viscount has returned. He has a friend with him, and he wishes to know if they may join the ladies for tea?”

“That depends,” Maria put in. “Is the viscount’s friend a single gentleman?”

Everyone laughed at that except Jackson, who maintained the dignified, superior air of an excellent butler. “I couldn’t say, Miss Martingale,” he murmured and turned to leave.

Stifled giggles followed him out the door, but were silenced almost at once when Viscount Marlowe walked in. He was followed by the Duke of St. Cyres.

Prudence jumped out of her chair as if jolted by a shot of electricity. She felt no dizzying rush of euphoria at the sight of him, no heart-twisting pang of pleasure, no overwhelming longing. Instead, she felt only the deep, bruising ache of hurt and the blazing anger of betrayal. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, as the other ladies rose to their feet in a far more ladylike fashion than she had done. “Leave at once.”

“Oh, Harry!” Emma wailed softly. “What have you done?”

“It’s business, Emma,” the viscount said, attempting to look innocent. “You know with me business always comes before any other considerations.”

Prudence asked the question before Emma could do so, but she asked it not of the viscount, but of Rhys. “What business could you possibly be conducting with Lord Marlowe?”

Rhys reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded newspaper. “The viscount conducted an interview with me for The Social Gazette. This is the first copy off the press. Would you care to see it?” Without waiting for an answer, he unfolded the newspaper and held it up so she and all the others could read the headline.

Wicked Duke Chooses Love Over Money!

Prudence stared at it for a moment, then looked at him. “What is this?”

“I told you, it’s tomorrow morning’s edition of The Social Gazette.” He nodded to the man beside him. “I gave Marlowe’s paper an exclusive interview, making a public declaration that if you were to consent to marry me, I would not receive a single penny of your inheritance.”

There were murmurs of surprise from the other ladies in the room, but Prudence merely folded her arms and scowled at him. “I don’t care what lies you tell the newspapers. I am not marrying you! Why on earth should I?”

“I can’t think of a single reason,” he admitted. “I know I’ve lied to you and I’ve been an utter bastard, and you have every right to hate me, but in all of this, I’ve told you one true thing. I love you.” He handed her the newspaper. “This was the only way I could think of to prove it.”

“I don’t believe you. This is a trick of some sort.”

“It’s not a trick. Read the interview and you’ll see. Please, Prudence,” he added when she made no move to comply. “Just read it.”

Reluctantly, she glanced at the story on the front page of Marlowe Publishing’s biggest newspaper, but before she could begin to actually read it, Rhys’s hand appeared in her line of vision, pointing to one particular paragraph. “Here’s the part where I declare that if Miss Abernathy agrees to marry me, the wedding will be on April sixteenth of next year.”

She glanced up, uncertain she’d heard him correctly. “April sixteenth?”

“One day after the terms of Henry Abernathy’s will go unfulfilled,” he went on. “The money will, of course, be forfeit.”

She frowned at him, still skeptical. “You’re willing to do that?”