“I’ve never told anyone why Thomas killed himself. The rumors have been flying around for years, but no one knows the truth. No one knows Evelyn was such a sick bastard. No one but my mother, and to this day she still denies it, even to herself. I am trusting you, Prudence, with the ugliest, most sordid secret in my life, and I’m hoping that shows you that you can trust me, too. You said you felt as if you didn’t know me. That you had no reason to trust me. And you were right. People who are going to be married ought to trust each other. Not that I’m taking anything for granted,” he added at once. “I’m not assuming you’re going to say yes. But I’m hoping you will.”
She gazed up at him, and she believed him. She believed every word. She knew that some women might think that made her twice a fool, but she didn’t care. She loved him. She always had, from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. She still did, despite his wicked ways.
“I’m not any sort of bargain, God knows,” he went on in the wake of her silence. “You could have your pick of chaps, and I have nothing, absolutely nothing to offer you. When this newspaper comes out tomorrow, the creditors will immediately call all my loans and take everything I own, which isn’t much, I grant you. They’ll strip Winter Park, the only estate with a single thing of value left. They’ll take all the lands—except St. Cyres Castle, of course. They can’t take that because it’s entailed. The only point in my favor is that they can’t take my title. I am a duke, with my very own castle.”
She tilted her head, acting as if she hadn’t yet made up her mind. “Owning a castle does have a certain cachet, I suppose,” she murmured.
“Not that it will do us any good. You saw yourself it’s not fit for dogs to live in, and I doubt it ever will be. What with all my debts, and earning my living as a writer, if you marry me, you’ll always be poor.”
She drew a deep breath. “Goodness, when you decide to start being frank, you do it thoroughly, don’t you?”
“I suppose I do.” Then he gave her that smile, that devastating smile that always gave her heart a painful, pleasurable twist, only this time there was none of the pain. That was gone. Perhaps because she’d survived her broken heart with her love for him intact. “No point in lying about St. Cyres Castle anyway,” he added, his smile widening into a rueful grin. “You’ve seen the place. But if I work very hard and write heaps of books, I might earn enough that we could fix the roof, buy some furniture, and repair the fountain.”
She began to smile. She couldn’t help it. He was so outrageous. “The fountain?”
“For bathing naked,” he confirmed.
Despite everything, he could still make her laugh. “A fountain is important, I suppose.”
“Things aren’t quite as grim as I’ve made them out to be,” he went on. “We would have a couple of servants. Fane and Woddell are getting married, and they want a home of their own. So, I’ve offered to give them their own cottage on the estate and a bit of land, and in return they’re willing to stay on for next to nothing in wages. Absurd of them, but there you are. They’re in love, the fools, and if they stay in domestic service working for anyone but us, they can’t get married. Woddell has assured me she can cook, by the way.”
He cupped her face in his hands. “I love you, Prudence Bosworth. If you marry me, I’ll protect you and take care of you, no matter what I have to do. I swear it on my life. And you’ll be a duchess, for what that’s worth. No one but a princess will ever outrank you, so no one will ever dare look down their noses at you because your parents never married. And no matter what I have to do, you’ll never have to be on your knees taking abuse from horrid people like Alberta Denville. So…” He took a deep breath. “Come April sixteenth, if I prove myself to you, will you marry me? Or am I an utterly lost cause?”
She looked up at him, looked into his beautiful green eyes, and knew why he was so notorious. What woman could resist him? “Yes, Rhys. I’ll marry you.”
He blinked. “You will?” When she nodded, he began to laugh. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
“You seem surprised,” she said, entwining her arms around his neck. “After that public declaration that’s going to be in all the papers tomorrow, did you really think I’d refuse you?”
He bent his head. “I thought I didn’t have a chance in hell,” he admitted, and kissed her.
And with his mouth on hers, Prudence reflected that April 16 seemed a terribly long way off. Ten months would crawl by. Postponing the wedding, she told herself, wasn’t absolutely necessary.
She broke the kiss, pulling back to look into his eyes. “Waiting until April sixteenth to give up the money won’t prove a thing, you know” she told him. “I met with Mr. Whitfield yesterday, and he said that even if you and I mended our quarrel and went ahead with our original plans to marry on June seventeenth, it wouldn’t matter. Your duplicity makes you a wholly unsuitable caretaker of the Abernathy fortune. He has withdrawn his approval, and since the consent of the trustees must be unanimous, the money will immediately go the relations of my father’s widow.”
“I’m not surprised. If I were a trustee, I wouldn’t approve a fortune-hunting scoundrel like me.” He lowered his arms and eased them around her waist. “If the money’s forfeit anyway, would you consider marrying me now? I mean, why wait if we don’t have to?”
She smiled sweetly. “You’ll be getting a letter from Mr. Whitfield in a few days, formally declaring you an unfit candidate. Don’t think you can get ’round that somehow, marry me early, and get the money that way.”
“I welcome their letter if it means I can persuade you to marry me now.” His hands caressed the small of her back, slid along her hips. “Waiting would be agony. After all, to prove I’m a changed man, I’d have to be thoroughly honorable the entire time.”
“True.” She frowned, pretending consternation. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
He tilted his head and began pressing kisses to the column of her throat. “All I shall be allowed are a few chaste kisses from you until the wedding. Assuming we can even manage to escape the journalists, for they will be following us everywhere, waiting to see if love truly conquers all.” He licked and nuzzled her throat. “The sooner we get married, the sooner I can begin to prove my love for you in ways that are worthy of my wicked reputation.”
“Hmm,” she murmured in agreement. “What woman could resist that argument?”
He drew back. “So, do we go ahead with the wedding, or do we wait? It’s up to you.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll marry you now,” she said, seeming to be won over at last. Reaching up, she raked a hand through his hair and started to draw his head down so he could kiss her again, but he paused, his lips an inch from hers, smiling.
“What did I do to deserve someone as luscious as you?”
“You tricked me,” she said, and pressed a kiss to his mouth. “How else?”
Epilogue
The Duke of St. Cyres and Miss Prudence Bosworth-Abernathy were married this morning at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Three hundred eighty-six people attended, probably to witness for themselves an event that just one month ago seemed highly unlikely to occur at all.
—Talk of the Town, 1894
The wedding breakfast, a much smaller affair than the wedding itself, took place at Milbray’s town house. It went against all rules of etiquette to have such a meal at the groom’s home, but the Savoy was out of the question. The bride’s relations couldn’t afford the expense.
After the meal, Prudence left the dining room first, accompanied by her head bridesmaid, Miss Martingale, to change her dress. Rhys exited the room shortly afterward to change out of his wedding suit, but as he passed the open doorway of the study on his way to the stairs, he stopped. Through the doorway, he stared at the desk on the other side of the room.
Its surface was piled with unanswered correspondence, for both he and Fane had been busy the past four weeks. Rhys knew amid the invitations and letters there were also overdue bills and demands for payment, but though he knew he’d probably be in debt for the rest of his life, he hadn’t a jot of regret.
He entered the room and walked to the desk. On top of the pile of correspondance, he could see the letter from Whitfield, Joslyn, and Morehouse, Attorneys-at-Law, which had come only a few days after his interview with the Social Gazette, and the announcement that despite rumors to the contrary, the Duke of St. Cyres and Miss Prudence Abernathy were intending to be married June 17 as planned.
He picked up the letter. Unfolding it, he walked around the desk and sat down, smiling as he read again the typewritten lines that said the trustees of the Abernathy estate could not in good conscience approve his marriage to Miss Prudence Abernathy, and that if the couple went forward with their plans to marry, they would receive nothing from the late millionaire’s estate.
Still smiling, Rhys folded the letter and placed it back on top of the pile. Perhaps he and Prudence should make a fire in Milbray’s fireplace tonight and burn it, along with all the bills. He thought about all the money he’d inherited from his father, money he’d thrown away, chasing happiness he’d never found. Now, when he didn’t have a shilling, he’d never been happier. Perhaps honesty was the best policy. He began to laugh.