Carola Dunn (11 page)

 “You certainly do, and I am forgetting mine. Miss Savage, may I present my niece, Lady Sophie Braverton.”

 “How do you do, Lady Sophie,” said the actress gravely as the child curtsied. “Are you enjoying your walk in the woods?”

 “Yes, ma’am. Please, are you a wood elf?”

 “I’m afraid not, just an ordinary person. I expect the wood elves have all gone to sleep in their trees for the winter.”

 “Oh yes, I ‘spect so. Do you want to come with me and Uncle Garth to watch William cutting holly?”

 She looked questioningly at Rusholme. He nodded, knowing he ought not. The contrast between her profession and her educated speech and manners fascinated him. Perhaps she was no dryad but she was a mystery he was determined to solve. What was more, the vivacity of her less than perfect features was more alluring than any static beauty.

 Sophie took her hand and he saw it was bare, the slender fingers red with cold. “Have you no gloves?” he said roughly.

 “I do indeed, in my pocket. I took them off to keep them from being stained with sap, which is horridly difficult to wash out.” She pulled on grey woollen mittens.

 When she was his mistress, she’d have kid gloves and a fur muff, and a maid to do her laundry.

 He must be mad to let the children talk to the woman he intended to take under his protection! But Sophie was tugging them both towards the holly tree where William’s shears snip-snapped as little Bella crowed in delight, her tiny hand firmly held by her big sister. Too late now to change his mind.

 Prudence was surprised at Lord Rusholme’s tolerance. Young William had put him in an awkward spot, to be sure, yet most gentlemen would have no difficulty dismissing a mere actress, with or without courtesy. Perhaps, overwhelmed by the responsibility for four children not his own, he felt that any female—even an actress—must be of assistance!

 She stole a glance at him. He was about her own age, maybe a year or two older. Not quite handsome; though his aristocratic features were finely carved, his cheekbones were a trifle too prominent, adding to a somewhat arrogant, cynical air.

 Still, the heir to a marquis was entitled to a touch of arrogance, while the toadying he must often meet with accounted for the cynicism. In contrast to his general air of superiority, his dark hair was in disarray, although there was no breeze. Prudence suspected he had given a ride on his shoulders to the moppet now dancing up and down with excitement ahead of them.

 “Sera!” Aimée came through the woods towards them, a doting gardener at her heels carrying both her sack and his own. “Who’s your friend?”

 “Lord Rusholme.” Prudence was dismayed to find herself ashamed to be associated in his mind with her flamboyant colleague. Despite their hurry, Aimée had found time to rouge her lips and cheeks and darken her lashes. Her pelisse might be inadequate against the cold but it fitted snugly over a generous bosom and was short enough to display a neat pair of ankles. “Miss Orlando, my lord.”

 His lordship nodded curtly.

 Unabashed, Aimée batted her eyelashes with a coy smile, then winked at Prudence and said, “Never fear, Sera, I’m no poacher. Come on, Billy boy, let’s dump this lot and see if we can find some more mistletoe.” She tripped off towards the cart, followed by the scarlet-faced gardener who ducked his head to the earl as he passed, his hands being full of sacks of greenery.

 “Is that lady your friend, Miss Savage?” Sophie enquired.

 Lord Rusholme’s set mouth and drawn brows proclaimed his displeasure. He had flatteringly ignored Prudence’s unsuitability as an acquaintance for his nieces and nephew, but Aimée’s brazen vulgarity obviously reminded him. Prudence started to excuse herself, to say she must go and help fill another sack.

 At that moment, the littlest girl set up a wail of fright. Instinctively Prudence ran to her and crouched at her side.

 “Bella tried to pick up some holly,” her sister explained.

 “It did sting me,” sobbed Bella.

 “Did it feel like a sting?” Prudence said soothingly. “It was only a prick, my dear. Look, the holly-leaves are prickly. Let me see your hands. Goodness, you are wearing mittens just like mine.”

 “‘Cept mine’s blue.”

 “So they are.” Prudence pulled them off and examined the chubby little hands.

 “Is there blood?” asked Sophie hopefully, which set off another wail from Bella.

 “Not a drop. All it needs is to be kissed better. There, and there.”

 Wails and sobs ceased. Prudence glanced up at Lord Rusholme, who stood there looking distinctly harassed.

 She couldn’t resist: “Perhaps Uncle Garth should kiss it better, too.”

 His expression martyred, he complied with the demand of upreaching arms. “It’s time we returned to the house,” he announced. “Your nurse will be wondering where you are. William, see if there is a sack to spare in the cart for your spoils. Yes, Miss Savage,” he said as the boy ran off, “I deliberately forgot a sack as well.”

 “Unnecessary in the circumstances,” she agreed with a smile.

 The girls went after William, to see the big horse. Once again Prudence was about to make her excuses and leave, but Lord Rusholme seemed to think it incumbent upon him to make polite conversation.

 “Your name is Sarah?” he asked.

 “No.” She felt an irrepressible blush rising. Why had she picked such a ridiculous alias? “Aimée calls me Sera, short for Seraphina.”

 He grinned. “Seraphina Savage? As likely as Aimée Orlando! A stage-name, I take it.”

 “Yes. I was going to call myself Seraphina Silver but it sounded too cloyingly sweet.”

 “Savage is much better, an intriguing contrast. Your taste is impeccable—as I already have reason to know.”

 Her cheeks grew hotter. “I was too flustered by my
faux pas
last night to apologize for my rudeness about your ballroom.”

 “I’ll forgive you, provided you tell me your real name.”

 She looked up at his teasing smile, the quizzical gleam in his brown eyes. He was dangerously charming, and she was an actress, fair game to gentlemen of his kind. Perhaps her staid, stodgy, commonplace name would protect her, depress notions romantical and erotic alike.

 “Prudence Figg, my lord.”

 He shouted with laughter. “Prudence! Could anything be less appropriate?”

 His reaction was justified, she had to admit, although for twenty-seven years she had been the most prudent of females. Just a few months ago she had rebelled against her name and her upbringing. She had not regretted her choice until now, until she met this infuriating, exciting, alarmingly seductive nobleman who set her nerves a-tingle.

 In her new life he took her for a lightskirt, fit to be his
chère-amie
, no more. Not that in her previous life he’d ever have regarded her as worthy of his hand, but nor would he have gazed down at her with open desire, making her feel as if her clothes had vanished in a sheet of flame.

 She pulled her cloak about her and said reproachfully, “I did not choose my name.”

 “I beg your pardon, I should not have laughed, particularly as mine is much worse. My surname is Warrender, which is tolerable, but I was christened Valentine Tregarth. As you have heard, my family calls me Garth. So do my most intimate friends,” he added in a voice full of meaning.

 To her relief, the children were on their way back. “I really must rejoin my party, my lord,” she said, and bidding the children farewell she fled.

 She looked back when she reached the safety of the cart, where the others were beginning to gather. Lord Rusholme was strolling down the hill, Lady Bella on his shoulders, Lady Sophie holding his hand. Young Lord Braverton and his eldest sister lugged their sack between them. An innocent scene.

 Yet for the second time Prudence had run away from the earl.

 For the next two weeks she’d be living in the same house. Surely the Easthaven mansion was vast enough for her to keep out of his way?

Chapter 3

 A combination of factors drove Rusholme out to help bring in the Yule log. It was really an occasion for the servants, those who could be spared after luncheon when family and guests were for the most part repletely inactive. The servants’ hall, once the Great Hall of the old house, had the only fireplace wide enough to hold a log large enough to burn throughout Christmas Day.

 The ancient country custom, repressed—like mummers and mistletoe—during the Puritan Commonwealth, had never widely revived. Lord Easthaven, an enthusiast for lost traditions, had proposed rebuilding the elegant Adam fireplace in the gold drawing room for the purpose. The marchioness had put her foot down. So much disruption for the sake of burning a Yule log once a year was not to be thought of.

 Instead, his lordship encouraged his servants to observe the custom: those, at least, who could be spared for an hour or two from the duties attendant upon his lavish notions of Christmas hospitality.

 Rusholme, having returned Maria’s offspring to the nursery, was cornered at the breakfast table by Lady Anne.

 “I am so looking forward to gathering holly this morning,” she exclaimed, smiling to display pearly teeth. “Such a delightful, quaint tradition, is it not, Lord Rusholme?”

 “Certainly, ma’am. Carriages will be waiting to take everyone who wishes to join in to the woods. The grooms know where to take you.”

 “I am sure you know the best places.”

 “No better than they, and I have already taken my sister’s children to pick holly this morning.”

 “La, how excessively amiable of you! But we cannot go without you. The fun will be quite spoilt, I vow.”

 “Then of course I shall go,” he said dryly, and turned to David’s mousy sister-in-law. David had explained that her presence was Lady Easthaven’s notion, not his or his wife’s, let alone her own, so Rusholme was feeling slightly more kindly towards her. What the deuce was her name? Ah yes, “Miss Wallace, may I hope for the pleasure of your company?”

 She turned bright pink and mumbled acquiescence, while Lady Anne pouted and tossed her golden ringlets.

 “Let’s all go, shall we, David?” said Mrs. Denham diplomatically.

 Between Lady Anne’s affected gaiety and Kitty Wallace’s tongue-tied bashfulness, Rusholme’s second outing was an exercise in acute tedium. At least he easily avoided Lady Anne’s attempt to draw him deeper into the woods in search of the best berries. How he wished it was sweet Prudence enticing him onward!

 When they returned to the house, Lady Anne needed his advice on directing the footmen where to place the sprigs of holly whose gathering she had personally supervised. Fortunately Henry Ffoliot was more than happy to advise her.

 Unfortunately, Lady Estella Redpath, daughter of the Duke of Essex, had just come in from a ride. A robust, jovial young woman, she had apparently decided the way to Rusholme’s heart was to admire the hunting country around his home. This involved describing every hedge, ditch, and copse she had observed on her ride, interspersed with tales of her prowess in the hunting field.

 “Let’s ride together this afternoon,” she proposed, “and you shall show me your favourite jumps.”

 “You must be tired after being on horseback all morning.”

 Her booming laugh half deafened him. “Tired! I’m no namby-pamby miss, Rusholme. When the scent’s high, I often ride eight hours at a stretch.”

 It was a perfect day for a ride, sunny and crisp. No use praying for rain, which doubtless would not give Lady Estella pause anyway. He racked his brains. “Then I...ah...nothing would please me more but...hm...I arrived rather late yesterday and my mother will be most displeased if I’m not on hand to greet her guests today.”

 “Pity! Another day, then. Still, plenty of time, we’re here till after Twelfth Night.”

 “Another day,” he agreed reluctantly, hoping she’d not consult the marchioness, who would certainly want him to ride with the duke’s highly eligible daughter.

 In the circumstances, Rusholme was delighted when his sister Julia arrived and her children, who had missed the morning’s excursion, begged him to take them out.

 “No more holly!” he insisted. He never wanted to see another red berry or prickly leaf in his life. “We’ll go to see the Yule log brought home. And we’ll take your nursemaid with us to look after the little ones.”

 When they reached the spot where a lightning-struck oak had been felled and trimmed, the first thing Rusholme noticed was a leaf-green cloak among the spectators. Prudence! He was rewarded for his excessive amiability to his sisters’ children.

 As the nearest servants greeted them, she glanced round and he caught her eye. She smiled, nodded, and turned back to speak to the man at her side.

 Jealousy lanced through him. Who the devil was the fellow? Of medium height, he wore a capeless top-coat a trifle too tight in the shoulders and a rather dusty-looking beaver with a curly brim sagging at the back.

 An actor, no doubt, one of her colleagues. Rusholme breathed again.

 Prudence—somehow he couldn’t think of her as Seraphina—would be embarrassed if he sought her out in this crowd, he realized. In the world of the theatre, lovers were an accepted part of life. Among the respectable servants of a great house, chastity was the rule, lack of chastity cause for ignominy and dismissal. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. His pursuit would have to be discreet.

 He took the children closer to watch a carthorse being harnessed to the log. The horse-brasses gleaming in the sun fascinated his littlest nephew. The two older boys had to be restrained from going to help.

 The last buckle was fastened and the carter cracked his whip. The horse strained at the yoke. The log quivered.

 Rusholme handed over the boys to the two nearest housemaids. “Hang on to them,” he ordered, then cried, “Come on, fellows, put your shoulders to it!”

 Leading the rush of cheering footmen, gardeners, and grooms, he heaved with all his strength at the stubborn mass. He knew he was showing off and wondered at it. He hadn’t felt a need to impress a female since he was one-and-twenty, yet here he was displaying like a peacock, all for an actress whose only interest was undoubtedly his money.