Compromising Prudence (5 page)

So word of my disgrace has even reached the ears of the shopkeepers. Ah well, Madame collects gossip the way men collected snuff boxes.

“No,” Pru said. “There will be an announcement after the wedding.” At least she hoped Hatterly would attend to that detail. She would remind him to do so after they were safely ensconced in that village of his. “I am not marrying Lord Thomas Petworth.”

She said it with as much dignity as she could muster, but her face burned.

“I see,” Madame said slowly. She gave Antoinette rapid instructions in French.

Pru knew the dress the moment Madame brought it out. It was a bright green satin with a broad hem around the border. Three ribbons of the same laurel green descended from the waist. “
C’est modes des Paris
,” Madame said, fingering the Provence roses which finished the border. “And for your trousseau,
chérie
?”

“My trousseau?”

Madame coughed discreetly into her hand. “There are items in another room of the sort that a bride might wish to add, items of a personal nature.”

“Oh!”

Undergarments. That was what Madame was saying. Or perhaps intimate things for the marital bed.

Her blush intensified at the notion of parading about before Hatterly in her unmentionables. Wives did such things. She knew because Constance had confessed all to her — in direct contradiction of Papa’s orders, of course — but that is what married sisters were for. She had no Mama to lift the shroud concealing marital intimacies and Aunt Hetty had refused. It had fallen to her sisters to enlighten her.

“My trousseau. Of course.” And why shouldn’t she have lovely things? Hatterly said she could spend his money freely. A woman
needed
a wedding trousseau. Hatterly would probably expect it.

The thought made her slightly dizzy and not in an unpleasant way.

She meekly followed Madame into another room without windows. There were drawers and drawers of frilly items and books with still more to choose from, but what drew her eye most of all a gown hanging on a maker’s form.

She had no idea what such a concoction was for.

Made of deep rose silk, the gown had a touch of lace along the bodice. It might have been a nightrail, but the sheer fabric was far too flimsy to keep one warm. The skirt was the wrong length for a chemise. Its cool material rustled through her fingers, soft as a whisper.

“Mademoiselle, likes it,
non
?” Antoinette said behind her.

Pru nodded. “But what is it?”

“It is a
negligee
.”

“Is that…is that like a nightrail?”

Antoinette hesitated. “
Oui
,” she said with a smile in her voice. “But one is not expected to sleep in it. A
negligee
is for entertaining one’s
amour
in the bedroom. I know it to be your size,
mademoiselle
.”

Pru struggled to breathe. She was wearing that
negligee
in her mind. Hatterly drew the sleeves off her shoulders and down her arms, which wouldn’t be difficult as there was barely enough sleeve to hold the gown up. In fact on closer inspection, the bodice was frightfully small and constructed like a corset. The lacing held the bodice in place, not the sleeves which were hardly more than puffs. She suspected that the lace was actually the top of the bodice and was designed to cover the breasts without
covering
them. She slipped a hand inside the gown and realized that her hand was visible through the fabric. It would be like wearing a gown made of mist and fog.

“Yes, I want this,” she said, even as she was aware that the tips of her ears burned. They were probably as red as her cheeks. A new thought struck her and she turned back to Antoinette with a gleam in her eye.

“I’ll take the negligee with me. I do not wish for these items to be delivered. I will arrange to have them picked up tomorrow. The bill may be sent in the usual way. You know where to send the bill, of course. In fact, I do believe Papa would like an itemized list of the things I’ve bought for my trousseau. Send the list with the bill.”

That would give Papa the apoplectic fit he so richly deserved. She and Charles would be safely gone by the time he received the bill.

Antoinette gave her a puzzled frown. “You think so, mademoiselle?”

“Oh, I know so,” Pru said. “List everything for him. And let’s shop for more. Show me everything. I want to see every lovely, decadent, frilly garment in the shop.”

Charles tossed back the remains of his drink. As lectures went, this one had been moderately successful. Arguing about taxonomy was never a thrilling discourse, but it was damned important. Next to Moncrief’s droning treatise on Lesser Egrets, Charles had been positively fascinating.

Now he was enjoying a well-earned nuncheon at his club while Miss Wemberly did her best to lighten his purse.

“Hallo, cousin,” drawled a lazy voice at his shoulder.

Charles stiffened and didn’t turn. “Petworth.”

His hand tightened around his glass.

Lord Thomas Petworth dropped into the vacant chair across the table from Charles, drawing off his gloves. He gestured to the chair next to him which was immediately occupied by another man. Charles wondered briefly if the blond man was yet another Petworth or perhaps a Kindley. The two young tulips were quite interchangeable with the same sunny good looks, improbable neckcloths, collars so stiff and high they could barely turn their heads and naturally the same smug expression.

“Wilson, this is my country cousin,” Petworth said. “Don’t suppose you two have met. Hatterly, Wilson.”

He nodded to both men and waved a hand at the server. After the important business of choosing a wine and a nearly invisible flick of his snuff box, he turned back to Charles.

“What brings you to London, cousin? Must have something to do with birds, I suppose. One of those dreary old meetings. Hatterly is a bird watcher,” he confided to Wilson.

“I’m an ornithologist; a scientist,” Charles said through clenched teeth.

“Fascinating, I’m sure,” Wilson drawled.

Charles leaned back, forcing himself to relax. When the server brought Petworth’s wine, he refilled Charles’ glass.

Charles took a slow swallow. “Actually, I’m here for the same purpose you are Petworth, the marriage mart.” He took another swallow.

Petworth froze, glass in hand. “Marriage?”

“I mean to take a wife.”

Petworth surprised him by laughing. “How many years have you played at this farce?” He leaned toward Wilson. “Hatterly comes to London once a year to feign a bridal hunt, but spends all his time with the Zoological Society talking bird watching.”

“Ornithology.”

Petworth waved his hand. “I, on the other hand, am legitimately in need of a wife.”

“Heard you had found one,” Charles said tightly.

Petworth raised an eyebrow. “Wherever did you…? Never mind. It isn’t so. Sir Wemberly made noises about forcing me to marry that freckled chit of his, but it was only that. I never did a thing to the girl. No, my parents are being…difficult.” He flicked his snuff box open and shut with a neat gesture, but the tension around his mouth belied his casual pose. “I’m legitimately on the wife hunt — or rather, the
heiress
hunt.”

Fighting the urge to fling the contents of his glass into his cousin’s smug face, Charles leaned back in his seat. “Wemberly’s daughter isn’t exactly a beggar.” He studied Petworth over his glass.

“But not exactly of the first water either. I don’t suppose such a thing would matter to you when your own fortunes came from trade, but my standards for a wife are more exacting.” Once more, Petworth leaned toward Wilson and Charles fought the urge to smash the two blond heads together. It would make a satisfying thump, like two empty melons coming together. “Hatterly’s mother was quite the black sheep. Married an American, you know.”

“Fascinating,” Wilson drawled. Perhaps he was only capable of a single word at a time. Clearly his only role was to play the foil to Petworth’s ego which did not require excessive intelligence.

“Fascinating indeed, but who is bamming the family now? This charade may pacify your father, but you can’t put me off with your sham of a wife hunt. You have no interest in taking a wife.
I
am in earnest.” Charles permitted himself a little smile. “Bet you a monkey I marry before you do.”

Petworth laughed. “Done! How about you, Wilson?”

Wilson stopped, his brow wrinkled and his drink almost to his lips. “About me what?”

“Are you in for a monkey?”

“That your cousin marries before I do?”

Petworth made an annoyed sound. “That I marry before my cousin, you twit.”

“Oh!” Wilson’s face cleared. “Yes, of course I’ll take the wager. Bet he doesn’t know you’ve got Lady Caroline on the string.”

Petworth glared at him. “But it’s done,” he said, turning back to Charles. “A monkey to the one who takes a wife first.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “The wager is done.” He placed his hands on the table and stood. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.”

He left his club, smiling broadly, and went to collect his bride-to-be at the modiste’s.

Chapter Five

M
ISS
W
EMBERLY
N
ESTLED
B
ACK
against the squabs of the carriage, clutching a parcel in her lap. She’d refused to part with that one and her only response was a smirk when Charles asked to know the contents. She must have felt the weight of his stare because she ceased peeping out the curtain.

“You seem to have been successful,” he commented.

“Very successful, thank you. The rest will need to be picked up tomorrow.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “You bought out the shop?”

“I barely scratched the surface. But this will do for now. I still will need to visit the shoemaker and milliner. Gloves,” she said as an afterthought. “I shall need gloves as well.”

“Of course.”

He could hardly complain now. He had promised her free reign with his purse. Apparently, his bride-to-be was a neck or nothing shopper. He shuddered to think what she would do to Strayfield Manor. The furnishings hadn’t been updated in ten years. He suspected that a bored wife plus outmoded house would equal a steady stream of tradesmen visiting the premises.

“How was your paper received?”

He blinked, startled. “My paper?”

“Did you not present a paper this morning? I’m certain you said that you would.”

“The presentation went well.”

“What was the paper about?”

He blinked again. No one ever asked about his work.

“Should I not have asked?” Her forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“Taxonomy,” he said. Her face remained confused. “The scientific classification of things. There is controversy with the new subclass of Neornithes. And…and it’s probably very boring.”

“Alas, I am no bluestocking and I have no grounding in the sciences,” she said ruefully.

“Let me guess. Papa didn’t consider it seemly for women to study science.”

“I don’t think he considered it seemly for anyone to study science. He considered science an affront to the church. But he especially disagreed with ladies thinking too much. He subscribed to the notion that thinking over taxed the nervous and led to hysterical disorders and ill health.” The carriage rumbled over a rough passage and she adjusted her parcel.

“You don’t seem prone to fits,” he said.

Miss Wemberly laughed. “I’ve never fainted a day in my laugh.”

Her warm, inviting laugh suited her. Her laugh was genuine, not the studied titter of the ballroom. Sir Algernon had fought hard to keep his daughter unspoiled. In some regards, he’d succeeded admirably, whether she thanked him or not.

Would he have noticed her in one of those ballrooms? Would she have stood out among the other demure misses in white gowns? He would like to think so, and yet the odds were good that they had been in the same place at the same time and he simply had no recollection of her.

“What color was your gown?” Charles asked abruptly.

“Which gown? I’ve owned many.”

“Your ballgowns. What color were they?”

She continued to stare, then said, “White of course. What other color would they be?”

He would have missed a treasure, his one diamond hidden among the others. He was sure of it. “Your papa wouldn’t have allowed anything else, would he?”

She shrugged and parted the curtain with one finger, just enough to allow her a glimpse of the street.

“It’s wrong, you know,” Charles said.

“What is?”

“Not to tell your father where you are is cruel.”

She let the curtain fall. “
He
was cruel.”

“Perhaps, but you aren’t. You need to write to him.”

“This is a taste of his own medicine. He is forever issuing edicts as if I were one of his clerks. No one will order me about again. I won’t have it. I won’t!”

She seemed perilously close to tears, which was the last thing he’d intended. He easily swung over into the seat next to her and took her hand. “That wasn’t an order,” he said gently. “I’m not in the habit of issuing edicts, you know. For one thing, birds don’t listen to them.” She rewarded him with a tremulous smile. “Come to think of it, neither do my siblings. I suppose I’m not intimidating enough to bend them to my will. I only ask that you consider telling your father the truth. He can’t stop us. Promise me that you will consider it.”

She leaned closer to him and nestled her cheek against his shoulder. A sweet gesture of trust, it felt wholly natural to return the comfort by resting his chin on her hair.

She smelled faintly of orange blossoms.

“I’ll consider writing him,” she said at last.

Prudence sat at the writing desk, drumming her fingers.

They had compromised.

How surprising that Hatterly could be so persistent.

She would write someone — not Papa — and explain her situation. Unfortunately, she could think of no one to whom she wished to write. She was on friendly terms with lots of girls, but there was no bosom bow she could trust to not rush about with a tidbit of gossip. Her sisters were a possibility.

Grace could be relied upon to report to Papa that Pru was alive and well and not kidnapped by pirates, but could be counted on to do so in such a clumsy way as to make her marriage sound tawdry. Constance would mean to tell, but she’d forget. Silly chit.

With a sigh, Pru finally picked up the quill and began a letter to Aunt Hetty. She would tell her aunt that she was safe, but not where she was. Better no one know until they were married.

If Papa cared.

Pru’s eyes strayed to the daily news. There was nothing in the paper regarding a famous magistrate missing his daughter — no constables hunting for her, no bills or pamphlets. Papa had washed his hands of her. After all, he had two good daughters who had married respectable men.

He didn’t deserve to have his mind set to rest.

He deserved to suffer.

Nevertheless, she would write Aunt Hetty. Much as Papa deserved to suffer, she wasn’t so cold as to let him do so endlessly. It would be enough for him to know that she had married and gone without his leave. He would assume the worst, that her marriage was one he wouldn’t approve of — and that would likely be correct. Papa was suspicious of men who placed confidence in science and logic. He was also suspicious of those outside his circle. Hatterly’s family was most likely in trade.

Pru smiled. She would mention in her letter to Aunt Hetty that she’d married a merchant. This wasn’t precisely a lie and the news would give Papa as much dyspepsia as would the bill from the modiste.

Hatterly was busy up in his study. Wasn’t that just like a man? Leave her to this wretched task whilst he indulged his interests. No thought to her. She closed the desk with a snap. She’d write the letter later.

This was to be her future.

A busy, remote husband. Separate lives. She would make new friends and learn to enjoy village life. Perhaps she would take up needlepoint and finally master watercolors.

She could travel. That would be nice.

Oh, this would certainly be for the best. A pleasant marriage of convenience was always preferable to stormy waters of a love match.

Pru drummed her fingers on her seat.

How long could one man think about birds? Steps in the hallway made her leap to her feet. She flung open the door, startling the poor housekeeper.

“Mrs. Forbes!”

“Great heavens, miss!” The portly woman staggered, hand on her bosom.

“Sorry,” Pru said with an unrepentant grin. “But does Mr. Hatterly take tea each day?”

“Aye, when he’s in residence he does like a bit, miss.”

“How wonderful,” Pru sighed. She’d entertained dire visions of Hatterly sequestered in his study for days on end, eschewing food, sleep, and conversation. “You may bring the tray to me and I will take it to him.”

Mrs. Forbes stared blankly for a moment, but controlled herself enough to murmur, “If you’d like, miss.” Then she turned and rapidly left.

Well, if Hatterly could be interrupted by a maid then he could be interrupted by his soon-to-be-wife. Pru reopened the desk and began the letter to Aunt Hetty.

True to Mrs. Forbes’ promise, Lizzy appeared on the strike of the clock bearing a silver tray with scones, jam and tea. Pru eyed the tray doubtfully, for it looked much heavier than she’d expected. Perhaps she wouldn’t play maid.

“Follow me,” she said finally. “I expect he may protest when we invade his study, but simply put the tray on the nearest table and exit.”

She knew a thing or two about disrupting men in their office. It had been the only time she could guarantee Papa’s attention.

Pru gave the office door a cursory knock and simply let them both in without waiting for a response. Charles sat with his back to her, frowning at a mound of papers.

“Over there,” he gestured without looking up.

Finding the desired surface on which to place the tray was more difficult than Pru had imagined. This office was nothing like the polished order of Papa’s mahogany desk and chairs.

Mounds of papers teetered on every surface that didn’t sport stuffed birds. The glassy eyes of feathered specimens gleamed throughout the room. Birds of prey, exotic tropical-looking creatures, muted little songbirds and broad-footed waterfowl stared at her from all directions.

She swallowed hard.

Life with Hatterly would take some adjustment.

Nonplussed by the feathered audience, Lizzy balanced the tray on a footstool. With a quick curtsey and a curious glance Pru’s way, she took her leave.

Pru clasped her hands, certain he would look up in a moment. When he didn’t, she scowled. Was he always so absorbed with his birds? Well, she had been warned.

She cleared her throat.

Charles gradually became aware that someone else was in the room with him. Lizzy generally left a tray and vanished. He roused himself from taxonomy to discover Miss Wemberly watching him with an expression that matched his own: one part annoyance to two parts bemusement.

“Is this a typical day, then?” she asked.

Charles blinked.

No, it was not a typical day.

It had been a thoroughly surreal day. He had repaired a woman’s bonnet. He had applied for a special license to be married on the morrow. He’d had a bizarre conversation with the man who had ruined his future wife, resulting in a wager. Oh yes, he had also presented a paper and sequestered himself in his study to work. That part was normal. The rest was most assuredly not normal.

She watched him expectantly.

“I don’t know how to reply,” he finally confessed.

That seemed to satisfy her and she nodded. “I’m at loose ends myself. This is so far from my normal that I might as well be in China instead of still in London.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“I brought you tea.”

He forced a smile. Having a wife meant concessions. In spite of his bold words about separate lives, he knew marriage would change things, had always known it would erode his autonomy. Self-preservation was why he’d fought the idea of marriage with such vigor for so long.