Heather and Velvet (11 page)

Her discomfiture pained him. He leaned back on the stool, his eyes searching her face. “What of suitors, Prudence? Don’t you wish to marry one day?”

She met his gaze coolly. Her quiet words held not a trace of self-pity. “I am twenty years old. I have received two separate marriage proposals in my life. Within five minutes, I’d talked both men out of believing they loved me. If they had loved me, I would not have been able to talk them out of it.”

Her blatant honesty disarmed him and tightened an aching knot in the pit of his stomach. “Does that suit you? Is this the life you choose? No husband. No home of your own. No children.”

She shyly inclined her head. “I must confess to a fondness for children. I had once hoped to have some of my own.”

Sebastian rose and strode over to the window before she met his gaze and saw how badly he would like to put his child in her. He balled his fist against the casement, staring blindly at the summer morning.

When he spoke again, his voice was gruffer than he intended. “You need not worry, Miss Walker. Lindentree will be your home for as long as you desire to make it so.”

He heard the swish of her skirts, the click of her spectacles unfolding, but did not trust himself to face her.

“Thank you, sir. I trust you will not be sorry.”

Behind him, the library doors opened and closed. He pressed his forehead to the warm glass, baffled by what had transpired. He had come to the library to cajole, to swear, or to threaten her into secrecy concerning his identity, and she had ended up begging him—a lying, thieving, no-good scoundrel—for a small corner in her own home.

What manner of woman was she? And why was he so powerless to stop thinking of her? His eyes narrowed with determination. With luck and a bit of charm, he intended to find out. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out one of the pearl-tipped hairpins he had carried since the night they had met. He rolled it between his fingers, hearing once again the sweet beat of the summer rain.

P
rudence backed through the library door, trying to juggle a tart and flip the page of her book at the same time. Safely inside the library, she shoved the door shut with her foot. A light snore rattled the silence, and she froze. Her heart thudded a warning. As she turned, the tart slipped from her fingers and landed on the polished wood floor with a splat.

Sebastian sprawled in the wing-backed chair, his white-stockinged feet propped on the stool. His head was thrown back, his mouth slightly ajar. A book lay across his lap, rumpling the neat creases of his tan breeches.

She knew she ought to scrape up her tart and silently creep away. Sebastian Kerr would soon be master of this house. If he chose to deny her the haven of the library in the first peace of the day, that was his right. But the slanting rays of the morning sun poured over him, seeming to drag her forward. Just one look, she promised herself. Just to satisfy her perverse curiosity about the reading habits of a notorious highwayman.

Clutching her own book, she glided toward him, bedazzled
by more than the sunshine. The fragile light spun a white-gold web around Sebastian. He looked like a medieval prince awaiting a kiss to break his enchantment. Before she realized it, Prudence was leaning forward, her lips parted. Sebastian’s thigh shifted, and she gave herself a harsh mental shake.

She could hardly afford to indulge in such girlish fantasies about her aunt’s fiancé. He was just a man like any other man. She forced herself to focus on his faults—the little hiccup at the crest of each snore, the pale scar under his chin. She bent over him. Why, his teeth weren’t even perfect! One of his front teeth had a corner chipped out of it.

He stirred again, and she almost giggled at the thought of him awakening to find her peering into his mouth like a horse trader.

She eased the book from his lap, but she didn’t have to turn it over to recognize it. It was Lavoisier’s famed tome on gunpowder, the very book he had discovered her reading the day before. He had made it to the second page before falling asleep.

Her bewilderment shifted to unreasoning ire. The book slid from her rigid fingers, hitting the Persian carpet with a soft thud. How long had he been lying in wait for her? The man should be with his fiancée. What right did he have to ruin her morning? To insinuate himself into her library, her chair, her book? Was there nothing in her life he would leave alone, unchanged by the casual mockery of his touch? She glared down at him, unwillingly noticing how his dark lashes fanned across his cheeks. Sleeping people looked so terribly vulnerable.

She took three deliberate steps backward, off the carpet, held her arms straight out in front of her, and dropped her book. It slammed into the floor with the force of a gunshot.

Sebastian flew out of the chair, groping at his waist. Prudence didn’t know whether to laugh or be ashamed when she realized he was searching for his pistols. His wild-eyed gaze lit on her.

She blinked, all innocence. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.”

He sank back into the chair and dragged a hand through his tousled hair. “Good Lord, girl. You took ten years off my life.”

She noted that he wasn’t too senile to nudge the treatise on gunpowder under his chair with his heel.

She knelt to retrieve her own book. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll be going now.”

“No!”

She stared at him, frozen in place on her knees.

He gave his frock coat a sheepish tug, as if realizing how much desperation had tempered his command. “Stay, please. There’s ample room for both of us here.”

Prudence didn’t know if the Colosseum of Rome held ample room for both of them. Before she could protest, though, he was kneeling beside her. His knee brushed hers as he picked up her book.

He gave a mock stagger at its weight and read the title aloud, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar Latin.
“Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica
by Isaac Newton.” He handed it to her. “I’m glad to see you’ve taken up some lighter reading, Prudence. I was beginning to wonder if you ever had any fun.”

His teasing grin revealed the chip in his tooth. It only made him look dashing. Prudence knew she should have escaped before he recovered his smile.

She hugged the book to her breasts like a shield, babbling as she always did when nervous. “Newton is quite fascinating, you know. The
Principia
explores his hypothesis that the force of attraction between two bodies varies directly …”

Her voice trailed off as she became mesmerized by the clean scent of his hair, the lazy little flick of his tongue across his upper lip.

He lifted an eyebrow, challenging her to continue.

She stood abruptly. “You wouldn’t be interested.”

He straightened too. “You’re wrong, Prudence. I would be very interested.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” She took a step backward. “I—I’m boring. Everyone says so.”

“Nonsense. I find Norton’s theories quite intriguing.”

“Newton,” she corrected, taking another step away from him, acutely aware of the closed door at her back.

He reached for her book, as if by touching it he could somehow hold her there. Her fingers dug into the leather spine. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the considerable charm of his physical presence that tempted her to stay. It was the tender earnestness in his eyes. It would be too easy to believe he actually wanted to sit with her among all these books, and laugh and talk about the things that interested them, as she and Papa used to do. When she looked up, though, Sebastian’s gaze was lingering not on her book, but on her lips.

A strange heat flooded her cheeks. She fumbled behind her for the door handle. “Perhaps another time.”

As if sensing he had pushed too hard, too fast, he stepped back. “Come tomorrow morning, won’t you? We could talk …”

A peculiar expression stole over his face, and she followed his gaze downward. His foot was planted firmly in the middle of her tart. Raspberries bled into his immaculate white stocking.

Prudence clapped a hand over her mouth before a throaty giggle could escape. Tricia said her laugh was vulgar, as low and common as a London hussy’s. Beneath his lowered lashes, Sebastian’s eyes sparkled dangerously. Prudence opened the door, deciding it was wisest to pretend she hadn’t noticed his foot was mired in her breakfast.

“Perhaps tomorrow.” She bobbed a harried curtsy. “Good day, my lord.”

His elegant bow could have graced any London drawing room. “Good day, Prudence.”

She backed into the hall, turned and ran, skittering around the corner and out the door to the garden. She collapsed against the wall, smothering her merry peals of laughter with her skirt.

Sebastian trailed his hand through the rippling cool water of the fish pond. A goldfish nipped his thumb. He straightened with a sigh and leaned on the balustrade. The sun toasted his
cambric shirt against his shoulders. He longed to tear away his queue and let the warm wind rush through his hair.

From the bowling green below the terrace, Squire Blake waved a turkey leg at him. Sebastian wondered if that would be him in twenty years. Corpulent and crude, satisfied to spend his days playing games with other overgrown children and his nights learning clever new ways to fold his cravat. He shuddered.

“Have you taken a chill, darling? Shall I have Fish fetch your coat?”

Sebastian suppressed another shudder as Tricia’s trilling voice raked down his spine. What sort of inane question was that, he wondered. Probably just another excuse to stuff him into a frock coat. He swung around to face his fiancée. She sat a few feet away, going through her correspondence with Old Fish. Just recently risen from her bed, she wore only her elegant
robe de chambre
—and, of course, a wig and full complement of makeup. Her damp fichu clung to her bosom. A trickle of sweat eased down her flushed cheek, melting the powder in its wake. Beneath the flattering candlelight of London ballrooms and her bedchamber, he had never noticed the folds of skin loosening at her throat. He felt a pang of sympathy mixed with irritation. It must be stifling under that wig.

“No, thank you, dear,” he said, dredging up a pleasant smile “I haven’t taken a chill.

She tittered. “Perhaps a goose walked over your grave.”

A Great Dane, more likely, he thought as Boris galloped across the lawn below, scattering the peacocks.

Tricia blew him a kiss and went back to dictating her correspondence. Catching the butler’s eye, Sebastian decided he might need that coat after all. Old Fish’s glare was as shivering as a glacier.

His hands clenched the balustrade. He wouldn’t have to worry about a grave for quite some time. The only thing likely to kill him at Lindentree was boredom. Rising at five each morning to haunt the library wasn’t improving his temper either, especially since Prudence had failed to appear after their last meeting. He was a slow reader, and
had struggled to page fifty of the gunpowder book without gaining any insight into her character.

Squire Blake tromped up the grassy slope, sucking the last drops of grease from the turkey bone. The afternoon stretched interminably before Sebastian. Tea. A round of bowling on the lawn. Dinner. Sipping brandy while listening to Tricia pound on her new pianoforte. A late supper. No wonder Squire Blake was so obsessed with his digestion. In the past week their whole lives had consisted of an endless parade of meals broken only by an occasional hunt or ball. Sebastian smothered a yawn with the back of his hand.

A boom shattered the silence, rattling the glass in the casement windows.

Sebastian spun around. “What the hell …?”

Tricia slapped a sheaf of letters on the stone table. “Damn that girl! I warned her.”

Her robe rippled around her feet as she stalked into the house and down the long corridor to the east wing. Old Fish trotted behind her. Sebastian followed at a safe distance, fascinated by the abrupt change in Tricia’s demeanor.

Black smoke rolled out of the kitchens. Tricia slammed a handkerchief over her nose and charged into the smoky fray, batting at the air. Old Fish hung back, clutching the door frame. The smoke slowly cleared, revealing a scene of such charming chaos that Sebastian felt himself grinning like a fool.

White gobbets of dough spattered every visible surface. They clung to the cracked glass of the windows, dotted the brick hearth, and dangled from the herb rack like yeasty pearls. The iron door of the oven hung askew on its hinges. Inside, a tongue of flame licked at a charred ball. Wooden bowls, spoons, and platters littered the floor and table. Two maidservants huddled in the corner, coughing into their aprons. Sebastian-cat perched on the table, lapping cream from a shattered pitcher.

In the midst of it all stood Prudence, enveloped in a charcoal-smudged apron, her hair piled on her head in an untidy mass. Flour dusted her spectacles. Sebastian threw
back his head to laugh, but as Prudence faced her aunt, something in her stance stopped him.

She laced her fingers together. Her slender throat convulsed as if she were swallowing a knot of dread. Still, she managed to summon a weak smile. “Good afternoon, Auntie.”