The Courteous Cad (10 page)

“My sister would be delighted, I am sure,” Mary said. “Would you not, Pru?”

“Of course, Mr. Sherbourne. I am always happy to come to the aid of a man who dances poorly. How bad are you?”

He laughed as they entered the large drawing room. Mary had only just seated herself at the pianoforte when he took Prudence’s hand and turned her to face him.

“Will you play a waltz, please, Mrs. Heathhill?” he called across the room. “I can think of nothing that would please me more.”

“A waltz? Oh! But of course.” With a deep breath and a flutter of eyelashes, Mary hovered over the instrument for a moment. Her cheeks reddened as she searched through sheets of music, but she found a waltz at last and began to play.

William drew Prudence closer and danced her across the floor toward the fireplace. As it happened, they moved in perfect harmony with the swaying one-two-three rhythm. And with each other.

“I prefer the waltz,” William said, his breath stirring the curls against her cheek. “Some may consider it a scandalous dance, but you, I think, must enjoy it.”

“And why is that? I am as happy with a jig or a reel as any lady. I take great pleasure in a quadrille or a country dance.”

“But unlike those, the waltz brings a man and a woman into an embrace as they accompany the music about the room. It requires a certain intimacy, and you like that.”

She gave a little laugh. “You profess to know everything about me, sir.”

“I know almost nothing. Yet this much is plain.”

“But you are wrong. The waltz removes a woman’s command over her own movements. She is left powerless in her partner’s arms.” Prudence glanced toward the pianoforte. “And you have made my sister blush.”

“Do you blush, too, Miss Watson?” He drew back for a moment. His warm treacle eyes searched her face, lingered on her lips, and met her own gaze. “I see you are not as easily shocked as she. But you have been to France, of course. You must have danced the waltz many a time.”

“And with many men,” she added. “You, perhaps, rank among the most perplexing.”

“Why is that? I have been forthright with you at our every meeting. Yet I see you are baffled by my character. I am, on the one hand, exceedingly charming—an officer of the Royal Navy, the son of a baron, the owner of a large worsted mill. On the other, I am a cruel taskmaster who thinks nothing of tearing children limb from limb. Have I assessed the source of your bewilderment correctly?”

“Not at all,” she replied. By now he had danced her to the far end of the drawing room, near an alcove lit by candles. “I am perplexed by your skill at waltzing.”

“Ah,” he said with a laugh. “But I have traveled too, Miss Watson. France, Spain, Portugal, Belgium. Such places are perhaps more forward-thinking than our beloved misty isle. The waltz, in Paris, is quite a common dance, and no one blushes.”

“Do you prefer Paris?”

“To Yorkshire? Never. I am country born and bred, and a countryman I shall always be. I believe we are alike in this. Yesterday, you professed a passion for riding.”

“I do like riding.”

“Good. Tomorrow I shall take you on a tour of the family estate. Now that you have finished abusing my overlookers and setting my weavers into an uproar, we may speak to each other as friends.”

At this mention of the morning’s calamity, Prudence stumbled a little. William checked her faltered step and set his hand more firmly at her waist. This had the effect of drawing them so closely together that she began to fear she might lose what little composure she had left.

All day, she had fretted over the evening’s encounter with William Sherbourne. She had hoped that her pink gown, cascading curls, and lacy décolletage might soften the resentment she had created in him. Her air of confidence and her sharp wit, she had prayed, might elevate her in his estimation. And somewhere along the way, she might actually summon the courage to plead once again for fair treatment of the children at his mill.

But now she melted in his arms, set her cheek against his shoulder, and allowed the music to seep inside her. She was not a crusader, Prudence realized as William turned her into the shadows. She was not in love with Mr. Walker, she admitted as he lightly kissed her cheek. She was weak and imperfect and far too easily swayed.

“Have you reached a conclusion about me, Miss Watson?” William murmured against her ear. “Am I black, or am I white? Am I good? or evil?”

“Oh, dear.” She realized suddenly that Mary was no longer playing. The waltz had ended, yet she hung suspended in this man’s arms.

She tried to recall his question as she stepped away from him. “Good or evil? I cannot say.”

“Perhaps you require more study. Will you ride with me tomorrow? I shall send my carriage for you at ten.”

He bowed as he spoke the last words. Prudence dipped a curtsy and started to move away. But he caught her hand.

“I must have your answer,” he said. “I shall not sleep tonight unless I know I may see you tomorrow.”

Glancing across the room, Prudence saw that Olivia had taken Mary’s place at the pianoforte. Mary stood beside the instrument to turn the pages of the concerto their hostess had selected. Randolph had taken a chair nearby, his attention centered on his wife as he sipped a cup of tea.

“I must join the other women,” Prudence told William. “You must excuse me.”

She stepped toward the fireplace, but he caught her again. “Ride with me tomorrow. You will see that I am not so evil as you suppose.”

“You are good, then? A Christian. An honorable gentleman. You exist to make the lives of others easy and content. In all your choices you are moral, upright, honest—a man of good principle who is respected wherever he goes.”

He looked away. For the first time, Prudence saw a darkness blot out the good cheer and mischief that usually lightened his face. Was it shame? or anger? Or was it something worse?

She waited for his answer, watching as he battled some unknown emotion. When he looked at her again, the treacle eyes were hooded by something she could not decipher.

“No man is as good as that,” he said.

“No man is perfect, yet many make it their aim to take the high road.”

“You will find, Miss Watson, that I am the exception to your tidy view of life. I am neither wholly good nor wholly bad. Neither black nor white. I am, in fact, quite irredeemably gray.”

“I do not believe that,” she told him, lifting her chin. “If you have strayed from the straight and narrow path, you must acknowledge your misdeeds to God, turn away from evil, and let Him direct your path ever after.”

“As easy as that, is it?”

“Mr. Sherbourne, a wholesome life is not so difficult as you make it. If you are truly baffled by my conviction in this matter, let me set you out an easy means to perfect understanding.”

“I should be ever grateful for such instruction.”

“Come, then.” She slipped her arm through his and guided him toward a bookshelf near the fire. A moment of searching turned up what she had been seeking. She removed the volume and set it in his hands.

“The Bible?” he asked.

“Read the Gospel of St. John. It will not take long, and it is perfectly easy to comprehend. White, black. Good, evil. Heaven, hell.”

He opened the book, turned through the pages, and then shut it again. “You are quite sure that in reading this I shall attain the level of perfection you require?”

“Perhaps not.” She smiled at him. “The road you choose, sir, lies at your own feet. But—if you read St. John’s Gospel tonight and give me a thoughtful review of it tomorrow, then you will attain something nearly as delightful.”

“And what is that?”

“My company, of course. I shall be happy to ride out with you to survey your family’s estate.”

Leaving him with Bible in hand, Prudence hurried across the room to the pianoforte. She joined her sister, but she made a less than earnest effort to sing with the other women.

She had arrived at Thorne Lodge this evening, she realized, with the aim of beguiling and bemusing the entire company with her beauty, wit, and charm. But she would depart it with her heart in grave danger of surrendering everything. Everything . . . for the affection of one man.

William elected to stay inside while his brother, sister, and several footmen escorted Miss Watson and her sister to the door. Now he watched from a window as their carriage began to move down the graveled entryway, through the iron gates, and onto the main road toward Otley.

Only when he no longer could see the carriage did he look down at the book in his hand. Had Prudence Watson set him up to fail? She must expect he would find the task too onerous and give it up. He flipped the pages, located the Gospel of St. John, and scanned the text.

“I thought she was perfectly delightful,” Olivia was saying to her husband as they entered the drawing room again. “You seemed to like Miss Watson better tonight, William.”

Randolph gave a laugh. “By the look of that waltz, I should surmise my brother felt more than friendship for his sweet adversary.”

“Do you call her sweet?” William tossed the Bible onto a small table near the settee. “You would not say that had you danced with her. She is anything but sweet.”

“How would you describe her, then?” Olivia asked. “Is she a temptress? a tease?”

“She is a vixen.”

“Oh, ho!” Randolph set his hands at his waist and assessed his brother. “A vixen, is she? Then you are in great peril.”

“I am in no peril. Have I ever fancied a woman who would rather scratch my eyes out than submit to my will?”

“I can hardly say. I have not met half the women you liked. I do recall one particular fling, a Miss Caroline Bryse.”

At the name, a wash of unease spilled down William’s spine, and he quickly crossed from the window to the fireplace. But Randolph took no note as he continued to revive a memory his brother would give anything to erase.

“You accompanied Miss Caroline to Thorne Lodge in a party that included her brother and sister.” Randolph turned to his wife. “She was a pretty enough girl, but I soon saw in her a most determined flirt. You met her once or twice, I believe, my dear.”

“The two Miss Bryses were determined to wed you and your brother,” she replied. “How could I forget them? Beatrice and Caroline were my rivals for a time.”

“Never,” Randolph assured her. “But I wonder what became of Miss Caroline. She seemed to please William well enough.”

“No woman can please me,” William retorted. His words were more curt than he intended, and now his brother took note.

“I believe we are no longer wanted,” Randolph told his wife. “We must make our escape before William grows glum and boring.”

She laughed, took her husband’s arm, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. “Good night, William,” she called over her shoulder as they left the drawing room.

“Yes, a delightful night,” he muttered.

Alone at last, he walked the perimeter of the room, snuffing the candles one by one. He had no desire to think of Caroline Bryse ever again. And he could not stop thinking of Prudence Watson. Riding with her the following morning would only worsen his torment.

But as he paced, a simple solution presented itself. He would not read the pages she had assigned him. He would, in fact, make certain he could do no such thing.

Striding across the room, William grabbed the Bible from the table where it lay, walked to the fireplace, and cast it into the flames. The old paper kindled at once, bursting into a bright orange ball of fire. Tongues of blue flame danced above it. A loud crackling accompanied the blaze as it devoured the book.

It ended as quickly as it had begun. The flare died; dark ash sifted beneath the grate; coals gave off a gentle glow.

William leaned against the mantel. He felt sick. Sick inside and hollow. His chest ached. His heart thudded, so heavy he could hardly bear the weight. Tears filled his eyes and he angrily brushed them away.

He had caused his own pain. He had etched the jagged scars that marred his soul. Until his life ended, he would bear the emblem of his failure and guilt.

Prudence Watson with her bright green eyes, pert opinions, lively ways, and sweet . . . yes, her very sweet spirit . . . must never become part of that agony.

He straightened. She must be told. He would not rest until he ended what might have begun when he had held her close. Powerless in his arms, she had lamented of the waltz. Yes, she had been powerless. So had he.

Determined to spare the woman the contamination his life had become, William snuffed the final candles and left the darkened room. A footman in the foyer hurried to obey the order to bring his horse around from the stables. Another proffered his greatcoat, hat, and gloves.

After leaving a hastily scrawled message for his brother, William exited the house and mounted his horse. A full moon painted a silvery path as he spurred the steed to a gallop, through the gates and onto the road to town.

William knew the road to Otley well and could ride it blindfolded. In moments he was passing the mill. No longer drowned out by the rattle and clatter of machines, the sound of rushing water drifted across the moor. He much preferred the stream’s quiet ripple, but he needed the mill. On leaving the Navy, he had viewed the mill as his only hope of salvation from the grinding debt and financial obligations that pursued him.