The Courteous Cad (5 page)

William sat at the end of a settee, as far as he politely could from the jolly gathering in the drawing room. After much pleading from the other guests, Mrs. Heathhill and Miss Watson had condescended to sing. Their voices were melodious and sweet as they blended in perfect harmony. Standing at the pianoforte, they gazed at one another with such fondness that William could scarcely endure it. Such genuine happiness. Such sisterly affection. Such innocence and wholesome beauty. He felt ill.

The life he had tried to leave behind held nothing in common with the genteel accord of these friends assembled at Thorne Lodge. An evening of dining, music, polite conversation.There had been some mention of whist. Perhaps they would even dance. Heaven forbid.

“Your humor, brother, is as black as the coals on our grate.” Randolph, who had approached from behind, now seated himself in an ornate chair beside William. “Surely Miss Watson’s pretty smile has little to do with your dark disposition.”

“She is nothing to me,” William returned. “I have known women ten times as pretty who could not disturb the rhythm of my heartbeat. She is a city lady who cannot cross a country street without tumbling into a mud puddle. Forgive me, but I have no more to say about her.”

Randolph chuckled. “I shall take this discourse as proof that Cupid’s arrow has struck true. Methinks you do protest too much.”

“Now you quote Shakespeare. Miss Watson took delight in reciting the Bible. Has no one in this room an original thought?”

“William, your scorn fatigues me, and I know its source. I shall not mince words. The boy we met this afternoon most certainly works at Quince’s Mill. He cannot be one of our laborers, and you are not to blame for his brother’s injury.”

“How like you to meddle until you have discovered the source of my unease.” William watched as the women rearranged themselves at the pianoforte—colorful butterflies hovering around a drop of honey. Now Mrs. Heathhill played while her sister treated the company to a solo.

“I did not like the look of Tom Smith’s wagging finger,” William went on. “For all I know, he and his siblings do work at Thorne Mill. Injuries are common, Randolph. The piecers and scavengers move about in the midst of such a tangle of looms, carding engines, and scouring machines it is a wonder we don’t behead several a day.”

“William!” With a wry laugh, Randolph leaned back on the settee. “The things you say never cease to astonish me. You know we built the mill to the specifications of the best architect in Yorkshire. Our looms are as safe as any such mammoth apparatus can be.”

“They were safe when we installed them. But I have been away at sea these many months. I do not know how well my overlookers tend the machinery or supervise the laborers. I confess the mill was not my primary concern while my men engaged the French navy in battle.”

“Yet I have been here all the time, and I have heard no complaints.”

“You were engaged in wooing and wedding Olivia Hewes, as I recall. Not to mention producing your heir and spare.”

“The spare is only just under way, brother,” Randolph said in a low voice. “Keep that information to yourself, if you will.”

“Am I not the paragon of discretion?”

“Hardly.” Randolph studied the gathered ladies. “She is a beauty, William. I assure you I have never known a woman so lovely or so good.”

“Her hair is too curly, don’t you think? Bits and pieces keep escaping her knot.” He paused and smiled. “You were talking of Miss Watson, were you not?”

“My
wife
,” Randolph growled. “You know very well who I meant.”

“Your wife is perfect. Miss Watson is silly. A woman of such surpassing beauty can have nothing in her head but gowns, balls, receptions, intrigues, and gossip. I ought to cast my lot with her sister. A widow might make a tranquil diversion.”

“William, can you never be serious? Mrs. Heathhill is in mourning, and her temperament is unsuited to yours. But observe Miss Watson now. She sings well. Her manners are impeccable, and her family is well connected. You really should marry. It would do you good to gain the steadying influence of a wife.”

“Hmm . . . yes, I suppose so.” He mused on the curve of her shoulder as she turned a sheet of music for her sister. “If you must know, Randolph, Miss Watson and I have an agreement.”

“What?” His brother sat up straight. “Already?”

“In the library just now. We spoke; we kissed; we confessed our true feelings. In short, we are in perfect accord. Our future union is settled.”

“Can you mean this? William, speak plainly. You hardly know the woman. Are you engaged already?”

“Engaged? Oh no. Our agreement is of another sort. Until death do us part, we are to be the best of chums.”

“You agreed to be friends? You and Miss Watson? William, you astonish me.”

“It is my single aim to astonish my eldest brother three times each day. If Edmund were not busy scuttling about in India, I should enjoy dumbfounding him as well.”

“I shall not give way to your impudence, William. You need a wife, and Miss Watson is suitable in every way. Can you not set aside your melancholy air and dark wit long enough to win her heart?”

“Win her and then grow glum and miserable again? She would not like that, I think. No, we are not well matched. She loves London, and I prefer the country. She is pious, and I am irreverent. She is happy and charming, while I am always tedious. Leave me in peace, Randolph. My future is laid out. I intend to maim as many children as possible in my mill, develop a wicked case of gout, and die a bitter old man.”

“How lovely you sing, Miss Watson,” Randolph exclaimed, drowning the end of William’s remarks as the young lady approached. He stood to welcome her. “I have rarely heard that tune sung with such animation. Do you not agree, William?”

“You might be mistaken for a nightingale, Miss Watson.”

She seated herself on the settee, though at a distance from him. It was all William could do not to stare at her. Singing had heightened the color in her cheeks and brought a bright fire to her eyes. She was—he could no longer deny it—the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Their kiss in the library played at the edges of his mind, taunting and mesmerizing him with possibilities. Yet there were no possibilities. He knew that too well.

With a genuine smile of pleasure, she took a fan from her bag. “You have a marvelous pianoforte, sir,” she addressed Randolph. “I am delighted with the purity of its sound. Indeed, this has been a lovely evening—a great boost to my spirits after my earlier mishap.”

“My wife and I are pleased to welcome you at Thorne Lodge as often as you like, Miss Watson. But I fear you are eager to return to London and deprive us of your company.”

“I abhor the city. Balls and receptions fatigue me, and I take little joy in shopping for bonnets or ribbons. My sisters find my indifference dreary. Mary adores being always in society,and Sarah has learned to like it well enough. But I should much prefer riding across the moorland over carriage rides in Hyde Park. While I do enjoy dancing, I would rather spend an evening walking along a country lane. Can you disagree with my preference?”

“Not at all. Indeed, William was just saying how much he enjoys the country. Like you, he prefers it to town. Were we not discussing that, William?”

“With zeal. I daresay we could have gone on about it for another hour at least.”

At this comment, Randolph shot his brother a glare. But when Prudence turned to him again, he brightened.

“My brothers and I all fancy the out-of-doors, Miss Watson. William is a particularly skilled rider. Everyone admires his form. Nor does he object to shooting and foxhunting in season. I have known him to swim often in pools and streams on our estate. There is little in the way of sport and exercise that he does not enjoy. I cannot think of anything you dislike, brother.”

“I am not fond of idle chitchat.”

“Oh, come now. Verbal jousting is one of your greatest talents.”

“I will not argue that. Were there a contest in irritating and infuriating one’s family and friends, I should win first place.”

“Champion of the world, no doubt.” Randolph addressed Prudence again. “Miss Watson, I fear you know little of our beloved Otley save a mud puddle and a vexing rogue. My wife and I wish to welcome you and your sister to stay here at Thorne Lodge for as long as you like. Have you any fixed engagements in town?”

“Well, we . . . we . . . ,” she began, clearly fumbling about for excuses. “We have been very long away from my sister’s young daughter. I am sure she misses her mother. And our eldest sister has sent several letters to inquire when we shall return to London. Sarah is anxious to see us again.”

“But you asked about fixed engagements, Lord Thorne,” Mary Heathhill pointed out as she and Olivia joined the others near the fire. “Prudence has none. Her family and friends can do without her very well for at least a fortnight. Perhaps even a month.”

“Dispensable, is she?” William muttered, perhaps a little too loudly.

“Prudence is dearly loved, I assure you, Mr. Sherbourne.” Mary favored him with a forced smile.

She did not like him. William saw the aversion plainly written on her face. Yet somehow he had become the object of her matchmaking endeavors. Mary must have decided that Prudence should marry William, though she herself could hardly endure him.

“Our dear sister brings us such pleasure,” Mary continued, “that we are quite gloomy when she is away. Yet her contentment is always our aim. We gladly surrender her company on the many occasions when she is invited to stay in the country.”

“Then you must join us here for another month, Miss Watson,” Olivia offered. “Spring is nearly upon us, and summer will follow very soon after. You will take great joy in exploring the moors as the heather blossoms and the birds begin to nest. Many of our closest friends stay in the country all year, and they would love to know you. Perhaps we shall give a ball to introduce you.”

“I adore a ball,” Mary spoke up. “There is nothing I like better than dancing.”

“Then you must stay too, Mrs. Heathhill,” Olivia insisted.

“We keep a stable of many fine riding horses. As you enjoy the exercise so much, Miss Watson, I am sure William can take you out for several short excursions.”

“My goodness . . . such generosity.” Prudence glanced at William, then quickly looked away. “You are all so kind. Were circumstances different, I should eagerly agree to your invitation. But I fear our long journey has fatigued me no end.”

She stood abruptly. “Indeed, I am so tired, I fear I shall become as irritating and infuriating as Mr. Sherbourne claims to be.”

“We cannot have two irksome characters in one house,” William agreed. He rose and made her a little bow. “You and I are forced to remain apart forever, Miss Watson, lest we exasperate our loved ones. Good evening, then. And, Mrs. Heathhill, how very congenial you are. Thank you so much for deigning to trespass upon us this evening.”

“Trespass!” Mary gasped out the word, but Randolph, Olivia, and Prudence were swift to surround her, covering the awkward moment with the general hubbub of farewells and thank-yous. In a veritable tempest of chatter, the entire company made for the drawing room door. Randolph called for a carriage. Olivia ordered cloaks and bonnets returned to their owners. Servants bustled about.

As the sounds faded down the hall, William stepped to the fire. He leaned one arm on the mantel and gazed at the flickering blaze. He felt content. Prudence Watson was beautiful, accomplished, and kind. A better man than he would make her happy one day. No matter what William might wish, he had spurned her for all the right reasons.

One stolen kiss and his heart had begun to ache. He longed for a life he could never have. He hungered for a happiness that could not be his. Yet once again, he had succeeded in resisting urges and desires that would only make him—and everyone else—miserable.

The woman had gone. Temptation had been eluded. He was alone again.

William closed his eyes, leaned his forehead on his arm, and offered up a prayer to a God who long ago had stopped listening. “Thank You,” he mouthed. “Thank You.”

Three

“Trespass!”
Mary turned from the mirror where she had been admiring the jet brooch at her throat. “Did you hear him, Pru?”

“I heard him. Every word.” Prudence had opened a diamond-paned window to let in the cool, misty air. It was early, and the two women had breakfasted and packed their trunks before dressing for the day. The coach would arrive at the inn soon to whisk them back to London for yet another round of balls and receptions.

Leaning against the sill, Prudence observed the market vendors pushing their carts along the cobbled street below. The puddle—site of the previous day’s humiliation—had dried. No one would need William Sherbourne’s rescuing arms today.

“Horrid man! I detest him.” Mary was adjusting her brooch as she spoke. “He comes from a fine family, but he besmirches their good name with his insolent speech and unmannered behavior. I should be ashamed to call him brother.”

“You will never have that obligation, I assure you.”

“No, for Sarah and I would never permit you to become his wife. I liked Mr. Sherbourne at first, I confess. He is uncommonly handsome, and some might call him a wit. But it was not long before his contemptuous and odious character came to light. Your sisters shall settle on a better husband for you, Pru. Have no fear.”

“I have great fear of your meddling, Mary!” Prudence spoke to her sister in alarm. “How often must I tell you that I shall never marry? How loudly must I shout it until you hear me? It is really too much. You ignore me time and again.”

“What is that dreadful clatter?” Mary frowned at her sister. “It sounds as if the whole town is falling down.”

Prudence looked into the street to discover a stream of people pouring out of their homes. Garbed in patched, faded clothing, they carried baskets under their arms and wore wooden shoes on their feet.

“I believe it is the mill workers,” she told Mary. “They wear pattens.”