Reprise (25 page)

“Eh?” Clarence asked frowning. But he was soon diverted from the riddle by more pressing interests. “I suppose you have been wondering just how soon we can get Prudence back on her legs?” he asked, and went on to answer himself. “She will be well in no time. A day or two in the garden, and a day or two to get everything ready.”

“Ready for what, Uncle?” she asked with a mischievous smile, knowing well he referred to the all-important wedding that would make him uncle to a marchioness.

“Ready for anything,” he answered comprehensively. He soon went on to pinpoint it a little more closely. “The dress is as good as new--the white outfit never worn and only wanting pressing. A simple note will get Lady Melvine and any other lords and ladies you’d like to have attend. You’ll want a few titles for the papers.”

That it would take longer than this to get a note to London was irrelevant. The nuptials were to be advanced at a speed that allowed of no more misunderstandings, even at the cost of losing a few titles. “Saturday, shall we say?” he asked eagerly.

“Uncle--it is already Tuesday!” Prudence pointed out.

“Sounds good to me,” Dammler agreed, every jot as eager as the uncle.

“Well it does not sound good to
me!”
Prudence objected.

“Don’t be so eager,” Clarence advised in a perfectly audible aside. “You can wait until Saturday.”

“You mentioned June, Allan. What of my stuffing with champagne and caviar?”

“Plenty of time for that when you are a marchioness,” her uncle cautioned. “Have all the champagne you want then.”

“All you can drink,” Dammler promised rashly.

“More,” Clarence assured her. “So, is it to be Saturday?”

The two lovers exchanged looks, questioning, hopeful. “Saturday it is,” Dammler announced, and soon found himself having his hand nearly wrenched from its wrist, while Clarence thumped his back.

“I’ll just get a note off to Sir Alfred and Mrs. Hering and Lady Melvine,” he said, and mercifully left them alone.

“Will you be well enough by Saturday, do you think?” Dammler asked her.

She felt well enough for it that very minute, and looked remarkably improved too, with her eyes glowing and her cheeks flushed.

“With a steady diet of champagne in the interval, I will be ready and waiting.”

He resumed his seat beside her on the edge of the bed. “Ready for anything, as your uncle promised?” he asked with a challenging smile. “I refer--what better would you expect of Dammler--to your conjugal duties.”

“Oh, yes, ready to wear my coronet. Does it have diamonds? What better would you expect of Prudence?”

“I refer, my lady, to your more physical duties.”

“Ah, the housework. I doubt I will be stout enough to hold a broom for a few decades yet,” she told him promptly.

“No, Lady Dammler,” he leaned over until their noses nearly met, “I do not refer to the scrubbing and laundry, but the much more arduous chore of this.” He touched her lips lightly. Soon he had both arms around her, kissing her hungrily, with a little sound of joy or satisfaction in his throat. Holding her close with her head cradled in the crook of his neck he said in a husky voice, “I missed you so much I wanted to die, Prudence. It was as if a part of myself, the best part, had been torn from me, leaving me wide open and bleeding.” Then he laughed at himself. “I’m being gross again. You will phrase it more delicately.”

“No, I won’t. I felt the very same,” she told him. “In fact I went you a step better and tried to die. I stopped living anyway. I might as well have been dead. You were right about me, Allan, when you rattled me off in such fine style for ripping up at you. But it wasn’t
just
pride. It wasn’t anyone laughing at Uncle that bothered me so much as thinking I’d lose you. I was like a mother with a baby she couldn’t trust, afraid to let you out of my sight, afraid I’d lose you to someone else. I wanted to
own
you.”

“Now why couldn’t you have told me so? How happy and proud it would have made me. And how foolish a fear it was, Prue. You can own me body and soul if you want to. You may have to wrestle Satan a little for the soul, but the body is all yours, I guarantee. The owning is reciprocal, mind. An exclusive joint company, with the two members holding on to each other for dear life. Only our paper characters will come between us from time to time. I fancy
Shilla
will want a corner of my time, the demanding wench. I’m running her and the Mogul around again in my head. A reprise you might say, as she is you, and we have had another go at it.”

“Poor
Patience.
It’s well I gave her the virtue to match her name. She has been at the greengrocer for three months, only to buy a cabbage.”

“She’s better off than
Shilla’s
sheik. I left him with a sword at his neck all the way here. You may imagine what gave rise to the image. I should have marooned him in a harem, shouldn’t I? He wouldn’t care then if I never came back to him. But I’m sure glad I came back to you. How’s that for poetry?”

“It’s the most beautiful sonnet you ever wrote.”

“It had the best inspiration. It’s the wisest thing I ever did. Virtually the only wise thing, except for proposing to you the first time. This time around I mean to be thorough as well as wise, and get you to the altar.”

“Good! I have
altar
ed my own position since last refusing you."

“Oh, Prudence, that’s what I love about you! You make worse puns than I do. Now
dare
I say it? You are, you really are, my
altar
ego.”

In the hallway, Mrs. Mallow heard a ripple of merry laughter, such an unusual sound in the household lately, and decided after all that Dammler would make a pretty good husband for them.

Copyright © 1982 by Joan Smith

Originally published by Fawcett Coventry Books

Electronically published in 2002 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.