The Courteous Cad (13 page)

“You have hired beasts!” She leaned toward him, prodding his chest with her index finger. “You allow those animals to pummel the children into submission! Your looms are death traps. Your fine worsted is woven with the pain and suffering of children. You are as cruel and pitiless as Dick the Devil!”

He caught her hand in his. “If I am a devil, be assured I never claimed to be anything better. But you? You tease and tempt men to their doom. I have seen your wiles, woman, and you will not get the better of me.”

But even as he spoke, he took her in his arms and kissed her. He was rough, holding her close and searing her mouth with his. If he expected resistance, he got none. She slipped her arms around him, welcoming his embrace and eagerly meeting his kisses with her soft lips. A low moan escaped her throat, and she pulled back.

“Oh, what have I done?” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “I must go. I am no crusader. I am weak and pathetic in every way.”

She reached for her bonnet, but he stopped her arm. “Stay,” he ground out, drawing her close again. “Stay and let me try to make you as mad for me as poor Ophelia for her Danish prince.”

“Do not torment me, sir.” Her eyes searched his. “I am nearly undone as it is. I am not the unfeeling temptress you suppose. There are few men who could touch my heart, but I fear you may be one of them.”

With that, she pushed away from him and stood. “They are going to kill you,” she told him, her voice quavering with emotion. “The mill workers hate your thunderous machines and your polluted air and your wicked overlookers. I have seen and heard their agonies. If you do not make corrections, sir, they will kill you. Do you hear me? They will kill you!”

Lifting her skirts, she fled the granite stone. She mounted her horse with an elegance and speed unthinkable in one so encumbered by petticoats. Before William had digested her dire warnings, she was gone.

He let out a hot breath and raked his fingers through his hair. Kill him? He might have thought her cautions ridiculous had they not struck so close to home. His own beloved father had been slain not many years before. Shot through the heart. The death had been deemed an accident or a suicide until circumstances revealed the truth.

Reflecting on the mill, William felt again the terrible reality of his predicament. Even if he wished to shorten the workers’ hours, he could not afford to risk the loss in production. Nor did he have funds to pay a teacher or feed the children meat and bread. As for cake . . .

No, William had decreed his lifelong sentence, crafted his own prison, forged the bars that held him away from hope, from joy, from love.

He stood, picked up his hat, and saw where Prudence’s bonnet had tumbled aside. Lifting it, he ran his fingers through the wispy plumes. Then he spotted a single strand of the woman’s hair clinging to the bonnet’s silken ribbon. He removed it and held it to the sunlight. Gilded and shimmering, the curl danced in the breeze that drifted off the moor.

This was all he would ever have of her, he realized. The woman herself could never be his. Even so, he released the strand and watched it dance and sway and waft away into the shadows of the glade.

Prudence flung open the door to her room at the inn, entered, and then slammed it shut. Mary looked up from her embroidery in surprise. Noting the expression on her sister’s face, she stood.

“Oh, dear, this cannot be good.” Mary sighed. “I hope the calamity was not of your making.”

“My making? Do I own a mill and force children to labor sixteen hours a day? Do I quote Shakespeare and make a mockery of my family and friends? Do I kiss and then keep kissing a poor, innocent woman until she is utterly vanquished?”

“I should hope not.” Mary tried to hide a smile. “I have not known you to kiss many women in your lifetime.”

“But
he
has! William Sherbourne is a roué, I tell you. He is a cad of the very worst order. He woos and courts his prey until they are jelly and can do nothing to salvage their hearts.”

“It is some time since I have seen you so overwrought, sister. Do sit down and tell me what has happened. By your humor I can only expect the worst. But by your words, I wonder if true love may be in bloom.”

“That man has never known true love in his life!” Prudence dropped into a soft chair near the window and drew back the curtain. “Oh, I wish I had never gone to see him! I wish I could undo a hundred errors I have made in these recent years. I should be terribly happy if I had never met Mr. Walker. I should be blissful if I had not passed through Otley. And I should be very, very . . . very . . .”

“Pru? Are you weeping?”

“No,” she sniffled. “I am angry.”

“Take my handkerchief, dearest.” Mary held out the delicate scrap. “Now dry your eyes and tell me everything. Will you and William Sherbourne ride again tomorrow?”

“Never! I shall not see him again, I assure you. His charm and wit hide a black heart. Unfeeling man!”

“Why, because he will not ruin his worsted trade to please you? You would have him reduce the mill to rubble, Pru. You would have the looms torn down and burned to ash. You would have the engines melted into slag. And then what would the people eat? What would those poor creatures wear but rags? By your own account, they must be forced to leave their homes, their dear little village, and journey to Manchester or some other such vile place in search of employment in a mill three times as loud and dirty as Mr. Sherbourne’s.”

“A landlord worthy of that title provides honest, wholesome labor for his tenants-just as William Sherbourne and his brother ought to do.”

“Where? One estate can support only so many gardeners. One great home can provide positions for a staff of housekeepers and footmen but no more. The mill is a blessing indeed, Pru, and you must stop hounding poor Mr. Sherbourne about it.”

“You may take your ease on that account, Mary. I shall never hound Mr. Sherbourne again, for I shall never see him again.”

“Oh, Pru, were you rude to the poor man?”

“On the contrary. I was gentility itself. He is the one who kisses me left and right until I can hardly keep my wits.”

“Does he truly kiss you? kiss you as a man with genuine love kisses his lady?”

Prudence looked down at her hands, recalling how William had pressed his lips against hers, how he had held her so close she could hardly breathe, how his fingers had threaded through her hair and made her weak with longing. Even now, she could smell the scent of his skin, taste the sweetness of his kisses, feel again the rough brush of his cheek against hers.

William was no Mr. Walker—restrained and respectable even in declaring his love for her. Too aware of the difference in their ages and social class, Walker had held back, trying to protect Prudence from her own passion.

But William had no such compunctions. He made his desires known. He eagerly embraced her whenever possible, and his stolen kisses were given full rein.

“Pru, do you love him?” Mary asked gently.

Prudence lifted her head. “I don’t know. I cannot say how I feel, for my mind swims and my heart aches each time he comes near me.”

“That is as near a description of love as I have heard in many a year. We must find a way to put you together again.”

“No!” Prudence stood. “Heaven forbid! I must not see him! Ever! Indeed, I must return to London with all possible haste.”

“And abandon the poor mill children? Really, Pru, I thought you more compassionate than that.”

“Do not mock me, Mary! I have had more than enough teasing. You think me silly. He thinks me mad. But I am a grown woman, and I insist on being treated as such. I have great compassion for the mill children. Relieving their suffering is my life’s ambition. But how can I stay in Otley when
he
is here? I can hardly think in his presence. And he cannot control his passions in mine.”

“Then return to London and write letters to Parliament.

Better yet, write to the king.”

“The king has lost his faculties and hardly knows where he is. He can do nothing to save the children, nor would he. As for the prince regent—”

“The prince regent is much occupied sorting his mistresses from his wives. I believe we must leave him to his task.”

Prudence mustered a faint grin but her heart was too burdened to laugh.

“I shall return to London and speak to Sarah about the mills,” she said. “You know as well as I that our sister’s wealth and connections give her great influence. She is compassionate, too. Perhaps she will convince Lord Delacroix to take the matter before the House of Lords.”

“Sarah would rather convince Lord Delacroix to take you to be his lawful wedded wife.” Mary lifted a letter from the table near her chair. “I have heard from Sarah. She writes that Delacroix returned from the Orient as handsome and charming as we all had hoped.”

“
I
did not hope him to be handsome or charming,” Prudence retorted. “I did not like Delacroix when we first met, and I shall like him even less now. Does Sarah mean to force me into his presence on every occasion?”

“Indeed, and with all possible haste.”

“Does she write of Mr. Sherbourne? Has she learned the truth about his character?”

“This letter was written before she received my inquiry. All the same, I am certain she will be distressed by your new avocation as a crusader and wish you safely tucked away at Trenton House, wife to an adoring husband and mother to countless happy children.”

“Wife and mother? No, Mary, neither of you will compel me into such a state until I meet a man I can truly love.”

“But you may like Delacroix more than you now can believe. Since you last met, he has seen the world and made his mark on it. Come, Prudence, let’s pack our trunks and set our hearts toward home.”

“But my heart is with the mill children. I cannot leave them.” She shook her head. “Nor can I stay here in Otley. Oh, dear!”

While Mary took pen to paper, no doubt informing their sister of the weary travelers she soon could expect to welcome home, Prudence pondered her dire situation. If she returned to London, she would have to endure the efforts of her sisters to marry her off to a suitable husband. Abominable thought!

Her outing on the moors that morning had touched Prudence’s heart in more ways than one. She could never deny that William Sherbourne somehow had managed to take her thoughts captive. Though stubborn to a fault, he was witty, clever, and very amiable indeed. Add to that his handsome face and deep brown eyes. Not to mention his kisses . . .

If she were not careful, Prudence might never be able to think of anything else. Or anyone.

Equally distressing, she had discovered a new and even more attractive side to William. He loved the out-of-doors as much as she. Even burdened with an awkward tea basket, he had displayed impeccable horsemanship. If she had seen a finer figure riding anywhere in England, she could not recall it.

But the plight of the child laborers at Thorne Mill troubled her most of all. In the end, the decision was easy.

“I have changed my mind, Mary,” she said at last. “You must go to London without me. I cannot leave until I have discovered some means by which I may aid the mill children.”

“Stay in Otley?” Mary cried. “By yourself? Inconceivable!”

“No, indeed. I am safe and happy just as I am. The innkeeper and his wife are good, and their staff will see to my needs. Your baby awaits, Mary, and you simply cannot stay here longer. Go home. Take tea with Sarah, and craft schemes to marry me to as many men as you wish. I shall join you when my mission is accomplished.”

“If you remain in Otley, Prudence, the family at Thorne Lodge will hear of it at once. You must be asked to dinner again, to balls, indeed to every entertainment they host. You will see Mr. Sherbourne on many occasions. I can only deduce that you have cast your lot with him. Shall I tell our sister that your future happiness lies in Yorkshire?”

“You deduce wrong. My happiness has nothing to do with Mr. Sherbourne or his great estate. I intend to decline all invitations from Thorne Lodge until the family finally surrenders to my polite disinterest in their company.”

“And just how do you propose to assist the mill children without making an utter fool of yourself—again?”

Prudence studied the ebb and flow of people on the street below their window. Though she did not know the answer to her sister’s question, an idea began to present itself. An irrational idea, but a promising one all the same.

She turned to Mary. “I shall inform you of my method for rescuing the children when the task has been accomplished. Until then, my lips are sealed.”

With a rather dramatic sigh, Mary tossed a bonnet into her trunk. “Stay, then. But you know too well that I must send someone to chaperone you in my place. It cannot be Sarah, for she is much occupied. Whoever your chaperone may be, look for her within the week.”

Prudence’s heart lifted at last. A week . . . if not more . . . alone. She could almost see God smiling on her.

Almost.