The Courteous Cad (17 page)

Friday? But that was tomorrow evening. Prudence must definitely not go to the assembly. She ought to go home to London, where she would be safe from her own silliness!

But now she hurried to the mirror and gasped at her reflection. Not only were her cheeks smudged with oil and dirt from her spinning wheel, but each eye bore a dark half-moon of exhaustion beneath it. Her curls, untamed by the mobcap, had gone positively wild.

After pouring out a basin of water, Prudence scrubbed her face. Then she pinned up her hair and changed into a clean gown. It was all done in such haste that she felt certain her gentleman caller would wonder how she had spent the day.

Trying to regulate her heart, Prudence hurried down the stairs again. When she stepped into the sitting room, William stood and gave her a bow.

“Miss Watson,” he said. “Good evening.”

The innkeeper’s wife had not exaggerated. He did look handsome in his greatcoat—though Prudence noted a pale splotch on one sleeve that she suspected must be ashes from the fire at the mill.

“Mr. Sherbourne, what a pleasant surprise,” she offered after making a curtsy. “I received Lady Thorne’s kind letter just now.”

“Then you will accept the invitation?”

She forced a smile. “Yes, of course. I can think of nothing I should enjoy more.”

“Really? I had thought you were rather partial to riding.”

“Indeed, I am.” Shaking her head at her inability to play a charade with this man, she sank down onto a settee. “So, Mr. Sherbourne, you returned to the inn for my answer to Lady Thorne’s invitation?”

“I returned because I am most bemused and perplexed by you.” He took a chair near her. “Miss Watson, where
have
you been?”

“Out. Out and about.”

“From dawn until . . .”

“Dusk, yes. Out and about all day.”

“May one ask what engrossing activity has usurped all your time?”

“I very much enjoy Yorkshire.” She began to pray that the innkeeper’s wife would hurry with the tea. “Yorkshire in the spring is . . . well, it is entrancing.”

“And wet,” he added. “We had ample rain today. But I see you did not find our drizzle a hindrance to your recreation.”

Prudence realized belatedly that he was gazing at her mud-caked boots. She tried to tuck them under the settee, but without success.

“Rain has never bothered me,” she told him. “I am very fond of a good cloudburst. Or, as you put it, a drizzle.”

“Thus, I believe you might like to accompany me tomorrow despite the high likelihood of drizzle. I go out on the dales and fells to speak to our shepherds and inspect our flocks. From thence, I shall show you the hedgerow that caused great dispute between my family and our neighbors. You would enjoy having a look at Chatham Hall too, I think. It is to become my home should I ever wish to depart Thorne Lodge. And of course, we shall stop at the mill.”

“The worsted mill?”

“I have none other. Today I ordered cake and tea for those in my employ. I took your suggestion to heart, you see. I am always amenable to new ideas.”

“Are you?” She looked down at her hands, realized they were chafed and raw, and made a valiant effort to hide them under her skirt. “I should like to accompany you, Mr. Sherbourne. But as you can imagine—given my great affection for the Yorkshire countryside—I have already made a plan to go out.”

“Out and about?” His lip twitched and she suspected he was mocking her.

“Yes.” She studied the doorway, willing the innkeeper’s wife to appear. “My plan is fixed, you see, and I cannot amend it.”

“Ah, but I have just now offered to take you out and about in Yorkshire. Can you tell me whose plan trumps mine?”

“It is my own plan. You can hardly argue with that.”

“Can I not? Surely my company is not so odious as to prevent your altering tomorrow’s course.”

“Tea!” Prudence exclaimed as the innkeeper’s wife toddled into the room. “Thank heaven!”

Bearing a tray of teacups and saucers, a steaming pot, and two bowls of gelatinous, creamy strawberry fool, the woman was none too steady on her feet. Prudence almost hoped for catastrophe. Anything to end this dreadful interview.

“How lovely to see you together at last,” the innkeeper’s wife said, awarding her two guests a sweet smile. “Poor Mr. Sherbourne and I had begun to despair of you, Miss Watson. I told him you went away both days at dawn, just as the streets filled with people bound for the mill. As you can imagine, I lost sight of you in all that great rush. So, as I told Mr. Sherbourne, I could not say which direction you had taken, though my dear husband and I suspected you had gone up the Chevin. If there is a better view of Yorkshire, I do not know it.”

“Ah, fell in with the mill labor, did you?” William dropped two lumps of sugar into his teacup. “Miss Watson, I am of half a mind to suppose you went to the mill yourself.”

“La!” the older woman exclaimed. “Why would she do such a thing? Sure everyone knows about her . . . her difficulty . . . of the other day, when she and that rascal Dick Warring had words. But she would not go back again. Not after that.”

“There, you see,” Prudence chirped, stirring her tea. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because you wished to complete what you had only just begun.” William set his cup on the table and stood to address the innkeeper’s wife. “Thank you, madam, you have been a friend indeed. Your advice and speculations have given me no end of food for thought.”

“Well, then!” She beamed. “Thank you, sir. And I shall hope to see you again soon.”

“Indeed, I have no doubt of it.”

With a fluttering little curtsy, the woman scurried away, looking pleased with herself.

William picked up an iron poker and prodded a burning log on the grate. “You are not well, Miss Watson,” he said, his focus on the blaze that had reignited. “You look tired.”

“Thank you, I am sure. Such a compliment I have not received in many a day.”

His expression remained somber as he faced her. “You should not go out alone. There are gypsies about. And pickpockets.”

“And cads, but one cannot be too careful lest all the fun go out of life.” She rose. “Thank you for your invitation, sir, but I must respectfully decline.”

“Do you think me a cad?”

“
Are
you a cad?”

He regarded her for a moment. “I am. I cannot deny it. My behavior has been reprehensible. You are right to shun me.”

“Were I a cad, I should not make so light of it. More than one woman has had her heart broken over the likes of you.”

“But you are not such a woman, Prudence. Are you?”

His use of her given name flustered her. She took a step toward the fire, and swaying slightly, she put out her hand to find a mooring. William took it instead, caught it to his chest, and drew her near.

“Woman, you torment me,” he said, his voice low. “Tell me why?”

“I cannot say.” She looked into his eyes.

“You cannot say . . . or you will not?”

“We are not alike. Perhaps therein lies the torment.”

“Do you feel it too? Say you do.”

She moistened her lips. “You ask much of me, sir. Please, I must return to my room. You are right—I am tired.”

“Have you stayed because of
him
?” William asked. “Does that lost love still impel you?”

She looked away, wishing he would set her free, yet relishing the warmth of his hand on hers. “I am not in love,” she told him. “Not with
him
or any other man. My reason for staying has nothing to do with passion.”

“And everything to do with compassion.”

Surprised, she glanced at him. “Yes. Compassion. How did you know?”

“Do I not know you, Prudence? You say we are not alike. I say we are two of a kind. I see the fire in your eyes. I know what you want.”

“Do you? I think not.” She swallowed. “But you have given me half of what I want already, William.”

“And what is that?”

“Cake. Tea. Kindness to those who labor on your behalf.”

“What else would you ask of me, Prudence? Tell me now. Perhaps you have it already.”

She longed to speak words that must not be said. Her heart filled with forbidden desire. He smelled of the outdoors, of leather and bracken. She ached to drift into his arms, lay her head against the broad plane of his chest, feel the sweet press of his lips against hers.

But this was not the time for such longings, nor was he the man who could give life to her dreams.

“Hours,” she managed. “Shorter hours. That is what I want. Send them all home before dark. Give the children time to play, the parents strength to hold their little ones close. Bring a teacher. Let the children learn to read and count. Give them hope for a better life.”

“A better life that would take them from my mill?” He released her hand and took up the poker again. “Do you not understand that these people have served my family for generations? It is all the life they have known. All that we have known. The villagers are our tenants. They plow our fields and keep watch over our flocks. They clip and mow our gardens. They polish our silver and shine our windows. And they produce our worsted.”

“But have they no right to dream?”

“This is an economy, Prudence!” he barked. “It is a system. A familiar—even comfortable—system. Would you bring it all down with a whispered word of sedition? Would you and your compatriots in revolution topple this great nation by smashing our machines and burning down our mills?”

At his vehemence, her indignation rose. “Did I ask for destruction, sir? Did I speak of an end to England’s peerage or the annihilation of her social order? No, indeed. I asked for a shorter workday, better food, cleaner air, and reading lessons for your laborers. It is not so much, William Sherbourne. Not for a man like you.”

“A man like me. You know nothing about me.” He thrust the poker into the fire again. For a moment, he was absorbed in prodding a log into flame. Then he straightened and turned to her.

“I am not capable of greatness, Prudence. Do not imagine me better than I am. I am a selfish and obstinate man. I have done too much in my life already—too much that is wrong. The fetters I once forged now tighten about my neck. The ball and chain I crafted now prevent my escape. My hands are bound by iron cuffs that constrict every movement. I cannot be good. I cannot be worthy of anything . . . or of anyone who is so much better and more beautiful than the wretch who stands before you now.”

The pain written on his face was more than Prudence could bear. “Your heart is not fettered, William,” she said, laying her hand on his cheek. “No one can imprison your spirit. No one can lock away your mind. You speak as an old man whose life is nearly at an end. But you are young. Hope cannot be constrained. Nor can faith. And love? Love is beyond the reach of sin and failure.”

He took her hand again, held it to his lips. She saw his struggle, the anguish of words he could not bear to speak. Stepping near, she stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss on his cheek.

At that, he groaned, took her in his arms, and held her so close she could hardly breathe. His lips found hers, and he kissed her with such passion that the reticence holding back her heart fled at once.

“William, what am I to do?” she murmured against his coat. “What are we to do?”

“Don’t speak, my lady. Stay in my embrace forever. Let me hold you and kiss you until every impossibility is erased by our love.”

“Our love? Oh, William . . .”

“No,” he silenced her. Holding her at arm’s length, he shook his head. “No, not love. I cannot . . . I will not imprison you too. Go, Prudence. Go home to London. Leave me here, I beg you. Save your life. Spare your heart for a man more worthy of it.”

With a last kiss, he shuddered. His hands laced through her hair, cupped her neck, caressed her face. Then he turned from her and strode out of the room. She heard the door open and shut again. With a sigh, she fell onto the settee, buried her face in her hands, and allowed herself to weep until no more tears would come.

Ten

William sat near the pianoforte and made a gallant effort to listen to a young lady who fumbled every third note. He took some amusement from it, for she carried on playing with great determination despite the discordant notes that echoed through the drawing room. Most of the other guests had moved into the ballroom, where hired musicians played jigs, country dances, and even waltzes with skill. William was half-inclined to join them, but the very thought of dancing with any woman other than Prudence Watson paralyzed him.

“There!” the young lady cried out as the final cacophonous chords quavered across the room. She let out a deep sigh of satisfaction and turned to William with a smile that made her almost pretty.

He observed, with some regret, that he was the only gentleman remaining in the room and that she was awaiting his response. Sitting up, he applauded with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

“Lovely, Miss . . . ?”

“Miss Madeline Bowden.”

“Of the James Bowden family?”

“Yes, sir. I am the youngest daughter but one.”

“I am William Sherbourne.”

“Yes! Your eldest brother is Lord Thorne and your second brother is a missionary in India.”

“Well done, Miss Madeline. You have placed me exactly.”

“We are Ivy, Caroline, Madeline—that is me.”

“Of course.”

“And finally Clementine. She is youngest of all and has not yet come out into society.” Her attention returned to the pianoforte. “Would you like to hear another song, Mr. Sherbourne? I have found a concerto here among the music, but I have never played it before. Still, if you wish—”

“Ah, but I should not like to put a lady in distress.” At the alarming prospect of listening to her scrabble through an interminable concerto, he leapt to his feet. “Surely you would rather dance on such an evening as this, Miss Madeline?”

“Dance? With you?”

“None other.” He held out his hand.

Blushing rather too much, she rose and slipped her arm around his. “You are very kind.”

He begged to differ, for his offer to dance was born of self-preservation and nothing else. But he kept his tongue. The evening held little else to divert him, and the young lady was positively trembling at having won his attentions. Sadly, he could not be less interested in her . . . or in anyone else.