The Courteous Cad (18 page)

Prudence Watson, he had learned from Olivia at tea that afternoon, had been joined by her dear friend Anne. This welcome visitor had lately arrived in Otley with her husband, Ruel Chouteau, the Marquess of Blackthorne. Lord and Lady Blackthorne, it was rumored, had come to retrieve Miss Watson and would depart with her for London the following morning.

As he faced Madeline Bowden across the dance floor now, William tried to be glad about this news. Prudence would tempt him no more. She and her sweet lips, glorious curls, and pert opinions could no longer divert him from his resolve to remain a bachelor—and to be happy about it—for the rest of his life.

The music swelled; he bowed, stepped into the pattern, turned a circle with Madeline Bowden, and found himself face-to-face with the woman herself—Prudence Watson in a golden gown and long white gloves, with silk ribbons woven through the curls in her hair.

His expression of surprise must have been obvious. Prudence audibly caught her breath, her eyes begging him to remain silent. When the formation of the dance moved him away from her, he scanned the couples to determine the identity of her partner.

None other than Ruel Chouteau was escorting the young lady around the room. Chouteau, once a seaman too, had met William on more than one occasion. It was entirely possible that the man knew William’s history, had related it to Prudence, and would soon report it to the entire company.

“Good evening, Mr. Sherbourne,” Prudence said softly, when the dance brought them together a second time. “You did not expect to see me.”

“Indeed I did not. Yesterday I believed you must depart for London very soon.”

“And you wished it so,” she replied.

Before he could answer, the dance separated them again. He willed his attention to Miss Madeline, who was clearly beyond rapture over the honor of her escort. She smiled, giggled, tittered, missed several steps, winked at her sisters, and otherwise made it quite impossible for William to keep a straight face.

But soon his path crossed the floor toward Prudence again. “Do you mean to remain in Otley?” he asked.

“We leave tomorrow morning.” She linked arms with him and turned a circle. “Your cake was well received at the mill. Or so I am told.”

They parted again, and he was left to imagine who had informed her about the cake. Walker, of course. The blacksmith must have met Prudence—perhaps this very evening before she departed for Thorne Lodge. His ire at the idea of a secret rendezvous told William she still held his heart. He could not endure the thought of any other man touching her, embracing her, kissing her.

“Thank you, sir.” Madeline Bowden gazed at him, her eyes aglow. He realized belatedly that the music had ceased and the dancers were leaving the floor. Her long lashes fluttered as she spoke again. “You dance remarkably well.”

“You are too kind. But I fear my years at sea have made me unsteady on my feet. I am grateful for the honor of your hand, Miss Madeline.”

“The honor is mine,” she replied. William feared they might go on this way for some time, but Randolph stepped in to ask for a moment with his brother.

“Have you seen Miss Watson?” Randolph asked in a low voice as they made their way to the refreshment tables. “She has captured the eye of every unwed man in the room, William. You must ask her to dance.”

“
You
ask her, brother, for she will more likely grant you the honor. Miss Watson and I are no longer friends.”

“Indeed not, for you are more than that, and you should make plain your claim on her. Leave her no doubt of your intentions, and erase the hopes of any other man who might propose to woo her.”

“Randolph, upon my word, I believe you are persuasive tonight. Perchance did Olivia suggest that you advise me thus?”

“What if she did? We both agree you would be wise to form an attachment with a lady so handsome and well connected as Miss Watson. Did you meet her friends? Blackthorne will be duke one day in his father’s place. The family owns a grand home in London, a vast country estate, and a flourishing lace industry in France. I believe they are somehow connected to tea.”

“Tea? That settles it, then. I shall propose marriage to Miss Watson at once.”

“Dash it all, William, can you never be serious?”

“No, Randolph, I cannot. My course is set and my future will never include a—”

“Do excuse me, my dear William.” Olivia Sherbourne had appeared at her husband’s side. “Miss Watson is hardly lacking in dance partners, but—” and here she prodded Prudence forward—“but I believe I have managed to secure at least one dance in your name.”

The younger woman gave Olivia a wan smile. “Thank you, madam. I am not engaged at present, but surely Mr. Sherbourne prefers to select his own partners.”

William stared at Prudence, unable to think beyond the immediate desire to sweep her into his arms and carry her away into a life where they could never be parted. But at his hesitation, her cheeks colored and she gave a little laugh.

“Indeed, I believe Mr. Sherbourne has already asked another lady for this dance. Miss Madeline Bowden is very pretty.”

“No,” William blurted. “It is you I want.”

With that assertion hanging in midair, he took Prudence by the hand and led her to the floor.

Prudence managed the first steps of the dance well enough. But on crossing to William, slipping her arm through his, and turning an intimate circle, she felt her knees go weak.

“You are beautiful this evening,” he murmured, his lips near her cheek, his breath warming her ear.

“I am tired,” she responded, her eyes meeting his. “I had thought to stay away tonight.”

“Then I am to thank your friend for my happiness.”

“She insisted we attend—but only after Lady Thorne sent a second invitation. Anne wishes to meet you.”

“I am at her service. And yours.” He stepped away now, the requirements of the country dance moving the participants into parallel lines, the women facing the men.

Prudence had made every effort to focus her attentions elsewhere that evening. From the moment Anne and Ruel accepted the formal invitation issued from Thorne Hall, Prudence had labored to concoct a truthful reason not to go. Indeed, she was very tired, for she had spent the day at the mill, where her thread continued to be uneven and her spindles a tangle. Yet, as Fanny had assured her, Prudence’s efforts were not quite as hopeless as on the previous day.

On learning they must present themselves at the assembly, Prudence decided she would ignore William. If she feigned disinterest in him, perhaps that falsehood would somehow become truth.

But now she had no choice except to gaze on the man who consumed her waking thoughts and sleeping dreams. Though attired as the other gentlemen—in a black suit, damask vest, and white neckcloth—William easily surpassed them all with his form. Broad shoulders, faultless posture, depthless brown eyes, and impeccable dance steps surely made him the object of every woman’s hopes and imaginings.

“I think of you day and night,” he whispered when they came together again. “I cannot sleep.”

“You named yourself a cad,” she reminded him. “Perhaps offering such alluring compliments to women is one of your vices.”

“I have many vices,” he told her. “Deceiving you is not among them.”

“Why is that? I am little different from these other lovely ladies who grace the stage of your life.”

He was silent for a moment, his hand at her waist as they moved down the line of dancers. “You are in every way different,” he said finally. “I love you.”

At that declaration, the steps of the dance parted them again. Prudence tried to believe she had misheard William. The music was loud and the chatter of onlookers pervasive. But he
had
said the words. Said them with reluctance, as though loath to admit the truth of his own feelings.

And how might she respond? More men than she could count had pronounced themselves violently in love with her. She could not recall the number of marriage proposals offered to her on bent knee. How many had sworn they could not go on living without her? that they must surely perish in the barren desert of her rejection? that their existence would no longer have meaning without the daily, hourly vision of her smile?

But which of those vaguely remembered suitors moved her heart as William Sherbourne did? Only one. And that man had spoken to her on this day—as on every other since their reunion—of his engagement, his fond attachment, his deep desire to wed another. He loved Bettie, a little widow with pretty dimples and threads of white hair woven through the brown. He would unite himself to this woman who could give him what Prudence could not—a simple life, a warm cottage, food prepared by her own hands, the peace of knowing he at last had come home.

As Prudence struggled to answer William’s avowal with anything but the truth—that she loved him too—the music came to an end. The couples bowed and curtsied, joined hand in hand to depart the dance floor, and made polite conversation.

“Lord Blackthorne’s carriage will depart for London tomorrow at first light,” she told William when he led her to a quiet corner of the room. “My sisters insist on my return.”

“You go because you are commanded? or because you wish to leave?”

She knew the real question behind his queries. “I cannot stay. Perhaps I am admired here, but I am not wanted.”

“I will not deny that. I cannot wish your life to become attached to mine in any way. You deserve better, and you should go to London in search of it.”

“But who are you to tell me what I should do?” She took out her fan to cool her neck and cheeks. “I am not a child to be ordered about. How I choose to live my life is neither my sisters’ affair nor yours. Believe me, I do not go to London in search of a husband.”

“But you came here on that quest.”

“Did I? How so?”

“Your blacksmith.”

She bristled. “Mr. Walker is my friend. Nothing more.”

“You stayed in Otley because you wanted to see him. You went to the mill on that pursuit. You meet him at night under cover of darkness.”

At this, she drew herself up with indignation. “I beg your pardon, sir! Your accusation is wholly without merit. Mr. Walker is engaged to be married. I am an honorable woman. How dare you charge me with such wickedness?”

“I saw you,” he retorted. “Some nights ago, I desired to speak with you and rode down to the inn. I discovered you there—outside, near the door. With him. You kissed his hand.”

Mortified, Prudence snapped her fan shut and pushed it into her reticule. “You
spied
on me?”

“Which of us is the spy, madam?”

At his intimations and accusations—all of which were true—she could formulate no response.

“Never mind,” she sputtered, “for tomorrow I shall be carried away from this place in Lord Blackthorne’s carriage. Your path and mine will never cross again. I assure you, I shall trouble you no longer.”

“But you
will
continue to trouble me,” he growled, blocking her attempted exit and taking her hand in his. “Teach me how to hate you, Prudence.”

She was trembling now, half in fury and half in desire. But desire for what? She could not say, and so she tarried.

“Hate me because I hated you first,” she suggested. “Hate me because my every purpose is to bring about the downfall of your enterprise. Hate me because you were not mistaken in what you saw that night. I did meet the man in question, and I kissed his hand. I loved him once. I love him still. Hate me for that. Hate me because even now I shall walk away from you and never speak to you again.”

“I can hate you only if you say you do not love me.” His hand tightened on hers. “Say I am nothing to you. I am never in your thoughts. I am of little consequence and no importance. Then perhaps I can learn to hate you, Prudence.”

“Shall I add untruthfulness to the other sins of which you accuse me?” She snatched her hand away. “Do you wish to make me a liar too?”

He stared at her. “What is your meaning?”

“You annoy and vex me day and night. You infuriate me. Thoughts of you torment me until I fear I shall go mad. How can a man who causes me such distress never leave my consciousness? You ask to be assured that you are of little consequence and no importance to me. I should be the greatest liar in the kingdom if I said such things. I rue the day Tom Smith pushed me into a puddle. I regret every moment I have spent in your company. Every touch . . . every kiss . . .”

Clenching her hands into fists, she struck him once on the chest. “Do not love me!” she cried. “Do not make me love you! I cannot endure it. My heart cannot bear the weight of it another moment. You must release me, I beg you.”

Tears welled, and she saw him turn to one side as her friend stepped into their company. The tension of the moment snapped.

“Prudence, you have not introduced me to this gentleman,” Anne said, her lovely smile and warm brown eyes comforting as she slipped an arm around her friend. “It is rumored that he is brother to our host and heir to Chatham Hall. My husband and I passed that charming home as we came into Otley this morning.”

“Forgive me,” Prudence stammered. “My lady, I should like to present William Sherbourne. Sir, I am pleased for you to know my dearest friend, Anne Chouteau, Lady Blackthorne.”