The Perfect Rake (43 page)

“The only man I have ever been betrothed to is Phillip Otterbury!” she announced loudly. Remembering she still carried his ring on a chain, she pulled it out of her bosom. “See? This is the ring he gave me.”

There was a small, shocked silence. With one accord the group swung around to stare at Phillip, who looked as if he’d just swallowed a snail.

“Clotterbury?” Great-uncle Oswald exploded. “But you’ve only just met the fellow!”

“You can’t possibly prefer him to Gideon,” Lady Augusta exclaimed.

“Oh but this is delicious—” began Lady Gosforth.

“Be quiet, Maud!” snapped Great-uncle Oswald and Lady Augusta in unison.

Phillip gaped at this disrespect for the aunt of a duke, then shrank, realizing everyone was staring at him with varying degrees of hostility.

“Is this true, Clotterbury?”

He gave a sickly smile and hesitated, not knowing what to say.

“Yes, it’s true.” Prudence came forward and took his hand. He tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let him. She held up the ring. “See? This is the traditional betrothal ring of the Otterbury family.”

Phillip swallowed. All eyes were upon him. He tried to speak, found no words came out, cleared his throat, and said finally, “Actually, it’s not.”

“Not?” Prudence stared at him in shock. “But…you told me it was. Handed down for generations.”

Phillip shook his head, looking a little green. “It’s not.” He swallowed. “It’s a ring I got from a pawnbroker. Made of paste.”

Prudence blinked, trying to take it in. “You cannot be serious. I’ve carried this ring for more than four years,” she whispered. She looked at Phillip, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking altogether green.

Paste! From a pawnbroker!
Gideon met her stricken gaze, knowing what that ring had meant to her. She’d carried that blasted ugly thing on a chain for more than four years like a ball and chain, courted her grandfather’s wrath by doing so, and had even risked her life with a highwayman over it—almost. A worthless old piece of trumpery from a pawnbroker. A symbol of love from a weasel. Damn Otterbury to hell and back!

Gideon strode forward, snatched the ring from Prudence’s slackened grasp, gave it to Otterbury, and said, “That’s enough, I think. A foolish charade, my Prudence, but that’s enough. You and I are betrothed, and that’s final.” And in front of everyone, he planted a kiss, hard and possessive, on her mouth.

After a moment, Prudence struggled out of his embrace and stood there, staring at him.

“So here you are, Mr. Otterbury,” an arch voice said into the silence. “I had quite given up on my ratafia. And now everyone has gone in to supper. Must I expire of hunger and thirst before you remember me?” A lady in a blue lutestring saque joined the group. She slipped her arm familiarly through Phillip’s, nodded at Lady Gosforth, and smiled around the group with faint inquiry. “Gracious, how serious everyone looks. And I thought it such a lovely party.” She seemed perfectly sure of her welcome.

Otterbury, doing his imitation of a fish, looked even greener than before.

Gideon noted Prudence’s reaction; she had no idea who this young woman was. He wondered if Prudence realized the lady was increasing; the proud curve of her belly was not quite disguised by the folds of her gown.

“Er, yes, sorry, I shall take you in to supper immediately,” Phillip muttered. “Come along.” He began to hustle her away in a manner that had Gideon’s suspicions bristling.

He blocked the lady’s way. “Will you not introduce us, Clotterbury?”

The lady tittered gaily. “Otterbury, not Clotterbury. People do have trouble with the name, but that is the most amusing of mispronunciations I have yet encountered. And you are—?” She looked expectantly from Gideon to Phillip, who didn’t utter a sound. His face was ashen.

“I am Carradice,” Gideon bowed suavely. “And this is Miss Merridew; her great-uncle, Sir Oswald Merridew; my aunt, Lady Augusta Montigua del Fuego; and I gather you know Lady Gosforth.”

The lady curtsied to each of them and then, since there was no introduction forthcoming from Phillip, she said with simple pride, “And I am Mrs. Otterbury.” And as if there could be some doubt, she added, “Mrs. Phillip Otterbury.”

Prudence went extremely still. Gideon wanted to wrap her in his arms so she could not be hurt any more by this stupid clod and his silly, vacuous wife. He took a cold, resistless little hand in his, tucked it under his arm, and then, to make sure, laid his hand over hers. “My felicitations, Otterbury, Mrs. Otterbury,” he said coolly. “A secret wedding, was it, Otterbury?”

“Oh goodness me, no.” Phillip’s wife laughed. “Why ever would it be a secret?”

“I cannot imagine,” Gideon said in a hard voice and looked at Otterbury. “I gather the marriage is of recent date?”

Mrs. Otterbury tittered again. “Heavens, no.” She glanced coyly down at the bulge beneath her gown, smoothed it with a deliberate hand, and said, “We were married more than six months ago. In India.”

With a sigh and a whisper of silk, Prudence fainted away.

Chapter Nineteen

“Love can hope where reason would despair.”

G
EORGE
L
YTTELTON

G
IDEON, WHO HAD BEEN WATCHING
P
RUDENCE LIKE A HAWK, READY
to snatch her away at the first sign of distress, caught her in his arms. For a moment the idea crossed his mind that it might be like that other time, a faint to escape an uncomfortable situation, but the dead weight of her in his arms told him the truth. She had indeed fainted—and no wonder, he thought savagely.

She had produced that damned pawnbroker’s ring with such innocent courage. He knew why she did it, too. That look she had given him after he’d claimed her with that kiss. The sort of look people gave when they were about to jump off a cliff or burn their bridges. She’d said she wouldn’t entrap him. She had given her promise and meant to abide by it.

A testament to loyalty, and she’d been made to look a fool.

Bad enough for the swine to have married without telling her. Worse to reveal it in public, at a party, where Prudence was effectively pinned to a board like a butterfly, for all her feelings and thoughts to be displayed. Hard enough for anyone to have their declaration of faith and fidelity smacked in the face so brutally. But for his new wife to be presented in such glowing, smug fecundity.

There could be no crueler reminder of the babe Prudence had lost and still mourned.

She lay helpless, unconscious against his chest. He didn’t want to put her down. He wanted to stride off with her to his home and care for her in privacy. He wanted to take her upstairs to his bed and simply hold her, let her weep and rail and grieve. He wanted her not to be alone. If any pillow was to be drenched with her tears, he wanted it to be his. He wanted to be the one to hold her, to dry her tears, to comfort and tend and love her.

“Put her down,” said a voice beside him.

Never,
thought Gideon.

“She needs air, boy, and my smelling salts. Lay her down on this sofa,” Aunt Gussie instructed him. Reluctantly, he laid her on the sofa and held her hand, chafing it gently while Aunt Gussie administered the smelling salts.

Prudence came around in a moment. In two she’d repudiated his hand, thanked his aunt, and struggled to her feet. Alarmingly pale but very poised, she approached the faithless Otterbury and his bride, a brittle smile on her face.

“Please accept my felicitations,” she said, “both for your marriage and for the forthcoming happy event. Phillip, I am sure your mother is delighted. Perhaps this explains why we have not heard from her in recent months.”

Otterbury nodded vaguely, looking uncomfortable.
Another story there,
thought Gideon savagely.

Not for a moment did she betray the terrible blow she had just been dealt. No trace of bitterness escaped her. She was unique, Gideon thought proudly. He moved closer in case she needed a little support. His hand cupped her elbow. He could feel the tension in her, vibrating like a bowstring. She moved away, imperceptibly, deliberately breaking the fragile contact between them. Again. She did not want him.

“You will be wanting your supper, Mrs. Otterbury,” she said with quiet grace.

“Yes, yes, so she is. Come, my dear.” Hurriedly, Phillip escorted his wife from the room.

“Little weasel,” said Aunt Gussie. “I knew he was hiding something! Asking you to stay indoors for a week to save his pride at being jilted! Pretending it was me he didn’t want you to be seen with, and all along he was trying to prevent his wife from meeting his fiancée. How did he think he could avoid it?”

“They planned to leave Bath tomorrow,” Lady Gosforth said.

Aunt Gussie snorted. “That fits!”

Prudence shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said wearily. “I think I would like to leave now. I have a terrible headache. If you will excuse me, Lady Gosforth?”

“Yes of course, my dear.”

“Great-uncle Oswald, Lady Augusta, may I leave the twins to you? They are having such a lovely time, and I would hate to ruin it for them.”

“Yes, yes, m’dear,” said Sir Oswald in a gruff voice. “Don’t give ’em another thought.”

“Shouldn’t I come with you, Prue, dear?” asked Aunt Gussie.

Prudence shook her head. “No, no, I thank you. I really would prefer to be alone.” Only her extreme pallor and the faint tremor in her voice revealed her distress.

“I shall escort you,” Gideon announced.

“No!” Aware she had overreacted, Prudence moderated her tone. “Thank you, but no, Lord Carradice. I require no other escort than our footman, James. He is a stalwart fellow and will give me the support of his arm if I need it. Though I shan’t need it, I’m sure.”

Prudence just wanted to escape. Deeply embarrassed by her truly feeble response to Phillip’s news, she needed to get away, to sort out her feelings. The last thing she wanted was to have to deal with Lord Carradice now, when she was in such a pathetically vaporish state. He would want to put his arms around her—he always did. She was just as likely to fall into his arms and sob out all her woes, and what an even more feeble creature she would be if she allowed it! She would not. She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want anyone’s pity.

“You must!” he insisted. “There is no question of it. I shall escort you.”

“Thank you, but you shall not,” she responded firmly. She was starting to get irritated now. Would no one let her make a graceful exit and escape from this dreadful scene?

“Take my palanquin,” said Lady Gussie. “It is the perfect thing. Then, if you feel faint again—”

“No, thank you, dear Lady Augusta, but truly, I prefer to walk. I am quite steady on my feet now, I promise you, and will be all the better for a little exercise and some fresh air.”

“But you cannot—” began Lord Carradice.

She held up a hand. “It is but a short step, and the night is warm. I shall be perfectly well, thank you.” She stood and picked up her shawl, which had slipped to the floor. Lord Carradice took it from her and wrapped it around her. Prudence forced herself to resist the warm appeal of his protectiveness. She needed to think. And she could not do that while he was near.

Besides, for once in her life she wanted to be able to consider what she, Prudence Merridew, wanted, without having to take into account the desires, plans, or orders of a man. She was no longer bound to Phillip, she was about to turn one and twenty and would thus be free of Grandpapa. For the first time in her life she could be her own mistress and she needed to make a few decisions. Reasoned decisions, not those guided by emotion, not by fear, obligation, guilt, or love.

If Lord Carradice was with her, she knew what would happen to reason—it would fly out the window and be replaced by emotion.

“No, please,” she entreated him. “But come and see me in the morning.”

Finally, reluctantly he agreed, his eyes dark with emotion. And so Prudence had her way and left the party to walk home with only James the footman in attendance.

Prudence walked slowly along the pavement, caught up in her own thoughts. Beside her walked James, a silent shadow.

She tried to make sense of Phillip’s situation. Why had he simply not written to her and told her he wished to marry another? She had given him repeated opportunities in her letters to speak up. She’d even assured him that if he wished to sever the connection, she would not reproach him.

Even if he felt awkward, he should still have written to her immediately on his marriage. Why had he not? When had he married? Six months ago, his wife had said. She worked it out. Six months ago…She walked along, head down, trying to recall letters she had received four or five months ago…but she could not recall any letters. He had stopped writing more than six months ago…

Suddenly she came to an abrupt halt. Words Phillip had spoken a few days before started to make sense.
It looked like your grandfather had lost his whole fortune.
She frowned, trying to recall his exact words. She had been thinking of other things at the time.

The company nearly went bankrupt, you know, and we all had an anxious time of it.
Phillip had stopped writing during that anxious time, had stopped writing to his betrothed of four years, the heiress whose
grandfather had lost his whole fortune.

And he had looked around and found himself another heiress. What had he said of his hosts? His in-laws, no doubt.
Extremely well off, extremely well connected.
Her mouth twisted wryly. Not to mention
related to a duke.
A far better bargain than Prudence of the bankrupt grandfather. Who was only a baron, after all.

Of course—money. It was Phillip’s driving force. So stupid of him to lie, to pretend otherwise. He could not have hidden his wife from her forever. Surely it would have been both easier and simpler to have told Prudence he was married. The whole thing was a mystery.

It was also a relief. She needn’t feel guilty about jilting him anymore. She was a different person, and not only because of the past four and a half years.