The Perfect Rake (19 page)

“No? Were you?” he said sympathetically. “Never mind, that’s the nice thing about growing older. One can escape the results of one’s upbringing.”

Escape our upbringing.
His words jolted her. Suddenly all her problems rolled back into place. She ought not be standing here flirting—yes, that’s what she’d been doing, flirting with Lord Carradice.

He added lightly, “Things change. People change—some of them, most delightfully.” His eyes ran over her appreciatively.

Feeling a wave of warmth as a direct result of his look, Prudence released her breath slowly. And some things didn’t change unless you made them happen. She had to make Lord Carradice go away. She couldn’t think straight while he was near.

She moved to the room where people were gathering for the musical recital. Lord Carradice followed. Twice now she’d asked him to stay away from her! And did he take the slightest bit of notice? She recalled her other grievance.

“I have another bone to pick with you.”

“Oh we can do better than bones, surely.” He prowled forward.

She backed away, giving him her frostiest, most repellent look.

His eyes narrowed in amusement. “My word, what a peculiar expression. Eaten something that disagrees with you, my dear?” he said in a solicitous voice. “Not surprising, that frightful weedy tea stuff your great-uncle serves.”

Remembering the purge, Prudence flushed, then recollected that Lord Carradice had not witnessed that little debacle. “I wish he had served you something much worse than his tea!” she declared callously. “Something poisonous.”

“He did. Some atrocious dandelion wine. Ghastly.”

“How dare you sneak off behind my back and arrange to get yourself falsely betrothed to me.”

“Did
I
do that? How very shocking of me!” Lord Carradice purred. “And all the time I thought that was
you
, arriving at my cousin’s house, all of a twitter because you’d claimed to be betrothed…”

“Oh.” Mortified, Prudence felt her face heat even more. “That.”

“Yes, that.” His eyes quizzed her so shamelessly that Prudence felt quite irritable.

“It was very bad of me, I know. However I have already apologized several times for it, and since you are so uncivil as to continue reminding me of the fact, I shall repeat myself: I am very sorry for embroiling you in my problems.”

“Oh but Prudence.” His voice was like warm, rich chocolate. “I’m happy to be embroiled in anything of your—”

“I did not give you leave to use my first name, sir,” Prudence cut him off primly, certain by the look in his eyes that he was going to say something vastly improper.

He led her to a small group of chairs. “No, you didn’t, and you are quite right to point it out to me,” he said, pulling a chair forward for her. “A singularly inappropriate name it is, too. I shall not use it in future.”

It was one thing to dislike your own name and quite another for him to cast aspersions on it, but Prudence decided not to take issue. She had other fish to fry. She allowed herself to be seated, then said, “Now, about your visit to my great-uncle this afternoon—”

“Did it upset him?” He sat down beside her.

“Well, no.”

“He wasn’t distressed, concerned, offended, or enraged?”

Prudence gritted her teeth. “No, of course not, but—”

“He was, in fact, quite pleased?”

Prudence refused to answer. It was difficult enough to deliver a reprimand without having to admit that his visit had made her elderly relative perfectly, quite vulgarly ecstatic.

“Whatever my great-uncle may have thought, you had no right to suggest that I have agreed to a betrothal,” she said severely.

“I didn’t.”

“It was bad enough—” She broke off. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Suggest that you had agreed to a betrothal,” he said. “In fact I don’t recall saying anything of the sort. It never even crossed my mind.”

Prudence scanned his face intently, unsure of whether he was teasing her or telling the truth. He was a very difficult man to read. He seemed to find everything amusing.

“The whole thing was Sir Oswald’s idea.” He shrugged and stretched out his long legs in front of him. “He simply decided I was wearing ‘courtin’ clothes’ and given our previous four-year history, leaped to the conclusion I had finally come to ask permission to wed you. I didn’t ask, but he gave it anyway and seems to think it a done deal.” His eyebrows rose in polite enquiry. “Tell me, does he always make such ludicrous leaps in logic?”

“Oh.” Prudence didn’t know where to look. It sounded very plausible…She could easily imagine Great-uncle Oswald jumping to false conclusions. And if the misunderstanding was anyone’s fault, it was hers, for precipitating the whole ridiculous mess with her lies.

She glanced across at Charity, surrounded by beaux. Prudence might regret the lies, but she could not regret the results. Even if too close an acquaintance with Lord Carradice was one of them. She felt a wave of warmth pass across her skin.

She turned back to him. “I owe you an apology. Again.”

He waved his hand airily. “Not at all. In any case, since Grace so kindly explained everything to me in the park, I have decided to remain betrothed to you, so you need not fret your mercurial elderly relative any more.”

Distracted as she was by the interplay between Charity and her companions, it took a moment or two for his words to sink in. She swung around. “You’ve decided
what?
”

He smiled slowly, a smile that made her breathless, even as she wanted to strangle him. “Yes, I’ve decided to overlook your cavalier treatment of my love letters and forgive you, and so we remain betrothed. Great-uncle Oswald and I are in perfect accord, for a change.”

“They weren’t love letters. They were tailor’s bills. And we are
not
betrothed!”

“Ah, but the old gentleman thought the burning of the letters most affectingly romantic—so did I, for that matter. That tailor grossly overcharges. And besides, you know you need me, Imp.”

“I don’t need you. And—what did you just call me?”

“Imp. It’s short for ImPrudence—much more appropriate. Whoever named you Prudence was ill-advised. There is not a shred of prudence or caution in you!” He observed her indignant reaction with patent approval, then commented affably, “You know, huffing and puffing like that shows off your bosom very prettily.”

Prudence instantly stopped breathing. He smiled, a slow, devilish invitation to wickedness. “It’s a very nice bosom. You should show it off.”

“I was not show—”

“There’s no point arguing—you know you need me, Prudence.”

“I know no such thing!” she hissed. “Now hush, Miss Ostwither is about to perform on the violin.”

He laid his hand on her arm soothingly, and murmured, “You don’t need to admit it here and now; you can wait until we are alone.” His thumb stroked her skin, sending warm shivers down her spine.

She shook his hand off furiously. “I shall take care never to be alone with you again, Lord Carradice,” she whispered frostily.

He leaned forward and murmured, “Is that a challenge? I love a challenge. So, how will you admit your need of me?” His warm breath heated her skin. He was far too close.

She edged away. “I will never admit any such thing!”

He gave her a heated look from beneath his dark lashes. “It will be our little secret, then,” he purred. “I love secrets.”

“Oh hush!”

Chapter Nine

“Eternity was in our lips and eyes
Bliss in our brows.”

W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

H
E SAT BACK AS THE PERFORMANCE COMMENCED, ONE LONG LEG
crossed over the other, his arm resting casually along the back of her chair. His hand dangled an inch or so from her bare skin. Did he know she could barely think, let alone speak, for awareness of the proximity of his fingers?

Of course he knew. He was a rake. This is what he did; flustered virtuous ladies merely by his proximity. And shameless conversation. Prudence refused to be flustered. She concentrated on the concert and utterly ignored the way his fingers occasionally brushed her skin. If she shivered occasionally, it was caused by a draft!

After some moments, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, his breath warm against her skin. “If we were not betrothed, your sister would not now be sitting with my cousin, drinking Lady Ostwither’s vile ratafia and listening to that girl inflict on us that excruciating noise she alleges is something Mozart created.”

“Hush! She is our hostess’s daughter.”

“Yes, but from the sounds emanating from her, she must be standing on a cat, and I don’t approve of cruelty to animals—or ears! But you digress,” he reprimanded her. “We were discussing the necessity for our betrothal to stand.”

“
I
digress!” Prudence whispered indignantly, then bit her tongue. She would not take his bait. It was both impolite to her hostess and unwise, tactically. His words were true; if Great-uncle Oswald realized Prudence and Lord Carradice were not betrothed and never had been, Charity wouldn’t be here, attended by several very eligible gentlemen. She glanced across at her sister. It was time to change the topic.

“Tell me,” she whispered, “who is the gentleman standing near my sister just now?”

Lord Carradice glanced over. “Which one? There’s a crowd of ’em. Carver is the tall yellow-haired fellow standing behind her, the soppy-looking thin one in the atrocious yellow velvet coat is young Hopeton, and as for the medium-sized duke on her left, weren’t you betrothed to him at one point?”

“Thank you,” she whispered frostily.

Miss Ostwither finished her piece and was politely applauded. She lifted her violin again and Lord Carradice groaned. As Miss Ostwither murdered Mozart once more, he leaned across, his mouth so close to Prudence’s ear she could feel his heat, and whispered, “Whoever that girl’s music master is, he should be hanged, drawn, and quartered—preferably while she plays him a dirge on that thing.”

Unsuccessfully, she smothered a giggle.

“Pray, do not be so frivolous as to giggle at a serious musical event,” he murmured austerely. “Innocent cats gave their lives for this.” She giggled again, and several people shushed them.

The hand that had been resting so perilously close to her bare skin moved and she felt the light touch of one fingertip. Her body burned with awareness of it. She tried to shrug it off. It hovered, then returned, stroking her skin in tiny, thistledown circles. The sensation was deliciously unsettling. Prudence shivered. How could a shoulder be so sensitive? She moved in her seat. The fingertip caress followed. She tried to wriggle away from it.

“You’ll fall off that seat if you move much farther,” he whispered.

Prudence sat very straight on her seat for the remainder of the recital, clutching her reticule on her lap. She would have liked very much to biff him with it, but the circumstances made it impossible. There was nothing she could do. The man was incorrigible. He had no conscience at all. She tried to focus her attention on Miss Ostwither. It was not possible. Tiny sensations of pleasure rippled through her, spreading from that one tiny point to the rest of her body. Prudence fought them.

A second finger joined the first.

She sat up in rigid indignation, a silent message of virtue outraged. Unfortunately it brought the rest of his fingers in contact with her skin. Now four long, strong fingers and a thumb sent tiny, hot ripples of sensation through her. Prudence immediately slumped in her seat to sever the connection. Some things were more important than elegance.

He shifted casually and the long, wicked fingers once again trailed featherlight twirls across her skin. Prudence sat hunched in her chair, fighting each insidious shiver of pleasure his touch created. She became hotter and hotter and crosser and crosser.

Finally Miss Ostwither’s recital came to a screeching climax and an interval was declared. Prudence almost leaped from her seat and hurried away from Lord Carradice as fast as she could. He strolled after her and with no ceremony, tucked her hand in his arm and resumed the conversation. “Are you still sniffy with me over the resumption of our betrothal?”

“I am not sniffy. And I don’t wish to discuss it. Or anything else with you. I have had quite enough of your company, thank you!” She tried to tug her hand out from his.

He ignored her. “Now, Miss Imp, you must be betrothed to somebody; after all, you can’t wait around forever for a fellow who goes off and gets himself squashed by elephants. Very careless sort of fellow, this Otterclogs—won’t do for you at all. You need somebody reliable. On hand. Like me.”

“Reliable? You?” Prudence made a rude sound under her breath and bowed politely to a passing acquaintance. “And his name is Otter
bury
.”

He gestured to his long, elegant form. “At least I have the decency to remain unsquashed by elephants.”

“I doubt even an elephant
could
squash you!” she snapped, goaded. “Besides, Phillip has
not
been squashed by an elephant!”

“How do you know?” He moved forward, towing her inexorably with him.

“I would have heard from his mother. She was our neighbor in Norfolk, you know.”

“Ah, then it must have been the tiger that got him.”

“It was not a tig—! This is a ridiculous conversation.”

“It is indeed, but you’re the one who brought Otterbottom up in the first place. I have no idea why we’re wasting time discussing some stupid fellow who went off to live with elephants—he must be addled in the brain. If you were mine, I’d never leave you, Prudence. I couldn’t.”

For a moment, Prudence couldn’t breathe. His words were so enticing, his voice so deep and dark and sounding so very sincere…His arm felt strong and warm and hard under her gloved hand, and the faint scent of his cologne teased her senses. She tried to tell herself it was the aftermath of those wicked caresses.

How could such a light touch have such a pervasive effect on her entire body?

She glanced around. Somehow as they’d strolled, he’d maneuvered them toward a secluded alcove without her realizing. Dark red-velvet curtains draped across it. She backed against them, instinctively needing the support of the wall or window the curtains covered, but found herself floundering in red-velvet folds instead. He reached across her shoulder and brushed one of the curtains aside.