Captivated by a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor Book 2) (27 page)

She searched his face. Hope flared in her eyes, but then quickly died. Prudence ticked her chin up a notch. “But you were only there on a wager.”

Ah, God. The fact she believed that dug at his heart. “It was not a wager.” His lips pulled in a grimace. For ultimately that is what it had been. “Or rather it was not strictly on a wager.”

Fury sparked in her eyes. “Ah, no. It was about the heiress to whom you were forced to dance with.”

God, what a blunder he was making of this. He came over to her and took her shoulders in his hands, forcing her gaze to his. “I saw you, tapping your toes and tilting your head and I wanted to dance with you. I wanted to waltz with you so I could know the feel of you in my arms. And Maxwell knew that, even if I did not at the moment realize that myself.”

Her eyes locked with his. And this time she said nothing.

Encouraged by her silence, he continued. “I did not say…” He tightened his grip reflexively upon her and then forced himself to lighten his hold. “I did not say any of what was in the paper. Those words belonged to Maxwell.” And some bloody gossip had manipulated them and somehow made Christian the owner. How he despised the
ton
for reveling in the misery of others.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “You did not?” Hope hung on her words.

So much of his life was a lie that it was hard to sort out just what was true any longer. This, however, was true. He gave a brusque nod.

“Well, then.” Prudence ran her palms over her cheeks as the fight drained from her tense shoulders. She drew in a shuddering breath. “In fairness to you, I never made demands that you care for me. I tried to convince myself of that and, for a time, I managed to believe my own lie, believing that in time you would come to care for me.” She glanced at her hands. “I do not know what was real or what was false.” Her words broke on a sob. “And do you know what that is like to…to love someone and know you were nothing more than a dowry?” Tears pooled in her eyes and splayed him open. He would sooner lob off his own right leg than willingly cause her pain. A woman who’d only ever had a smile for him, now crying before him.

Then her words registered. His mouth went dry.
She loved him
. Her words came as if down an endless, empty corridor and, with them, an explosion of joy that raced through him.

And then he crashed down to the ugly reality that had always been his life. “You do not know me, Prudence.” His voice sounded tired to his own ears. “Not truly. The parts you do know should prove I’m unworthy of that gift.” He made to turn away, but she moved in a rustle of noisy satin skirts and placed herself in front of him.

“That dance meant something to me.” Had she shouted the words and then spit in his face she could not have hurt him more than this wounded whisper. “You were different than the others because when no one wished to dance with me, you did, and yet, it was a lie.”

Christian jerked, feeling as though she’d punched him in the midsection. How could she not know how much she meant to him?
Because you have never told her
… Because he’d not allowed himself to confront that truth—until now. Instead, so scared by his past, he’d spent these past weeks convincing himself he had complete and total control of his heart. When in truth, he’d had little control of anything since Prudence had stepped onto Bond Street all those months ago and into his life. He tried to form words around the dryness of his mouth and the thickness of his throat.

“If you will excuse me?” she said with the grace and dignity of a queen. “I have some things to think on.”

Likely the folly in marrying him. Woodenly, he stepped aside, allowing her to open the door.

She made to leave and panic churned in his gut. “It was never a lie,” he said gruffly.

Prudence halted mid-step, but did not turn around “I wanted that dance.” He needed her to believe those words, to take them with her as truth. Because even with no wager involved, he’d ached to know the feel of her hand in his and her body close. “Maxwell simply gave me the push to dance with a woman who I had no right to.” And for it, that dance had irrevocably changed his life.

Her back went taut and for an instant, he thought she’d say something more, but then without another word, closed the door behind her and left.

Christian stood long after she’d gone, staring at the wood panel door, empty in ways he’d not even been hollow after Lynette’s betrayal.

From across the room, the log shifted and exploded noisily, drawing his attention. He gazed into the forlorn depths of the fire. During the war, after the cannon fire had ceased to echo in his ears and the agonized roars and screams of tortured men had faded to faint whispers, an odd emptiness would settle in his soul; a moment where he’d wondered if he was alive, or dead, or moving in some strange netherworld between.

This moment with Prudence shattered by that one foolish wager, felt remarkably like all those dark times.

Christian swiped a hand over his face and looked about this inherited office formerly belonging to the late Marquess of St. Cyr. The piles of ledgers and folios upon his cluttered desk spoke to the franticness of a man who’d been out of options. “I was never supposed to care for her.” His ragged whisper echoed mockingly off the walls. He stared blankly at those disorganized piles. The goal had been to find a title-grasping, emotionless lady who’d no dreams or illusions of who he was or what he was. All of that had been changed with just one waltz.

What if there had been no dance? What if there had been another gentleman to see her, really
see
her, and honorably grant her that set, and forever own her heart? A bleak emptiness sucked at his insides from the mere thought. He’d told her he couldn’t care for her or give her more. Only that latter part had proven true.

How in just a few weeks had his world been so upended?
Because of her…

Lesson Twenty-two

A good gentleman is a modest one without an inflated sense of self…

P
rudence didn’t have a blasted clue as to where she was going. She moved down the unfamiliar halls of her new home. All the while, Christian’s response haunted her. How was she to explain the remorse she’d seen reflected in his eyes? If he were the cold, calculated man who’d danced with her on a wager and all along laid an enticing lure for a young woman who’d longed for love, then why feel anything but triumphant? He’d won. She was now his, and more importantly, her dowry belonged to him.

“Do you require assistance to your rooms, my lady?” The butler’s voice sounded from the opposite end of the corridor.

A startled gasp escaped her and she pressed a hand to her pounding heart at having her ponderings interrupted.

Dalrymple approached and she forced a smile as he came to a stop beside her. “That would be lovely,” she said, holding the butler’s stare the way her husband had done a short while ago.

The man shifted the cane in his hand and she adjusted her pace to match his slow, precise steps. As they wound their way through the halls and up the stairs to her new rooms, she eyed the signs of wear upon the thin carpet lining the halls. Stains and tears all spoke to years of wear, just another reminder of Christian’s financial circumstances and the daily reminders he’d likely confronted of those circumstances.

“This way, my lady,” the butler yelled. They proceeded down a long, darkened corridor. A number of places upon the wall marked the spot a sconce had once been; likely the gold pieces long since sold. Through the struggles her family had suffered at Society’s hands, she’d never been without. Shamefully, she’d not allowed herself to consider the fortuitousness that came with her birth and her father and brother’s wise management of their estates. The hall echoed with the soft tread of her footsteps and Dalrymple’s shuffling gait. Only, what would Sin have done if her family had been in such dire straits? The brother he was, she did not doubt he’d have sold his soul to the devil if need be to see his family cared for. In that way, Christian, she suspected, was not unlike in that regard.

She eyed the paintings hanging on the walls of bewigged, frowning strangers. Dust coated some of the elaborate, gold frames that hung askew. “Achoo!”

“Blessings, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she returned, tipping her face up to his so he might better read her lips. Then, in the long row of angry, old ancestors of the marquess, a splash of color caught her notice. She held a hand up a moment and then, beckoned by the crimson, wandered over. Prudence angled her head. By the crooked grin and too-long, golden tresses, the uniformed soldier could be confused for no one other than her husband.

“He was so young,” she said softly to herself.

“Seventeen,” Dalrymple said.

She started at both the servant’s words and at his having heard her quiet utterance.

He gestured to his right, intact ear. “I can hear on this side, my lady.”

A splash of heat rushed her cheeks and she returned her attention to Christian’s portrait. Yes, she recalled as much from his admission days earlier. Still, staring at this rendering of him, frozen in time, somehow made that truth all the more—real. And all the more horrific.

“The marquess despises that painting. Wants it taken down.” Why did it remain, then? The astute servant must have seen the question in her eyes. “His mother insists upon it. Wants it hung and so it is hung. His Lordship merely has it covered when she’s gone.”

Prudence took another step closer. She peered more deeply into those innocent eyes. There was a bravado and swagger that could only come with a brash young man’s youth. Tearing her gaze away from Christian’s piercing stare, she looked at the towering servant. “Did you know him then?” she asked hesitantly. Part of her longed for the answer to be yes so she could have a window into the life he’d led before, while the other part feared the answers he might have through that connection.

“No,” the butler said with a shake of his head. “I fought in different Peninsular campaigns. The marquess found me at a tavern in the countryside. I was a drinker. And angry. And hated the world. His Lordship gave me a purpose again.” He grinned, displaying an uneven row of teeth. “Made me his butler, no less.” The man’s expression grew distant as though in his words, he was transported back to that dark time in his life. “Hired me when no one else would.”

She drew in a slow, steadying breath. Instead of Dalrymple’s words satisfying this need for details about the man she now found herself wedded to, it merely fueled a hungering to know more. Tamping down the questions on her lips, she stole one more long glance at a seventeen-year-old Christian and started down the hall.

They continued on in silence with Dalrymple coming to a stop beside a scratched, oak paneled door. He pressed the handle. She hesitated at the threshold and took a step forward. When the butler spoke, she stopped her movements. “I did not know the man he was then. I heard whispers of him.” A chill stole through her. He tightened his jaw. “But I know the man he is now and do not pay much attention to the whispers. His Lordship hires men no one else will; when so many of the others who fought alongside us forget. That says much about who your husband is.”

Without waiting to see if she required anything else or allowing her to put in a question, the butler limped off, leaving her door hanging open.

Prudence stared at the place he’d just taken his leave, with the servant’s words tumbling around her mind. Since her family had been embroiled in scandal after scandal, she’d made it a point to studiously avoid all word or whisper of gossip. Gossip was nothing more than a kernel of truth cooked within masterful lies, then expertly fed to a voracious lot of people who thrived off those falsities. Except, shamefully in her own hurt, she’d given life to the smallest part of the truth the
ton
had manipulated. Remorse pulled at her.

She cast a glance over her new chambers, her white satin skirts rustling noisily in the empty space as she walked a perimeter about the space, trailing her fingertips over the oak armoire etched in a rose trim and then to a vanity. She stopped beside the bed and stared down at it—her bridal bed.

A wave of heat slapped her cheeks as she considered lying upon that down mattress with Christian. Never more had she regretted her sister’s absence than she did this day, her wedding night. Her mother’s own terse, quick explanation of what her wifely duties entailed had sounded both impossible and painful and not at all pleasant. Which was vastly different than the image painted by Juliet of something wondrous and magical which Prudence had wanted to hear no further parts about because of…well, it was her sister-in-law. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. But now, in the span of one morning, he’d become a stranger to her. Yet, what if her husband wanted nothing more than her dowry? She closed her eyes, as the memory of his touch and kiss filtered through her thoughts. Surely he wanted to…to…have more than a marriage of convenience.

Then she thought of the blasted wager.

Or mayhap he’d never wanted anything more than her fortune. Except to believe so would be to place him into the ranks of the Albert Marshvilles of the world. Her heart protested the pairing of Christian’s name with that monster.

Prudence opened her eyes and momentarily froze. With her gaze trained on the pillow, she wandered to the head of the bed. A small branch lay atop her pillow. Her throat muscles working painfully, she picked it up. Her elm. Their elm.

She raised it to her face and the brittle stick brushed her cheek. These were not the actions of a ruthless man who did not care. A fortune hunter who’d carefully plotted a match between them would not have bothered with the ceremony underneath their tree, when he himself so hated it, or this gift, which was worth more than any diamonds or baubles he could have ever given.

Prudence squared her jaw. A blackguard who’d wanted nothing more than an heiress would not have selected the perfect spot to wed and he’d certainly not go to the effort of finding a stick from that special elm. No, if he’d been a ruthless fortune hunter, it would have only mattered that he’d secured her wealth. Gift in hand, she marched to the door.

She was not through with her husband, after all.

The faint click of his office door opening filled the quiet of his office. Christian turned and then went still.

Prudence cleared her throat. “I found the branch.”

From where he stood at the hearth, he jerked erect. She’d returned. And more…why had she come back? The faintest stirrings of hope lit in a place he’d thought hope had died long ago. His wife entered deeper into the room, that silly scrap evidence of how little he had to offer her, clutched in her white-knuckled grip. “Prudence,” he said, warily. “What…” Are you doing here? Why, when she despised him, with all good, justifiable reasons?

With the branch wielded in her right hand, she had the look of a fey fairy with the ability to cast a spell. But then, hadn’t she cast a spell upon him from across Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom floor?

Prudence came to a stop and peered at him, seeming to search for something. He momentarily closed his eyes. This had been inevitable; the time when she looked at him and saw who he truly was. That he was no hero as she’d made him out to be but rather an empty excuse of a person so flawed that forgiveness was impossible for. “Why did you have no right to me?”

Those softly spoken words took him aback. He gave his head an uncomprehending shake.

She took a step toward him. “You said it gave you the push to dance with a woman you had no right to. Why did you say that?”

The same coward he’d been on the battlefield, he wanted to retreat at her determined approach, and yet his feet remained oddly frozen, until she came to a stop before him. They stood so close the tips of her slippers brushed the tips of his boots. The sweet summer scent of rosewater which clung to her skin filled his senses until he was nearly drunk on his hungering for her goodness.

He flinched as Prudence caressed his cheek. “You didn’t think you were worthy of me.” There was a soft-spoken wonder in her words. Her wide, expressive eyes served as a window to the sadness, shock, and disbelief there. “How could you think I was not worthy of you?”

“And why do you think I am?” Christian captured her wrist and then removed her fingers from his person, going cold at the loss of her touch. “Because I was a soldier?” Retaining his grip upon her. “Because I’m some whispered-about war hero who gentlemen want to take drinks with and women want to bed.” Her entire body jerked at his jeering, and more, truthful words. “I was no hero,” he spat and released her with such alacrity, she stumbled back.

“We do not always see ourselves the way others do.” She spoke as one who knew; as a woman who’d been judged for the actions of others and disdained for those same actions.

“We are nothing alike,” he said raking his stare up and down her person, hating that he’d never been worthy of her and that she now made him clearly enumerate why. She’d flayed him open, exposing all his weaknesses and failings. “I have lived a lie the past eight years and I will not continue to do so with you.”

Her fingers fisted the fabric of her white ruffled skirts. “I don’t know what you—”

“You want the truth?” An ugly laugh worked its way up his chest and spilled past his lips. “The truth is I was a rotten soldier. I was…” More adept with the young women eager for a night with a solider than any battlefield skill.

“You were?” Prudence gently prodded.

He blinked, unable to concede this humiliating failure. The rest he would give her so she might understand, so that she could cease seeing him as a hero, and let him live his life without this constant lie between them. Christian clenched and unclenched his jaw. “The truth was I was a rotten soldier,” he repeated lamely.

She tipped her head and because he did not know what to make of that odd little angling—surprise, disappointment, a rejection of that truth—he forced out the remainder. “I was no hero. I was not the revered and deserved respected Lord Drake. I was bloody awful with my gun and a coward in battle.”

A soft understanding sparked in her eyes and she took another step toward him, hand outstretched. “Oh, Christian.”

He wanted to accept that offering. God how he wanted to merge their hands and take what strength she had as his own. Then his gaze fell to the stick still clutched in her opposite hand. The bloody elm. With a curse, he spun on his heel and marched over to the sideboard. He passed a hand over the decanters before settling on a bottle. Christian shot a glance over his shoulder. “You think I am being heroic and rejecting the praise bestowed on me?” He arched an eyebrow.