Captivated by a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor Book 2) (7 page)

Except, his sister’s unwelcomed prodding had roused the reminders of what had brought them to London for the Season so very early—his need for a wife with plentiful coffers. In the scheme of uncommendable things he’d done in his life, this was hardly the greatest sin. As though to press down that particular point, his shoulder throbbed with the familiar pain from where that musket ball had torn through his person, cleanly exiting out the other side. So many men had lost more and suffered far worse. Others had given all, never to return. And yet, the weak, useless, and worse, dishonorable, Marquess of St. Cyr should live—now that was the great irony.

A log tipped in the hearth and exploded in a spray of popping embers, calling his attention to the waning fire. His stomach churned with nausea. The blaze transported him back to the crack of a pistol, the horrified cry, lost amidst battlefield shouts, and then the burning of flesh. He pressed his eyes tight, but it was futile. When the memory crept in, it dug in with a tentacle-like hold and did not let him go. Nor should it. This time Toulouse merged with Waterloo and he was thrust into the heart of that famed battle, with the only thing between him and death at the hand of three French soldiers was Maxwell’s skill with a bayonet. A whimper climbed up his throat and he dug his fingers into his temples. In the scheme of marriage, which was a certain necessity, the last person he wanted to bind himself to was a hopeful miss who saw good in him. Not when his failings were so very great. With his return from war, a young man of twenty, the
ton
had been enamored of those returning Waterloo soldiers. In his silence, he’d only perpetuated the myth that he had been a hero that day in Belgium.

But he knew the truth. Just as did the men, fellow soldiers and brothers-in-arms, who’d stood beside him, knew the truth about just what kind of
hero
he’d been—a weak, pathetic coward. The manner of soldier who’d needed the protection of his friends in order to survive….and worse, a man who’d unwittingly shared their battlefield secrets with a woman who’d professed her love. That folly had cost his friend, the now Duke of Blackthorne, nearly everything and many other men, absolutely everything.

Self-loathing unfurled within him, tightening his chest so that it was hard to draw breath. With a broken sob, Christian buried his head into his hands.

What woman would ever want such a gentleman as that for her husband?

Lesson Six

Occasionally, a gentleman will cause you to woolgather…

I
t is the blue of your eyes.

Walking beside her youngest sister with their maid trailing some distance back, a silly smile played on Prudence’s lips. “It is your eyes,” she silently mouthed. She recalled the marquess’ piercing stare upon her person as he’d then turned and left Lady Drake’s ballroom floor. He—

A loud bark cut into her wondrous musings. She frowned down at the anything but quiet dog. Her sister shifted the leash of her mongrel dog, gifted her two years ago by Lady Drake.

“Do hush,” Poppy chided.

To demonstrate how well-behaved he in fact was, Sir Faithful II, perhaps the worst-named dog within the kingdom behind Sir Faithful the first, who’d sired him, tugged the hem of Prudence’s cloak within his teeth and shook. Her frown deepened. The dog didn’t seem to have a spot of intelligence, for he released her garment and darted in front of Poppy’s legs.

Her sister quietly cursed and stumbled over the black, coarse-haired animal. The sketchpad under her arm shifted and fell from her arms. Poppy paused a moment to retrieve her own small book and then quickly caught up to Prudence.

As the gravel crunched beneath the heels of her serviceable boots, Prudence redirected her gaze to the surface of the river.

“You keep stumbling into me,” Poppy chided at her side, giving Prudence a nudge.

Except, following Lord and Lady Drake’s ball last evening, she could not feel any pain.

“Ouch, you did it again,” Poppy lamented. She stuck a sharp elbow into Prudence’s side.

Prudence grunted. Apparently, she’d been wrong. She’d quite felt that. “Do stop nudging me.”

“But you are walking in an odd back and forth angle as though you aren’t paying attention to where we are going. And we really should not be traveling upon the riding path.”

She furrowed her brow. “Are we on the riding path?” She’d not realized it. Prudence glanced about at the empty landscape of Hyde Park. Well, it appeared they had gone and wandered off the well-traveled, but now blessedly empty, walking paths. “No, we really should not be,” she conceded. She’d been so very lost in the thoughts of him; a man she knew barely at all, yet who still possessed her every thought.

But he’d spoken of her eyes and danced with her when no one else had. She wrinkled her nose. Well, that was anyone that was not her brother, Sin, or his closest friend, the Marquess of Drake. Why, the only familial male obligation left was Patrina’s husband. Though she was sure Weston would get around to it when he and Patrina at last arrived for the Season.
If
they ever arrived for the Season.

She and Poppy walked at a brisk clip, with little puffs of cool, winter air stirring from the heat of their breaths. She shifted the sketchpad under her arm, pulling it closer. That familiar urge to sketch the particular someone danced around her thoughts. The someone who had asked to dance when no one else had…and a man who was assuredly not family.

“You are doing it again,” Poppy snapped.

“You did not have to come,” Prudence pointed out.

That immediately silenced her youngest sister. Her brother had always accused her of being a hopeless romantic. He’d said it with the same staggering frequency of his hiring of new governesses for Prudence and her wayward sisters.

She stopped in the middle of the path then slapped her sketchpad against Poppy’s chest and her sister grunted. Prudence drew in a deep breath of the cool air savoring the purifying scent of the winter’s clean smell.

“What are—?”

“This is the perfect place,” she said.

“It is?” Poppy looked about skeptically.

She nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes.”

Her youngest sister glanced down at her feet and then back at Prudence. “Here, on the riding path?”

Prudence wrinkled her nose. Again they’d meandered onto the riding path? “Well, not here, but
here
,” she said stomping the earth with her foot to indicate the specialness of this precise location.

Her sister threw her hands up and she cursed as the books tumbled to the ground once again. Sir Faithful yelped when a leather pad landed on his paw. “But you are on the riding path.”

“We are in Hyde Park,” she said with a long sigh of annoyance. “Where is your sense of romanticism?”

Poppy’s groan swallowed the remainder of that last word and she slapped her hands over her eyes. “Oh, blast. Not
this
again.”

Prudence bristled. She really didn’t care to rise to her sister’s baiting and yet—“Not
what
again.”

Her sister hurriedly bent and rescued her books. “Hyde Park. Talks of Christmas. The rock.” As in the boulder where her sister had been wed. She narrowed her eyes. “The woolgathering.” That last charge was spoken as though Prudence had committed a crime against the Crown. She grunted as her sister stuck her finger into her chest. “You have gone all romantic. It is rather much.”

Their maid reached their side and when presented with another Tidemore altercation chose the wisest course. She promptly collected the whining dog’s leash, turned on her heel, and marched in the opposite direction, affording them their privacy.

Prudence waited until the other woman was a safe distance away and then dipped her voice to a hushed whisper. “I am not all romantic. I am merely hopeful. Can I not be hopeful for a grand love like Sin and Juliet or Patrina and Weston?” Even if that entailed taking control of her life, and not just waiting for excitement to come to her, as it had her siblings.

Her sister frowned and had the look worn by her mother when she was about to utter the whole
no scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages
bit. To end that bothersome mantra, she took her sister by the shoulders. “If I had wanted the logical, reasonable sister, I would have forced Penelope awake and dragged her here instead.”

“I am logical and reasonable,” Poppy grumbled.

She retrieved her book from Poppy’s filled hands and gave a winning smile. “Now, if you will excuse me,” she said against her ear. “I need my time to find my creative inspiration. I encourage you to do the same.” Prudence nudged her between the shoulder blades.

“Oomph.” Poppy frowned back at her.

“Off you go.” She gave a slight wave and then spun on her heel.

“I am only walking off because I saw a majestic bird begging to be sketched,” her sister called after her.

Ah, Poppy and her love of sketching any and every animal. Prudence held a hand up in acknowledgement but otherwise did not break her stride. Hugging the familiar sketchpad close to her chest, she moved along at a slow pace taking in the still, Hyde Park grounds. With the trees now bare of their green leaves and the thick, grey, winter sky blanketed in white clouds, there was a special beauty to this place.

It was the place where her sister had found love and given Prudence hope that the rash and ruinous act carried out by her sister would not seal Prudence and Poppy and Penelope’s fate as unloved, gossiped-about ladies. Well, the talked about part had proven true…but there was still the hope for love.

Despite her brother’s bemoaning, which she suspected was intended as some manner of insult, she’d always been rather proud of that whimsical belief in love. When other ladies were dreaming of proper matches and distinguished titles and abundant wealth, she’d held on to the dream of…well, more—marriage to a man who did not want her to conform to the mold expected of societal ladies, and who loved her for who she was, dreaded dancing and rotten sketches, and all. That hopeless romantic in her attended once dull soirees and balls with a breathless anticipation of again seeing him.

Lord St. Cyr.

The winter wind whipped at her cloak and sent crisp, brown leaves tumbling down the path before her. She continued walking onward to a familiar boulder in the distance. Prudence sank onto the ground and winced as the cool earth penetrated the fabric of her cloak. Shoving aside discomfort and instead choosing to focus on her moment of solitude, she fished around her reticule and withdrew her charcoal. Then popping open her sketchpad, her fingers flew over the page.

Prudence angled her head periodically, chewing her lower lip as she sought to bring Lord St. Cyr’s face into focus. Nay, Christian. In the privacy of her thoughts, he could exist as Christian. Her lips moved as she mouthed that name. And he was a marquess. Why, the gentleman who’d rescued her from the sopping water and danced her first non-familial obligatory dance was a marquess. Whatever were the chances that—?

A scream penetrated her thoughts and snapped her head up. Heart hammering, she quickly found Poppy with her gaze, in a furious chase for her dog. The maid trailed along after her, wearing a sheepish expression on her flushed cheeks. With a sigh, Prudence hopped to her feet as her sister sprinted through the park after a swiftly fleeing Sir Faithful. His leash trailed uselessly after him, with Poppy making frantic grabs for the thin lead. Their maid, shamefaced at having lost control of the unruly pup—
again
, followed along behind her young charge. Poppy made for the riding path.

On a curse, Prudence set down her book and heart racing, she took off after her sister.
Do not be a fool, Poppy…heed your own advice.
Prudence’s chest heaved with the exertion of her efforts and she stared on hopelessly as two monstrous horses appeared over a slight rise and thundered directly for her sister.
Oh, God, no.
“P-poppy, no!” Her breathless cry fell useless on the winter air and she willed her legs faster.

To no avail. Sir Faithful raced directly toward an enormous, black steed and a chestnut mount. Poppy’s bloodcurdling scream rent the quiet and sent several kestrels into flight. The two gentlemen, with an expertness that could have only come from the Lord’s divine hand, yanked on the reins. The hooves of the black beast pawed at the air as the gentleman effortlessly brought his mount under control. He leapt over the side and his horse took off in the opposite direction before coming to a slow halt beside a barren oak tree.

And then the world resumed its normal course.

“Poppy!” she cried out and sprinted the remainder of the way to her sister who lay sprawled on her back, staring wide-eyed up at the morning sky. Prudence skidded to a halt beside her, kicking up gravel and dirt with the abruptness of her stop. She brushed past the two gentlemen at her sister’s side and sank to a knee beside her. “Are you all right?” Her breath came hard and fast from her exertions.

Poppy looked past Prudence’s shoulder. “There is a—”

“Whatever were you thinking racing upon the riding path?”

As though in answer to Prudence’s question, Sir Faithful bounded over and sank down obediently on his heels. He gave an excited yap and then promptly licked a still-prone Poppy’s face.

“But Pru, there is a—”

“You are never to do that again,” she demanded.

“Please allow me to extend our deepest regrets,” a deep voice sounded from over her shoulder.

“There is a gentleman,” Poppy said on a loud, unnecessary whisper.

Prudence snapped her head up and her heart tripped several quick beats.
Oh, my.
She stumbled over her skirts in her haste to rise. Lord St. Cyr was at her side in an instant. He quickly caught her by the arm and prevented her from falling in a humiliated heap at his feet. Her heart raced.
Oh, my.
Their gazes held a moment and then he swiftly looked away. And the world resumed spinning on its safe, familiar axis. She followed his stare to the gentleman helping Poppy to her feet.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, taking a step closer to Poppy.

At the evidence of his concern for her sister, warmth spiraled through her heart.

“Indeed, not,” Poppy said with a frown. “As though I could ever be harmed by a near trampling.” The gentleman’s lips twitched. “But thank you,” her sister belatedly added.

“If you’ll allow me to present my close friend, Tristan Poplar, the Earl of Maxwell.”

There was an air of familiarity to the man and as he sketched a bow and murmured a greeting to Poppy, Prudence tried to place him. Then she widened her eyes. Of course! “The shop!”

Three pairs of human eyes and one pair belonging to the four-legged sort swiveled in her direction. Oh, blast. Perhaps she could simply pretend she’d not said anything and that they’d merely imagined those two words. All of them.

“What?”

Prudence gave her perplexed sister a look and then swiftly returned her attention to the marquess.

Lord St. Cyr stared at her with the ghost of a smile upon his lips that had the same effect it had since their first meeting outside of Madame Bisset’s. That shop she’d just inadvertently mentioned.

“What shop?” Poppy pressed.

The trio continued to stare at Prudence. Her cheeks blazed with hot heat and she wet her lips. “That is to say, I believe I recall Lord Maxwell from one of our visits to Bond Street.” At that unwitting revelation, her shrewd sister narrowed her eyes. Of course she would remember Prudence staring out the windowpane at these two gentlemen. She continued to hold the marquess’ eyes. Well, not two of them. She’d been boldly staring at one of them.