An Unlikely Countess (17 page)

Authors: Jo Beverley

BOOK: An Unlikely Countess

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Worse than that, perhaps, she’d made a powerful enemy. She knew Henry Draydale well enough to know he’d need his revenge. She’d heard tales of things he’d done to those who crossed him in business matters, and they’d been part of the reasons she’d begun to doubt her course.

If Cate Burgoyne abandoned her, who would protect her? Not Aaron, for sure. Tallbridge? Why should he bother?

And Cate Burgoyne was here, cheerfully ready to explain how they could escape marriage.

If she closed the window and hid under the covers, he’d have to leave, and then surely he’d have to turn up at the church tomorrow. It was a matter of his honor, he’d said. Hiding wasn’t her way, however. She had to know the worst now.

She grabbed her robe, put it on over her nightgown, and left her room. The house was pitch dark. She went back and struggled with the tinderbox until she could light a candle, then carried it with her, praying Tallbridge and his cousin were not light sleepers.

She realized that if she was caught, the candle would act in her favor. She could say she was unable to sleep and was looking for a book. She hurried downstairs, realizing that she couldn’t go out to him. Those alarm-set doors. It would have to be a window.

The dining room looked toward the back, so she went in there. The curtains were drawn up, so she could see him, on his feet now, looking up at her window, frowning.

She rapped on the window, and he looked her way.

Then smiled.

Surely he couldn’t smile like that if he’d come to say he was abandoning her.

He might, if drunk.

She put the candle on the windowsill and struggled with the clasp through the bars. She finally managed to unlock the window and raise it. Thank heaven and good housekeeping, it made hardly a sound. He quickly came to her, his face a little lower than hers, which added to the strangeness of the moment.

“Why are you here?” she asked, trying to only breathe it, alert for sounds in the house.

“Don’t fret,” he said—softly, but not softly enough for her comfort. “If we are caught, a moonlit tryst is in keeping with a romance worthy of the troubadours.”

“Is that why you’ve dragged me from my bed? You’re mad.”

“No. We need to talk, remember?”

Only too well. She swallowed and managed to say, “About escaping marriage.”

“Do you still want to?”

She tried to make out a face distorted by flickering candlelight. “Do you?”

“Are we playing guessing games? Prudence, I’m willing to marry you if it’s what you want. But you don’t know enough about me.”

I know enough to prefer you to the alternatives
, she thought, but knew she had to ask questions. “You truly can support a wife?”

“Yes.”

“I will have a decent home?”

He said, “Yes,” but had he hesitated before doing so?

“Are you a gamester?” she asked. “Will you lose it all and leave me, and perhaps children, in a place like White Rose Yard?”

“On my honor, no. Nor am I a drunkard, though I do, as you know, enjoy drink.”

“So do I,” she said wistfully, for some brandy would be nectar at the moment.

“How wondrous then that I have a gift for you.”

Moonlight glinted off metal and glass. It was a small, flat bottle of some sort, covered in coils of silver, too large to be a perfume bottle, but no bigger than the palm of his hand.

“It’s pretty,” she said, taking it through the bars, “but what’s in it?”

“Spirituous encouragement.”

“Gin?” she asked.

“I’ve come up in the world, remember. I return your gift of brandy. The cap unscrews to make a small cup.”

Bewildered and dazzled by the odd moment, she unscrewed the cap, poured, and sipped, welcoming the tang of spirits. But then the brandy seemed to turn to vapor, diffusing into her mind.

“That’s remarkable,” she said.

“The miraculous spirit of Cognac, where the best brandy’s made.”

Prudence considered the bottle. “It’s too precious.”

“Devil a bit. I can afford cognac, and the flask’s a pretty curiosity, no more. I bought it in London, thinking of you.”

“In London?” she echoed. “When?”

“Weeks ago.”

Could she believe such a thing? That weeks ago and far away he’d been thinking of a woman he’d met only once in poverty in Northallerton? No, she couldn’t. He was a kind man, so he was pretending she meant more to him than she could.

But he had stepped in to save her from marrying Draydale.

She sipped again. “How did you come to be in the church?”

“I rode to Darlington to see how you were.”

That, too, sounded like caring. “How did you know I was here?”

“A week or so ago, I was passing through Northallerton and visited your house. I spoke to your neighbor.”

“Hetty. But why . . .?”

“Why come to Darlington? I hoped to see Hera victorious.”

“Instead you find her in dire straits, and are compelled to rush to the rescue.”

“I chose my own path, and am not unhappy with it.”

She peered at him again. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

She leaned against the bars. “Oh, thank God. Thank you, Cate. I’ve been so frightened that you’d not want to. Terrified of the consequences. Of poverty, but worse than that. Of being cast onto the streets, known by all as a fallen woman. Of Draydale . . . I know it’s weak, but I’m terrified of him.”

He covered her hand, which clutched an iron bar. “You’re mine now, Prudence, and I can protect you from all your demons.”

“Draydale’s powerful and ruthless. He takes revenge on those who cross him, and no one’s crossed him as we have.”

“I don’t fear Draydale,” he said steadily, “and nor need you. Try to believe that, Prudence. Give me your hand. I have a ring for you. A ring is a sign of allegiance and protection.”

Prudence tensed, remembering when Draydale had pushed the diamond betrothal ring onto her finger. The stone had been large, but it had symbolized possession, not protection, and she’d known it.

If only she’d paid attention to those feelings—but then, it had already been too late. She’d encouraged his suit. Others had noted his courtship. If she’d rejected him at that point he would have become her enemy.

This conversation with Cate had been strange. She felt things unsaid, doubts unvoiced, but he was willing, he was willing. She thrust her left hand through the bars. He took it and kissed her palm.

A simple act to cause so deep a shudder.

“I have little money with me on this journey, so I couldn’t buy you the rings you deserve, but I found this in Durham, if it fits.”

He slid a ring on her finger, and her reactions were so very different from when Henry Draydale had put his ring there. Uncertainty, yes, but hope too.

The delicate ring was too big, but she found that endearing. It was silver set with a small stone, perhaps a garnet. A simple thing, but she knew it would always be precious to her.

“Thank you. It’s lovely.”

“I’ll do better soon. What is your favorite stone?”

“I like this one.”

“Topaz, perhaps. Or emerald.”

She shook her head at him. “There’s no need of extravagance.”

“Nagging me already?” he teased. “The wedding ring’s equally paltry. Will you be willing to exchange it for better? I know some women think the ring they’re wed with is sacred.”

“I’ll be content with it. There’ll be better use for your money.”

“No more of that. I’ll beg a loan from Tallbridge to purchase something better.”

“No,” she said, suddenly serious. “Beg nothing from Tallbridge. He’ll collect the debt.”

“Wise woman, but I’ve already agreed to use his traveling carriage and horses to take us home tomorrow.”

She’d rather have a clean break, but the word “home” gently washed away all other cares.

“Will I really have a home? Tomorrow?”

“You will, and freedom from fear.” But again, she sensed something unsaid, something that sat uneasily on him.

“What?” she demanded. “What is it?”

She saw him grimace.

“Do you understand that my family is aristocratic?”

“The Burgoyne family? Yes, I suppose so. And your mother’s family, the Catesbys.”

“It will be a change for you, and might be difficult at times.”

He feared she would embarrass him. Knowing she was about to give a false impression, she said, “It won’t be so very strange. I was raised in a manor house.”

“You were?” he said, as pleased as she’d expected. “I suppose your father lost his fortune.”

“Yes,” she said, telling herself that was more or less true.

“That’s why you wanted so much to return to an elegant way of life. You’re a courageous woman, Prudence.”

“Courage can lead to peril.”

“So can cowardice, and more often.” He hesitated, and then said, “We might have to go to London. Even to court.”

“Court? Why?”

“One should pay one’s respects when in Town.”

“Then I’d rather not go to Town.”

“I expect to take a seat in Parliament.”

“Oh.” He seemed unlikely for that role, but if he wanted to take a seat in the Commons, she wouldn’t stand in his way. “I could stay at home, though, couldn’t I?”

“You could, if you truly wanted to.”

There was something odd about the conversation, but perhaps that was brandy on top of poppy juice.

“If it’s a pleasant home, I’ll not want to wander.” She wanted to cut through the mistiness and so she refilled the cap with brandy. “We should drink to our future.” She sipped, and passed it through to him.

He drank. “To our spirited future.”

“Spirited?”

“I doubt tranquillity is in either of our natures.”

“But I want tranquillity, Cate. Truly I do.”

“Then I’ll do my best to provide it.” He passed the cap back to her. “Drink to happiness, Prudence, in whatever form it takes.”

“To happiness,” she said, and drained the cup.

“I hate these bars between us. It’s as if you’re in a prison cell. But only for tonight. Tomorrow you’ll be free.”

“A woman is never free.”

“I won’t rule you.”

“Yes, you will,” she said, screwing on the cap. “You have a very commanding nature.”

“It must be the officer in me.” He moved closer against the bars. “Obey me, then, and come to be kissed.”

Prudence eyed him, but she remembered his kiss. It had been sweet. And tomorrow night he would want to do more. She pressed close to the bars and their lips met with warmth, and almost with sparkles.

“Enforced separation is proving unexpectedly exciting,” he murmured. “Perhaps I should build a nun’s cell in the corner of our bedroom, with just a small grille through which to touch and kiss.”

Something shuddered inside her. “It would shock the servants.”

“We won’t care about the servants. Obey me yet more. Part your lips for me.”

She did so, gripping a bar to steady herself. Their warm breath mingled, brandy spiced. His tongue touched hers. She pressed closer, bars hard against her flesh. His hand brushed a breast covered only by two thin layers of linen.

She started backward, then wondered if she’d offended.

“I didn’t . . . You startled me.”

“I hope to startle you more,” he said, smiling, “but in all the best ways. Until tomorrow, my bride.”

Until their wedding night.

She still clutched a bar, and he kissed her fingers there. “I promise to do my best to make your life carefree and wondrous, Prudence Youlgrave.”

She reached out to touch his face. “I promise the same, Catesby Burgoyne.”

“Then together we’ll be lovers worthy of the troubadours, and none shall prevail against us.”

Cate watched Prudence close the window and disappear.

He’d not told her, but how could he when she so clearly wanted and needed the marriage? He knew her courage. She’d be capable of refusing the marriage if she thought herself unworthy.

She’d been born and bred in a manor house, however, so her family wasn’t as modest as he’d thought. Such origins would smooth her path, and she would already understand some of the world into which she’d marry.

And quite simply, he wanted to marry her. After their love play between bars, he wanted to marry her very much indeed.

His greatest disappointment was that he’d have to keep to his plan and not consummate the marriage immediately, but he owed their first child that.

Chapter 13

P
rudence found it peculiar to be repeating her preparations of the day before. She began with a bath and insisted on her hair being freed of its elaborate arrangement and washed.

“But it’s so pretty, miss,” Carrie said. “It’ll last another day.”

“I don’t like it,” Prudence said, and perhaps the woman understood her revulsion for all things Draydale.

Carrie began to pull out the pins. “Ooh, it’s all stiff, miss. The coiffeur must have put something on to hold it in place. True enough, your husband’ll like it better soft and silky come the night.”

Prudence blushed pink all over, but not with discomfort. She’d thought often of Cate brushing her breast through the bars, and of the sensation it had brought. Her night had been plagued by deep, hungry yearnings.

Only imagine.

Tonight!

It seemed sinful that she anticipate such pleasures after her foolish ambitions had created disaster, but she did.

After the bath, Prudence sat before the small fire, fingering her hair to catch the heat, turning around to dry all sides.

Mistress Pollock came in to fuss. “Time’s flying dear. Why, oh, why have your hair washed when it was done only yesterday?”

“Because I want today to be completely different.”

The woman beamed. “Ah, yes, today you wed your own true love.”