“Prudence Cabot, is that you?” his mother called from her drawing room.
Her attention pulled away, and he felt the absence as clearly as a hand on his arm. She finished the climb up the stairs. “Coming, Mrs. Moon,” she called.
He exhaled. When Jeffrey came back from stowing her bonnet and gloves, Leo requested a luncheon to be brought tohis office. Still, Leo went to his dressing room to splash water on his face. Control was all he needed. Control. He braced himself against the chest of drawers. He’d done difficult things before. This was just one more. Control.
And then he’d go to her tonight and shed every inhibition. Show her pleasure, show her how little she needed anyone but him.
*
“SO, MY DEAR.”Mrs. Moon’s face was lit up like a child’s.
Prudence shook off the intensity of Leo’s eyes on her. That moment kept flashing in her mind—his lips a fraction of an inch from hers. Her back pressed against the bookshelf. His arms caging her in. The scent of him, clean soap and ink, filling her senses, the almost feral look in his eyes calling to something so basic inside of her. She shook her head to clear her thoughts of him. She smiled, pulling herself back into the cheerful Minnesotan she truly was. “Yes.”
“I’m very glad you have called, but I must ask why. I’ve seen you more often than I’ve seen my maid this week.”
Prudence laughed at the older woman’s directness. “And here I thought the English prided themselves on etiquette and circumspection.”
Mrs. Moon snorted. “The only good thing about becoming old is being forgiven for ignoring the rules we once enforced. I can barely walk, my arthritis burns through my hands like liquid fire, and I can barely see past four o’clock in the evening. Give me the grace to not waste time.”
Prudence smiled, this time because she genuinely liked Mrs. Moon. “Were you younger or I older, I think we would have been pals.”
Mrs. Moon looked baffled. “Why can we not be ‘pals’ now?”
“Absolutely correct, Mrs. Moon. I am so sorry.” Prudence glanced over her shoulder when she heard someone enter the room, but it was only the footman, bringing a tea tray. Her heart had skipped, hoping that it had been Mr. Moon. “We could—”
“I didn’t order tea!” Mrs. Moon barked at the footman.
The footman froze mid-step. “My apologies, ma’am. Er—”
“Jeffrey! Down here,” a masculine voice called.
Funny how even his voice made her breath leave her body.
“He can wait,” Mrs. Moon muttered, fluttering her hand at the idea of her son in his study. Waiting for her. “Now. Tell me why you’ve come.”
Because she couldn’t stop thinking about Leo. Because his rage and jealousy had been so foreign and intoxicating that she wanted to be near him as much as she could, even though he’d promised to come to her that evening.
Because she was afraid that he would dive back into whatever sulking he’d been doing every night in the past week where he’d ignored her and kept his distance.
“I wanted to check with you about an etiquette question before I brought a suggestion to Miss Bridewell for the party.”
There was a brief flash of disappointment on the woman’s face, but it quickly ebbed into an almost professorial interest. She gestured for Prudence to continue with her question.
“Are masquerades thrown by young ladies considered... respectable?” Prudence floundered in her question. She didn’t really know what to ask. Her mind was no longer rational. All function had been taken over by the hot growing need between her legs. Oh God, she was a mess. Night could not come fast enough for her.
“First of all,” Mrs. Moon said, looking at Prudence like she were a complete imbecile. Which, she did in fact feel like. “Young ladies do not throw any party of any kind. It isnotMiss Bridewell’s party.”
Prudence’s attention caught. “It isn’t?” But Ophelia was making every decision, down to the budget. Well, with Prudence’s and Leo’s help.
“No. It is her mother and father who are throwing this party. Lord and Lady Rascomb are well-known to have apenchantfor the unusual. And Lady Rascomb’s...” Mrs. Moon’s hand flipped as she searched for a word to describe the viscountess’s permanent leg injury, “...limp is excuse enough to hold a masquerade. The poor dear can no longer dance, so a masked ball would be perfectly excusable.”
Now her logical thoughts appeared, hiding as they’d seemed to be earlier. “But having a pronounced limp would make her easily identifiable even with a mask. How would that be a reason to hold a masquerade?”
“Because,” Mrs. Moon said, leaning forward, “it isn’t about other people being unable to guess her identity, it is about her fun guessing the identities of other people.”
“Ah,” Prudence said, finally comprehending. “Then I might bring this to them without fear of insulting them?”
“I think you are safe there, girl.” Mrs. Moon leaned back in her chair. “Now, where did Jeffrey go with the tea tray? Must I do everything myself?”
