Page 23 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

“Now that my period of mourning is over, I might look about for charitable enterprises to interest me,” Prunella said. “And Lydia keeps a very full social calendar. I won’t have a moment to regret my single status.” She would be spending her spare moments angling for means to extract her jointure from Penrydd, and after that, she would be plotting ways to achieve her independence.

“Oh, do tell us all about London.” Barbara’s eyes glittered.

Prunella did, happy to distract the older woman from the subject of marriage. Pete listened, inserting remarks and questions here and there, but she felt him drifting away from her, almost as if he were shifting his chair further and further away. She guessed why.

Every tale of a party, of a new attraction or an ancient monument, or her stories of glimpsing a member of the royal family on her way to the milliner’s or on a ride through the park, told him she lived in a world far distant from his. He might be the new Baronet Wilkins, but from the look on his face, London felt as far away to him as it had in South Wales.

Now that she’d come to terms with his identity, however, a plot was forming in Prunella’s mind. She was, for the time being, a surprise guest in this lovely house. His excuse that he was protecting her from someone who threatened to harm her would not hold up, and she would be returning to London soon, and whatever her life would look like now.

But she had wanted an idyll, and here was the perfect opportunity. It was autumn in Wilshire, an extraordinarily lovely time of year. She had met a man who attracted her as no man ever had, not even her husband. She would be a complete ninny if she let this chance slide away. She doubted Pete would object very strenuously; he had seemed to share her attraction when they kissed in the garden.

He was the perfect candidate for a brief and highly enjoyable romp.

Now, she need only convince him of the merits of the idea.

Chapter Six

Prunella was fortunate Lady Wilkins did not favor cards. Not only was Prunella an indifferent player, hopeless at strategy and quick to lose track of play, but a card game would have trapped her in the pink-and-green parlor far longer than she could have liked. Pete had joined them initially, dwarfing the delicate furniture. The man required a thick, padded armchair to suit his bulk, but the motif of the room was a light and curving rococo design, with the only solid piece the harpsichord Prunella had noticed earlier.

She played a few pieces to please herself—Lady Wilkins didn’t appear to notice when Prunella stumbled over notes—and tried not to pout when the footman came to summon Pete with a whisper at his ear. With no more than a brief bow to his grandmother and no word at all to Prunella, he left, leaving nothing left in the room to interest her.

The insufferable man. He kidnapped her, interrupted her travels, overset all her plans, and now he abandoned her to the mercy of his sharp-beaked grandmother? It was throwing a tender morsel to the crows. If he were going to immure her in his house, he could at least be civil enough to entertain her.

And he could be the one to address Barbara’s probing questions about how long Prunella might extend her visit.

She made the excuse that the travel of the day had fatigued her—so had being kidnapped, and discovering the most inconvenient attraction to her kidnapper, but she did not explain these details to her hostess. Instead, Prunella took a candlestick and escaped to the first floor and the bedchamber she’d been given.

She wondered if all the rooms in the house were this grand, or if Pete had thought about her comfort. There was a grate laid with sticks of fragrant wood, as if a fire might be lit any moment. A luxury she’d only rarely indulged in as a lord’s wife, and yet, as a widow running her own establishment, she could have as many fires as she might afford. She would decorate her bedchamber just like this, too: paneled walls painted a delicate robin’s-egg blue, draperies of pale gold and lush green vines lining the windows and four-poster bed.

A wide armchair upholstered in pale blue and cream sat beneath one window, beside a small mahogany table perfect for holding tea and a book. Prunella had never been one for much reading, but there was no telling what hobbies she might take up as a widow of leisure leading a secluded and relatively seemly life.

She was ready for that life to begin. Being yanked from her normal round of responsibilities and freed of her duties to Lydia had waked something wild in the heretofore placid breast of Prunella Dickerson Price. Here in Rowan Hill, Easton, Wiltshire, there was no social round she had to uphold as the Dowager Viscountess Penrydd. No obligation she owed the name. She could be simply herself. Prunella. Nell.

What did that woman even look like? What did she want?

For the moment, she wanted Pete Wilkins, Baronet. And she had a notion to find him, although she wasn’t sure where to begin.

She couldn’t trot out to the stables or the outbuildings in search of him. Servants gossiped; it was their primary occupation, outside of their daily tasks. Which bedroom was his? Earlier, she’d seen a maid bringing a shawl out of the first room at the top of the stair, so that chamber must belong to Lady Wilkins. Prunella’s chamber lay at the south end of the hallway, but there were at least four other doors, all primly shut, with no hint of what lay beyond them.

She could simply open doors, of course, but that seemed a bit much for even a venturesome widow. She would go outside, take the air, and see if she could spot him within. Then she might track him down, and…

And hopefully, he would embrace the opportunity she presented. Hopefully, he would want her, too.

The garden was even more beautiful at twilight, with drowsy shadows beneath the shrubs and the scent of honeysuckle heavy in the air. Gravel crunched beneath her slippers, and the night was filled with chirping crickets, buzzing insects, and the inquisitive chatter of frogs from the stream on the south side of his property, the one they’d crossed earlier that day.

Had it been only a day? Prunella felt she’d been through a life change. She began the morning as a viscount’s relict, one of many such fixtures in London society, with an uncertain direction to her life and even less certain financial standing. And now—she was someplace entirely new and unexpected. There was nothing in her upbringing that dictated how to behave when an intriguing man spirited one out of one’s daily round. She’d landed in an adventure story, and she had no instructions for how to go on from here.

The thought that she might create her own life was staggering. She’d never had that opportunity. She’d never had the means. But if she no longer had to live under Lydia’s direction, if she were sufficient unto herself…

She tugged her shawl around her shoulders, hugging her arms. Her breasts tingled. The night air was warm, on the pleasant side of autumn before the nipping frosts set in. She loved this time of year. She wished Pete were outdoors with her, strolling the well-kept paths that threaded among the flower beds. He could tell her what some of these flowers were. He might pull her into the bower again.

More of her tingled at the thought.

Edwin had been fine enough as a husband, barring the tendency to gamble or disappear now and again with his friends for a night of drink. She knew he didn’t frequent opera dancers or common women; he judged it a perquisite of marriage that one had a clean, willing woman readily accessible, without the effort of pursuit. He had been a reliable presence at her dinner table—the man liked his meals—and had occasionally, to keep her in good humor, squired Prunella to the theater or Almack’s, or the local assembly rooms if they were visiting the estates.

Having a man as a companion and not just an occasional escort or potentate was a novel idea, one she’d never considered. Yet there was something so endearing in the way Pete had named the flowers in his garden. The way he had offered his hand to help her in and out of the whiskey, rather than calling a footman to attend to the task. The way he had attempted conversation at dinner, despite his grandmother. There was something refreshing about a man’s point of view, particularly that of a man who looked upon the world and saw it simply as it was.

She wanted to spend more time with Pete.