Page 3 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

For Edwin, Prunella’s figure had been an asset instead of a misfortune to deplore. Prunella had married him on the grounds that this would remove a financial burden from her parents, elevate them substantially in the eyes of their neighbors, and save Edwin the harrowing experience of being an eligible match in the choppy waters of the Polite World.

Her plate shook slightly as Prunella’s hand trembled. The Black Hound had kidnapped them all to collect on Edwin’s debts. What exactly had Edwin done?

A lack of funds would explain why Penrydd had chosen to marry in this out-of-the-way chapel and had hired staff to open Penrydd Castle. Living in Monmouthshire, Wales, would be far less expensive than living in London.

If Prunella had nothing to live on, then she could wave her dreams of independence goodbye.

“I helped pick the blackberries myself,” Prunella told Anne. She would fortify herself with food before she approached the conversation about her finances with Rhydian. “Didn’t I, Mother Morris?” She smiled at one of the older women who resided at St. Sefin’s, part of the odd assortment of social outcasts and rick-rack that Gwen had combed together and sheltered underneath her roof.

“You’re all right, for a Saes.” Mother Morris patted Prunella’s arm, snatched a Welsh cake from her plate, and nipped away rather nimbly for a decrepit old crone.

“What did she call you?” Anne asked, eyes wide.

Prunella selected another Welsh cake, this one oozing dark juice. “It’s what the Welsh call the English. Surely you’ve heard the term?”

Anne had grown up in Wales, but she had been raised as an English gentlewoman, enduring much the same training Prunella had undergone, only to far poorer results. Poor Anne had no fiancé, no father or brother who was looking after her, and no way of meeting eligible gentleman, unless one suddenly appeared on the doorstep.

Lydia took her seat along one of the oaken tables, and Lady Vaughn hurried to place herself near the dowager viscountess. Prunella selected her own seat some distance away, and Anne sat down next to her.

“So what shall you do, Miss Sutton? Now that you’re not to be married after all.” Perhaps Anne, bereft of prospects, might give Prunella ideas.

If she did set herself up as a merry widow, Prunella must be discreet, for any disrepute associated with her might reflect poorly on her sisters. Philippa had married a man she liked who held a post as some undersecretary to a lord with a government sinecure, and they were both hoping to rise. Priscilla was being courted by a colonel who had done something brave in battle, and Perdita would make her debut this year. Prunella would go to great lengths to avoid casting a shadow on her sisters.

Which would happen if she were a cast-off widow forced to return home and become a burden on her family. She had left the neighborhood in a blaze of triumph when she won the hand of Edwin Price. She could not creep home in shame.

Anne looked down at her plate as if she thought it a whirlpool that would swallow her. “I…I don’t know who I might marry. There are no eligible men at home.”

There were no men here either, none that Prunella would take a second look at. Penrydd was a well-built man and not hard on the eye, despite his scars, but he was a leaner, darker shadow of Edwin’s sturdy blond sunshine. The Earl of St. Vincent, who sat at the head table as guest of honor, was over threescore years in age and happily married.

The man who had hefted her in his arms on the boat—Prunella would take a closer look at him, if she could. She’d had a fleeting impression of dark hair standing everywhere and a height that put him well above other men. Arms like oaken casks. And a chest that was not fleshy, for all his size. He was pure muscle.

And if his warm, tobacco-scented body had snuck into Prunella’s dreams on one or more occasions, that was no one’s business but her own.

Prunella pushed him out of her mind. “I don’t suppose I shall marry again,” she said, trying to encourage Anne. Marriage wasn’t a woman’s only option in life. Plenty of women went on without husbands.

As poor widows, scraping by on a pittance. Prunella cast a nervous glance at Penrydd. Just how deeply in debt had Edwin left the estate? How destitute was she?

“But you’re a viscountess,” Anne said. “Men will want you for your title, if nothing else.”

Prunella wrinkled her nose. “But do I want them?”

The bridesmaid, Mathry, came round to offer them elderberry wine. Prunella drank with relish, hoping it would oil her thinking mechanisms. She could not make any plans for her own household until she knew how much money she didn’t have.

Gwen laughed over the love spoon that Penrydd presented to her, which he had carved himself, in Welsh fashion. Prunella shoved a large bite of cake into her mouth. Gwen had recently learned that her estranged father, once a poor Welsh miner, had found mines of lead-silver on his land and died in wealth and a knighthood gifted from the Crown. Penrydd might be marrying to repair his fortunes, which meant Prunella’s widow’s portion might be gone.

The newlyweds sat together, heads close, smiling into one another’s eyes. It did not appear that Penrydd had married Gwen for mines of copper and lead-silver. He had fallen head over ears in love, and her inheritance was a happy accident.

Prunella tamped down a shard of envy. Edwin had never been besotted, and she had not required him to be. They had gone along easily in their marriage, she agreeing to everything he wished and smoothing the way for him as a wife ought, making sure the servants knew his preferences and taking on the burden of Lydia’s complaints so she did not annoy Edwin with them.

She would ruin the moment if she approached Rhydian now. But she must do it soon, before they left on their wedding trip.

Down the table, perched with back straight on the hard wooden bench, Lady Vaughn regaled Lydia with tales of her eldest son, who was supposed to be the hero of Acre, whatever that was. Lydia would want to return to London now that the wedding was over. And Prunella would return to being secretary, companion, and pincushion, all without pay, her life arranged to Lydia’s comfort, Lydia’s rules.

There was no one else in the Price family she could appeal to. The brothers had had a younger sister, Arwen, who died in a tuberculosis hospital shortly after Edwin and Prunella met. Prunella had worn proper mourning and restricted her entertainments, although, as a newlywed, she ought to have been enjoying all the balls and parties thrown in her honor. Besides his new wife and his secretary, a Scotsman named Ross, Penyrdd really had no one.

Which should make the maintenance of two dowager viscountesses an easy enough project. Prunella hoped.

Anne went taut as a strung bow, and Prunella looked up to see a portly blond man approaching them. Calvin Vaughn was younger than Edwin would be, and he dressed like a dandy, which had never been Edwin’s style.