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Prologue
Miss Prudence Anna Merriweather did not have to marry for money. That much was evident in every detail of her attire tonight, from the jewel-tipped pins in her golden-streaked, dark brown hair to the elegant embroidery on her white dress and slippers. Her father might as well have put her on a velvet cushion and presented her to the fortune hunters of theton. For it was one of them that she was expected to marry.
Not for money. Not for love, despite the open way her father doted on her mother. No, much the way her older sister, Mrs. Temperance Walters, had been given to a prominent businessman in her father’s circle, Prue was expected to ignore her heart and stand up at the altar with whatever man was willing to give an heiress of her less-than-exalted pedigree a title.
It bemused her that something so permanent as marriage should be given only the consideration of performing a routine business transaction. A marriage arrangement of that sort was intolerable to Prue. She would never be able to respect a gentleman who would enter a marriage solely for money. Did the gentlemen who pursued ladies only for their wealth ever pause to consider a lady’s likes and dislikes? It had been impressed upon her during the last several weeks what qualities she was to consider before accepting a proposal. These were exclusively a beau’s connections, title, and his pedigree. It had to be the opposite of hers.
Recalling those instructions from her mother and her indomitable aunt sent a fierce stab of pain inside her heart.
Oh, but I want so much more!
Prue wasn’t going to fall in love in a ballroom like this, with sharks circling her. That was how she saw her would-be suitors, with their impeccable manners and flashing pearly white teeth. Their eyes were those of calculating predators, and she felt little interest in receiving their supposedly flattering attentions. Between her debut two such events ago and this ball, word had circulated about the depths of her father’s pockets and how much he was leaving her. She had heard speculation on the amount of her dowry several times already this evening. It was humiliating. She couldn’t take two steps without some dandy stepping into her path and offering her a drink or a tour around the room or a dance. But none of them looked at her while they did so. They looked past her, seeking the approval of her Aunt Beatrice—a baroness who had sponsored her debut—and fastening her to their arms like the pretty jewel she had been trussed up to be this evening.
My debut was supposed to be different than this.
With a sigh, Prue shut away the disappointing thoughts. After Temperance’s arranged marriage, she shouldn’t have expected anything different. Yet, she had.
By some miracle, she had managed to sidestep the suffocating attentions of the men and snubs of the women and found a private moment of peace near the half-open doors leading onto the terrace. Still indoors, but close enough for the air to cool her overheated flesh, Prue hid behind the inadequate cover of a potted fern.
I am seventeen, not a child.I ought to be able to bear one more evening.
And how many after that?
To her left was a row of seats where several chaperones and their charges waited for the possibility of a dance partner. Among them was a woman in her early twenties with fiery red hair and either too many freckles or two acerbic a tongue to attract any gentleman to stand up with her. A few who whispered with the aim to wound had referred to her as a wallflower. Those ladies had spoken and giggled behind their fans, but the red-haired lady had steadfastly ignored their cruelty. Prue had been wishing to introduce herself all evening, hoping to find somebody who felt as outside the gathering as she did. Perhaps this was her opportunity?
Prue smoothed her gloves down her dress and patted at the edges of her hair. She wasn’t as slim as most of the girls in the room, not that that had seemed to deter any of the gentlemen who looked her way. Just as she’d worked up her courage to take a step forward and join that line of potentially cutting ladies,hestepped out of the crowd.
Her heart stuttered alarmingly, and her body flushed. To her mortification, that reaction was provoked whenever she glimpsed the man. Prue knew who he was, of course, even if they hadn’t been introduced. Everybody knew the devastatingly handsome and very eligible Earl of Wycliffe. His black hair curled devilishly onto his forehead, just far enough to shadow the color of his eyes, but his wicked smile and the cleft of his chin were enough to make him memorable. The way his shoulders filled out his evening coat was enough to make Prue’s mouth dry.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been one of the men to cluster for her attention. Nor she realized, as he angled to walk past her, was she his aim tonight.
Instead, he approached the young woman with the fiery red hair who had been sitting down without a partner since arriving. At his approach, his glib tongue and the hand he extended to her, the woman’s face brightened.
Prue felt a knot of warmth unravel just beneath her breastbone. Lord Wycliffe could have stood up with any woman in the room. He had the diamonds of the first water to choose from, though Prue knew with her rounded face and plump figure she wasn’t among those beauties. A “gentleman” had baldly mentioned to her face that her appearance did not tempt him much, but she made up for it with her fortune. His condescension had shocked her. Just once, she found herself longing to learn that a man needed her and not her money for his estate.
Prue’s family might not have a title. She might not compare to the delicate English beauties in looks or refinement, despite the upbringing her father had tried to give her. But in terms of money? She was the richest heiress in the room.
If the Earl of Wycliffe wanted you for your money, you wouldn’t want him.
As the gentleman in question offered the fiery young woman his arm, he happened to glance her way. From the ballroom proper, she was halfway shielded behind the potted fern and the graceful colonnade holding the orchestra aloft. From the position of the chairs where the chaperones sat, she was in plain view.
She felt the touch of his gaze like a brand. Her lips parted. Her fingers closed around the handle of her fan, the wood digging almost painfully through her glove as she fought not to hide her face. Not a single gentleman this evening had given her more than a cursory look, even the ones vying for her attention. But Lord Wycliffelooked. She supposed he tried to be discreet, but his gaze swept from the top of her intricate curls to the tips of her silver dancing shoes. And he lingered, as if he could not help himself. A frisson of awareness climbed down her spine and fluttering went off low in her belly.
Prue tried to turn away, but she stood there instead, returning his regard helplessly. His partner was standing now, yet his attention was still on Prue. At a word from the young woman, he turned away. The connection snapped, leaving her unexpectedly bereft. Even if the moment had been brief, the earl had stared at Prue like a man entranced. Suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, she moved blindly toward the terrace and the cooler night air beyond. The sky was overcast, and rather than being cool, the air was heavy and thick with summer heat, but she still found it preferable to being tethered like bait among tigers. Without thinking, she stepped past the couples sharing the short terrace. Her slippers clicked on the stone steps. The sound gave way to the crunch of gravel as she found the garden path. It was well lit, the lanterns at intervals having only started to collect insects. She turned down a passage leading between two tall hedges until she found a bench. It faced a round planting of flowers, each bough and petal carefully trimmed and arranged so none spilled over the line of stones forming the perimeter. It was beautiful and artificial, like everything else she had seen tonight.
She fitted right in.
“There you are!”
Prue jumped at her older sister’s voice. She pressed her hand to her chest to quell the rapid beating of her heart. Temperance might have been the exact image of the mature woman Prue was meant to become. A touch slimmer, an inch taller, but with the same golden-brown hair that wouldn’t curl no matter how long the curling iron was pressed to it, the same sharp chin and pert tilt to her nose. Prue had dimples though, whereas her sister did not, a fact she never intended to let Temperance forget.
Though now Prue wasn’t in the mood to tease. Especially not when her older sister looked so playful. With poise and confidence that Prue envied, Temperance crossed to the bench and sat hip to hip with Prue. Grudgingly, Prue moved over to make a little more room.
“You’ll never catch a marriage proposal out here.”
Prue sighed. “I don’t even need to be in there. I might as well hold a placard with the amount of my dowry in place of my head. The men will start the bidding with or without me.”
Undaunted, Temperance reached forward and squeezed Prue’s hand. “It isn’t as bad as all that.”
