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She was the coveted jewel no longer. Chipped and tarnished, abandoned in the dirt. She might as well be ruined. What would people say when they saw her like this?
Her sister’s hands flew to her mouth. “Stay here.Don’tmove. I’ll be back in but a moment. I’ll—I’ll fetch your cloak and Aunt Beatrice, too. Just stay here and we’ll go home.”
At that moment, Prue wanted nothing more. She nodded, chin wobbling, and her sister dashed away, leaving her alone in the garden.
At least no one was around to witness her abject mortification.
The crunch of shoes on gravel came too quickly for Temperance to have left and returned, but Prue lifted her head, nevertheless.
And looked directly into the stunning dark brown eyes of the Earl of Wycliffe.
Oscar oughtto turn his back. He’d had an exhausting evening paying court to all the young women with a better-than-modest dowry. Most, from titled families, knew their worth and perhaps even knew how desperately he had been trying to hold together his estate since inheriting it several years ago. He needed to marry an heiress, and here was one tossed onto the ground at his feet, with her décolletage halfway undone already.
Bloody hell.
If only she wasn’t bloody well seventeen.Seventeen, four years younger than his youngest sister, which was why he couldn’t consider her—hadn’t considered her. It made him feel ancient. No matter the size of her inheritance, how could he marry such a young bride? He was nine and twenty years old!
Even worse was how beautiful she was, pretty in a mischievous sort of way with the tilt to her mouth and the dimples winking in and out of her cheeks as she accepted the compliments of her empty-headed entourage. He hated himself for the momentary attraction he’d felt then—and more so for the surge of attraction he felt now. It trembled through him with stunning force and sucking in a harsh breath he looked away from her prettiness. And the plumpness of her décolletage.
Briskly, Oscar turned his back.
“Forgive me. I didn’t know you were here.”
That sounded like a weak excuse even to his ears. Not to mention, she was sprawled on the ground with her dress torn asunder! All thoughts of the curves hidden by the dress disappeared at once. He nearly turned around but reminded himself of the eyeful he would get if he did. Better if he preserved the illusion of the young woman’s modesty. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said hoarsely. “I’m lying on the ground of my own free will.”
To his horror, he heard tears in her voice. Oscar had never known what to do with female tears, and his sisters shed them quite frequently with the right touch of histrionics.
She sniffled and said, “Oh, blast. Could this night get any worse?”
And that, as luck would have it, was when the rain started to fall.
The young lady gasped as the first droplets struck her. “Truly?” she demanded rawly.
He shut his eyes and imagined she sent that incredulous demand to the heavens. What hell had he unwittingly wandered into? Oscar wished he had remained in the ballroom. Yet now that he was here, he could not leave her like this. “Are you able to walk?”
He heard the rustle of cloth, and then her small, watery voice. “I don’t think so. My ankle hurts dreadfully and—”
Oscar cursed under his breath. With swift movements, he stripped himself out of his jacket and held it out to her. He stared at the hedge over her head as he waited for her to take it and tug it around her shoulders.
In a small voice, she whispered, “Thank you, my lord.”
“You can call me Wycliffe. Most of my friends do.” Most of his friends being the men he associated with at his club. Everyone there associated with each other by their titles, as if the man wearing it was of no concern. Even grown men he’d gone to Eton with now called him Wycliffe instead of Oscar. But he couldn’t very well ask her to call him by his given name. Even though he knew the answer, he prodded, “And you are…?”
“Prue.”
Her cheeks flushed as she realized she had given him her Christian name rather than her family name. Her stubborn chin came up. She didn’t take it back. The rain was starting to thicken, and her dress was turning alarmingly transparent. At least his jacket covered her chest. Mostly.
“May I carry you, miss?” He was not going to call her Prue, even if he was fascinated by the curve of her lips as she spoke the word. “You cannot stay here.”
“My sister will be here soon…” her words dwindled, and she lifted her face to the sky as the rain came harder.
Oscar swallowed his sigh. Fate was conspiring against them. “Your sister won’t make it to the house and back with help before you’re soaked through to the skin. Let me carry you around the back of the house and find you someplace dry to sit. I’ll fetch her for you then.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. Clutching with one hand at the lapels of his jacket, she turned her face away and nodded. He lifted her, doing his best not to notice the figure her dress was doing a poor attempt to hide. He recited old nursery rhymes in his head, jaw clenched, to distract himself as he made quick steps toward the house.
Unfortunately, he’d forgotten about the terrace. As unfamiliar as he was with this particular set of gardens, his only method of returning to the house was to retrace his steps, and that left them both in plain sight of the open terrace doors and the two women stepping out of them. Her sister and an older woman, both stopping in their tracks with gasps that rippled through the crowd behind them and drew more attention.
