Captivated By a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor #2)(11)

But then that small, happy grin promptly died. From across the ballroom the Marquess of Westfield introduced his sister, the golden-haired, perfectly beautiful Lady Beatrice Dennington to the Marquess of St. Cyr. The lady, who was neither scandalously clad nor wearing white, dipped her gaze and blushed at something the marquess said.

Bitterness tasted like acid on her tongue. What did you expect, silly, that he would sense your presence here, the way you sensed his and come rushing over? Though, in actuality, the sliver of her that dreamed of romance had, in fact, hoped that very thing. She reclaimed her seat and adjusted her white satin skirts and forced her gaze away from the marquess and out onto the dance floor with twirling ladies in gowns of crimson and blue and all colors vibrant. If she’d not been ruined before her Season started, she’d likely have failed to drum up a single suitor for the sheer tedium of her gowns alone.

Prudence found the marquess once more. The muscles of her stomach tightened as he signed Lady Beatrice’s dance card. Of course, a duke’s daughter, so lovely and respected, should be the recipient of his attentions. Unlike her, whose meeting with Lord St. Cyr did not come within a proper ballroom but upon an empty street.

At that, a memory flitted in of their meeting. Her stolen secret on the streets of London outside Madame Bisset’s. That magical moment in the snow had given her hope for the Season and an excitement…of… of… She located Juliet and Sin. Her brother leaned down and whispered something into his wife’s ear that brought a pink blush to the lovely woman’s creamy white cheeks. A little sigh escaped Prudence.

…and an excitement of finding love. And being in love. That is what she’d hoped for, all the while knowing by her mother’s frequent bemoaning an advantageous match was unlikely; a love match impossible. The Tidemore girls could not be particular where offers were concerned. A wry grin turned her lips. In fact, she suspected as long as the offer was a proper one from a gentleman free of scandal, the match would be considered a good one by her mother.

For a moment, amidst the quiet of the London streets with a gentlemanly rescue from a bucket of refuse, some silly, inexplicable sense of something more had gripped her, and dogged her through the weeks, and then sustained her during her mortifyingly pathetic entrance into Society.

While she’d laid abed unable to sleep with dread for the polite ton events, she’d held on to the prospect of seeing Lord St. Cyr with his disarming grin. He may as well have been as elusive as those winter flakes since that December day—until now.

The orchestra struck up another round. Shoving aside her pathetic musings, she tapped her feet to the rhythm of the orchestra’s playing.

A flurry of giggles from down the line of wallflowers carried over to her ears.

“…her sister eloped…”

Perhaps it was some other young lady whose sister had the misbegotten sense to dash off to Gretna Greene. If so, she’d dearly like to meet that young woman, call her friend, and keep company with her for the duration of the Season.

“…and then married not even…several months after…” Well, that did seem remarkably close to her own family’s circumstances. But still it really could be another young woman who—“…my mother said no one will wed the Tidemore girl who just made her Come Out.” Well, it was her. She sighed. Of course it was her.

That set her shoulders back and she turned the full force of her scowl on the unkind young women who were clearly wallflowers for altogether different reasons than Prudence’s scandalous family. Nasty creatures. She rose slowly and turned the full force of her glower on them, delighting in their slow, widening eyes.

“Woman.”

The two, also white-wearing young gossips looked at one another and then back to Prudence in silent confusion.

“Your mother said no one will wed the Tidemore woman who just made her Come Out.” She gave a toss of her head. The garish strip of lace interwoven with her curls fell limply over her eye, hopelessly ruining that effect. With a snap of her skirts, Prudence stalked off. It really was a good deal less impressive and dramatic when there was no particular someone or someplace to stalk off to.



“Good God, man. In requesting an introduction to the Duke of Somerset’s daughter, you’ve clearly signaled to all the mamas with matches on their mind that you are in the market for a wife.”

From where Christian stood alongside the Doric column in the corner of Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom, he went taut and turned a frown on his friend, the Earl of Maxwell. “That is because I am in the market for a wife,” he stated under his breath, favoring the other man with a glower for chuckling at Christian’s circumstances.

He’d been compiling a list of all those title-grasping, experienced, not at all innocent women with sizeable wealth attached to them, but hadn’t, as of yet, to his solicitor’s chagrin, settled on the future Marchioness of St. Cyr.

Yet, interestingly in the Marquess of Drake’s ballroom, he’d not paid a jot of attention to all the respective ladies upon his list. By a rule, he avoided a lady in white skirts. White skirts implied innocence. Innocence required marriage. As such he did not dally with, admire, or so much as speak to those ruffled, more girls than women, ladies who had just made their Come Out.

But he noticed her. And he’d been noticing her for the better part of the evening. He’d only happened to note her because one of the Marquess of Drake’s liveried footmen bearing a silver tray of champagne stepped directly into his path and inadvertently drew his attention to that ignominious row of wallflowers. Which had drawn his attention to her. He’d finished two glasses of champagne trying to process what was familiar about the hideously ruffled young lady. And then he’d finished another two glasses trying to figure out what it mattered that there was something familiar about the hideously ruffled young lady. Yet staring at her, it was driving him utterly mad.