Captivated By a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor #2)(4)

He touched a hand to the lapel of his elegant, black cloak and answered her unspoken question. “Christian Villiers, Marquess of St. Cyr.”

Her heart slowed. A marquess? Just then, a lone snowflake landed on the tip of her nose. She touched her fingertips to that magical flake. “You are a marquess,” she breathed and then momentarily lifted her gaze up to the sky. “And it is snowing. And very nearly Christmas.” Her ruined sister had married a marquess at Christmas and now lived blissfully, in love and happy. Prudence’s mind raced with the possibilities presented by those magical flakes falling and this serendipitous meeting with a marquess at the holiday time.

The marquess furrowed his brow.

Prudence silently cursed. By her reaction, the gentleman would believe she was interested in his title. Which she assuredly was not. Not in the way he might believe, anyhow. “It does not matter that you are a marquess,” she hurried to assure him.

Except by the further wrinkling of his brow, she was only further confounding him. “Er…” He beat his hat against his leg.

Prudence cleared her throat. “That is not to say it does not matter, per se. I am sure it matters to some, and most, and,” she lifted up her gloved palms. “I merely meant it does not matter whether you are a marquess or not. To me.” Stop your rambling Prudence Gwendolyn Tidemore. She snapped her lips closed.

From beyond the marquess’ shoulder, a tall, lean gentleman stepped out of a nearby shop. His gaze collided with hers and then he looked between Prudence and Lord St. Cyr.

Oh bloody damn. She widened her eyes, as with this new figure’s presence she moved past a mere dance, and may as well have waltzed with ruin. Lord St. Cyr followed her stare to the gentleman who’d intruded on their stolen moment.

“I must go.” Prudence dropped another curtsy and raced back to Madame Bisset’s. All the while, her neck pricked with the awareness of his gaze on her. With her heart threatening to pound a hole right out of her chest, she stood at the door and looked through the long, crystal pane. Well, saints in heaven. However was she to manage to reenter the shop without that blasted bell alerting everyone to her disappearance?

At the precise moment, Poppy, God love her soul, caught her eye through the window. From where she stood in the shop, beside their mother and Madame Bisset, she gave a familiar wink, and then upended a table of fabric. Startled shrieks went up about the shop, and using the carefully orchestrated distraction, Prudence let loose a relieved sigh and hurriedly slipped inside.

Penelope rushed over to her side, with a stern set to her mouth. She may as well have been the avenging mama for all the displeasure stamped on the lines of her plump cheeks. “Whatever were you doing outside?” she hissed, casting a quick glance about.

“It is snowing,” she blurted and then looked outside.

At that exact moment, the Marquess of St. Cyr walked past the broad windowpane. That stranger, who’d startled her into movement, must be a friend, for the two gentlemen walked side by side. Though the nameless man cut an impressive figure as well, it was the marquess with his sharp features and powerfully square jaw with the faintest cleft who commanded her notice.

“What are you looking at?” Penelope demanded at her side on a quiet whisper.

Her alarmed question was echoed moments later by Poppy who rushed over. “What is she looking at?”

A silly smile played on her lips as she recalled his dashing rescue just moments ago. As though feeling her gaze, Lord St. Cyr froze. Their eyes caught through the window and he inclined his head.

“Why, she is not looking at something, she is looking at…at—”

Penelope slapped her hand over Poppy’s mouth, effectively ending that damning discovery on the fifteen-year-old Poppy’s lips. With a scowl, Penelope gripped Prudence by the forearm and yanked her away from the window. “Come along,” she snapped.

Despite herself, Prudence cast a glance back at the window and disappointment filled her at finding Lord St. Cyr had since moved beyond the shop. She sighed and allowed Penelope to tug her toward the front and away from what she likely perceived as danger.

It was not a marquess at Christmas whom she’d met in the street, but it was very nearly Christmas. And it was snowing.

As such, surely Mama could forgive the whole “no scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages. You are to be everything and all things proper…” mantra.

With a smile, Prudence rather found herself looking forward to the Season, after all.





Chapter 2


Lesson Two

Chaperones only interfere with a lady’s plans…

Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr, strode quickly down the quiet London streets and proceeded to run through a list he’d already committed to memory some time back.

One butler.

One under butler.

Four footmen.

One groom.

One valet.

Cook—

“She was lovely.”

At having his cataloguing interrupted, Christian shot a frown in his friend, the Earl of Maxwell’s direction.

“The young lady you were speaking to. Without a chaperone,” his friend added needlessly. Christian hardly needed a reminder of the unexpected meeting with the winsome young lady with her cheery, red cheeks moments earlier.

“I’ve more pressing matters to attend than an unchaperoned miss,” he replied, cutting into whatever else his friend might add about the pretty miss in her blue muslin cloak. He’d sworn off those innocent-seeming, young beauties long ago. His friend wisely let the matter rest.