How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)
Vivienne Lorret
Dedication
For all the readers who promise themselves just one more chapter, then end up finishing the entire book in a night
Epigraph
Time is
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too Short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is not.
—Henry van Dyke
Prologue
Prudence Thorogood drew the hood of her tattered mantle over her head and reached for the lion’s head door knocker. Taking a deep breath, she rapped soundly.
There was no turning back. Not for her.
After all, the marital prospects of a penniless, ruined debutante were grim. Such a woman may have the opportunity to wed the man who’d taken her innocence. If, perhaps, he was forced into a proposal while being beaten about the head with a reticule and dressmaker’s dummy until finally relenting with an agonized, “Very well! I’ll marry her!”
She would decline, vehemently.
There was also the possibility of allowing the clergyman to introduce her to a twice-widowed farmer in need of a healthy young wife who could cook, clean and sew for him and his fourteen children.
Thank you, no.
Of course, if she was truly selfish, she could continue to accept the kindness of dear friends and live beneath their roof, watching as society slowly turned their backs on them.
Or . . . she could take matters into her own hands.
But it was an undeniable truth that any future would require selling her very soul, in some form or another. The least she could do to honor the sacrifice was make her own choice.
She released the air in her lungs on a resolved exhale just as the black lacquered door opened.
A stately manservant greeted her with a bland inquiry, as if it were commonplace to see a cloaked female on this doorstep in the dead of night. A shiver of trepidation skated down her spine, but she shrugged it off and simply said, “Lord Savage, if you please.”
The man opened the door for her to step inside the foyer. “I shall see if his lordship is at home. Whom should I say is calling?”
“Miss Thorogood . . . ?” she said as if unfamiliar with her own name. So she repeated herself with more authority. After all, she knew who she was and why she’d come to the house of a notorious rake.
Now, if only her heart would stop beating four times faster than the golden pendulum vacillating in the curved belly of the longcase clock beside her.
The butler’s footsteps on the marble floor were crisp and concise as if he led dozens of visitors to the aubergine receiving parlor each evening by rote. And before he left, he absently set a bone-white bowl of bright red rose petals on the black marble console table by the door.
She stared at the bowl. How peculiar. Was every guest escorted into this room with their own rose petals?
It was possible, she supposed. The Marquess of Savage was known for having an appetite for excess, including all manner of hedonistic pleasures. Proof of that was in the sumptuous furnishings surrounding her, the windows swathed in heavy brocade, the upholstered bronze armchairs, the scallop-back settee, mahogany tables inlaid with gold . . . and the oil painting of a voluptuous woman in repose above the mantel, nude aside from a sliver of red silk draped down her body.
Prue quickly averted her gaze and tried not to think about his other indulgences. She didn’t want to lose her nerve, after all. And she needed every ounce of daring she possessed to face this man and tell him exactly why she’d come.
Distractedly, she coasted her fingertips over the cool, velvety petals. What an odd offering for guests. She could imagine cut flowers in vases. Decorative arrangements were typical in finer houses. But these?
Picking up the bowl, she breathed in the sweet aroma of the petals and felt her lips curve in a smile. They were so soft, so fragrant, so extravagant that they seemed almost romantic. And after the way their first meeting had commenced, she would never have taken him for a romantic.
Surely, he wouldn’t have these on hand for every guest. And certainly not for every unexpected . . . guest. Like . . . her.
Prue lifted her head at once. It suddenly occurred to her that these rose petals weren’t here for random guests at all, but for one in particular. The very guest he was likely entertaining right this moment . . . until she had interrupted.
A surge of dismay strangled her throat. She swallowed it down and began to pace, clutching the bowl to her chest.
Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Of course, he was with another woman. And they were engaged in whatever activities one normally did in the evening hours. Like reading a book. Watching the flames in the hearth. Resting after a long day, and . . .
Oh, who was she trying to fool?
He was a scoundrel. He was doubtless upstairs right this instant, otherwise engaged in something that he couldn’t tear himself away from. Something that involved two people, heavy breathing, perspiring, grunting . . . lots of grunting . . . And now, with her interruption, he would have to put his clothes on and—
The parlor door opened suddenly.
Prue startled like a rabbit caught in the garden with half a cabbage in her grasp. The dish went flying. Petals rained down everywhere. And gravity brought the spinning creamware down directly toward her head.