How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)(10)
Had he spoken with the flippant indifference she was already becoming accustomed to from him, she’d have disregarded his advice. But it was his sincerity, both in his tone and in the gaze that held hers, that gave her pause. And she—as the new Prue—knew he was right.
“You are very wise, my lord.”
“Merely a scholar of human nature,” he said, his arm stretching out along the upper curl of the bench, his fingertips absently combing through a gather of silver fringe. “So, tell me, Miss Thorogood, was that single kiss all that has cast the label of ruined upon your head?”
An instant rise of unwelcome heat climbed to her cheeks, even as an icy shiver sluiced through her. She wasn’t going to answer him at all. And yet, the subject seemed like an enormous gray elephant, riding in the landau with them. There was simply no avoiding it.
“No,” she said, swallowing down the sour taste of bile at the back of her throat. Then to ensure that would be an end to this particular topic, she crisply added, “But I shall never endure that dreadful ordeal again.”
He paused for a moment, scrutinizing her from his relaxed pose in the opposite corner, a calculating gleam in his eyes. “You seem to have a solid plan in mind for your future. In a fortnight you’ll have all you desire. That is, presuming you know where to find the objects of your inheritance.”
“Unfortunately, I do not,” she said. “All I know is that my stepmother has a penchant for gambling and for buying her so-called friends with expensive gifts. I’m certain that a few discreet inquiries will tell me all I need. Until then, I shall cling to the only thing left of my mother, which is the miniature my father sent with his last letter.”
“Ah. I’d wondered if there was something.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are braving the unknown to embark on this journey,” he said. “That determination must come from somewhere. In fact, I’d hazard a guess your decision to leave for London, come hell or high water, likely had something to do with seeing that miniature.”
Prue felt her jaw drop. “But how could you possibly have known?”
“Mothers have a powerful hold on us, even from beyond the grave.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug of nonchalance, as if his peering into her soul was nothing more than a parlor trick. He looked down at the valise on the seat beside her. “May I see it?”
She might have asked him how he knew she’d carried it with her but that seemed like a pointless question. Of course, he knew she wouldn’t have left something so important behind.
With care, she reached inside the worn leather and unwrapped the wax coated paper that protected the miniature from the elements. Then she handed it to him, and she was glad to see that he was gentle, as if sensing how precious it was to her.
“Beautiful,” he said after studying the portrait, then returned it with the same care.
“She truly was. There has never been anyone like her. Her smile was pure sunlight and her laugh . . .” She shook her head, embarrassed as she covered the portrait once more. “Apologies, my lord. I do not mean to drone on and on.”
“Nonsense. I bartered for your conversation without stipulations. Therefore, you must tuck that apology away and don’t waste it on something so trivial. Save it for when we part company.”
Her head tilted in perplexity. “And why do you imagine I’ll have need of it when we part company?”
“Oh, I have an inkling that you’ll unknowingly deliver a deafening blow to my amour propre,” he said with that almost-smile. “But before that occurrence, I should like you to continue. Tell me what her laugh was like.”
*
Leo relaxed during the last hours of their journey. Easing back into the corner of the bench, he closed his eyes and listened intently to stories of Miss Thorogood’s childhood in a cottage by a lake in Bedfordshire.
The distraction helped him rein in the inexplicable anger welling up inside him toward the father who’d carelessly abandoned her, the aunt and uncle who’d treated her like a servant, and especially to the nameless blackguard who was guilty of casting the label of ruined upon her.
Not usually one to concern himself with the plights of debutantes, he was surprised by the desire to see these people drawn and quartered. In his opinion, Miss Thorogood should be turning the ton on its ear, not bargaining with a scoundrel to get out of the rain.
When they stopped for the last change of horses before reaching London, he discreetly pressed a few coins into a maid’s hand and asked her to assist his companion but to pretend it was a common courtesy from one woman to another. He knew Miss Thorogood would refuse any show of charity. And he also knew that, if not for their agreement, she would have been too reticent to reveal anything about herself.
Now that it was all said and done, however, he wasn’t entirely certain if he was better off knowing more about her or worse.
But before he could unearth an acceptable answer, she found him waiting at a table in the inn’s common room.
She was dressed in a fresh gown of faded jonquil muslin, her face scrubbed clean and pink. She’d repaired her hair, too, every pale rope tucked away in a clever twist and secured by unseen pins. He lifted his brows in appreciation and she almost smiled back at him. Almost, but not quite.
Yet while he was struck again by her loveliness, she only had eyes for the steaming currant scone and brown pot of tea set before him.