How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)(13)

In the grand scheme of things, these were small slights. But it would only worsen over time as it had done for her. Because of that, she knew she had to separate herself from them before their reputations suffered by association.

It was time to leave her friends and forge the new life she’d planned the day she walked out of Wiltshire.

Heavy-hearted, she pushed away from the fence and began her walk back to Upper Wimpole Street, where she had been staying with Ellie and her aunts, Maeve and Myrtle Parrish.

Beside her, sleek carriages passed by the dozen, filled with merrymakers in fancy dress and feathered hats, bound for balls, dinners and parties. It was a world she had only inhabited for the barest blink of an eye. Had she known her time as a debutante would have been so short, she might have chosen to enjoy herself more. Instead, she’d been constantly worried about doing or saying something to incur her father and stepmother’s disapproval. And of course, she had done just that, time and time again without even trying.

Pausing on the edge of the street, she gave her head a rueful shake as she waited for a black curricle and a yellow hackney to streak by. Those memories were part of her old life, she reminded herself. Her new life didn’t require enjoyment, only careful footing—much like the way she had to cross this busy intersection, a fine drizzle making the cobblestone slick underfoot.

All she needed was her inheritance and the deed to the cottage that had been in her mother’s family. Prue would find fulfillment in that. She didn’t need society looking down their noses at her, or the guilt of having friends who supported her and risked their own reputations in the process. In fact, she didn’t need anyone.

The instant that thought swept through her mind it began to rain in earnest, slanting sideways on a sudden gust of wind. She cast a rueful glance skyward, recalling a similar atmospheric response when she’d first made the same declaration on the muddy road to London.

If she were of a superstitious nature, she might wonder if the heavens were privy to her thoughts and sought to intimidate her into recanting by means of drowning. But she was resolved to keep her current course.

Quickening her step, she leapt over the gutter and landed on the pavement, the soles of her shoes sliding to a graceless stop.

And that was when she saw Lord Savage.

A shiver coasted over her skin. For a brief moment she simply stared, watching as a footman in blue livery rushed from the white stone steps of a grand house to his side with an open umbrella.

But the marquess paid no attention to the servant . . . because he was looking at Prue.

He’d just emerged from his own carriage, the lacquered door still in his grasp. And his gaze was locked on hers.

She didn’t know why her breath caught at this mere look or why a sudden warmth rushed to her cheeks. They were nothing to each other. Barely acquainted. And yet, with seconds ticking by and a long stretch of pavement between them, she felt a peculiar sense of intimacy with this virtual stranger.

It was as if they were back inside the secluded confines of his carriage, just the two of them. And as she listened to the hollow patter on the carriage hood, her mind drifted back to one of their meaningless conversations.

“I like the sound of rain, don’t you?” she asked.

A bank of low-lying clouds darkened the interior and the only light seemed to come from his watchful green eyes as his hand passed impatiently through his golden mane. “Not particularly. But tell me why you do.”

Only then did she notice the stiffness of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she wanted to soothe those roughened edges. “The way it hits the roof, tapping intermittently, reminds me of the August fowling parties my parents would hold at our lake cottage when I was little. The softly echoing sound—like the distant report of flintlocks firing toward a nye of flushed pheasants—is a happy one for me.”

“That explains it then. My own recollections of gunfire at dawn aren’t nearly as idyllic.”

A shadow crossed his gaze—a glimpse of something lurking beneath the surface—and she found herself inexplicably curious about this man.

She wanted him to continue but he fell silent again. So she prodded, “Care to share the memory with me?”

“Afraid not, my dear,” he said with that rueful half grin returning, his facade of boredom back in its proper place. “I keep all those locked in the attic behind old trunks, cobwebs and three-legged chairs.”

As they stood in the rain now, with the ruffled edge of her borrowed maid’s cap plastered limply to her forehead, Prue found herself wondering about those memories again. Wondering about the man who kept them locked away. The man who’d said, “Come home with me,” with such earnestness that it had seemed like something more than an indecent proposal.

Through the misty silver curtain, she saw him take a step toward her.

Something inside her jolted to life, startled like a bird flushed from tall grasses. Her heartbeat rushed faster. Tingles of gooseflesh skittered over her skin beneath the drag of her hands along the sleeves of her borrowed dress. She held her breath, arrested by anticipation as if they were in the middle of an unfinished conversation, each awaiting a response.

But before he took another step, a coquettish voice from within the carriage asked, “Savage, are you going to keep me waiting all night?”

At once, the peculiar spell was broken.