How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)(6)

Perfection, at least for her, was as elusive as capturing mist in a net. No matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn’t hold on to it.

Which had brought her here, to this new low point.

If her dour aunt Thorley could see her, she’d doubtless unleash another one of her delightfully condescending castigations. Tut-tut, Prudence. I am greatly disappointed in your actions, and greatly disappointed in your shabby attire. Once again, you’ve proven that you are nothing more than a blemish on your father’s good name.

Prue hated that she’d allowed herself to be cowed by that woman so many times.

Well, no longer.

That was the old Prue.

The old Prue would have given up after encountering so many obstacles. Convinced herself that she didn’t deserve anything better. Accepted the impossibility of moving on. And would have, ultimately, fallen back into a soul-withering existence.

But the new Prue wanted more . . . whether she deserved it or not. And the new Prue was bold, too. Determined to live a life that was hers and hers alone. The word impossible was no longer in her lexicon. She laughed in the face of obstacles. “Ha!”

Whipping a handkerchief from her sleeve, she shook it in her fist and glared up at the heavens, where the Fates were likely looking down upon her with smug superiority. “A rock won’t stand in my way. Even if I have to hop to London through a sea of mud, nothing will stop me. I’ve already hit my lowest point. There’s nothing else you can do to me!”

A bolt of lightning splintered across the hilly horizon. A booming crack of thunder followed.

The new Prue lowered her arm.

Perhaps tempting the Fates wasn’t such a grand notion. And thinking about what they might do next made her heart gallop hard in her chest. Quite loudly, too. In fact, her entire body was practically vibrating from—

Just then, she heard the jangle of rigging behind her. Turning sharply, she realized it wasn’t her heart galloping but a team of horses pulling a sleek black carriage.

Panicked, she jolted to her feet, just in time to allow it to pass . . .

But, regrettably, not in time to avoid the tsunami splash from the wheel hitting the puddle she’d so carefully avoided.

Before she could scramble down the embankment, a colossal wave of brown sludge rose up from the bowels of Hades and splashed her from hood to hem.

She went still. A statue frozen in midflight, arms flared at her side and . . . Dear heavens, what was that awful smell?

Her nose wrinkled as the inescapable answer seeped into her clothes.

Honestly, the only way this day could get any worse would be to have someone she knew witness her humiliation.

Behind her, she heard the gruff voice of the driver call out a command to the horses. Shortly following, the thunderous plodding of hooves went still. Warily, she turned to glance over her shoulder.

The door flew open. And the instant the occupant emerged, she knew that the Fates were, indeed, having a jolly time toying with her. It was Lord Savage!

Splendid, just splendid.

The marquess bounded out of the carriage. He paid no heed to the drizzle or mud, but strode toward her with his polished hessians dispersing puddles in sprays. Every hard-footed step accentuated thickly muscled thighs encased by buckskin breeches. His coat parted to reveal his powerful build and lean torso beneath a fitted russet waistcoat. And even though he wore no hat, his appearance did not suffer for it. The slow saturation of water turned his golden mane a darker shade, the tarnished bronze color only intensifying the emerald green of his irises.

He looked as though he were emerging fresh from his tailor’s shop or a portrait sitting.

She, on the other hand, resembled a drowned cat. Which was only slightly worse than her appearance yesterday. And thinking back to that, she became irritated with him once more.

“You couldn’t have stopped the carriage before the puddle?” Prue groused under her breath.

Lowering the dripping hood to lay on her shoulders, she felt a clump of something she’d rather not think about dislodge itself from the wool and fall with a splat at her feet.

“Miss Thorogood, what the devil are you doing out here?”

Her spine instantly stiffened at the way he barked at her, his tawny brow furrowing. And she wasn’t particularly pleased with his preeminent manner when he glared down the ridge of his aquiline nose either.

“I fail to see that my travel habits are any concern of yours, my lord. Need I remind you that we’re barely acquainted?”

“You said you were taking the stagecoach,” he added as if she hadn’t spoken.

She had a good mind not to answer. However, since they were both standing in the rain like sodden nincompoops—at least on her part, no thanks to him—and she would hardly be able to make a grand exit into the nearby meadow, she humored him. “If you must know, the stagecoach was full. I took the mail coach instead. That conveyance hit a rut, the wheel badly bent. And when the passengers disembarked to await the repair, a country squire became a bit too friendly for my tastes. Therefore, I decided that I was better off traveling on foot.”

When his expression darkened even more, she felt her own ire rise. She had reached the limit of what she would take from the Fates and from members of his sex. The absolute limit! And if he so much as breathed another castigation, she would lose what little remained of her patience and flog him with her valise.

“Were you”—he gritted his teeth, growling the words—“harmed in any way?”