How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)(9)
Across from her, he lifted his sculpted brows as if commencing his own speculations. Then he proved this theory correct when next he said, “So, larceny, hmm? I must give you marks for originality on your choice of professions.”
“I don’t mean to make a career out of it. In fact, I doubt it will take me longer than a fortnight to reclaim what was stolen from me.”
“Ah. A hidden motive,” he said with intrigue. “You’ve piqued my interest. Well, don’t leave me sitting here with bated breath. You must hold up your end of our bargain or I shall toss you out of the carriage this instant.”
“My quarry is far from fascinating, I’m afraid. Simply my inheritance—a collection of various objects passed down on my mother’s side for generations. Or, at least . . . it had been until recently.”
At the painful reminder, she glanced out the window toward the broad-leaved woodland that lined the path. The echoing rumble of the carriage beneath the canopy of oak and ash compelled her to enunciate clearly, helping her to push past the knot gathering in her throat. “But a few days ago, I received a letter from my father, informing that he had decided to allow my stepmother to dispose of those items as she saw fit. Then he concluded his note—written with utter formality to Miss Thorogood—requesting I cease all further attempts at communication and reconciliation, and find a situation better suited to a woman of no family. And that is all there is to know.”
Prue attempted to shrug as if the event were a mere trifling occurrence. But her shoulders moved stiffly. Even so, she was glad that she could speak the words without a single break in her voice. No futile tears. No lamentations. Just a cold recitation of the facts.
When the marquess didn’t respond, she dared to look across the carriage.
His face was turned toward the window, shadows flickering over his profile. His jaw was razor-edged and so tight that a muscle flicked beneath the shaven surface.
She realized her error at once. “Apologies, my lord. I’ve been a complete bore and not the diverting conversationalist for which you bargained.”
“On the contrary,” he said smoothly. And yet, when he turned to meet her gaze, his eyes were hard, startling in their intensity as if lightning were trapped behind orbs of green glass. If dragons existed, those were the eyes they’d have. “I prefer plain speaking. One doesn’t often encounter that in society.”
“Then I hope you won’t mind me saying that I do not believe you, for your expression is clearly displeased.”
“Is it?” He blinked, his tawny brows arching.
“Indeed.”
“How curiously transparent of me,” he said thoughtfully. Then his lips curled in something just short of a smile and his features regained a semblance of their usual mask. “However, your skillful observation was just a shade off. The displeasure was not directed at you, but at the unjustified treatment toward you.”
A swell of guilt churned in her empty stomach and she looked down at the roughened, knitted fingers in her lap. “Your judgment is far too kind. I fear I have neglected to confess the whole of my own crimes that served as the impetus for all the events to follow.”
She had no desire to speak her sins aloud and to be judged for them. But there was something in the ensuing silence—something in her own conscience—that demanded her to continue. Or perhaps it was simply something in her that begged to be unburdened. Either way, she knew this stranger did not truly care what she said as long as she provided him a moment’s entertainment. Afterward they would part and she would be forgotten soon enough, and she felt a sense of safety in that knowledge.
Even so, it was difficult to relay to Lord Savage that, on a warm spring evening little more than a year ago, she had been swept away in a moment of fancy. And worse, guilty of allowing the advances of the very gentleman that her dearest friend had once wanted to marry.
“I let him kiss me in the gardens at Sutherfield Terrace,” she confessed with quiet regret. “My father bore witness to this and sent me away shortly thereafter. And rightfully so.”
“Why do you say that?”
She looked up at him in confusion. “Because I deserved to be punished for betraying my friend. Betrayal to any degree is inexcusable.”
“I, myself, have uttered those words on numerous occasions,” he said on a rueful puff of amusement. “And yet, in this circumstance, I find that I cannot agree. Banishment was rather severe for a stolen kiss.”
“But I gave it to him. I am not a simpleton. I knew what I was doing. And besides, would you not have banished one of your . . . companions for such an act?”
His irreverent mouth pursed slightly in consideration. “Something to that effect. However, there is a difference of intent. A woman well versed in the art of seduction cannot claim to be taken unawares by it, then expect forgiveness. Therefore, your only crime, as far as I can tell, was in being naive. And life, such as it is, tends to dole out punishments enough for that defect.”
She shook her head. The daily rebukes she’d endured for the past year from Aunt Thorley, along with the ones doled out from her stepmother for the past twelve years, had taught her that every misstep, every wrinkle on her frock, every misspoken syllable, every possible thing . . . was her fault. And hers alone.
“Miss Thorogood,” he said. “You must learn to forgive yourself. Otherwise, you’ll never get very far stealing. A conscience can be a terrible burden.”