He rolled closer and kissed her lips. “Then sleep, my wife. We’ll face our nest of demons in the morning.” He kissed her again, a very tender, comforting kiss, and then rolled away.
Prudence smiled into the dark and then turned in the other direction, sleep flowing over her.
Chapter 24
C
ate woke, accustomed enough by now to the grand bed to begin thinking of the routine challenges ahead. But then he remembered the woman by his side.
His wife.
He gently parted the bed curtains a little, letting in muted light. She was lying on her side, facing away from him, pale hair tangled.
He smiled, wanting to touch it, to smooth it, to comfort her, but his urge to kiss the sliver of her nape revealed by parted hair came from baser needs. Her shoulder, exposed by the slipped sleeve of her shift, tempted him, as did the curve of waist and hip beneath the covers. He could smell her, softly earthy and desirable—and forbidden.
He mustn’t go where touching her, kissing her neck, stroking her shoulder would lead. There was no sign that she was having her courses, and he never wanted to doubt that their first child was his.
Thank God she wouldn’t mind delay. She’d made that clear last night. It wasn’t surprising. They were almost strangers. It didn’t feel that way, but it was true, and delay would give him the pleasure of wooing her with all the graces and felicities she’d been denied.
He rolled onto his back, looking up at the damn sunburst. It made him think of Louis XIV, the Sun King, and what did that have to do with Keynings—at least the Keynings of his youth?
All the problems were seeping back into his mind and he’d rather like to draw the curtains again and shut out the angry, disapproving world. He couldn’t, however. His family must be faced, and his taskmasters would be pawing the ground in their eagerness to put him to his work.
His mother was being outrageous. If she didn’t emerge and be gracious, he’d have that to deal with. Thank heaven for Artemis. She was being kind, and she’d provide companionship for Prudence and ease her into the way of things. Artemis would soon leave, however, and then whom would his countess have?
Himself, but he still had so much to learn, and that took most of his days. Moreover, he should go to London soon to make his bow at court and complete the formalities to do with his seat in Parliament. Would it be kinder to take Prudence with him—to an even more frightening world? Or to leave her here alone?
Damnation.
He could have acted no differently in the church, and he’d found no other path since. But perhaps he hadn’t truly wanted one.
He looked at her again. He’d been attracted to Prudence Youlgrave from the first, and she’d lingered in his mind. He’d purchased her a gift, even when he’d not expected to see her again. He’d thought about her, worried about her. It felt completely right that she be his wife, in his bed.
But then he remembered Squire Trent and the innkeeper’s widow. The marriage had been the scandal of the area a decade ago, but he’d been surprised to find it still mentioned and unforgiven now. Mistress Trent still wasn’t accepted in the better circles.
Of course, Prudence wasn’t the same—she’d been born to a manor. Her recent years would count against her, however, if they came out, and the events in Darlington could turn her too into an unforgotten scandal.
He wouldn’t permit it. He was the Earl of Malzard, dammit, and the people of the area would accept and respect his wife or heads would roll.
It was Sunday in three days, and the family at Keynings always went to service at the village church, along with a number of other local families of distinction. That would be the first test, and they’d better all pass.
He eased out of the bed to commence his day, regretting the kiss he didn’t place on that creamy spot on his wife’s nape.
Prudence awoke slowly in a very comfortable bed, surprised by a sense of well-being that was completely new to her. Comfort, safety, and ease, right down to her soul.
But then she remembered disturbing dreams—and that not all of them had been dreams.
Draydale in the church, face purple with rage.
The shocking, painful blow.
The terrifying carriage accident—which Henry Draydale had caused, hoping to kill or maim.
Perhaps worst of all had been that time when she’d believed Cate loved another—the lovely, perfect Lady Malzard.
She turned to him, but in the dark she couldn’t see where he was. Hesitantly, she reached out, seeking his body.
And didn’t find it.
She sat up and parted the curtains. She was alone in the bed. What time was it? She crawled over to part the curtains on the other side to see the clock, and there was Cate, smiling at her, back in his robe. Looking magnificent with his height, his broad shoulders, and his loose dark hair.
“Good morning,” he said.
Prudence retreated a little, pulling covers up over her chest, fussing with bird’s-nest hair. “What time is it?”
“Not much past eight. I don’t suppose I can tempt you to a ride?”
“No. And you shouldn’t, with your wound.”
His smile widened. “I did hope you’d fuss over me. All the same, it’s a shame. I hope you’ll learn. I’d find you a dorado.”
“Is that a special sort of saddle?” she asked, hoping it was safe and secure.
“It’s a breed, or more precisely a color. A pale gold with a cream mane and tail. Like you.”
“Are you saying I’m sallow, sir, or horse faced?” But Prudence was smiling too. She loved this playful conversation.
“Along with a wooden top, as I remember.” He came forward and leaned down to kiss her. “Your skin is milk, your hair pale, silken gold, and your wits are as sharp as a dagger. Will you invite me to breakfast with you in your boudoir, my wife?”
Prudence knew she was blushing all over. “Of course.”
“Order it posthaste. I’m famished.”
He left through a side door. Despite his words, Prudence lingered in a daze. Then she shook herself, scrambled off her side of the bed, grabbed her discarded clothing, and ran into her own bedchamber. No need to fuss about what to wear when she had only the one gown.
Washing water. How did she summon washing water?
She wished she had her tooth powder. She’d discovered that in Darlington, and it was a great improvement on the salt she’d always used before. That, of course, was in her trunk. Was it possible her trunk had arrived?
How did she summon Karen? She couldn’t put on her stays without help. She’d used to wear ones that laced at the front, country style, but they’d been given to the poor, like all her old clothes, and now she had only fashionable, back-lacing ones.
How did she summon her maid? It seemed an idiotic thing to fail at. At Blytheby, Sir Joshua had simply bellowed, but that house had been much smaller than this. In any case, she couldn’t bring herself to do that.
She looked at her skirt and bodice, wondering if she could put them on without stays. They’d look awful. She headed for the dressing room, hoping her trunk might have arrived in the night. She had a pretty robe in it that would do for breakfast.
But then she saw her new nightgown draped over a rack. Did Karen know she’d not used it? Did that announce things . . .?
Things that hadn’t happened, but might have?
She grabbed the nightgown and put it on over the shift, welcoming its cover from neck to wrist to toes. Thus armored, she opened the dressing room door. There was Karen, sitting by the window, sewing.
The girl leapt to her feet. “Washing water, milady? Breakfast?”
She looked much improved in a crisp gray gown, and with a black apron and cap of finer quality. Perhaps she’d had a bath. She certainly looked scrubbed within an inch. Someone in the household had done their best to make the situation more suitable, and that was hopeful.
“Both,” Prudence said. “Water immediately, and breakfast in the boudoir for the earl and me.” Simply saying that made her blush.
The maid dipped a curtsy and then surprised Prudence by leaving through a door in the corner of the room. When she’d gone, Prudence inspected this feature. The door was as flat as the wall and painted the same color. When she opened it, she saw plain stairs going down. It would enable a personal servant to enter and leave without disturbing the master or mistress.
Karen hadn’t used those stairs before, probably because as an under housemaid, accustomed to cleaning grates and scrubbing floors before the family was up, she’d known nothing about them.
Had her trunk arrived in the night? Prudence opened the press. Alas, it held only the few items she’d purchased at the market, but those Artemis smells were gone. The smell now was not particularly pleasant—perhaps something meant to repel moths—but it held no ghosts of the past. She found her clean shift and stockings and took them into the bedchamber.
Karen returned the way she’d gone, and poured the steaming water into the basin.
“Draw the screen around the washstand, please. I prefer to wash in private.” Perhaps a fine lady didn’t care if her maid saw her unclothed, but she did.
When the maid had done that, Prudence went behind and took off her clothes. “Is someone teaching you how to be my maid?” she asked.
“Yes, milady. The dowager. I mean, Miss ’opkins, milady.”
“That’s kind of her.” Did that augur well for the real dowager?
“It is, milady. And of Mistress Ingleton, who told ’er to.”
Ah, yes, the housekeeper. Not so hopeful, but better than antagonism from all.
Prudence began to wash as quickly and thoroughly as possible, wondering how easy it was for a countess to have a bath.
“Is anyone being unkind?” she asked.
“I know as some complained to Mistress Ingleton, milady, but she told ’em off sharpish. Let them say what they like,” the girl added saucily. “They all still ’ave to ‘milady’ me.”
Prudence winced. She could feel pandemonium growing.
“My clean shift, please, Karen.”
That was passed over, and Prudence put it on. Then she went out to put on her stays, which Karen began to lace up the back.
“These are right pretty, milady,” she said. Then, “Sorry, milady. I’m not to chatter.”
“I’ll tell you when to chatter and not chatter. I’m happy to hear about the house.”
The maid didn’t take that hint, however.
When the stays were laced, Prudence turned to put on the petticoat, but caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess and she still didn’t have a comb! But then she saw a brush and comb on the dressing table.
“Whose are these?” she asked. If they belonged to Artemis, she wouldn’t touch them.
“Yours, milady. Mistress Ingleton provided ’em. She keeps such for guests. And I’m to brush yer hair, milady.”
Prudence was a bit nervous about that, but if anything the young maid was too gentle. Prudence eventually took over herself. She brushed it vigorously, working out a few knots, wincing not at the pain, but at the sight Cate had woken to.
Karen gasped. “Yer lordship!”
Prudence twisted to see that Cate had come in.
Despite last night, Prudence put a hand across her chest, aware of the low-cut stays pushing her breasts up, of her bare legs showing beneath the calf-length shift.
He smiled. “A charming sight.”
He was dressed in another robe, this time of green, but clearly over shirt and breeches.
“You may go,” he said to Karen, who dipped a curtsy almost to the ground and fled. He took the brush from Prudence. “Allow me.”
“You shouldn’t. . . .”
“It’s forbidden?” He drew the brush gently through her hair, which in truth was almost smooth by now.
“I watched you tend your hair in the farmhouse and was charmed.”
“By me combing my hair?” Something shivered deep inside.
“By you combing your hair,” he agreed. “The nape of your neck is exceedingly fine.” He dropped a kiss just there. “You were cross with me then.”
A tremor had run all the way down her spine.
“Because of my devotion to the ravishing Lady Malzard,” he said. “She pleases me very much, and I am hers to command.”
Prudence turned, taking the brush from him. “And she vowed to obey Lord Malzard. How agreeable we are.”
He smiled with her. “Or indeterminate. I can determine, however, that a lady’s stays are the most entrancing garment she owns.” He ran a finger lightly across the exposed frill of her shift, his touch so close to her breasts. “Stays restrain but expose, invite but challenge.” He stroked the swell of her breasts.
Prudence inhaled.
“You permit?” he asked.
“I vowed to obey. . . .” She could speak no louder than a whisper.
Last night . . . last night had been for sleep. Was it possible that now was the time?
He leaned to kiss her shoulder, sending a new shudder through her and causing a strange clenching deep inside. Oh, yes, now was the time. She reached up to draw his head down, inviting his kisses to her lips.
It was daylight.
Karen might return.
She didn’t care.
He sat beside her on the bench, turned the opposite way, which seemed an ideal position for a deep kiss, for his arm holding her close, his other hand on the bare skin of her shoulder, her neck, her cheek.
Skin-to-skin, so hot and connected, as if they were one. She shifted to press closer, resenting now that only their upper bodies touched, and that they wore so many clothes.
His hand threaded into her loose hair, cradling her skull. She did the same to him, breaking the kiss to move to a better position. . . .
But then he rose, trailing fingers down from shoulder to hand in slow farewell. “Breakfast awaits?”
She clung to his hand, wanting to draw him back down, but breakfast did await, and it was probably indecent for them to behave so in the bright morning.