Chapter 2 CaptorCaptive
Captor or Captive
Prudence listened to the sounds of the Duke of St. Albans searching below, the rustle of leaves, an occasional hushed curse.
She should feel guilty about the trouble she was causing, but mostly she felt an odd warmth at his hospitality.
Perhaps that wasn’t the right word, but he did bring her a blanket.
A scratching sound made her look up. Edmund was climbing back over the balcony railing, his movements surprisingly graceful for such a large man.
His evening shirt was untucked, dirt smudged across one aristocratic cheekbone, and his dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that made her swallow.
“No keys,” he announced, swinging his long legs over with an athleticism that made her stomach perform a peculiar flip. “They’ve apparently vanished into whatever dimension lost things inhabit.”
“You climbed all the way back up.” She couldn’t hide her surprise. “I thought you’d use the doors.”
“And what fun would there be in that?” He dropped onto the balcony with cat-like quiet. “We’ll have to wait for the locksmith shops to open.”
In the moonlight, she could properly study his face. The sharp jawline, the slightly crooked nose that suggested a break, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners even when he was trying not to smile.
“Why do you avoid unmarried ladies?” The question escaped before she could stop it.
Edmund paused in the act of brushing dirt from his trousers. “I beg your pardon?”
Heat flooded her cheeks, but having started, she couldn’t retreat. “Are you opposed to marriage entirely or just to the ladies themselves?”
He fussed with his trousers some more, then said, “Wait here.”
“Still chained, Your Grace.”
“Right. Don’t… rattle.”
He disappeared inside, returning with an armload of cushions from his sitting room. “If we’re having this conversation, you might as well be comfortable.” He arranged the cushions around her with surprising care, creating a sort of nest against the marble balustrade.
“This is highly improper,” she felt obliged to point out as he tucked a cushion behind her back.
“You know how I feel on that subject,” he said before vanishing again and returning with more blankets and pillows. “There. Now you look less like a prisoner and more like a sultan’s… No, that comparison goes nowhere appropriate.”
Before she could respond, he rang the bell pull just inside the doors.
“What are you doing?” Panic shot through her. “The servants—”
“Will leave tea outside my door without entering. I trained them well after the Davison incident.”
“The one where you allegedly—”
He cleared his throat. “Different Davison. The brother. He found his way into my rooms during a party wearing nothing but expectations.” The duke settled himself at a safe distance, his back against the opposite railing.
“To answer your earlier question, I avoid unmarried ladies because they come with unmarried lady expectations.”
“Marriage.”
“Marriage, sonnets, eternal devotion after a single waltz.” He pulled one knee up, resting his arm across it in a pose of casual elegance despite his disheveled state.
“I have a duty to marry, produce an heir, continue the line. But I’d prefer to choose my own time and terms, not have them dictated by some miss. ”
Prudence leaned toward him a little, luxuriating in the unexpected comfort. “And if the lady didn’t swoon? Didn’t expect sonnets?”
“Then she wouldn’t be pursuing me in the first place. My appeal lies entirely in the title and fortune. Remove those, and I’m just another gentleman with adequate teeth and a tendency toward sarcasm.”
“Adequate teeth?” She couldn’t help laughing. “You know perfectly well you’re handsome. I’ve heard ladies compose odes to your eyelashes.”
“My eyelashes?” He looked genuinely disturbed. “Good God. What’s next, epic poems about my elbows?”
A discreet knock came from inside. The duke rose, returning with a tea service that he placed between them. The delicate china looked absurd on the moonlit balcony next to her chains.
“How very civilized,” Prudence observed as he poured. “Tea with one’s captor.”
“Captive. You captured yourself, remember?” He handed her a cup, their fingers brushing. “Sugar?”
“Two, please.” She watched him add the sugar with care, presumably to avoid splashing onto her dress. “Do you believe in love, Your Grace?”
“I believe in compatibility. Mutual respect. Shared interests beyond producing heirs.” He settled back with his own cup. “Love is what poets write about when they need to rhyme ‘dove’ with something.”
“How romantic.”
“Romance is temporary madness. Marriage is permanent… coexistence.” He grimaced, then sipped his tea. “My parents had romance. Passionate fights, passionate reconciliations, drama worthy of Drury Lane. It was exhausting for everyone involved.”
Prudence tucked her knees up to her chest, chains clanking. “Passion can be peaceful.”
“More than passion, I want partnership. Someone who can discuss more than weather and fashion. Someone who reads books.”
“Someone who doesn’t chain herself to your balcony?”
He regarded her then with a seriousness she didn’t expect, with something that made her pulse race. He cleared his throat and asked, “What about you? Why aren’t you married with three children by now?”
“Because I can’t keep my mouth shut.” She rested her chin on her knees, feeling suddenly small. “I’ve had four Seasons. Four. Do you know what happens when you correct a gentleman’s understanding of Paradise Lost during a waltz?”
“He steps on your feet?”
“He develops a sudden need to visit the card room. Permanently.” She hugged her knees and cocooned herself in her blanket. “I tried to be proper. To simper and flutter and agree with everything. I lasted three balls before I told Lord Kershaw his interpretation of Plato was infantile.”
“Was it?”
“Completely. He thought The Republic was about actual Republican governance.” She shuddered. “But pointing that out didn’t enhance my marriageability.”
His Grace laughed, a rich sound that made something warm unfurl in her chest. “How old are you, exactly?”
“Five and twenty.” She watched his eyebrows rise, which was predictable. She’d been told she looked barely twenty. “Yes, I know. A spinster aunt in training.”
She hugged her knees tighter, aware she must look pathetic, a desperate old maid literally chaining herself to an eligible duke. “I read philosophy and economics and poetry, and then I want to discuss them, but gentlemen won’t, and ladies can’t.”
“Not all gentlemen.”
“The ones who do are usually married or clergymen.” She picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “I’ve made peace with spinsterhood. But I can’t make peace with losing our home because I failed to act.”
Edmund set down his teacup and moved closer, though still maintaining propriety’s distance. “You really think I’m your only hope?”
“You’re the swing vote. Lord Hopps will follow your lead. He always does. Lord Poulett too, despite the family history. Without you, the repeal passes.” She met his gaze directly. “So yes, you’re our only hope. My only hope.”
“And if I vote for repeal anyway?”
Her throat tightened. “Then I’ll have ruined myself for nothing. But at least I’ll know I tried everything.”
“Everything being breaking and entering, destruction—”
“I haven’t destroyed anything!”
“My evening is thoroughly destroyed. My clothes are ruined. My dignity is in the flowerpot somewhere.” But his voice was gentle, teasing. “My pin is jammed in your handcuff.” The duke shook his head, although he was smiling. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“So I’ve heard. Usually by gentlemen fleeing to card rooms.” She studied his face in the pre-dawn light that was just beginning to touch the sky. “Will you vote against repeal?”
“I have some time to decide.” He looked toward the horizon where the faintest pink was appearing. “Two hours, perhaps three.”
“And you’ll spend them here? With me?”
“Of course. It would be ungentlemanly to abandon a lady chained to my balcony.”
He reached for the teapot. “More tea?”
“Please.” She watched him pour, noting the elegant strength of his hands, the way he automatically adjusted the cushion behind her back when she shifted. “Your Grace?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you. For the tea. The cushions. For not throwing me over the railing.”
“The night is young,” he said, but the corners of his eyes crinkled.
Dawn. When he would have to decide whether to save her family or vote his conscience. When she would discover if her desperate gamble had ruined her for nothing.
Prudence rested her chin on her knees and tried not to think about how pleasant it was to sit here with him, sharing tea and conversation as if she weren’t chained in place, as if he took her seriously, as if she belonged here.
As if she belonged with him.
But that was the kind of romantic nonsense he’d just finished dismissing, and she was far too old and practical for such thoughts.
*
Edmund watched as Lady Prudence’s head began to droop forward, jerking back up as she caught herself, then drooping again.
The third time, she lost the battle entirely, her chin coming to rest on her knees with a soft sigh.
Within minutes, she was snoring—delicate little puffs of sound that he found adorable.
A strand of honey-colored hair fell across her face.
In sleep, she looked even younger, softer.
The determined set of her jaw relaxed, and her mouth curved into something almost like a smile.
How had he never noticed her before? Four Seasons, she’d said.
Four years of balls and soirées where he must have walked past her dozens of times.
But then, he’d perfected the art of seeing past the unmarried women as if they were particularly offensive furniture.
A loud snort escaped her, and she startled awake, eyes wide with confusion.