Chapter 7 Borrowing Her Logic
Borrowing Her Logic
There was a man chained to her balcony.
Prudence stood frozen in her nightgown and wrapper, the fireplace poker trembling in her hand. She’d woken to a strange clanking sound, like Jacob Marley dragging his chains through A Christmas Carol, except it was June and the ghost on her balcony looked familiar.
Edmund Cartwright, Duke of St. Albans, gave her a sheepish smile from where he sat wrapped in what appeared to be—good Lord, were those her chains?
The very ones she’d used on his balcony?
The ends were secured with a proper lock, his hands in shackles, and the entire apparatus secured to her mother’s prized iron balustrade.
“How did you tolerate this for so long?” He shifted, wincing. “I’ve been here twenty minutes, and I’ve lost feeling in my left foot.”
“What are you doing?” The words came out as a squeak.
“Oh, you know. Enjoying the view. Teaching you a lesson.” He tilted his head, studying her. “You look well-armed. Planning to defend your virtue with a poker?”
“I thought you were a burglar.”
“Technically, I am. Though burglars usually don’t break into a purged house.” He shifted again, chains rattling. “This is remarkably uncomfortable. I thought you might not check the balcony until morning, leaving me to die of exposure. Or worse, be discovered by your mother at breakfast.”
“Mother takes breakfast in bed.” Prudence set down the poker with shaking hands. “Your Grace, what lesson could you possibly be teaching me at two in the morning while chained to my balcony?”
“Never do anything you wouldn’t want done in return.” His smile turned wicked. “Also, your balcony is distressingly easy to access. You should speak to someone about that.”
“You climbed up here in the middle of the night to critique my security?”
“Among other things.” He looked around the small balcony, likely taking in the dying rose vines, the peeling paint on the furniture. “Nice roses. Very… thorny.”
“Your Grace, why are you here?”
“I needed to speak with you, and your father banned me from the house.” He managed a casual shrug. “This seemed like the logical alternative.”
“Logical?”
“Your logic, technically. I’m simply borrowing it.” He met her gaze, and his expression grew serious. “I asked for your hand.”
The words hung between them like the chains—heavy, undeniable, slightly ridiculous.
“You… what?”
“I asked your father for permission to marry you. This afternoon. Well, yesterday afternoon now.” He grimaced. “He refused. Rather forcefully. There was shouting. Also, some slamming on the desk before I was thrown out.”
Prudence sank onto the balcony’s single chair, her legs suddenly unreliable. “You asked to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Multiple reasons. Would you like them alphabetically or in order of importance?”
She studied him in the moonlight. He’d dressed for stealth in dark clothes, but his cravat was perfectly tied. Because of course it was. “You can’t seriously intend to marry me.”
“I seriously intend exactly that.”
“Why? Our families will have apoplectic fits.”
“Your father already has. My mother will probably disown me. Aunt Agatha might actually attempt an exorcism.” He shifted, apparently trying to find a comfortable position.
“I hope you didn’t make the foolish mistake of throwing away the key?” she asked.
“I learn from others’ mistakes.” He patted his pocket, then smiled wickedly. “Would you like to come and get it?”
Heat crept up Prudence’s neck. “W-why did Father refuse?”
“Because I’m a Cartwright. Because he blames my family for your situation. Because he’d rather see you married to anyone else.” A muscle in his temple twitched. “Speaking of which, Blackwood wants you for railway rights.”
“I know. Thomas told me,” Prudence said with surprising calm.
“You’re not upset?”
“Why would I be? Marriage has been a transaction since its invention. Land for titles, money for connections, beauty for security.” She shrugged. “At least railway rights are modern. Better than being traded for sheep.”
“You deserve better than being traded at all.”
“Hardly. What exactly do I deserve?” She stood, pacing the small space. “Lord Blackwood’s offer is generous, given the circumstances.”
“Do you have affection for him?”
“I barely know him.”
“But from what you do know?”
She considered. “He doesn’t talk over me. He’d probably let me read without interruption.”
“Rousing endorsement.”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m holding out for a love match? That I believe someone will marry me for my sparkling personality?” She laughed bitterly. “Even you… you’re here because of guilt, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because you quote Milton while committing criminal trespass. Because you sold your mother’s jewels to save servants’ positions and never mentioned it.” He met her gaze steadily. “Servants talk. Because I’ve spent three weeks trying not to think about you and failed spectacularly.”
Prudence sucked in a breath. “Your Grace…”
“Because when your father said Blackwood could have you, I wanted to throw him through a window. Because the thought of you reading in someone else’s library makes me irrationally angry.
Because—” He stopped, chains rattling with his frustrated gesture.
“Because I’m an idiot who’s fallen in love with the last woman in England I should want. ”
The words hung in the night air. Somewhere below, a cat yowled. The ordinary sound made the moment feel surreal—a duke chained to her balcony, declaring love while London slept around them.
“You can’t love me.” Her voice came out whispered. “You said we couldn’t even be friends.”
“We can’t be friends. Friends don’t spend every night imagining—” He cut himself off. “Friends don’t feel what I feel when you walk into a room.”
Her heart gave a little leap at his words. All this time, she’d believed… A thought occurred to her suddenly. “What about Lady Penelope?”
“What about her?”
“I thought you were to be betrothed. She told her friends at the ball. She’s beautiful, connected, accomplished—”
“Good for her, but she’s not you, Prudence.”
Her breath hitched, and she felt dizzy. She sat down again. He shifted, frowning. “Are you alright?”
She nodded and was surprised to see vulnerability in his features.
“Do you have any affection for me? Any at all?” he asked.
Prudence looked at him—this man who’d chained himself to her balcony, who’d bought her Wollstonecraft, who’d offered for her despite the consequences.
“Yes…” Her voice was barely audible.
“Did you say what I think you said?” he asked.
She nodded, not meeting his gaze. “I could see myself married to you.” The admission escaped before she could stop it. “Reading in your library. Arguing about economics over breakfast. Teaching our children never to use chains and balconies to achieve their goals.”
“Our children?” His voice had gone rough.
She felt heat burn her cheeks. “Theoretical children. Hypothetical offspring.” She was grateful for the darkness. “The point is—”
The balcony door burst open.
“Prudence, who the devil are you talking to at this—” Lord Dover stopped, taking in the scene. His face went from red to purple to an alarming shade of puce. “CARTWRIGHT!”
“Lord Dover.” Edmund nodded pleasantly, as if they were meeting at a club. “Lovely evening.”
“You’re chained. To my daughter’s balcony.” Dover seemed to be having trouble processing. “How… why… PRUDENCE!”
“I can explain—”
“No need,” Edmund said cheerfully. “I’m here to propose. Your daughter hasn’t answered yet, actually. Prudence? Thoughts on marrying me?”
“You arrogant—” Dover lunged forward, but Prudence jumped in front of Edmund, her arms opened wide. “I’ll have you arrested!” Dover shouted.
“For what? Trespassing? I’m fairly certain Prudence invited me.” Edmund looked at her innocently.
“PRUDENCE!” Dover roared. “Unlock him immediately!”
“I can’t. I don’t have the key.”
Edmund beamed at her.
Dover looked between them. “You’re both insane. Completely, utterly insane.” He grabbed his daughter’s arm. “We’re going inside. Let him rot.”
“Father, no!” She pulled free. “We can’t leave him here. Let me free him before someone sees.”
Prudence sidled up to Edmund, dug into his pocket and removed the key. Her father waited, trying to hide them from view while scanning the grounds for any servants.
Prudence made a split-second decision. She released one of Edmund’s handcuffs, then secured her wrist to it. She quickly dropped the key down her decolletage.
Her father’s eyes widened, and the silence was absolute for a moment. Then they began to shout at each other.
Lord Dover stomped over to the bedroom door and summoned a servant.
“Get the bolt cutters!” he shouted.
“We sold them, my lord.” The servant’s gaze drifted to the balcony, and he gawked.
“The saw?” Dover’s voice rang out.
“Is that…?”
“The saw!”
“Also sold, my lord.”
“For the love of—” Dover grabbed his hair. “What didn’t we sell?”
The servant’s eyes lowered to the floor near the balcony. “The fire poker?”
“Useless! I can’t exactly beat him loose!”
Prudence and Edmund looked at each other and smiled. She was ruined and had a witness. Even her father couldn’t deny them now.
Then they heard the thunder followed by a lightning flash in the distance.
Heavy rain began to fall. Prudence and Edmund were thoroughly soaked within seconds, his dark hair plastered to his forehead in a way that was unfairly attractive.
They began to laugh—a deep, guttural belly laugh that can only happen from pure joy.
Dover stood there, watching them without a word. Then straightened suddenly. “Right. Prudence, you’ll marry this idiotic duke.”
“Really?” Prudence and Edmund said together.
“On one condition.” Dover fixed Edmund with a stare. “You never, ever mention this night again.”
“Done.”
Dover regarded them, then threw up his hands. “I’m going to bed. Sort yourselves out.” He left, slamming the door.
Prudence and Edmund stared at each other through the rain.
“So,” Edmund said finally, water dripping from his nose. “Will you marry me?”
“You’re chained to my balcony. Of course I’ll marry you.”
His face broke into a grin. “Truly?”
“Yes, although we’re both going to regret this when our relatives find out.” She moved closer, her vision blurred from the rain and tears. “But you look quite appealing all wet and desperate.”
His eyes darkened and fell intently to her mouth. “And you…” he murmured, “you look good enough to eat.”
Before she could blush, his mouth was on hers, slow and gentle at first. He tasted of rain and summer and wine. It was improper, scandalous, and absolutely perfect.
“This might work better if our hands were free…” he muttered over her lips.
“And dry…”
He kissed her again, this time deeper, hungrier.
When a soft sound escaped her mouth, his tongue nudged her lips.
She opened for him and received him with surprise as his tongue stroked her mouth.
He was everywhere in her mouth, coaxing her, scraping against her teeth, caressing the soft underbelly of her lips. His mouth then moved to her throat.
“I’d be happy to fish out the key from your decolletage,” he rasped.
“I’ll do it.”
She found the key and freed them both. Edmund stood first, then extended a hand to help her up as the chains fell away with a clatter.
“Now let us dry off before we catch our deaths,” she said and stepped toward the door. But Edmund pulled her against him.
“One thing first.”
“Edmund, we’re soaked—”
He kissed her. There, on the balcony. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and kissed her passionately.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, he was smiling.
“What?” she asked.
“We could keep the chains for… our future use.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion.
“Never mind,” he said hastily. “One step at a time.”
Thunder crashed overhead, and they ran inside, leaving the chains on the balcony—a monument to the night the Dover-Cartwright feud ended with neither fire nor sword, but with locks and love.
The End
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