The Passion of an Angel

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Prudence’s laugh was full-throated, not the simpering giggle of most society misses, and he found himself joining her in her amusement, feeling better than he had in several hours, several days.

“Just be sure to toss the lizard out first, so I can have the pleasure of landing on her. She wouldn’t be a soft cushion, God knows, but I have developed a nearly overwhelming longing to knock some of the bile out of her. I’m not used to having enemies, you know, and she has threatened to tell your sister that I’m incorrigible and past saving. The interfering bitch,” she ended quietly, taking a deep drink of her wine.

Banning sighed, wondering how he could be sitting here, fairly calmly, sharing the night with Prudence as if she were a young chum of his, listening to her swear, watching her drink, laughing with her. He was rather proud of himself and felt slightly foolish for his earlier thoughts, his earlier fears. It was remarkable. He felt no desire for her now, no longing to kiss her, run his hands along the tightly outlined sweep of her hips, press her body close against his own…molding her…shaping her…taking her…breathing in her fire, her vitality, her lust for life….

He sat forward and poured himself another drink, wondering whether the wine would be of any real benefit to him in merely sliding down his throat as he swallowed the lie he was trying to tell his better self, or if he would be better served to dash the contents of the glass in his slowly heating face, shocking his system back under some semblance of control, of sanity.

“This patterncard of all the finest virtues soon to be delivered on my sister’s doorstep,” he said after a moment’s internal battle, having reminded himself that he really didn’t have a single thing in common with Prudence MacAfee. “Will she likewise treat me with the respect and consideration owed one’s legal guardian? Or should I be watching my shins, on the lookout for childish kicks, whenever my sister isn’t in the room? Not that I’m worried, mind you. I just would appreciate having the rules laid out, so that we both know where we stand.”

Prudence unfolded her long legs and dropped her booted feet hard against the floor, tipping the chair to an upright position once more as she plunked the empty wineglass on the table, all in a single masculine, yet deceptively feminine, graceful moment.

Leaning forward so that she ended with her elbows propped on her knees, close enough now that, just for a moment, Banning thought he could see the devil peeking out from behind her golden eyes, she said, “I really bother you, don’t I, Daventry? You can’t figure out who I am, what I am—or what I want.”

She sat back against the wooden slats of the chair and began counting off on her fingers as she spoke. “Well, let me set your mind at rest. One: who am I? That should be obvious enough. I’m an innocent, hapless, helpless, penniless orphan, a sweet young bud doing her best to bloom in a cold, cruel, uncaring world.”

“I could argue with you on the helpless part of that statement,” Banning said, beginning to relax once more. She was a child. A precocious, faintly amusing child. “As for being sweet, well, I won’t even bother to refute such an obvious crammer. Please, go on.”

She nodded solemnly, her only acknowledgment that he had spoken, then went on, as if doing him a personal favor by speaking, “Two: what am I? Ah, the answer now becomes more involved, more difficult, as you perhaps have already figured out on your own, much to your chagrin. Care to count along with me this time?”

She needs a good spanking, that’s what she needs, Banning decided, finding himself caught up in her brashness, while feeling himself fascinated with her brutal honesty, her bald admonition that she was not in the least ordinary or even acceptable.

When he didn’t answer her facetious questions she shrugged, then held up four fingers, touching them one at a time as she spoke. “I am, my Lord Daventry, the sum total of all my parts. Part child of long-forgotten doting parents, part product of a stern and socially conscious grandmother, part victim of a half-crazed grandfather who values money and his pathetic rituals more than he does his own flesh and blood, and part sister of a devoted but frequently absent, much older brother who loved me enough to see that I’d be taken care of, but not enough to make the effort of taking care of me himself.”

Her regal demeanor evaporated even as he watched, and all at once she looked very young, and very insecure. “And, now, lastly—what do I want? I don’t know, Daventry!” she exclaimed after a moment, grinning brightly again. “Not yet. But when I do, I’ll let you know. All right?” That said, she slapped her palms against the arms of the chair, then stood, obviously ready to leave the room.

Stung by her honesty, and once more feeling sorry for her and the bizarre, almost unnatural life she had led, he called out toward her retreating back: “I convinced your grandfather to make me a solemn promise before we left him to wallow in his purgatives. I agreed to continue paying him the quarterly allowance I’d been sending to you, and he gave his solemn word that he would will you his fortune. You’ll be a rich orphan one day—one day soon, if Shadwell also ambles about in that toga of his in mid-winter.”

His words stopped her just as she got to the door, and she turned to look at him intently, her hand frozen on the tarnished brass door latch.

Compassion hastily shoved to one side and delight at his good deed forgotten, he suddenly realized the full import of what he had accomplished in his gentleman’s agreement with Shadwell MacAfee. No wonder Prudence couldn’t think of a thing to say. He had her now. She was in his debt now, just as he was bound to the promise he had made to be guardian.

They were, finally, on an even footing. His guilt over leaving her in the country, locked away at that hellhole of a farm, and his second, worse guilt—that of coveting her, seeing her as a woman to be desired rather than a responsibility to be discharged—was no more.

It had been just this moment replaced by the sure knowledge that he had rescued her from that hellhole, and was about to launch her into society—into, he hoped, a quick, advantageous marriage with the promise of a fortune as an added fillip to the dowry he would bestow on her.

He had no reason to drink, to chastise himself. The scales he had been seeing in his mind, scales so recently tipped in favor of this comely ragamuffin, had just evened out, balanced by his maturity, his sense of duty, his intelligent, measured approach to what could, if he had let it, have disintegrated into a never-ending battle of wills.

He was, at last, established as her guardian. She was, at last, firmly in the position of grateful ward.

Though perhaps, as Prudence’s next words, dipped in vitriol and delivered in sharp, staccato jabs, those scales were still sadly out of kilter.

“You know, Daventry,” she said, shaking her head, “just when I thought you and I had come to some sort of agreement, just when I thought I could begin to be open with you, explain myself to you, prepare you, you went and proved to me that you have no understanding at all. None. But then, that’s why my brother picked you, isn’t it? You’re just the sort of honest, responsible, upstanding, gullible gentleman who believes in the value of promises, aren’t you? And I hate you for making me feel sorry for you!”

And with that, the enigma, the chameleon that was Angel MacAfee was gone, the door left open behind her, not because she had forgotten to close it, Banning was sure, but because he had asked her to shut it, and she wasn’t about to do anything he asked of her, required of her. Not, at least, without a fight.

Mostly, she wasn’t going to leave his mind. Not when he could close his eyes and still see her as she roused, warm, tousled, and eminently touchable, from her bed.

Not when the memory of the way she had walked toward him, taunting him with her eyes as she slid open the buttons of her gown, still caused his throat to grow dry, proving to him that he was not above lusting after her, even while knowing that she was too young, too innocent, too unsuitable, too alien to the image of the woman he would choose as his wife.

Not when, even with his eyes open and his head reasonably clear, he could still see her sitting in this room, drinking and lounging with the assured nonchalance of an equal, yet never letting him forget that she was an exciting, vibrant, desirable, unconquerable creature of unending contradictions.

Lastly, he would never forget, waking or sleeping, that she was his ward, his sworn responsibility, and therefore totally beyond his reach.

She pitied him. Even as she teased him, deliberately tormented him, she still pitied him, as if she were the adult and he the child. Perhaps she even despised him, believing him to be simple beyond belief in having put credence into Shadwell’s assurances as to the disposition of his wealth.

With the clear eyes of youth, she seemed to see all the vices, lies, and cynicism of the ages, making him the young one, the naive one. Still he wondered to himself why he seemed to lamentably unknowing to her when he was accustomed to believing himself a mature man of the world.

Perhaps she’s right, Banning thought, pushing the cork back into the wine bottle. All right. It didn’t seem that farfetched. Perhaps Shadwell wasn’t going to live up to his side of their agreement. Prudence must know her grandfather better than he did, having lived with him, witnessed his crushing economies in the name of fortune firsthand.

The man was an abomination, a miserable excuse for a human being, consumed by his eccentric rituals and a mad desire to amass wealth at the expense of his estate, his grandchildren, his own creature comforts.

But Shadwell had promised, and Banning knew that he had given his promise in return. And that, in Prudence’s mind, had branded him as an irredeemable fool.

What had she said to him earlier, flinging the words at him? Oh yes. He remembered now. Don’t blame me for the promises you made.

And he had been making a plethora of promises in recent years.

He had promised her brother that he would care for his “angel.”

He had promised his sister he would fetch that same unwanted ward to Mayfair where she could mold her into a simpering, giggling, die-away debutante.

He had promised Shadwell MacAfee a quarterly allowance against the fortune Prudence deserved.

He had promised his father that he would put away the silliness of youth when it came time to take on the family title, and would behave with the circumspection and sobriety befitting that title.

He had promised a multitude of things to people he could neither contact nor refuse.

But the real trick of the thing, the promise he would find most difficult to keep, was the one he made now to himself late on this quiet night in Epsom—his personal vow to stay as removed from the life of Prudence MacAfee as possible. To banish the image of this obstinate, headstrong, willful, profane, smudged-face “angel” from his mind, and—if he was very, very lucky—from even the fringes of his heart….

CHAPTER SIX

I stood

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

George Noel Gordon,

Lord Byron

IT WAS JUST COMING ON TO dusk when Daventry’s coach entered the city, Miss Prentice snoring rather loudly in the shadows after being pushed into a corner by Rexford, who had squealed in disgust when the slumbering woman’s angular body had listed in his direction, her wide-brimmed purple bonnet slamming into the bridge of his nose.

Prudence, who had been sitting squarely in the center of the facing seat ever since reentering the coach at the last posting inn—stubbornly refusing to move to one side to allow Miss Prentice to sit beside her as she had done since leaving Epsom that morning—scooted to one of the windows and dropped the leather curtain, eager for her first sight of the metropolis.

“Do not look, Miss MacAfee,” Rexford warned unexpectedly, raising a snow white handkerchief to his nose. “And, whatever you do, do not drop the window. We will be past this unfortunate area shortly, and into more civilized territory.”

Rexford’s warning was all Prudence needed. Where she had been interested in seeing London, she was now avid to take in all its sights and sounds and even its smells. “I have lived with a man who bathes in dirt,” she said, reaching for the latches that would lower the glass. “I doubt that I—oh my God!” She slammed the glass back to its closed position, turning to Rexford to exclaim in disgust, “Do they use the streets for latrines?’

“Among other things,” the valet told her, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a small bottle of scent. He then pulled out the stopper and handed the perfume to a grateful Prudence, who quickly waved it beneath her nostrils. “As Prentice is a dead loss,” he went on, his rather high-pitched voice holding the tone of an indulgent, wiser adult speaking to a child, “and as Lady Wendover, although a lovely creature, is not known for her mental profundity, I suggest you listen carefully to what I have to say as we near the end of our journey.”

Prudence grinned, for the man had barely opened his mouth all the way from MacAfee Farm, unless it was to bemoan his fate at having been sent into the country in the first place.

“Feeling more the thing now that you’re closer to home, are you, Rexford?” she asked, passing the scent bottle back to him and watching as he dripped some of its contents on his handkerchief then breathed in deeply. “I didn’t think Daventry would keep you if whining and retching were your only fortes. And I must say, I do admire the way you dress his lordship. He is a credit to your art. Please, anything you might say that could be helpful in easing my way into Lady Wendover’s world would be most appreciated by this country bumpkin.”

Rexford inclined his head to her, the ghost of a smile visible behind the handkerchief, and Prudence knew she had made her first conquest. Finally. She had begun to believe she had lost her touch! Not that her brother had said she was all that lovable. It was, according to him, just her wide, golden eyes and “innocent angel” expression that had everyone from dairy maid to Squire tripping all over themselves to help her, to confide in her, to—simply—like her.

“We don’t have much time,” Rexford pointed out, “and I won’t be seeing you on a regular basis, I imagine, but I believe you would be best served by keeping your mouth firmly shut when you are unsure of yourself, restrain the impulse to scratch at any covered areas of your body, imitate Lady Wendover’s manners at table and in the drawing room, and lastly, find some way to get yourself shed of—as I have noticed you have so aptly dubbed her—the lizard.”

“Rexford! How naughty of you!” Prudence exclaimed, liking the valet more with each passing moment. “I am ashamed to admit to not paying attention to you these last days. I now know that it is entirely my loss.”

“Yes, it is,” Rexford said matter-of-factly, slipping his handkerchief back into his pocket. The coach accelerated slightly as it ran over smoother cobbles, hinting that they were leaving both the congestion and rough streets of the poorer district behind them. “But I have been observing you, Miss MacAfee, and I believe you have some promise. Now, listen closely. With your coloring—those strangely pleasing dark golden tones—you are not to wear white. Never. Not at all.”

Prudence was confused as well as fascinated. “But white is the color of debutantes, isn’t it, Rexford? You wouldn’t be trying to coax me into making a cake of myself, would you? That wouldn’t be nice, you know.”

His eloquent shrug was barely perceptible inside the rapidly darkening coach. “There are shades of white, Miss MacAfee. Try for materials with a slight sheen to them for evening, muslins for daytime. You may wear ivory—if it has a golden cast. Ecru. Any shade that has either a golden or beige cast to it—even a hint of peach, which would, now that I think on it, be a particularly outstanding choice.”

“Rather the shade of aged linen?” Prudence offered, remembering her sheets at MacAfee Farm.

“Exactly. You may also, in your day dresses, spencers, riding habits, cloaks, and the like, gravitate to carefully chosen shades of faded green, lightest yellow—and more of a soft gold, actually—dusky rose, and even the most delicate lilac. No pinks, Miss MacAfee, as I believe you have already discovered. No clear colors, no whites, and nothing that could be considered in the least bit bright. Select nothing that is not muted, subdued, almost colorless—and always be sure the color has a hint of drabness to it, of beige. This is most important, for your complexion must be made to be a part of your ensemble. I want you to appear all of a piece, a vision of honey and cream. My, I am becoming almost poetic. It has been a long journey, hasn’t it?”

Prudence bit her lip, trying not to giggle even as she longed to reach across the space that separated them and give the valet a hug. “Rexford, you amaze me. Truly.”

“Yes, well, I do have my master to consider, now don’t I? It wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all, for his ward to be an embarrassment to him—to us. I have hopes that Lady Wendover will have some sense when it comes to the dressing of you, but as she has this most lamentable tendency to bow to the wishes of the person closest to her, and as I have already been a reluctant witness to Miss Prentice’s notion of fashion, I felt it my duty to step in. Besides, impossible as this might seem, I believe you just might be beautiful in an odd, as yet unfashionable way. If you behave yourself, smooth your rougher edges without losing any of your fire and wit—well, with care, we could create a sensation, a true Original. Now, as to the cut of your gowns—”

Prudence did kiss him then for, if truth be told, she had been worried that she was totally friendless as she embarked upon her new life. Daventry barely tolerated her when he wasn’t sneaking looks at her, Rexford had been silent and staring, and Miss Prentice—well, it wasn’t as if the lizard counted one way or another, really.

But Prudence liked people, truly enjoyed them, thrilled in making them happy, and longed to make new friends. Before Shadwell’s descent into the most outrageous of his rituals, when he had been regarded by their near neighbors as merely eccentric, Prudence and her grandmother had been welcome everywhere.

It was only after her grandmother’s death, as Shadwell had begun dirt baths and purgatives, and serving goat’s milk puddings to visitors, that her friends had distanced themselves from her on orders from their elders.

Or, she had sometimes wondered, had it been more than that? For the near shunning of her had also coincided with the summer her body had blossomed rather alarmingly beneath her shirts and breeches, the same summer that Squire Barrington’s oldest son, James, had brought her a fistful of wild flowers, and asked to touch her. No longer in the girlish gowns, she may have been seen as a threat—and who in their right mind would want to see their son married to the wild granddaughter of that madman, Shadwell MacAfee?

But none of that mattered now, as she leaned forward and kissed Rexford’s cheek, delighting in his horrified, yet pleased expression.

“Miss MacAfee!” the valet exclaimed as Prudence sat back against the velvet squabs once more, grinning as she rubbed the sleeve of her horrible pink gown across her tear-filled eyes. “That is not done!”

“I will attempt to restrain myself in future, my new friend,” she promised, “if you will help me find some way of having you by my side as, together, we assemble the wardrobe that will captivate the ton.”

“And my lord Daventry?” Rexford questioned her, his knowing tone hinting that he had seen her looking at the marquess as he rode out of the inn yard each morning.

“I couldn’t care less what that high-nosed stickler thinks of me!” she countered, bristling even as her smile froze on her lips.

Rexford wagged a finger at her. “If we are to rub along together with any ease, Miss MacAfee, I suggest you be honest with me. You are interested in his lordship, and he is intrigued by you. Not wishing to expend my energies in assaulting my eyes with visions of trees, or grass-chewing animals with a propensity for doing entirely private things very much in the public eye, I have concentrated my attention on both of you these past days. He will fight the inevitable, and you will doubtless exasperate him mightily until you come to a compromise, but I can see my future when I look at the two of you. And I will not allow my employer’s marchioness to become an embarrassment to me. I do have my reputation to consider, after all.”

“Me? Daventry’s marchioness? You haven’t been chewing on any of the local plants, have you, Rexford? A rather darkish green one out near Shadwell’s dirt bath, perhaps, a tall grass with little white flowers? I saw one of the goats doing that last spring, and he acted silly for days,” she replied teasingly, doing her best to cover her sudden embarrassment. Rexford was deep, deeper than he gave any indication of being as he strutted around like a hen in stubble, fussing over his accommodations, or all but weeping as he complained about the food he was served, or loudly lamenting over the occasional drift of horsy scent that wafted his way as he stood balanced on a flat stone in a muddy stable yard, waiting for the coach that was, in all too lengthy stages, bearing him back to London and civilization.

“And, Miss MacAfee,” he continued, rolling his eyes at her last statement as the coach slowed to a stop, “you must promise to never, never drag the marquess or his most loyal servant to any location within fifteen miles of Shadwell MacAfee or his farm. Do we have a deal, Miss MacAfee?”

“About the gowns, yes, we do,” Prudence told him quickly, straining to peek out the coach window, but not able to see much more than the brightly lit flambeaux on either side of a wide white door. “But you’re wrong about the marquess, my friend and kind co-conspirator. He barely tolerates me, and I find him dull and disappointingly unintelligent. And he’s old. I’ll find my own husband, if you don’t mind—for that is supposedly why I am here—and he won’t be anyone who thinks he owes me anything.”

With that, and hoping she hadn’t said too much, Prudence smiled to the coachman who had opened the door and pulled down the stairs, holding her ugly pink skirts out of her way as she descended to the flagway. She then took a deep breath as Daventry, who had chosen to ride his horse into London just ahead of the coach, appeared beside her to stiffly offer her his arm, and she took her first steps into her new, devious life.

NUMBER NINETY-SIX Park Lane, home of the widowed Lady Wendover, was set back from the street in a way not considered especially fashionable, although Prudence couldn’t know this as she stood, delighted, looking up at the beautiful four-story structure.

As the coach pulled away, she turned and could see the outline of a high brick wall on the opposite side of the street, a wall, Daventry told her, that enclosed Hyde Park and should, in his opinion, be replaced by iron railings or some such improvement that would afford those in Park Lane a view of the park.

“Freddie would sell tomorrow,” he told her as she did her best to keep her mouth from dropping to half-mast at the sight of all this grandeur, “except that I have assured her that soon hers will be one of the most sought after addresses in London. Somerset has already bought here, and Breadalbane is just a short distance away. Having one’s town home set back from the curb is a modern notion I much admire, and I am willing to believe those houses now having their entrances facing Norfolk Street will soon be constructing new entrances facing Park Lane.”

“So you’re thinking of your sister’s happiness,” Prudence asked at last, wishing to begin the necessary distancing of herself from her guardian now that she was safely in London, “and the thought of any monies to be gained when this land becomes more valuable is of little concern? Why do I doubt that, my lord?”

“You doubt it because you are a rude, underbred, malicious, ungrateful little beast, I should imagine,” Banning returned quite evenly, obviously refusing to be baited by her now that he was so near to being shed of her. “Now, if you’ve spent your budget of nastiness at my expense, perhaps you can dredge up some of those marvelous manners you’ve promised me you possess so that we can go inside and meet my sister. She’s probably waiting to welcome you with open arms, and if you do anything to disabuse her of the notion that she is taking a sweet, simple country miss under her protection I shall most probably boil you in oil.”

Prudence held tightly to his arm and deliberately gifted him with her most amenable smile. “La, sir, how you do go on. I vow, you must be the most droll creature on earth,” she trilled, simpering in a way that her brother Henry had said debutantes on the lookout for rich husbands mastered in their cradles. Of course, as Henry had added that such obviously false effusions inevitably had the power to set his teeth on edge as he looked for a way out of the room, she was pleased to feel the muscles of Lord Daventry’s arm turn to steel beneath her clinging fingers.

The large white door opened before they could ascend to the topmost step and the wide half-circle of porch punctuated by thick Ionic pillars on either side, and Prudence was immediately dazzled by the sight of an enormous crystal chandelier ablaze with more candles than she would think to burn in a month. There was light spilling from everywhere, warmth and welcome permeated the very air as she stepped into the black and white marble tiled foyer, and Prudence knew that if she did not control herself she must might burst into tears.