Page 7 of A Dark and Stormy Knight
Frivolous naiveté?Was thisreallywhat they thought of her? Her best friend and her elder sister? Honoria… the woman she’d idolized for the whole of her life. The bastion of feminine perfection against which she’d been measured. The loveliest debutante to grace Her Majesty’s halls in decades.
And Amanda? The naughty sprite who’d collected all her secrets and her sorrows. Who’d bounced and giggled through life with nary a care.
“Speaking of disappointing husbands…mine will be back in town tomorrow night,” Amanda distracted Pru by saying. “And so, I thinkthatone with the muscular legs will be my next acquisition.” Amanda pointed in the direction of the riders, and Pru blinked through gathering tears in confusion.
Her friend had never expressed a great interest in horseflesh, and her husband was more interested in estate acquisitions than equine. He owned half of Cheshire.
“I’ve always admired your taste,” Honoria said approvingly.
Amanda leaned in closer. “Lady Westlawn told me he brought her to completion twice in one night.In fact, he was so skilled, she gave him one of her coveted diamonds.” The sound Amanda made was laced with enough licentiousness to bring about a biblical plague.
Pru gaped. They weren’t speculating about horseflesh at all. But the men astride!
“To the Stags of St. James.” Amanda lifted her lemonade for a “cheers” in the fashion of a bawdy sailor at a public house. “Are you certain you won’t try one?”
Honoria clinked her glass with Amanda’s but set it down at her elbow. “As tempted as I am, William has me on a tight leash.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t come and look,” Amanda offered. “That’s nothing more than window-shopping, really.”
“No. I suppose it doesn’t.” Honoria stood and drifted toward the Row, a trailing Amanda in her wake.
Pru couldn’t stand any more. She’d fled home and immediately begged her father to break their engagement.
He’d blustered through his stately beard. “You and your sisters are beautiful enough to tempt men away from their mistresses, Pru. I dare say Honoria did, and you’re almost her equal.” He patted her head with the sort of fond deference he showed his hounds. “Sutherland is an Earl, a vital man of true English blue blood and the…passions and tempers to match.”
“But, Papa,” she’d sobbed. “He’ll humiliate me. He’ll make me a laughingstock.”
“Nonsense. Sutherland has always been a discreet man. This marriage is your duty to your family, so don’t let your doddle-headed fancies of romance get in the way of that, do you hear me? You will say nothing of this to Sutherland and when he next comes to court you, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, or I’ll not be responsible for what I do!”
A distraught and sodden Pru had then taken her shattered soul to her mother, asking her to mend it. Begging her to intervene.
“It is the practice of men to have mistresses, dear. And you’ll find it’s a blessing in the end…” With that crisp reply, she’d nailed the coffin shut on any hope Pru had of reclaiming a sense of herself.
Something had hardened in her then. A fist of rebellious anger clenched around the last glowing shard of her heart.
The very next day, she had called upon Lady Westlawn and not-so-discreetly inquired about the Stags of St. James.
Which was how she’d ended up here. At the garden gate to Miss Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies.
St. James, she was told, was not a reference to the park or buildings, but to the patron saint of riding.
Of all the vulgar things.
As she stared at the gate, Pru gathered her resolve. She wouldn’t be like George. Nor would she be like Amanda. Once she’d taken a wedding vow, she’d keep it, regardless of what George decided to do. And if any children resulted from their marriage, she’d teach them to do the same.
One deceit did not merit another.
But tonight, she’d take a lover. A man who was nothing like the Earl of Sutherland in all his dark, brutish glory.
She’d claim a night of pleasure for her very own. One night she controlled with her desires and whims, and wherehersatisfaction was the object of the deed.
Because from what she’d heard, she’d live without it for the rest of her life.
Pru pulled the hood of her cloak down to shadow her face from the gaslights perched atop the wrought iron gate and tapped on the third bar three times.
A footman melted from the shadows, a pretty lad, barely old enough to shave.
He gave her a curt nod. “Do you have an appointment, madam?”
