The Passion of an Angel. Kasey Michaels

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.