Chapter 16

Ben wouldn't enjoy Hell, but he'd understand what got him there. Enjoying a bumpy ride to London with a woman who clearly did not share his joy. And under such worrying circumstances, too. The gig he and Prudence had commandeered from Norton Hall was well sprung, but narrow, and the wheels over the bumpy roads often bounced Prudence into his arm, his leg, his hip.

Finally, after a bump which sent her flying and landing with her hand atop his unmentionable bits, and with a scowl that scrunched her face, she hooked her arm through his and secured her body to the conveyance with his weight. By melting her body hard against his own.

Delightful.

All but her scowl. And her wounded heart.

That the only reason Ben couldn't fully relax, couldn't fully appreciate the improper closeness of a man traveling down a public road with the woman who would be his future. He hoped. He must speak with Clearford soon. Today or tomorrow. He'd told Prudence he'd not tell a soul about the books, the library. He'd meant it, and that included her brother, too. He'd have to lie to Clearford, then, tell the man he'd discovered nothing or give him a watered-down version of the truth. But would the duke believe him? There existed several points against Ben's veracity.

First, Ben had been lying already, and Clearford knew it, knew him capable of it.

Second, Ben would ask for Prudence's hand in marriage, and the duke would know—a husband must keep his wife's secrets.

Finally, the lie he planned to tell Clearford—that Prudence had been taking marriage lessons from older women—might not be convincing enough. After all, if Prudence had been learning how to be married, how come she'd not been playing nice with the swarm of suitors her brother had collected about her?

Damn.

And if he did succeed in convincing Clearford, would the man agree to let Ben wed Prudence when he knew how he'd begun courting her? Would he insist Ben tell her the truth first? He probably should anyway, but…

It didn't matter. It didn't. And he couldn't tell her, not when she was still so skittish around him, melting under his touch when the blaze between them burned hot (or when she risked popping out of a traveling conveyance) and freezing at other times, questioning his motives.

As she should.

But it didn't matter now. Those motives long irrelevant. More relevant were her reasons for trusting him but not trusting him.

Perhaps if he knew why.

He licked his lips, squeezed her arm to his side, and held the reins lightly in his hands. Kept his tone just as light. "Prudence, why do you doubt me?"

She startled, looked up at him, looked back at the road. It seemed as if she might pull away, so he tightened his arm to his side, pinning her there.

"Is it because of how gruff I can be? How unrefined? How—"

"No. That's not it at all. I…" A pause in which he held his breath. She seemed to hold hers, too, but then she made a humming sound and said, choosing each word carefully, "I suppose it's not that I doubt you, but I doubt… myself."

"You're going to have to explain that one. Will you explain it?" Because he could tell—what he asked her to talk about was important, a deep-down kind of thing, like falling in an ocean and losing your mother's ring. A thing you fear to put into words because you had already judged yourself so harshly you did not dare let others know.

Her hands on his arm tightened, and they traveled in silence. She wouldn't tell him, and now he wanted to know more than ever. But he couldn't ask her again, not if it took that much effort for her to find the words.

But then she leaned her head against his arm. "I know I am not so… great."

Relief tingled along his skin. Thank God, she'd decided to speak. But what foolishness fell from her lips. "You are not great Prudence, you are magnificent. Spectacular."

She laughed. "Thank you. I should not have used the word great. It is a paltry word, but then… I am a paltry thing, too."

He opened his mouth, slammed it shut. He'd been about to tell her how wrong she was. But that would have been a betrayal as great as the one he already visited upon her. Should she ever find out. Who was he to tell her the contents of her heart? So he waited, listened.

"Did you ever have any siblings?" she asked.

"No, never. Just me."

"Then you cannot know. How easy it is to be lost in the crowd. Every child has their… role. Samuel the heir, the duke, a man with power and good looks. Lottie the beauty, fierce, too. People admire her even when they do not necessarily like her. Andromeda the kind one, soft and gentle. Then the twins—identical, novel, fascinating. You can see how it's easy for plain Prudence to disappear."

He could not. Perhaps once, but… he couldn't even remember that blind fool of a man. He wanted to bark at her about her brilliance, lecture her for hours on the singular delight she'd proved to be. But he gave her silence so she could continue.

She settled her hand atop his on the reins and wove her fingers between his. "When I am in a room, men look right through me. Mostly it is a boon. I have not wished to be seen. What's the use, after all, in wishing for something you cannot have. My invisibility has allowed me to do as I please. Mostly. So when you… saw me and then you… wanted me… I could not fathom it. It had never happened before. After all, every suitor I've ever had has been browbeaten by my brother into courting me. Men dance with me, bring me flowers, because Samuel demands it. Not because they want to."

A knot formed in his stomach. He might retch. He gripped the reins till his knuckles shone through his skin. He must hold them tight or let them tremble.

She bent her fingers, stoking the insides of his where they overlapped. "When you were pursuing me, I knew you only did so because of Samuel. He'd asked you to. You'd stayed true during Lottie's scandal because you are friends with him, not because you have any attraction for me. The only explanation, really, for your loyalty. You've been a good friend to my family."

But not nearly a good enough friend to her. That became clearer by the moment.

She turned her head and placed a soft kiss on his shoulder. "Thank you. I apologize for doubting you. But you see why, don't you? When you followed me to Norton Hall, when you kissed me, when you paid me attention and said nice things to me, all I could think was that you did so because of Samuel. But"—she hung her head, hiding her face from him—"now I begin to suspect it's because of me."

"It is you, Prudence." The words roared out of him, unstoppable, untamable, fueled by fear as much as by the truth. He stopped the gig, pulling it over to the side of the road and letting the reins fall loose across his thighs. He lifted her chin, forced her to see the truth in his eyes. "I don't think of your brother at all when I do this." He kissed her, trying to show her. He would show her. In every way, every day. He wanted her, and Samuel be damned.

Though her brother had put her in Ben's line of sight.

Now he knew for sure. She could never know that particular truth. It would shatter her.

He kissed her once more, biting her bottom lip and cupping the nape of her neck. She curled her hands on his chest and let him do as he pleased, do as she pleased, too, nipping at his lips and tentatively exploring his mouth with her hesitant tongue. She deepened the kiss as she grew brave, stoking his desire in a way certainly not suitable for the side of a public road so close to London.

"Damn," he whispered, pulling out of the kiss. "Damn." For so many reasons. He rested his forehead against hers, closed his eyes. "Do you believe me?"

"Yes." The word a pleased sigh.

"Good. Now I'm afraid we must continue. On the road. Not with… that."

She laughed and handed him the reins, then clung tight to his arm once more. She faced the end of the road with a brighter face than before. He'd given her that joy, that boldness. And if she knew the truth, why he'd really begun to court her, he would be the reason she lost that joy, too.

The road grew more distinct as they reached the outer limits of London, the buildings more crowded, and the difficulty of navigating the road pushed his worry to the edges of his mind.

"Do you know where we're going?" Prudence asked, clinging to his arm, cheek nestled soft against it.

The streets and pavements grew more crowded around them. Right now, they were no more than a country couple in a gig, of no importance to those bustling about their daily business. But if anyone recognized them…

"I do know where we're going," Ben said, slowing the gig behind a cart.

"That means you've been there?"

He shifted, the gig seat digging into his arse more than it had been a moment before.

"Most men of London make their way there at one point or another."

She patted his arm. "Naturally. I'm quite aware of ravenous masculine appetites."

"Naturally."

"Are the women there happy? Hm. I suppose you can only answer for the women you've met there, and not all of them, but are they? Those you've met?" She tipped her chin up and rested it on his biceps, her large eyes—more blue than green today—blinking up at him. So calm and curious.

He scratched a hand through his hair. "I hope so. It is likely a better experience than most in their profession. Still not what most if any of these women would have chosen for themselves. When a fellow thinks about it too much, it rather makes the entire thing unpalatable. That's why, when I say most men make their way there at one point or another, I put heavy emphasis on the one. For me, at least. Just the once."

"But your appetites appear healthy enough."

He laughed, but he wanted to kiss her instead. "Around you they are, Lady P. But I do not wish to lie with ladies who do not wish to lie with me."

"Ah. Logical. But of course, ladies desire you." She popped upright, releasing his arm with a pretty scowl. "You're… you're you."

He scratched his jaw. "And until recently me could hardly be considered desirable. Ladies have no fondness for beards or baggy clothes or untrimmed hair. That's not to say I've been a monk. There are those who find oddities desirable. For a time or two. Then the novelty wears off and they prefer someone more—"

"Look!" Prudence bounced and pointed to the side of the street. "Is that—"

"Lady Norton. Yes. What do you wish me to do?"

"Follow her slowly. If we confront her now, she'll bolt and likely lose us. She can move more quickly in this crush on a horse than we can in this gig."

"Very well. But with the nunnery so close… we do not have much time. I hope you have a plan to get her away from the door."

"No. Not as yet. I'm working on it, though."

He maneuvered the gig between two carts, keeping an eye on the slowly moving Lady Norton. The walls of the nunnery rose before them, and Lady Norton, dressed all in black, swayed her horse toward them as if toward her death. Prudence bounced beside him, her gaze riveted on Lady Norton, then swinging side to side over the street and its occupants before planting once more on her friend.

"Stay calm, Lady P," Ben mumbled.

"I am," she snapped. Then, "I'm not. Stop the gig."

"Pardon?"

"Cora has stopped. She's dismounting. I must go or I'll be late."

"Late to do what?"

"Stop, stop, please, Ben."

He slowed the gig, unable to do anything but obey her. As soon as it rolled almost to a stop, she launched herself out, landing low in a tangle of skirts, her bonnet having slipped over her face. She shoved it back, fisted her skirts to haul them higher than her ankles, and ran.

He lost sight of her as he rounded the corner into an alley next to the brothel. Quiet there, and dark. He jumped down and ran after Prudence, leaving the horse nickering behind him. Then—the black-veiled figure of a woman scorned. And just behind her, the very top of the bonnet that had tapped against his shoulder and ear all morning. He sliced between two men walking side by side, ignoring their belligerent cries and pushing his legs faster.

Lady Norton climbed the steps to a door he'd entered through before. Innocuous, like every other door around it on this seemingly harmless street. This brothel positioned where it was for a reason. A nice enough neighborhood for the nice gentlemen who visited, near enough to Mayfair to offer convenience for that set. Which meant if Lady Norton caused a scene, those who cared could see. Those who mattered would whisper. And married or not, Lady Norton would find her reputation tattered. She did not care. She moved like a ghost, floating toward her doom. Until her body yanked backward and out of view behind a carriage.

Ben darted around the side of a horse but still could not find her. Nor Prudence. Where were they? Ah—there! Finally. The sight of Prudence set his roiling gut at ease, though panic lit her features. She held Lady Norton's wrist, and that lady struggled against her hold.

Prudence's lips flew, mobile and determined, though Ben could not hear what she said until he reached her side.

Neither woman noticed him stopping beside them, puffing for breath and using his body as much as possible to hide them from those passing by on the street.

"There are other ways," Prudence hissed.

Lady Norton tugged.

Prudence held tighter. "Do you care nothing for society? For friendship? There are those who could still remain at your side, but those who could not. Fell Norton some other way. Do not take yourself down with him. I could not bear it. To lose you."

"Let's move this conversation into the alley, ladies," Ben said, voice low. "This is no place for arguments." Men approached from every side. Any moment now one of them would come their way, set his steps toward the door at their back, recognize one or both of the ladies standing there—a viscountess and a duke's sister.

"Yes," Prudence said. "Speak with me in private just one moment, away from the hurry of the street, away from"—her gaze darted toward the building—"danger. Please, Cora."

"If it's revenge you want, Lady Norton—"

"Do not call me that," the viscountess snapped.

Ben swallowed. "If it's revenge you wish, my lady, the best way to take it is to live a most excellent life. Confrontation, ruination, that helps no one. Hurts only you. You seem a clever woman. Surely, you're intelligent enough to think past your anger."

The viscountess blinked, then her entire body deflated, the arm that Prudence held losing its tension and her chin sinking to her chest. He took advantage, wrapping an arm around each woman's shoulder and guiding them toward the alley where he'd left the gig.

"Keep your heads low." He stuck his head up, whistled.

"What are you doing?" Prudence hissed.

"Keep. Your. Head. Down." A man caught his eye, and he winked. Once the man looked away, he said, "I'm playing the part. A happy man escorting two of the nunnery's ladies out for a good time."

Two identical feminine gasps of outrage.

"Such a sight is normal on this street. It's best to appear as normal as possible. We don't want to stand out, do we?"

No objections to that, and he picked up his pace. Not too fast. Not fast enough to bring more attention to them. Once in the shadows of the alley, he helped Lady Norton up into the gig. She sat there, limp and sullen, while Prudence paced behind them, chewing on her thumbnail.

"We are safer here," Ben said, "but we cannot remain here long."

Prudence stopped beside him and held her palms up to Lady Norton. "You understand why you cannot go in there, Cora?"

Cora nodded, her face pale and shining in the dim light.

"What were you thinking?" Prudence crept closer to her friend, head slowly shaking.

"I… I was so angry. I could think only of my papa. Of his women. And how my mama knows. She knows, Prudence, about every woman, and she simply ignores it. I… I do not think I can ignore it."

"Don't." Prudence climbed up to sit beside Lady Norton, took her hands, and squeezed them.

Ben walked toward the end of the alley that spilled out onto the busy street beyond, giving them what privacy he could while still keeping them within the radius of his protection. Still, though, he could hear Prudence's words, soft and low and brimming with compassion.

"Don't ignore it, Cora. But do not hurt yourself in the process. Go home. Wait for him to return and speak to him. Ask for a separation if you please. I know many husbands and wives live separate lives. And if you do so you will have such… freedom."

Was that what Prudence wanted? Freedom? The sort obtained through the obscurity of spinsterhood? He tapped a foot. The men walking by… did they have wives and mistresses? Did they leave shattered hearts wherever they went? Did they leave ladies pale and trembling in alleys? He searched each face, hoping to see Norton. So he could slam a fist into the man's eye.

"I don't want to go home," Lady Norton said behind him. "I… I don't know where home is."

"Perhaps," Prudence said, "Your parents—"

"No."

"Back to the country, then? To Norton Hall?"

"No." A bit of spirit back in that word. "Can I stay with you?"

"Do you wish to see Norton gutted?" Prudence asked. "Because if you stay with me, we must tell my brother why, and since he supported Norton on several fronts, he will feel, I'm afraid, betrayed by the man. He will likely"—she cleared her throat—"go after him."

"Good." So, Lady Norton liked knives, too, particularly those stuck in her husband's gullet. She was more stab-happy than the duke. Wouldn't do. Ben whipped around and joined the women.

"I've a suggestion. Let us take an evening to think about what to do next. I know a place we can go. Not too far from here. It will be safe. No gossips, no brothers, no foolish husbands, or even more foolish parents. No one either of you knows."

"And where is that?" Prudence tilted her head.

"A little house on the edge of London belonging to one Baron Brightly."

Prudence's eyes glowed bright enough to illuminate the alley, and the corner of her lips twitched. "Your grandfather."

Ben unfolded the footman's seat at the back of the gig. "One of you climb on the back, then, and off we go."

Cora settled herself without a word. Her face ashen and rigid, then hidden as she lowered her head and pulled the brim of her bonnet over her face. Ben unfolded the hood to better hide them, then carefully left the alley and pulled into the bustle of the street. He set course for Bright House, what his grandfather called his home, and for safety.