Library

Chapter 3

May 1820

Prudence marched from one end of the room to the other, holding her crisp, clean list before her. "Wedding in half an hour. Then the ceremony. Then the wedding breakfast. We will remain by your side until you are forced to leave this room. Then I will sit as close to the front of the church as I can. During the breakfast, I will observe your every move so you have support when you need it." She stopped her march in the middle of the room and looked up at her audience.

Her sisters—Lottie, Andromeda, and the twins Isabelle and Imogen—stood with Cora in the large window of Cora's bedroom. The sun poured in behind them, haloing their pastel gowns with bright morning light. Lottie looked like a blue-eyed angel, Annie an imp. The twins seemed like faeries from another world. And Cora, in all her dark beauty, resembled nothing less than a queen.

No wonder Prudence found herself overlooked. Who could see plain Pru when the others gave off such light? No matter. Better the gift of anonymity. Particularly when one did not wish one's activities to be discovered. If she were beautiful, it would be harder to hide.

"You are not alone, Cora," Prudence said, taking her friend's hand. "We are with you." She did not try to hide from the guilt that pinched at her sides. Norton had been after Prudence, and he'd caught Cora. Because they'd been wearing the same thing, had been wearing veils to hide their differing hair. It had been, partially, Prudence's fault Cora found herself betrothed to a man she'd barely exchanged two words with.

Cora attempted a smile, failed miserably. "Thank you, Pru. It's a thorough plan."

"Thorough though it may be, it does not keep Cora from having to marry that man." Imogen fell with a harrumph into the window seat behind them.

Isabel sat next to her. "That man suggests Lord Norton is a scoundrel. A cad. But I've heard nothing nefarious about him. In fact, there's no gossip at all about him but for what he and Cora produced together. Which suggests he's as boring as they come."

"He kisses like a scoundrel," Cora said, her voice breathy. Her hand, covered in a white lace glove lifted to her lips, hovered there, then dropped heavy to her side. "But he's been a gentleman ever since that night in the garden. Three weeks, and every day he's shown up here with a bouquet of flowers. And not much conversation."

"I'm so sorry, Cora." The list fluttered to the floor, abandoned, as Prudence hugged the bride. "I wish it were me and not you."

Cora hugged her back, laughed. "Liar." She pushed out of Prudence's embrace and stood before the full-length looking glass. The mirror's edge glinted gold, as did almost every surface in Cora's chamber. The Eastwoods were wealthy merchants, and their style tended toward the opulent. Cora pinched her cheeks. "You would be crying right now if it were you."

"Would not," Prudence grumbled.

"No." Andromeda elbowed Prudence's arm. "You'd have run away the night before."

"That sounds more like Pru," Lottie said, sitting on Cora's bed. She picked at the rose-pink quilt. "Cora, should Annie and I tell you what's to happen tonight? When Norton comes to your bed?"

Cora turned around, all wide eyes. "What happens? In bed? Whatever could you mean?"

Silence. Then an eruption of laughter.

"If I didn't know better," Isabella said, "I'd have believed you."

"But I've read your poems." Imogen clapped her hands. "The last one was brilliant, Cora. You must consider publishing them."

"The world is not ready for poems like mine." Cora turned back to the mirror, head tilted, studying her reflection.

Lottie snorted. "Poems about women enjoying the marriage bed? No indeed, the world is not ready. But they should be. How are young ladies facing marriage, without the knowledge we have, to know a thing about protecting themselves? Let alone enjoying themselves." Another snort.

Another bout of silence.

They were lucky to know what they did. But it was a secret knowledge that came with heavy risk. Should anyone discover what they knew… how they knew it… their reputations would not survive. Annie's experience two years ago and Lottie's experience last year proved that. They'd both narrowly avoided ruination. Because of the books.

Prudence's mother's books, the ones they'd discovered after her death, were naughtier than Lord Byron on a particularly promiscuous day. She'd quietly loaned them out to her married friends among the ton, running a naughty little lending library those friends had been eager to see continue after her death. So, Lottie and Andromeda had continued. Then Prudence and the twins had helped when they'd discovered the enterprise, demanded to be part of it.

What a shock to walk into Mother's old sitting room and find Lottie and Annie poring over a ledger with a stack of forbidden books nearby. And how thrilling to be tasked with keeping the door locked after that. No one ever accidentally walked in on them again. Not with Prudence in charge of the key.

What a disappointment when Lottie and Annie had decided to marry and give it all up. Not Prudence. The key was hers, and she'd clutch it till death if she must. When they'd given control of the library to Cora Eastwood, the shadowy erotic poet who kept her identity secret, Prudence had arrived with the books. Whether Cora had wanted her or not. Fortunately, Cora had wanted her.

Cora's reflection paled in the looking glass. "I do not know if I can continue. With the books. With my poems. Norton may very well find me out."

"Husbands can be a nuisance," Lottie said. But she grinned, every line of her face falling into softness. She clearly did not mean what she said.

"But what if Norton does not mind?" Annie asked.

"In what way?" Cora picked up a hair pin and stuck it through a braid in her coiffure, pinning it more tightly to her head.

"How many ways are there not to mind?" Imogen asked.

"He could not mind me. At all," Cora said. "That is the preferable outcome. He ignores me. Lives in the country while I haunt London all my days."

"I mean," Andromeda said, "what if he knows and does not mind. Tristan knows and loves me for it. The books have proved… instructional. The only reason I cannot continue with the library is because his reputation could not abide a scandal. Nor his brother's, should it be discovered." She nodded at Lottie. "And Noble knows as well."

Lottie smoothed her skirts, studying them. "He does. He also did not make a fuss upon discovering the library's existence. But I'd rather read and discuss with the other ladies than organize the whole thing these days."

Words stuck in Prudence's throat, mixing together, turning to mush, and sliding into her gut.

"Do you want to stop, Cora?" Her question ripped through the air like an angry bird's squawking.

Every gaze swung toward her.

"No," Cora said. "I do not want to, but I am afraid it is inevitable."

"But my mother ran the library." Prudence fisted her hands in her skirts. Wrinkles hardly mattered. No one would notice her or her attire. Especially since the suitors would not be in attendance. "While married."

"Perhaps Father knew," Lottie said.

"And did not mind," Andromeda added, her hand resting over her swollen belly. "They did produce nine children."

Lottie stood and rubbed a hand up and down Prudence's arm. "It's a risk. And risks should not be taken lightly for too long a time. We have taken this one for seven years now. If mother's old friends—"

"Our friends now," Prudence insisted. "They came to Andromeda's aid when she needed it. And yours, Lottie."

"Our friends." Lottie's voice as soft as her fingers fixing Prudence's curls at the sides of her face. "If they wish to continue with the books, perhaps they should do so for themselves."

Prudence turned to Cora. "Do you wish to be done with it?"

"No." A slight shrug of her slender shoulder. "Not at all. Circumstances have rather… trapped me."

Guilt churned like a stormy sea in Prudence's chest.

Cora whipped around, her cheeks a sudden, mottled red. "No. I will not let this sham of a marriage change who I am and what I do. I'll not stop."

Hope rose like the sun.

"Then you must practice caution. More than usual." Andromeda stood straight as a soldier, a single brow arched gracefully, commandingly over an eye. "Until we are certain about Norton."

Cora nodded. "But in many ways, it is safer now. There will be less talk if I am discovered. I will be a married woman. Oh, it shall rile everyone up a bit, but they will say, remember how she got married to begin with, and chuckle and go on to meatier gossip."

"Perhaps." But Andromeda's eyebrow remained raised, unconvinced.

"Prudence," Lottie said, and Prudence did not wish to hear what would come next.

She backed away, holding her palms up. "Do not command me to stop. I will not. I do not wish to. You cannot make me." Though it was not the library itself which called to her. It was… that it gave her something to do, something to schedule, something to plan, something to make sense out of the chaos. She enjoyed being busy, having purpose.

Lottie swung her attention to the twins.

They rolled their eyes, sank lower into the window seat, their knees bunching up around their torsos.

"We barely participate now." Imogen propped her chin on the top of one knee.

"I circulate news." Isabelle wrapped her arms around her knees. "And listen for rumblings of danger in Town gossip."

"And I only get to write to Bashton," Imogen grumbled. "It always seemed more glamorous and exciting when you were doing it, Annie."

The Earl of Bashton was an old friend of their mothers. He was nearing sixty and lived in Cornwall. And he supplied them, as he had their mother, with new erotic books to loan to the women of the ton.

"The ladies who meet don't even know we know!" Isabella said.

"All the better," Lottie snapped. "Trust me."

Across the room, Cora had gone entirely still. Prudence crept up to her, stood by her side. "This is all my fault. It should be me marrying Norton, not you. He thought you were me."

For a breath, Cora's body seemed to freeze to the very core. But then she shook herself and offered a wan smile. "We cannot change what happened. Now, what time is it?"

Blast. Prudence had nearly forgotten the schedule. The pocket watch was warm beneath her fingers when she pulled it from her skirts. "Oh! We must go. Now. Or you'll be late."

"To my own wedding." Cora's laugh seemed thin, fragile as eggshells. "Can't have that."

Andromeda pulled the twins to their feet and headed toward the door. "I'll take them home." The wedding in a quarter hour's time would be a small gathering. Of the sisters, only Prudence would attend. Lottie and Cora joined them at the door, and a tangle of arms wrapped around a bevy of bodies. Hugs and whispered reassurance as Prudence's sisters took heavy steps into the hallways, finding reasons to come back to Cora for one more word, one more hug.

"You are beautiful today," Lottie said, squeezing Cora's hands. "And your life will be beautiful. You will find a way to make it so." She kissed Cora's cheek, then disappeared behind a closed door.

Leaving Prudence and Cora, the guilty and the damned.

Prudence swallowed hard and checked her watch once more. "We must be on our way." Easy words, too difficult to push out.

"Of course." Cora straightened her shoulders. Each move, a minute and difficult click into place that transformed her from frightened to determined, at a measured and deliberate speed. One trembling second, she was a woman awaiting her death, and the next steady moment, she was a soldier, battle hardened and ready.

Prudence crumbled. "Cora I'm so—"

"I know. You needn't be. I let him kiss me. I kissed him back. I did not stop him when he did… other things. You did not make those decisions, Pru. I did. Now"—she smiled, but it did not reach her eyes—"it is time to get married."

"Yes, yes." Prudence ran around the room, gathering all they might need—her list from where it had fluttered to the floor, Cora's silk-trimmed bonnet and gloves, the small bouquet of roses tied round with a pink ribbon. "I've everything."

"Thank you," Cora said as they stepped into the hall. She donned her bonnet and gloves as they descended the stairs. When they'd settled into the coach seats, she rested the roses on her lap. Her gaze fixated on the blooms. "From Norton. They appeared this morning. With a note. Cora, for you, Norton."

"How… ardent."

"Prudence, I'm scared." Cora's eyes slammed closed like heavy iron gates. "We leave right after the wedding." She shook her head. "In a week's time at most. To go to his country residence."

"So soon? The Season's not yet come to an end."

"There's been… talk. Because of how quickly we wed. Because he'd not been courting me. Mother thinks it best if we disappear until the ton finds better fodder for their gossip. We are not to return until next Season. I'll be alone with him until Christmas. Entirely alone with a man I do not know."

Prudence moved across the carriage to sit next to her friend and laid her head on Cora's shoulder. She could not offer apologies anymore. Cora did not want them, but they clogged up behind her lips, choking her.

"Will you come with me?" Cora asked.

Prudence lifted her head slowly from Cora's shoulder to look into her face. Her eyes were open now, watery.

"Will you come to the country with me?" she repeated. "And with Norton, of course. I'm afraid having you near will pain him, but… but I do not care. I want you near. It will comfort me, and I'm afraid I care more for my comfort than for his pain."

Prudence nodded, her head bobbing like a baby duck on a pond. "Yes, yes, of course I'll come. Though you must not think he's… in love with me. He never exhibited signs. I've seen signs. In my sisters' husbands. He never acted like that—intense and soft at the same time. He was always just… pleasant. I do not know why he sought me out in that garden, but—"

"I don't care if he's in love with another woman." She swung her head in a sharp angle to look out the window of the rolling carriage. "I don't care."

"Of course not." And more softly than before, "Of course not."

They sat like side by side statues guarding a doorway—silent and still and separate.

Prudence folded her hands in her lap, and paper crumpled. Ah, her list. She folded it, sharpening the new edge with pressed fingers before folding it again and making it smaller. When she slipped it in her pocket, her hand froze. More paper, there, warm from her body. The letter. She gave a half sigh, half grumble and pulled it out as she left the list behind. Three communications from him in a week. All of them short, all of them equally irritating, and all scrawled on the same paper, as if he didn't have the time or care to find a new piece. She might have started that, though. She'd not cared enough to use a new piece to respond to his first epistle. Had jotted her response below his and sent it off. Now five messages occupied the same space.

What in heaven's name could Mr. Bailey be thinking, writing her to begin with? More poor advice from Samuel. Or perhaps just poorly interpreted advice from Samuel. She held the paper flat against her thigh, leaned back into the squabs, and read the strong strokes of Mr. Bailey's handwriting as it charged across the paper.

Dear Lady Prudence,

I do not have time to visit you today. A meeting ran late. But I had a moment to jot down these lines. I hope your day is a good one.

Mr. Bailey.

She'd replied:

Mr. Bailey,

I did not give you leave to write me. Please do not commandeer such familiarity when there is no reason for it. My day has been passable so far. But I only tell you as a courtesy since you asked.

Lady Prudence.

And within two days, he'd sent another note. Impertinent, impossible man.

Dear Lady Prudence,

Your brother's book gave me permission to write. Not in so many words. It recommended that when a gentleman courts a lady, he creates some sort of "safe intimacy" with her. His words, not mine. What better fits that description than letter writing? Especially when I have no time to visit you—it's a hell of a week. Mr. Bailey.

She should have ignored the letter, fed it to the fire, and told him with her silence how welcome his attentions were. But… she'd not been able to help herself. She'd sat. She'd written. She'd sent.

Mr. Bailey,

You should not curse in correspondence with a lady. And my brother is a fool. "Safe intimacy?" Intimacy, by its very nature, is dangerous, a risk. Only fools flirt with it. Why are your meetings always going over or running late? Your schedule does not seem very well managed.

Lady Prudence

And he'd responded. Though not promptly. Not that she'd wished for a speedy response. The letter was the one currently burning a hole through the skirts draped over her thigh. With slow, careful fingers she unfolded it, read.

Lady P,

Time slips away from busy men. I've much to do if I wish to make a name for myself. I cannot tell you about the risks of intimacy as I've never attempted intimacy, of the emotional sort, with a woman. But I am familiar with letter writing. A well-turned sentence can convince a mind to do anything, can't it? I assume you're going to Lord Norton and Miss Eastwood's wedding tomorrow. I was not invited, and even if I had been, I wouldn't attend. I somehow scheduled three meetings within the same hour. Shouldn't mention it. You'll read me a lecture. Perhaps I'll stop by your house sometime in the afternoon after the wedding breakfast. Make sure you are well.

Mr. Bailey.

She'd not yet responded to it. Too many shocks in that single letter to think through all at once. Shock number one: He'd scheduled three meetings within the same hour. She shivered, such a mismanaged schedule. He needed a secretary, clearly. Shock number two: He wanted to make sure she was well. As if he cared about her. She snorted. Cora looked up at her, a curious brow raised. Prudence patted her friend's hand and returned her attention to her own hands, to the letter. Third shock: The bit about a well-turned sentence convincing a body to do anything. That made her shiver, too. A different kind of rustling through the body. Prudence couldn't quite define it.

She wouldn't respond to the letter. It would only encourage him further.

The coach jerked to a stop, and Cora rose quickly, not waiting for the footman to open the door. Prudence followed her onto the pavement outside the church. Silently, they parted at the church door, Prudence joining the other onlookers in the pews. She sat next to Cora's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Eastwood, shooting to their feet as a duke's sister joined them. Mrs. Eastwood wore the wide grin of a delighted mother. Her daughter had caught a title.

Prudence nodded, polite and calm, trying to shake away the bitter thoughts. Just because Mr. Eastwood did not have a title did not mean he or his wife were after one. Yet, why else would Mrs. Eastwood grin when her daughter looked so grim?

Did Mr. Bailey seek to marry a title, too? What other reason would he have for courting her, for writing to her? His reasons did not matter. The only worry worth holding to her heart at the moment—her friend. She tried to lend her strength from a distance, tried to steady her hands with positive thoughts as Norton fit the ring onto it. Tried to outfit Cora's voice with steel, so it did not shake when she recited the vows. And when Cora marched back down the aisle with a new husband at her side, Prudence prayed for her friend to have smooth steps.

The ceremony over, the guests moved into the sunlight, blinking. The world seemed the same, though her friend's life would never be the same again. Seemed heartless. Something should have changed. The sky turned pink, or London's streets turned to rivers. Anything to signal Cora's loss.

"Something pinching you, Lady Prudence?"

Prudence gave a little scream and clutched her newly pounding heart as she whirled around and spotted…

Mr. Bailey, leaning loose and scruffy against the church wall. The languid pose of house cat, hands stuffed into pockets, clothing rumpled, queue coming undone. But the restrained power of a tiger, muscles sleek and ready to pounce.

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