His pleasant baritone carried to her, sending an unwanted frisson down her spine.
She did not want to be affected by the tall, dashing rake. And yet, she was. It was irrefutable. Not that she would ever admit as much tohim.
She seized upon the opportunity to flee, giving the brothers their privacy. Something was clearly amiss with Coventry, though she did not dare guess what. Holding her book tightly to her, she rushed toward them both, the need to escape propelling her forward.
“If you will excuse me, Lord Ashley, Your Grace,” she managed to say with remarkable poise, considering she had just been kissed senseless by one of them and then caught in possession of a wicked book. “I was leaving when Lord Ashley came upon me here.”
“Yes,” Lord Ashley said, eying her in a way she could not like. “Go, Miss Winter. Run.”
She was not running, she told herself as she slipped past the brothers—Coventry still standing like a statue not far from the threshold—and made her way into the hall. The door closed at her back, and she gathered her skirts in both hands, taking care to hide the book within the voluminous fall of her gown. And then she hastened her pace, eager to put as much distance between herself and Lord Ashley Rawdon as possible.
Indeed, her feet were moving at such a pace, that when she rounded a bend in the hall, she collided with someone traveling in the opposite direction with equal speed. The someone turned out to be her sister, Christabella. They caught each other’s arms, steadying one another to keep from falling.
Pru took in her sister’s flushed countenance, along with the disheveled state of her hair.
“Christabella, what has happened?” she demanded instantly.
Her sister looked as if she had just been properly ravished. There was no other way to describe it. Her expression was dazed. Fat tendrils of brilliant red hair had come loose from her coiffure, spilling to her shoulders. She was missing more than one hair pin, that much was certain. Pru’s protective sisterly instincts flared to life.
“Nothing has happened,” her sister said at last, blinking. “Pru? What are you doing in this wing? I thought it rather uninhabited.”
As had Pru, which was why she had come here to hide from Lord Ashley. At the realization, her eyes narrowed.
Pru knew it was her duty to ask the obvious. “Have you just come from an assignation, Miss Christabella Mary Winter?”
Christabella’s already flushed cheeks deepened to a shade of scarlet to rival her hair. “No,” she denied quickly.
Too quickly. Far, far too quickly. Of all the Winter sisters, Christabella was the wildest. She was also the romantic of the five of them. Determined to land a rake at all costs. Pru herself was far too practical to ever find herself wooed and seduced by such a man. Lord Ashley included.
“You were meeting with someone,” Pru pressed, concern for her sister prodding her to seek answers. “Tell me the truth.”
Christabella’s gaze swept past Pru, to a point over her shoulder. “Of course I was not. I was merely seeking out some solitude. You are the one who practically knocked me off my feet. Where were you fleeing to in such haste?”
Pru’s own guilt ate at her, but she forced it down, telling herself she would fret over her actions later. What she had before her now was plain evidence that her sister had been potentially ruined.
“What happened to your hair?” she demanded. “It looks as if a man has been running his fingers through it.”
Christabella’s hands flew to her hair, tentatively inspecting the damage. “Perhaps I lost a hair pin. I was outside in the garden earlier, and it is quite windy.”
That was a lie, and Pru could see it plainly.
“The wind did not steal a hair pain,” she countered grimly, “and from the looks of it, you are missing more than one pin. I would wager at least five are gone, if not more.”
Christabella patted her hair. “Perhaps it is from my bonnet, then. It did get caught in my hair when I was removing it.”
“Why do you not tell me the truth?” she countered. “I am not a fool. I have eyes in my head. Your gown is wrinkled. Why, your skirts look as if they have been crushed.”
Good God, had Christabella been completely compromised in every sense of the word?
“I fell in the gardens,” her sister told her.
“Why is your gown not dirty?” she asked.
“Because there is snow in the gardens.” Christabella smiled, pleased with herself, it would seem, for the quick fashion in which she had arrived at the excuse.
An unusually early winter’s storm had indeed blanketed the land in a dense coating of white. But Pru was sure the truth of what had befallen her sister had nothing to do with a garden, wind, or a fall. At least, not one into snow. A fall into the arms of a wicked man, however…
“You expect me to believe your hair was ruined by the wind,” she said, frowning at her defiant sister. “That the wind not only pulled your hat from your hair, but that it also plucked a handful of pins from it. And that after you were so mauled by the wind, leaving your hair half-unraveled down your back, you proceeded to fall into the snow in such a manner that your gown became hopelessly wrinkled. Much in the same fashion it would become wrinkled if it were raised to your waist?”
