Away from one deliciously handsome rake in particular.
Lord Ashley Rawdon was a temptation she was finding it increasingly difficult to resist. And resist him she must, for her future depended upon it. She had engaged in a stern talk with herself yesterday evening, following the snowball fight and their almost-kiss.
There was nothing she wanted more than to begin her own foundling hospital. Not only did she love children, but she knew all too keenly the plight of those who were born to unwed mothers, or to families who were unable to feed them, or even to families who ill-used and ill-treated them.
And spending time alone with a rake, putting her reputation in danger, meant she was also putting the prospect of her own foundling house in peril. If she were caught engaging in improper behavior with Lord Ashley, she would be forced to marry him—if he would even come up to scratch and make an offer for her, that was. The harsh truth she needed to face was that men like Lord Ashley toyed with women for sport, but they did not settle down and allow themselves to be caught in the parson’s mousetrap. If they did, they invariably made their wives miserable as they carried on with their licentiousness.
Pru was pragmatic. She had heard far too many tales of woe. She was not a romantic like Christabella, foolishly believing she would be the one to turn a rake’s head and lead him to change his wicked ways. She understood what Lord Ashley was, and she understood what she was.
There was no world that existed in which they would find a shared path.
He was dallying with her, there was no doubt about it. And probably because he was bored. If she kept her distance from him, she had told herself, he would find someone else at the house party to dally with instead. Someone far more amenable to the chase.
Oh, who was she fooling? She was amenable to the chase. She wanted his attention, his stare, his mouth on hers, his arms banding around her. She wanted his tall, lean warmth melting into hers.
And that was the biggest problem of all.
Heaving a sigh, Pru threw herself into a settee positioned near the happily crackling fire lit in the grate. The beauty of the false ruins was lost upon her, though it was striking from the approach. Surrounded by snow and pines, the outbuilding had been fashioned to look as if it were a Greek ruin from the outside. On the inside, however, was a charming series of rooms, connected by a great hall, each comfortably furnished and with a fire to provide warmth whilst the guests were in residence.
Ordinarily, it was just the sort of place she would love to spend a few hours of solitude. But today, she was feeling restless and grim. Foolish and weary. The strange sensation that plagued her whenever she was in Lord Ashley’s presence had not gone away yesterday as it had on previous occasions. Instead, it had lingered. By the time she had gone to bed last night, it had worsened.
She knew what it was, thanks toThe Tale of Love.
Desire.
She wanted Lord Ashley. Wanted to be tempted by him, taken by him, kissed and touched and ruined by him.
And for those reasons and many more, she was hiding. Again?
Hiding where she was certain no one would look. Traveling to the false ruin required a fifteen-minute walk down a snow-laden path. She had dressed warmly for the occasion, donning her sturdiest boots, a fur muffler, a coat, and a hat and scarf. But by the time she had reached the ruins, she had been chilled to the bone. Thank heavens for the fire. Servants would arrive to tend to it on the hour, but until then, she was happily, blissfully, alone.
Also, determined to distract her mind from all improper thoughts.
She would banish Lord Ashley Rawdon from her mind, from her life, from her stupid, restless yearnings. Pru opened the book she had brought along to aid in her diversion. As it happened, it was a volume ofThe Tale of Loveshe had yet to read, because another wicked rake—Viscount Aylesford—was in possession of the last volume she’d been reading after she had loaned it to her sister Grace.
But that was another story all its own, and she did not dare to allow her mind to linger on rakehells and scoundrels, because if she did, it would inevitably lead back to He Whom She Refused to Name.
Instead, she flipped through her book, settling upon the chapter where she had last left off. This chapter was written in the epistolary form, one letter from a lady to her friend, describing all the joy she had found from a gentleman she had met in London.
The joy was licentious, of course. The gentleman in question was no gentleman at all. The descriptions of what he had done to the lady were vivid and naughty. And Pru wanted to know more.
But just as she began devouring the words on the page, the door to the chamber clicked open. She glanced up, expecting a servant who had come to tend the fire. But she found, instead, the only man she was seeking to avoid.
“Lord Ashley,” she said, unable to keep the dismay from her voice as she jumped from the settee and dropped into a curtsy, careful to hide her book from his view.
He bowed, flashing her a wry grin. “Do not sound so pleased to see me, or you shall make me grow hopelessly vain, Pru.”
She really had to stop him from being so familiar with her, she thought. But the trouble was, she liked hearing her name in his husky voice.
“It is improper for you to be here,” she explained, needlessly. Of course, he already knew that. “Did you follow me?”
She was expecting him to deny it.
Instead, he met her gaze frankly. “Yes.”
Oh, the wicked man. How was she to resist him now? He was closing the door at his back, and then his long strides ate up the distance between them. He was still wearing his greatcoat, with a dusting of flurries on the shoulders. He removed his hat when he stood before her. It, too, was crusted with a fine sheen of snow.
His blue eyes were mesmerizing as they met hers. No matter how much she steeled herself against his magnetic charm and the inevitable effect he had upon her, there was no way to remain impervious. Not when he towered over her, his lips so full and perfect, his cheekbones strong slashes, his jaw angular, his chin proud. Why did he have to be so dratted irresistible?
