Something caught his attention then. Something quite curious indeed.
It seemed Pru had left behind her book.
Pru fled.
It was becoming something of an unfortunate habit since Lord Ashley Rawdon had entered her life. The blustery wind assailed her, sending sleet into her face. She held her muffler in one hand and her skirts and pelisse in the other as she frantically trudged along the path, back toward Abingdon House. She had not bothered to see if he chased after her. If he chose, she had no doubt he could catch up to her in no time, with his long-legged strides unencumbered by a gown and petticoats.
But she was too angry too care.
Angry with him.
Angry with herself.
Hot tears of humiliation stung her eyes, blurring her vision along with the sleet pelting her. How easily she had been led into being a rakehell’s prey. All it required was a handsome face, a charming grin, nimble fingers, and knowing kisses, and she had nearly been his.
How had she ever allowed herself to believe a word that man had uttered? He had convinced her he was aiding his socially awkward, perpetually quiet brother in finding a wife. What a paragon he had seemed, so caring, so concerned for his brother’s future. And then, when his true motives had begun to show after that first kiss, she had allowed herself to become swept up in his skilled seductions.
She had kissed him back.
Had been tempted by him.
Had spent the last week longing for him, at war with herself over the way he made her feel. Because wanting him was dangerous and selfish and foolish…
Stupid, as it turned out. So horribly, unutterably stupid.
“Pru!”
His voice rang out. The slamming of the door to the false ruins echoed through the little copse of pine trees surrounding it. She turned back to find him trudging through the snow after her. His head was bare, and he was not even wearing his greatcoat. Nothing but shirtsleeves and waistcoat to defend his skin from the punishing sleet and cold winter’s air.
For a moment, she actually felt sorry for him.
And then she remembered what a manipulative scoundrel he was. Why, he had nearly removed her gown all whilst kissing her. He was more skilled than any lady’s maid she had ever known, the wretched rogue.
“Leave me alone, you cad!” she hollered at him before continuing to make her miserable journey back to the main house.
But to make matters worse, she attempted to run too quickly, and her boots slid on the fresh coating of ice pellets over snow. She lost her balance, waving her arms like a Bedlamite, and went down like a sack of flour. Her bottom slammed hard into the packed gravel of the path, with nothing to pad her fall save a small layer of icy snow.
Pain shot through her, and she clenched her teeth against it.
“Pru, my God, have you hurt yourself?” demanded the rake she had been running from.
Part of her wanted to believe the concern in his voice was real, but then she pushed that notion away, reminding herself that nothing about him was true. It was all one big, deliberate act. Seduce the eldest Winter daughter, the long Meg, the one no one else wants.
Another wave of misery crashed upon her.
Pru was aware of what everyone said about her. About how awkward it was to be the tallest female in the chamber, and a wicked Winter as well. How could she have allowed him to make her feel wanted? To fool her into believing a beautiful man like him would actually desire her?
“Go away!” she yelled at him, doing her best not to cry.
She allowed herself a stunned moment of remaining where she was, because the agony of her pain—both physical and emotional—was too great to bear. But then her pride roared to the fore, telling her she was Pru Winter, damn it. And she did not wallow in her misery for any man.
Not even the second son of a duke.
Especially not Lord Ashley Rawdon.
Her palms burned as she flattened them on the ice and snow to leverage herself back into a standing position. Her muffler was gone, her hat knocked desperately askew in her pitiful plunge. The sleet only seemed to come down harder, adding to her dejection.
And then, he was there. Of course, he was, the rotten knave.
