She opened her mouth, then closed it again. People spoke of being speechless—struck dumb with shock—but he’d always thought it a figure of speech.
Until now.
At last, she found her tongue. “You don’t need me, my lord. If you find the field of, er…hopeful young ladies too overwhelming, you can always put off marriage until next season. I can’t think why you’re in such a rush to wed, in any case. You can’t be more than thirty years old.”
Thirty! Presumptuous chit. “I’m twenty-eight, but I don’t wed only for my own sake, Miss Mathilda. I have a child to think of.”
Her eyes went wide. “A child? You have a…oh, dear.”
Well, he could hardly blame her for thinking what she was so clearly thinking, could he? “He’s not my child, but my Uncle Freddy’s son. Samuel Henry Egan, two months old, and already an orphan. Would you doom the poor mite to another year of a motherless existence?”
“A motherless…” She trailed off. “I, ah, I don’t…I think, Lord Prestwick, that I’d better return to Lady Fosberry now.”
He didn’t argue, or make any move to stop her, but only inclined his head. “As you wish, Miss Mathilda, but do think about what I said, won’t you? I think you’re, er…just the lady I need.”
She didn’t reply, but turned without a word and hurried through the door, her white skirts flying behind her as she rushed across the grounds. He watched her go, then stood at the window for a long time afterwards, an uneasy prickling in his chest.
His courtship of Lady Harriett was at an end, but the curse was still very much alive, and Freddy’s son Samuel as much in danger of falling victim to it as he’d ever been. He couldn’t bear to leave an innocent child to suffer the punishment for a century’s worth of Prestwick sins.
Samuel was Freddy’s son. Freddy’sson, and the only family member Kit had left.
He’d never abandon him.
He still needed a wife, and it wouldn’t be Lady Harriett. He couldn’t regret it. Miss Mathilda was right—they didn’t suit, and the prospect of marriage with her brought him no pleasure.
As for Mathilda Templeton…
She drove him mad with her sharp tongue, and those blue eyes filled with mischief. She was a vixen, a termagant, and the very last sort of lady he’d ever imagined himself marrying, but he was far from indifferent to her.
Even if he had been, it wouldn’t have mattered.
He’d compromised her. Not intentionally, no. It had been an accident, but that would make no difference to theton, if the story ever came to light.
Then, of course, there was the curse.
A compromised young lady was a compromised young lady, regardless of the circumstances, and the only cure for ruination was marriage.
And if his conscience was now pricking at him for luring her into a courtship through trickery, it wasn’t because of the shadows he’d seen in her eyes just before she’d fled.
It wasn’t that, at all.
ChapterNine
“Apicnic, of all wretched things.” Darby took in the scene before them, his lips turned down in a scowl. “You do realize, Prestwick, that we could be enjoying a perfectly civilized meal at White’s right now?”
“Only you could find fault with a picnic, Darby.”
“We’re obliged to sit on theground.” Darby cast a dark glance at the lawn spread out before them. “These are new pantaloons! Rusticating is the most barbaric thing imaginable, Prestwick.”
Kit sighed, but to be fair, if their roles had been reversed, and it was Darby who was dragging him through every dull entertainment of the season in order to avoid an ancient curse that may or may not be real, he would likely have complained, as well. There was little about the London season to amuse a rake.
“Come now, Darby, it’s not as awful as you make it out to be. Just look.” Kit swept his hand over the pastoral scene before them. “Can’t you find anything here to please you?”
It was rare warm spring day, and Lady Fanshawe had made the most of it by moving her breakfast party outdoors to the wide expanse of lawn that rolled out in a ribbon of verdant green, transforming what would no doubt have been a dull, stuffy affair into a delightful picnic.
At least, her guests appeared to be finding it delightful.
Young ladies lounged on the blankets spread out across the lawn, their pastel skirts fluttering in the light breeze. Dozens of harried servants dashed about, delivering wicker picnic hampers to each party. It was a pretty scene, and if he could judge by the laughter drifting on the breeze, everyone was enjoying themselves.
