Page 1 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

Chapter One

Newport, Wales, July 1799

Prunella Price, observing the rites of holy matrimony taking place before her, decided three things, there and then.

Item the first: she would never again submit to being the property of a man. Ever.

Second: She would secure an establishment of her own in which she could live in peace, at the bidding of no one and nothing but her own whims. She would eat cake with any meal she wanted, tea or breakfast. And she would adopt a furry companion, most likely a cat, on account that cats never submitted to being someone’s property, either.

Third: she would insist on being addressed by the name she preferred. No more Pru, Pruny, or Prunelope, the silly name her sisters gave her. She wanted a dashing name, the name of a woman who had been the favorite mistress of a scandalous king. She would be Nell.

Nell Price, no longer under the thumb of her mother-in-law, the Dowager Lady Penrydd—who was the first Lady Penrydd, Prunella being the second, and the young woman at the altar about to become the third.

Lydia, the Dowager Viscountess, sat beside Prunella in the small medieval chapel with her back stiff and lips pursed as if she held a lemon tucked between them. She was not enjoying this wedding, but Lydia was the type of person who observed the niceties even if it killed her.

Prunella didn’t care to flay herself in the service of courtesy, but her heart softened with pity at the woman’s plight. Lydia had married the widowed 2nd Viscount Penrydd when she was beautiful and full of ambition, and she had enjoyed the title and status and had taken as little a part in mothering his three children as it was possible to take. She was here because the groom now saying his vows, newly the 4th Viscount Penrydd, Rhydian Price, ran the estate that provided Lydia’s jointure, the annual stipend she lived on, and her pin money. Her detested stepson controlled Lydia’s finances, her economic security, and her future.

He also controlled Prunella’s.

Prunella studied the figure in one of the chapel’s stained-glass windows as the couple swore to cherish one another. Not so long ago she’d said those same vows to Edwin Price, the groom’s older brother, who had for a few years been the 3rd Viscount Penrydd.

How nervous she’d been, stuttering at the thought that he was swearing to worship her with his body. They’d been acquainted for a matter of weeks and there she was, giving over her whole self to a man she knew very little about, other than that he was heir to a lord of the realm with estates in Essex and Wales, he liked riding, and he liked Prunella.

Or at least, he had chosen her over all the other women he’d been offered, which must mean something.

That near-stranger, blond and broad and genial, had become her husband and governor, her lord and the head of her household. Where once her mission in life had been to secure an offer of marriage that would relieve her parents of the charge of her and provide connections that might raise her sisters, following marriage Prunella’s new mission in life was to keep Edwin’s houses, be his viscountess, and raise children to bring honors to the Price name, glory to the Penrydd title, and a prop to their parents in their twilight years.

How little of that had gone to plan.

The new Lord Penrydd gave his new wife a kiss, marking the end of the ceremony. It was rather a confident kiss; they must have anticipated their vows.

Prunella sighed. She did not miss much about her marriage, but conjugal relations had been pleasurable. Edwin hadn’t been particularly imaginative in bed, but he’d adored her body as promised. She couldn’t hope to enjoy those pleasures in life again until she had a place of her own into which she might invite a man.

And to do that, she must extract herself from the fate of being the lifelong unpaid companion to the irascible Lydia, who felt that some sacrifice was worth the title of viscountess.

As if sensing the need for reproof, Lydia prodded her sharp elbow into Prunella’s side. “Do pay attention,” she hissed from one side of her mouth.

“Amen,” Prunella said automatically, but she was observing how the saints in the stained-glass windows of the tiny medieval chapel all seemed to be smirking at them.

If Rhydian controlled Prunella’s fortunes, then all she need do is ask him, nicely, to give her what was her portion. She had come with Lydia to this remote corner of Britain—Wales, so far from the civilized center of the country, and with the wild landscape to prove it—to recall the new viscount to his responsibilities.

Turns out he had fallen out of contact with his family because he’d been beaten by criminals, lost his memory, and had been nursed back to health by Gwenllian, who ran an establishment of some sorts out of this ancient property they called St. Sefin’s, which was falling into ruin in places and was almost certainly inhabited by mice.

Rhydian was marrying the girl as a result of their adventures, and he had his memory back, so Prunella could now attend to the matter of how she would spend the rest of her life. Not under Lydia’s thumb, not any longer.

She looked around her, curious about the place. Imagine, all the time she had been married to Edwin, he had owned this property and never thought about it. Certainly the old priory had never come to Prunella’s attention as one of the households she must look after. Gwen had been squatting here all this time, taking in her odd assortment of strays and outcasts, and Edwin had never known. Rhydian hadn’t, either.

That was what Prunella ought to do: find a household of her own to run. Of course, as the daughter of a gentleman and now a dowager viscountess she’d go about it respectably, not simply take over property that belonged to someone else. She wasn’t about to take in strays, either, as Prunella wasn’t the nurturing sort. But a soft, plump cat would be nice for sitting on her lap on chilly evenings.

Perhaps, Prunella thought, fanning herself dreamily, she would even take a lover. Discreetly, of course. A meek man this time, mild of spirit, like the vicar saying the words over Rhydian and his lady. London was so hectic, crowded and noisy. Lydia loved it, but Prunella did not. She would find herself a small country village, set herself up as the reigning lady of the neighborhood, and seduce the vicar.

She giggled at the heady thought. Not of seduction, but of freedom. The power to choose for and govern herself. Something she had never had.

Lydia applied her sharp elbow once more. “We’ve the breakfast to sit through, and Gwenllian did not hire a proper cook. I suppose we’re to suffer Welsh dishes, and not a single one will be palatable.”

Prunella rose, gathering the skirts of her white muslin gown and brushing away the sawdust that had settled upon them from the newly restored ceiling. She was quite pleased with her smart ensemble, which Lydia had thought her foolish for bringing to Wales, but here they were attending a wedding, so it turned out she had chosen well.

The white muslin round gown cinched in the bodice with a demi-corset of velour, dyed in the popular coquelicot, the color of a wild poppy. A band of matching velour trimmed her hem and the toque covering her hair. Her white silk gloves ran all the way up her arms, while much of her bosom lay bare to the cool calm air within the church.