Page 20 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

Chapter Five

“So that would make you the 4th Baronet Wilkins,” Prunella said. She held her hands tightly in her lap as the footman, for the baronet’s house could support a manservant, laid a row of gleaming silver covers down the dining table.

“Of Corsham,” said his grandmother, Lady Wilkins. “Properly, we call this little hamlet Easton. But my husband the new baronet was born in Corsham, and he commissioned the house after he was granted the title.”

“For valor demonstrated in the First Carnatic War,” Prunella said. She didn’t know what the Carnatic War was, though her ladyship had attempted to explain. The British had fought against the Marathas—or was it the Mysores?—and the result was, the French East India Company had been pushed aside and the British East India Company gained territory, and Peter’s grandfather had done something to distinguish himself enough as a soldier that he was granted a title and a coat of arms that could be passed down to sons.

There was also, apparently, some amount of wealth stemming from his accomplishment. “And he built this house for you, following his elevation.”

“For our family,” Barbara said, with some degree of smugness. She nodded to the footman to withdraw to the sideboard and reached for the platter of fricasseed chard, signaling that the diners would serve themselves á la française. It was only the three of them: Prunella, the baronet, and the grandmother, who was proving more formidable than Lydia.

“He called the house Rowan Hill. For reasons you might guess.” Pete heaped his plate from the platters set on his end of the table, two small fowls, a potted lobster, and duck á la mode.

Prunella had a leveret, stewed endive, and lamb in béchamel sauce. She took a generous portion of each. Her mother wasn’t here to glare at her for the amount of food she selected, and neither was Lydia.

“I’m fond of the rowan,” Prunella said. She was determined to be civil, even if she’d sustained any number of shocks today. “The flowers are so lovely in the spring, and I adore the red berries this time of year.”

“The housekeeper makes a jelly you’ll see on all the game served at this table,” Pete said. “Former housekeeper, that is.” He sent a look Prunella couldn’t decipher down the table at his grandmother, an expression both puzzled and wary.

“And a cordial. Perhaps I’ll serve you some after the meal.” Barbara beckoned the footman to bring her a partridge and carve it. So dishes at the baronet’s table did not languish out of reach; Prunella might ask the footman to bring her anything she wished. What a revelation.

That and the man sitting to her left. Her wild Welsh ruffian, the rogue she’d kissed in the garden with all the abandon of a wanton who hadn’t been touched in years, was in fact the baronet, the owner of this lovely estate, her kidnapper and her host.

Her lips still burned with the press of his mouth. The skin of her jaw had shown pink in her hand mirror as she dressed for dinner, the result of rubbing her face against his. And her breasts—she had best not think of her breasts while Pete was sitting beside her. She longed, with a maniacal intensity, for him to touch her breasts again.

She shoved a bit of leveret into her mouth and chewed. “And Sir Peter inherited from his cousin,” she said when she’d finished. It was conversation, and Prunella excelled at pleasant conversation. She knew precisely how to draw out a host or hostess so they might dwell at length on their favorite subject, which was usually themselves. And she could, in the process, learn more about this man.

He wore an evening coat of bottle green with a velvet turned-down collar, cutaway to reveal a waistcoat of matching green with gold embroidery beneath. When she’d made her entry into the dining parlor, he’d bowed to her, and Prunella had made little attempt to keep from staring. When he kidnapped her, he’d worn the fustian and cotton of a working man. In evening dress, with buttery yellow breeches and white silk stockings tucked into black pumps, he could pass for any lord or gentleman who might dine at Lydia’s table in London.

Save that the fine tailoring of his suit could do nothing to disguise the powerful lines of his body. He was built like a bull, deep chest and strong legs. She’d nestled against that chest earlier. She’d felt those legs against her rear, hard as iron. She’d felt his strength.

And his virility. He’d desired her this afternoon, and he desired her now. His cheeks flushed a dull red as Prunella stared at him while delicately chewing another bit of leveret. She wasn’t about to let her circumstances ruin her appetite for this lovely meal. Nor let him think, for a moment, that he had an advantage over her, simply because he’d overturned her assumptions in every possible way.

“Call me Pete,” he said gruffly.

“Sir Peter,” his grandmother reproved him. “His cousin, Sir Barnaby, the 3rd Baronet, died this spring. It was quite unexpected. I’d known that boy from a babe in arms, for I lived here with my son, Elmer, after my dear Ebeneezer died. He built this house for me, Ebeneezer did. I was allowed to lay everything out to my liking.”

“’Tis a beautiful house,” Prunella said, which was more than polite agreement. The house was a polished jewel of balanced symmetry. Tall French windows looked out onto the stone terrace, letting in the bronze glow of a setting sun that polished the apricot-papered walls and dark wood to a warm gleam.

If Prunella were allowed to lay out a home of her own, her ideal little stone cottage, it would look like Rowan Hill in nearly every respect.

“Barnaby wanted to demolish half of my beautiful house and rebuild in some horrid Gothic style.” Barbara sniffed. “Can you imagine? He would have utterly destroyed the character of the place.”

Prunella watched Pete, who stared at his plate. He ate mechanically, inserting bites of food and chewing without enjoyment. “Were you close with your cousin?” she asked gently.

“I never met him.”

“But how could that be?”

“My uncle Elmer inherited. My father…”

“Nathaniel,” Barbara said, and her tone was cold and brittle.

“My father left as soon as he was old enough to work. Five and ten, was he?”

“Four,” Barbara whispered, staring at the delicate lace cloth covering the table.

“Went to North Wales,” Pete said. “Found a job in the slate mines in Merionethshire. Met my sainted mother, and when the mine worked him to death, she brought us south to Cardiff.”