had traded awkward conversation through an uncomfortable dinner where, thank heavens, her younger twin sisters, Felicity and Mercy, were sprightly enough at nineteen to chat incessantly when heavy silences threatened to descend.
After a sumptuous but abbreviated three courses, the ladies had been asked to withdraw to the parlor so the men could talk.
They’d been talking for entirely too long.
Prudence glared at the door. Her father and husband were discussing, nay, deciding her future somewhere beyond. Shouldn’t she at least be there? Shouldn’t she have a say?
A lump of dread had lodged within her throat, and try as she might, she could not swallow it.
She mustn’t be surprised. When had she ever wielded power over her own life?
Especially when it came to marriage.
It wasn’t as though Sutherland had been her first proposal. She’d offers from Barons, foreign leaders and dignitaries, a Viscount, and even an American magnate she’d liked once.
But her father had rebuffed them all, holding out for an offer that never seemed to come until, somehow, she’d found herself firmly on the shelf.
It was Honoria, herself, who’d long-ago suggested an alignment with George. Honoria’s husband, William, was both besotted with and devoted to her. Woodhaven and Sutherland were great friends, and he very much wanted his best friend married to his wife’s sister, even if he had to press the man into the arrangement.
George had so much as admitted it. “I never thought to have a wife. Sorry you’ll be stuck with me, old thing, as I’m terribly certain I’ll make a horrendous husband.” He chucked her on the chin, and everyone had laughed as though life would be a lark.
But in reality, they’d been laughing at her. Poor Prudence. She’d be stuck at home while her husband spent her fortune on other women. He’d gamble everything away and she’d nothing to say about it.
But at least her child would have a name.
The irony of it all was, being a wife and mother was all Pru had ever desired. She’d no great need to be an accomplished and influential noble matron, nor a modern single woman with progressive sensibilities. She left that to women possessed of better and bolder minds than she.
Her hours were happily spent enjoying simple pleasures. Riding fine horses on beautiful days and reading fine books on dreary ones. Shopping with her sisters. Paying calls on friends. Attending interesting lectures, diverting theater productions, and breathtaking musical venues.
She didn’t dream of an important life, just a happy one. One with a handsome man who loved her, and healthy children to do them credit and fill their lives with joy.
And now, it seemed, one mistake in a fairy garden precipitated a lifetime of misery, scandal, and, at least for the moment, immediate imprisonment in her husband’s home until everything was decided by men who knew better.
It was enough to crush her.
“Did you hear me, Prudence?” Baroness Charlotte Goode’s shrill question broke her of trying to stare through a solid door.
Pru put her fingers to her aching temples, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. “I’m sorry, Mother, what were you saying?”
Pursing her lips, Lady Goode clutched a dazzling shawl around her diminutive shoulders and shivered. “I was wondering at the dark fireplace, dear. One would worry if your new husband can afford to warm the house.”
Considering the sum Morley had paid for her freedom without blinking, Pru very much doubted the man had trouble keeping the household. Though, there did seem to be an alarming lack of staff for such a grand, sizeable home.
“It’s still warm, Mother,” she said with a droll breath, doing her best not to roll her eyes.
“He likely didn’t want us overheating, Mama,” Felicity defended from where she perched on a delicate couch overlooking the lovely cobbled street. Even in the dim gaslights of the late evening, her coiffure glinted like spun gold.
Mercy, never one to sit still for long, handed her mother a glass. “Drink this sherry, it’ll warm you.”
The Baroness took the drink, her shrewd dark eyes touched everything from the golden sconces to the muted sage and cream furniture of the sparsely decorated parlor. “You’ll have to engage my decorator, of course. You can’t be expected to live in such barren conditions. The house is nearly empty and old enough to be decrepit. I mean, look at the panes in the windows, they’re positively melting. And only three courses for your wedding meal? It’s as if—”
“It’s as if I were released from prison for murder only this morning to be saved by a man