loves her. Even William…even me. I suppose we should tell her.”
William Mosby, Viscount Woodhaven, was George’s closest compatriot, and Honoria’s husband.
Now that Pru thought about it, Honoria hadn’t seemed particularly pleased with the betrothal, and she’d always assumed it was because Pru was marrying an Earl when William was merely a Viscount, and thereby his social inferior.
She’d been so absurdly blind.
Amanda let out a disenchanted sigh. “Pru needs to learn how the world works, eventually. That it’s not all ponies and balls and butterfly nets.”
Honoria sucked her lip between her teeth, a gesture she made whenever she was conflicted. “Though, I’d hate to ruin her wedding for her, and it’s not as if she can break the engagement now. I should have warned her off George ages ago, but William expressly forbade it.”
Amanda nodded, smoothing the creases from her cream gown. “It’s kind of us, I think, to maintain her frivolous naiveté for a bit longer.”
“Yes. Kind.” Honoria’s famous composure crumpled for the slightest moment, uncovering the features of a woman beset by abject misery. “She’s a lifetime to be disappointed by a husband.”
Pru clapped two hands over her mouth to keep from saying anything. From screaming in the middle of the bustling park loud and long enough for all of London’s elite to hear. She couldn’t face them yet. She couldn’t sort through her hurt and anger and humiliation enough to land on a single thing to say.
Frivolous naiveté? Was this really what they thought of her? Her best friend and her elder sister? Honoria… the woman she’d idolized for the whole of her life. The bastion of feminine perfection against which she’d been measured. The loveliest debutante to grace Her Majesty’s halls in decades.
And Amanda? The naughty sprite who’d collected all her secrets and her sorrows. Who’d bounced and giggled through life with nary a care.
“Speaking of disappointing husbands…mine will be back in town tomorrow night,” Amanda distracted Pru by saying. “And so, I think that one with the muscular legs will be my next acquisition.” Amanda pointed in the direction of the riders, and Pru blinked through gathering tears in confusion.
Her friend had never expressed a great interest in horseflesh, and her husband was more interested in estate acquisitions than equine. He owned half of Cheshire.
“I’ve always admired your taste,” Honoria said approvingly.
Amanda leaned in closer. “Lady Westlawn told me he brought her to completion twice in one night. In fact, he was so skilled, she gave him one of her coveted diamonds.” The sound Amanda made was laced with enough licentiousness to bring about a biblical plague.
Pru gaped. They weren’t speculating about horseflesh at all. But the men astride!
“To the Stags of St. James.” Amanda lifted her lemonade for a “cheers” in the fashion of a bawdy sailor at a public house. “Are you certain you won’t try one?”
Honoria clinked her glass with Amanda’s but set it down at her elbow. “As tempted as I am, William has me on a tight leash.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t come and look,” Amanda offered. “That’s nothing more than window-shopping, really.”
“No. I suppose it doesn’t.” Honoria stood and drifted toward the Row, a trailing Amanda in her wake.
Pru couldn’t stand any more. She’d fled home and immediately begged her father to break their engagement.
He’d blustered through his stately beard. “You and your sisters are beautiful enough to tempt men away from their mistresses, Pru. I dare say Honoria did, and you’re almost her equal.” He patted her head with the sort of fond deference he showed his hounds. “Sutherland is an Earl, a vital man of true English blue blood and the…passions and tempers to match.”
“But, Papa,” she’d sobbed. “He’ll humiliate me. He’ll make me a laughingstock.”
“Nonsense. Sutherland has always been a discreet man. This marriage is your duty to your family, so don’t let your doddle-headed fancies of romance get in the way of that, do you hear me? You will say nothing of this to Sutherland and when he next comes to court you, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, or I’ll not be responsible for what I do!”
A distraught and sodden Pru had then taken her shattered soul to her mother, asking her to mend it. Begging her to intervene.
“It is the practice of men to have mistresses, dear. And you’ll find it’s a blessing in the end…” With that crisp reply, she’d nailed the coffin shut on any hope Pru had of reclaiming a sense of herself.