Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,68

compliments via one of the footmen after the meal. The vicar’s housekeeper was still in residence. Pru was as well because the rain had not let up. Clopdon had reported the front lawn looked rather like a pond. Mr. Forester, the land steward, had sent word that the last of the fields had been harvested a couple of days ago and the barns were all on higher ground. He did not expect there to be a problem as the river that ran through Milcroft was low and could easily absorb the excess water now pouring into it.

Nash was also happy to hear that Forester had called on the Smiths this afternoon and assured them they would not be required to pay their rents that quarter. Mr. Smith was out of bed and doing better, and with Mrs. Brown’s help, the family now had provisions enough to see them through the winter. Nash had asked for a list of any other tenants struggling, and Forester was to deliver that by the end of the week.

The rain did slacken after dinner, but not enough to allow travel, and Nash was assured Pru would be under his roof tonight. He liked the idea of her under his roof. A few weeks ago, he hadn’t wanted anyone near him. He hadn’t trusted anyone. But she had given him hope for the future. That hope had given him permission to trust again.

It wasn’t all Pru, of course. Rowden had scared the hell out of him when he’d shown up and told Nash his father intended to send him to an asylum. Nash was still under threat. But at least now he had hope.

As he listened to Pru and Rowden chat about the upcoming autumn festival, he realized that he felt content. He had to think back long and hard to remember when he had last felt content.

A chair scraped back, and Nash saw Rowden’s form rise. Nash rose as well.

“Thank you for a lovely dinner,” Pru said. “I know Mrs. Blimkin will want to leave early tomorrow so I had better go to bed. Good night, Mr. Payne.”

“Good night, Miss Howard.”

“Good night, Mr. Pope,” she said.

“Good night, Pru.”

No one spoke for a moment, and then she cleared her throat. But Nash didn’t correct his error. He hadn’t said her name in error.

“Good night then,” she said and was gone.

Nash’s arse had barely touched the seat again when Rowden said, “I hope neither of you has plans to ever tread the boards. You’re both terrible actors. She’s even worse than you. Do you really think this is a good idea?”

Nash didn’t pretend he didn’t know what Rowden was talking about. “I want her.”

“That’s not the point. A couple weeks ago I arrived to find you drunk, contemplating putting a pistol in your mouth, and living in squalor. Your father is still threatening to have you committed. You think a scandal involving a woman from the village—a woman living under the vicar’s roof—is wise?”

“There’s no guarantee she’ll come to me tonight.”

“You didn’t see the way she looked at you. She’d be in your bed now if she could manage it.”

“And I should send her away?”

“You should have a care for your own self-preservation.”

Nash nodded. “For the first time in years, I do actually have a care about myself. And that’s in large part due to Miss Howard.”

“This is the part where you thank me.”

“I would, but you foisted Clopdon on me, and I cannot thank you for that.”

“Point taken,” Rowden said with a laugh. “Now heed my advice. Give her a kiss and send her back to her own chamber. In a few weeks your father will have visited, and we will have convinced him of your sanity and respectability. Once the threat of a lifetime of confinement isn’t hanging over your head, you can do what you like. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Bloody hell, Nash. At least try to make me believe you’re listening to me.”

NASH TRIED TO DRAG out the hours until midnight as best he could. He’d prepared for bed and sent Clopdon away then sat down by the fire, listening to its hiss and crackle as well as the steady patter of rain outside. He couldn’t read, but he could write a bit now, thanks to Pru. Nash went to his desk, a piece of furniture he barely remembered he owned, and drew out a slip of paper. With effort and patience, he pressed the nib of a pen into the paper until he could feel the