Free Heather and Velvet by Teresa Medeiros Page B

satisfaction in the pain. She started to braid her hair, then stopped. What difference did it make? There was no one to see her in the privacy of her simple chamber. She slammed a nightcap on her head with enough force to cover her eyes.
    A hairpin jabbed her heel as she padded blindly to the bed. She crawled beneath the counterpane, pillowed her head on folded arms, and glared up at the tent-bed’s canopy. Tricia had a massive mahogany bedstead with fluted posts and embroidered tester. Prudence’s small bed was crafted of light iron and shrouded with white muslin. Polished brass finials topped the bedposts.
    As she rolled to her side and pounded her bolster into submission, she had the discomfiting sensation that she was eleven years old again and struggling to understand why Papa must send every extra tuppence to his “poor orphaned little sister.”
    “Be patient, my Prudence,” he would say. “All it will take is one word from the king and your future will be secure. Our day will soon arrive.” Prudence was still waiting.
    While she and her papa had lived in rustic comfort in a two-room apartment in London, Tricia had luxuriated in the Northumberland countryside, collecting and discarding Hepplewhite pier-tables and fawning beaux with equal panache. Prudence had tried not to resent her lovely aunt.
    To Prudence, Tricia’s infrequent calls to their cluttered lodgings had been like the earthly visitations of a satin-swathed fairy. Tricia would pat her cheek, her fingers cool beneath their net gloving. An irresistible sympathy would warm her amber eyes as she pressed a perfumed kerchief to her dainty nose. For a brief moment, basking in the glow of Tricia’s attention, Prudence would find it not so terrible to be smart and skinny and plain.
    The sympathy in Sebastian’s touch told her otherwise. Prudence flung herself onto her stomach. Sympathy was tookind a word. Perhaps someday she would learn to separate it from pity.
    Coach wheels rattled on the cobblestones of the drive. Tricia’s lilting farewell drifted up through Prudence’s open window. Devony Blake, she thought, was now free to go home and dream of her mystery bandit with the relentless hands and heated lips, while Tricia was left to do more than dream with a man who was a greater mystery than she knew.
    Prudence sighed, wishing her kitten was snuggled beside her. He was probably in the herb garden, chasing moonbeams and dreaming of bewhiskered fairies. Why should he be at her side when she needed him? What could she expect of a beast with a treacherous name like Sebastian? Especially a male beast.
    A board creaked on the stairs. She pulled the counterpane over her head. A hushed whisper was followed by a throaty giggle, then the giggle was muffled abruptly in a manner Prudence did not choose to explore. A door closed. The house fell silent.
    Prudence lay still until her legs grew stiff and she wearied of breathing the air beneath the stifling confines of the covers. How dare the scoundrel pity her? she thought, throwing back the counterpane.
    She rose to pace the room. Moonlight slanted like prison bars across the rug. A brisk night breeze stirred the ruffled curtains. Her restlessness grew until it bordered on wildness. She picked up a book and tossed it down, then strode to the ceramic water pitcher.
    It was empty.
    It was just like the maids to forget to fill it, she thought. No doubt Tricia’s pitcher was brimming over with cold water. Old Fish had probably shaved the ice himself for her ladyship’s pleasure.
    Prudence’s throat suddenly felt as parched as if she’d trekked across the Sahara without benefit of a camel. She tightened her jaw, telling herself she would not remain a prisoner in her bedroom for the rest of her life, simply because her aunt had the insensitivity to marry a highwayman.
    She donned a wrapper and stuck her head out the door to peer both ways. The long corridor was empty. A single candle in a glass sconce cast a gentle