Free Compromising Prudence by Marguerite Butler Page B

to step back, to put space between them. He couldn’t think with her breasts crushed against him. The fabric of her gown was so thin, he could feel every lush curve underneath, warm against his hands.
    He groaned and rested his forehead against hers. “My own. I made a promise to myself.”
    “I won’t hold you to it.”
    “I’m a man, not a beast.”
    “You can be both with me.”
    That did it. He pulled away slightly. “Not tonight, Prudence. Tomorrow I will be your husband, but tonight I will remain a gentleman. I won’t ruin you.”
    “I’m already ruined, thoroughly and completely ruined. Well, actually just a tiny bit ruined because he barely kissed me, but — ”
    “No buts, Miss Wemberly.” He put her firmly away.
    She narrowed her eyes.
    “I see. Oh, how very like a man. You will decide what is best for me. You kiss me and arouse me, tempt me with carnal thoughts and then put me aside for my own good. I am heartily sick of being told what I will do and when I will do it!”
    “Prudence — ”
    “Oh, no! I’m Miss Wemberly again, am I not, Mr. Hatterly? Very well, if it’s a dutiful wife in name only that you’re seeking, by all means, I shall leave you to you birds. I’m fatigued anyway.”
    She stormed from the room leaving him in that befuddled state that only she could induce. What the devil had just happened? His bride-to-be was as mercurial as May weather.
    A glass of brandy did little to steady his nerves and so Charles retreated to the only thing in the world that ever made complete sense to him. He went to his study to work.

    Pru spent a restless night plagued by warped dreams of being married in her nightrail. Birds nested in her hair. Tommy Petworth and his wretched friends snickered in the choir loft while Papa and several members of Parliament sang mournful hymns.
    From nowhere, an orchestra broke into a country reel and all the attendants began dancing. Merriment reigned until the music became a waltz and Papa halted the celebration with the announcement that no daughter of his would ever waltz — even though they now allowed the dance at Almack’s. When Mrs. Forbes finally pronounced them to be wed, Hatterly snatched her up and plopped her down on a white mare. He slapped its rear and announced, “Off you go!”
    Perhaps it was the clatter of wheels or the bell of the ragman, but Pru woke uncharacteristically early and summoned her abigail. Her eyes were dry and scratchy from her miserable night. She wanted nothing more than breakfast. She was surprised to find Hatterly already seated in the morning room drinking his coffee and perusing the Times. He set down his paper with a slight frown.
    He did not appear to have spent a night as wretched as hers. He looked rested and quite handsome in his morning coat. But she did need to apologize. She opened her mouth.
    “I’m sorry about last evening,” he said.
    “You are sorry?”
    “Of course I am. Please, sit. Poor honey, you look quite fatigued.”
    She took her place at the table. Lizzie poured her a cup and set a basket of scones within reach. Pru took her time buttering it. Of course she appeared fatigued , the looking glass had told her that much and her abigail had tutted about the circles under her eyes. She didn’t need him to remind her as well.
    He started again. “I’m sorry I made you feel — ”
    “Don’t you dare !” She savagely slathered on more butter.
    Hatterly broke the scone he was holding in half. “Miss Wemberly…Pru…”
    “Don’t you dare apologize for my poor behavior last night.” She set down her scone which was now thoroughly caked in butter. “I am the one who must apologize here. You behaved like a perfect gentleman and I was a horrible little shrew. My anger was not directed at you.” Pru chose her words carefully.
    “I rather thought not.”
    “Did you?”
    “I didn’t mean to be so provoking. Hatterly, you can’t. You just cannot do this.” His brow wrinkled in confusion.