Seduce Me, If You Dare by Alyssa Clarke

Chapter Thirteen

Pre peeked over her easel, wanting to see whatever Oscar was painting but determined not to distract his rapt concentration. They had decided to spend the morning in the gardens as it was such a bright and glorious day. The sun was out, the profusion of flowers were at their best, their perfume delighted her, and the birds fluttered about in the gardens making the scene enchanting. They were not in the country; however, the back gardens of their townhouse were rather lovely and large enough for them to picnic outside and set up wicker chairs and easels to paint.

Prue had always been poor at watercolors. She bit back her smile, fearing his judgement on her artistic efforts, her aptitude seemed so meagre in comparison to his extraordinary talent. She was anxious about what he would think upon seeing her artwork, she had chosen to portray Cleopatra as she lazed in the sun on the lush green grass. It was as if the feline knew she was much admired and remained still to allow herself to be painted. Prue hadn’t the heart to tell her husband that she was atrocious at painting, one of her many failings, according to her governess and tutors. Once he saw her efforts, the truth would make itself evident.

They had been outside for almost two hours, and Oscar was serenely concentrated as he swiped his brush in graceful strokes over his canvas. A rush of mischief gripped her, and leaning over, Prue dabbed the end of her brush in the pigments he had prepared for her earlier, walked over and drew a line under his cheek. Oscar glanced at her and Prue chuckled at his wholly befuddled expression.

He wiped at the spot and his fingers came away with green color. “What are you doing, countess?”

“I am playing with you, husband. No need to look so perturbed.”

“I am a man of two and thirty. I do not play games.”

“Oh, ancient one,” she said gravely. “We must remedy that right away.” Prue then drew a line on his nose. His narrowed gaze was the only warning she got before he lunged at her. With a shriek of laughter, she dropped the brush on the grass and attempted to dart away. He grabbed her about the waist, spinning her around. His eyes gleamed with devilry, and then he started tickling her. Oh, blast!

“Mercy.” she cried, laughing uncontrollably. “Mercy!”

“That can only be gained with kisses, madam.”

“Then a kiss you shall have, my lord.” With a laugh, she wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her mouth.

“What is the meaning of this ruckus?” An imperious voice snapped.

Prue froze and snapped her head around to see how who intruded on their perfect paradise. Blast. It was his mother, the dowager Countess of Wycliffe, who wore an expression of appalled alarm. Outside of that, she appeared the picture of robust health. The dowager countess was gowned in a lovely dove gray silken gown, her dark hair showing no hint of gray upswept in an artful chignon. Prue had often wondered if the dowager’s hair color owed its depth to some secret alchemical substance or possibly to the chanting of unholy spells. Her face bore little traces of age, though Prue knew her to be a lady of one and fifty. Prue’s cheeks heated, and she stepped from his arms, aware that his mother had not truly approved of her to be a match for their family.

“Mother,” he said dryly. “I was romping with my wife, an interlude I was enjoying.”

She harrumphed, her gaze pinning Prue in place. However, she noted a warm amusement had entered his mother’s eyes. As if she had liked catching them in their intimate cavorting.

“Good afternoon, Prudence,” she said. “You have a wonderful glow about you. Is the family to expect news?”

What news? Prue glanced up at Oscar, who had narrowed his gaze in a warning.

“Mother,” he said. “Why are you here?”

That was the reminder she needed for her hand to flutter to her bosom. Suddenly she looked out of sorts. “It is your sister.”

“Which one?”

“Cecelia.”

Oscar had three sisters, Julia, Amanda, and the youngest, Cecelia. Prue stepped forward. “Is she well, my lady?”

“I fear there is a dreadful scandal in the making, and we must get ahead of it. She has left her husband. The stubborn chit will not listen to a word of reasoning from me.”

“Hell,” Oscar muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Where is she?”

“She is here. I demanded that she accompany me to visit you, after being in my home for a week.”

“A week?”

His mother looked away briefly. “I thought I could handle the matter on my own. I never thought my youngest could be this frightfully obstinate! You must get her to return home as a matter of great urgency, Oscar.”

His expression carefully composed, he said, “Let us retire to the drawing-room.”

His mother turned and walked away. Prue felt his worry, and she touched his hand. “Go see to your family. I will ensure this is all packed up. I will join you after informing the housekeeper to send in refreshments.”

Her husband briefly brushed his mouth against her, rousing a sweet longing in her heart. He disappeared through the terrace door, and she scooped Cleopatra in her arms, stroking the cat. Cecelia was only a few years older than Prue, and they had grown close during her time in the country. The other girl had always been amiable and good-natured. Since Cecelia’s marriage to Viscount Redburn, they had only exchanged the occasional letter. Prue instinctively trusted that her friend would have an exceptional reason for acting in this manner. She would not casually put her family under scrutiny.

Hurrying to direct the servants to pack their painting tools and the picnic, Prue instructed their housekeeper to prepare refreshments. Walking toward the drawing-room, she slowed her steps as a raised voice filtered through the door. Looking around, she dismissed a servant who was placing flowers in a vase on the hallway table. Servants were prone to gossip, and Oscar would be furious should a scandal about his family get out through one of his staff. She knew they were loyal, but it was better to take every precaution against loose talk.

“What do you mean I should return home to my husband! He is a wretch who has broken my heart! I wrote him the loveliest poem sharing my feelings. He read it and locked it away in his top drawer.”

Cecelia’s voice came passionately through the door. Her voice was faintly accusing as if Oscar were responsible for her heartbreak.

“Cecelia,” he said patiently. “Your husband not returning your sentiments is not sufficient cause for these tears and tantrums. Marriage is not about sentimentality.”

Opening the door, Prue entered the lavishly furnished drawing-room.

“Prudence,” she cried, jerking to her feet. “I am terribly glad you are here!”

“Cecelia,” she said, hurrying over to her. “Are you well?”

Her face a mask of misery, she shook her head. “My beast of a brother refuses to acknowledge my pain and support me.”

Prue glanced at his inscrutable expression, noting that his mother reposed on a chaise with a vinaigrette of smelling salts in her hand. The dowager duchess was either being overly dramatic, or something horrible had occurred. Prue felt as if a knot were tightening low in her belly, tugging taut. She was expected to support her husband. That was where her loyalty stood; however, something Cecelia had said resounded painfully within her. Still, she had to tread with care for all the heated emotions of the family members involved.

She took in the pathos that Cecilia had affected. She had always been the most spirited of the family and was of a romantic disposition. Her delicate pastel blue gown harked back to more medieval fashions, as if seeking to play a role in scenes of courtly love.

“Have you found out that Redburn might have taken a mistress?” She asked.

“Good heavens, no! Nothing as alarming like that.”

“Yet you have walked out of your home,” Prue said gently. “If it is not all that dire, perhaps you might reconsider returning home.”

“Mama has exaggerated. I have not run away. I am merely visiting her for an extended period.”

Her mother spoke without looking at her child. “Your husband has visited thrice now, pleading with you to come home. He does not approve of this supposed visit, Cecelia.”

“Hang what he approves of,” she cried. “I married in good faith. Julia says I am a silly watering pot because I am with child, but it is more than that. I…I…” Another bout of tears poured forth.

Oscar went over to her and rested a hand on her shoulders. “You are with child, Cecelia?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations,” he said with a small smile. “It is even more imperative that you put a stop to this nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense,” Prue and Cecelia said in unison.

She tossed Prue a grateful smile, clearly relieved to have her support.

Oscar’s expression shuttered. “I am not certain you know what is happening, countess.”

“From what I overheard; I perceive that Cecelia does not believe her husband to have genuine tender affections for her. Redburn treats her with cordiality, but there is little outward show of…love,” Prue said, her chest aching.

The dowager countess made a small, disapproving noise behind pursed lips. How similar their plights were. However, Prue was certain her husband now held considerable affection for her. They spent each night entangled in each other’s arms, they indulged in long fascinating conversations that always ended in mutual and carnal pleasure. At last night’s ball, he had danced only with Prue, and he had complimented her on her looks, her gown and how neatly she had danced. She was proud that he had finally made some time in his busy schedule to be able to attend the opera with her and to escort her to the museum. She had made great progress in turning around the vacuum of her marriage.

What or who did Cecelia have to support her if she was feeling so utterly wretched?

“You were eavesdropping?” he asked coolly.

She lifted her chin. “Shamelessly. I confess it, husband.”

A small hiccupping laugh came from Cecelia as her gaze volleyed between Prue and Oscar. “Prudence is a part of the family. It does not matter if she eavesdrops. I will not return home to that beast, and I will not—”

“Cecelia!” Oscar’s voice cracked like a whip, and his sister instantly quieted and struggled to gain a modicum of self-control.

“Your husband has no obligation to return any sentiments merely because you wrote him a poem. That you have acted in this manner over such rigmarole shows your total lack of maturity, and the reason he has had to call on mother on three occasions is due to his humiliated embarrassment at your lack of proper decorum. Surely you see, Cecelia, Redburn cares for you, but he is a sensible man, not given to dealing with lachrymose effusions of emotion. Do you expect him to wear his heart on his sleeve and change his very nature?”

His sister’s cheeks reddened, and she stared at him in wordless mortification.

“This is a private matter between you and your viscount. Discuss it with him in a rational manner. If he does not express any tendre, it does not make him a damn beast.”

The dowager gasped in shock that he had dared to curse in her presence. Oscar continued as if he was unaware of her displeasure, “Redburn respects and cares for you. I will go as far as to say he admires you. I have seen it in the way he looks at you and how he speaks of you. Those are the foundations of an excellent marriage. You are risking destroying that. Do not act the fool to be expecting more or for the viscount to act like a lovesick swain.”

“And that is what you feel for Prudence? Admiration?” Cecelia snapped.

Prue froze, her heart suddenly pounding. She hoped, he would explain that she meant more to him than that.

“My wife and I understand each other. That is all that matters,” he said with cool authority. “Now stiffen your spine and prepare to return home. Mother will travel with you, so you do not make a cake of yourself.”

Cecelia’s lips wobbled, and she pressed a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes. Still, the tears spilled over her cheeks.

Hurt bubbled inside Prue’s throat. Her husband did not believe in love. Worse, he thought that such sentiments were for fools. What did that mean for their marriage? Pushing away thoughts of herself, Prue went over to Cecelia and offered a comforting smile. “Perhaps we could take a turn in the gardens, Cecelia. The fresh air will be wonderful for you.”

Her husband nodded his approval, and Prue escorted Cecelia outside. She was still sobbing in soft mewling, and the wretched sound broke Prue’s heart.

“I am sorry, Cecelia. I know how difficult it can be when it comes to matters of the heart. It is easy to be bruised when someone we love—”

Cecelia rounded on her. “What do you know about it? Spare me your condescension. As my brother said, you and he have an understanding. You needed to marry up, and he needed your money. Some people marry for more than an arrangement! It is not always about money or political connections!”

Prue’s heart shattered. The very idea sounded absurd. “Oscar did not marry me for…for my wealth,” she said softly, hating the doubts suddenly crashing over her in unrelenting waves. “He…I…he was being honorable in rescuing me from scandal because we were found in a compromising position through no fault of his own.”

Cecelia’s lips shaped an O of surprise. “Prudence…I…please forgive my wayward tongue. When he said you and he had an understanding, I assumed you knew the full truth of the matter. It is not as if it were a secret. Everyone knew that is why he choose you.”

Prue stumbled back as if she had been violently shoved. Her chest hurt as if someone had stuck a hot poker inside, and for a precious moment, it felt as if she could not breathe. Struggling for equanimity, she said, “I did not know about it.”

Prue felt like a fool. He had said their marriage was a mutually beneficial arrangement. And she hated now that she understood that even after all their weeks of loving and learning each other, he had still been able to render their attachment to a mere ‘Prue and I have an understanding.’ Her throat burned with the need to cry, and despite the unintentional spite in Cecelia’s words, Prue wanted to help her.

“I have it on the highest authority that the way to a husband’s heart is through seduction.”

Cecelia’s eyes widened with surprise and then burned with hope. “Seduction?”

“Learning his thoughts…and his carnal desires and fulfilling them. Tempting him.”

“Is that what you did why Oscar looked at you with such warmth when you entered the drawing-room just now?”

Those words did not soothe the pain in her heart. Everything was now tainted. She had inadvertently done the one thing she had sworn not to do, marry a fortune hunter. She had convinced herself that her earl was better than that. A man of principle and honor. But she had been wrong, he had only wanted the money that had purchased her family a title. Such a man would never have seen the woman before him, for it would never be in her that his interest lay. And now she understood even more why for long three years she had been an ant he could walk past and ignore.

Her lips trembled when she said, “I do have a few books I can loan you. Be warned they are scandalous. But they did offer me some insight.”

“Oh, yes, please! I would like to borrow them.”

Prue nodded, desperate to get away from the cheery loveliness of the gardens. “I will see that they are discreetly delivered to your home. If you will excuse me, Cecelia. I wish you all the best.”

She whirled and hastened away, ignoring the call of her name. Prue needed to be alone, and she wanted to be anywhere but at this place. To her dismay, the wretched tears spilled over, and she dashed them away, for they made her pain and embarrassment evident. She had possibly led herself to more heartache than she could ever bear. For there had been a time when they were equal in sentiments with little threat to her heart. But because of her loneliness, she had dared. And now she was so in love with him, while he…

Love was for fools, and her husband was no fool.