smile.
Before Prudence could demure, Sir James said, “Please say you will come. My mother is a fond and over-proud parent. She loves to show off the bullet.” He tapped his lame leg. “She keeps it under glass, don’t you know?”
“So I have been told,” Prudence said. She wasn’t certain she wanted to spend an entire evening in Sir James’s company.
As though sensing her reluctance, he added, “She has already sent ‘round an invitation to Miss Leyes and your aunt. Naturally, you are included in the invitation, so you need not feel as though you’re pushing in.”
Prudence frowned. She found his manner infuriating. One minute he was serious and attractive in a brusque, but manly way. The next moment he was teasing and impudent.
“Do not frown at me, Miss Pentyre,” he whispered, leaning closer. He glanced sidelong at his mother and Dorothea Greenwood, who were discussing something between themselves. “I am sorry to see neither you nor Margaret have a keen sense of humor. It must be a family trait—one that should be remedied. You need to smile more often. When you do, it quite transforms your face.”
“Our family is not lacking in this regard,” Prudence protested. “We simply don’t appreciate the ridiculous.”
“Bah,” he muttered softly. “You go to the Pump Room and parade around the hall, putting yourself on view like so much horseflesh at Tattersall’s. Also, because it is the current fashion, you drink the disgusting water there, even though it smells and tastes foul. How can you say you do not appreciate the ridiculous?”
Prudence’s mouth quivered. The insufferable man had a point. He grinned at her. She thought his face also appeared transformed when he smiled. “I don’t know why Margaret should consider putting up with you,” she told him.
His grin broadened. “She’s got gumption, that’s why. I like a girl with an ounce or two of steel in her,” he insisted. “I could never marry one of those tame, clinging creatures—no matter how pretty or well connected she might be.”
****
Later, as Prudence walked the short distance between Dorothea Greenwood’s residence and her aunt’s, she found herself in a slow, simmering temper. If pressed to give a reason for her sudden ill humor, she would not have been able to do so. Rather than agreeing with Sir James’s assessment of Margaret as a “girl with an ounce or two of steel in her,” Prudence took exception to it. While she wouldn’t describe her younger cousin as “tame” and “clinging,” Margaret had no spunk either and certainly no steel. But on second thought, perhaps she did. Margaret had, thus far, stubbornly refused to give in to her mother’s wishes to marry Sir James!
Did she, herself, boast an ounce or two of steel? Prudence pondered the possibility. If so, she would consider trading it for a modicum of beauty. Her mother had told her once beauty was not necessary to find happiness. “I want you to be happy, even if you do not ever make a splendid alliance,” Mrs. Pentyre had said at the time.
But was she happy? She was generally content and affable, Prudence admitted to herself. As a vicar’s daughter, she had to be. It was expected. But unlike her sister Patience, Prudence had never excelled at the usual female arts: her singing was mediocre, and her playing of the pianoforte mechanical at best. She could not paint or sculpt. She was, however, competent with a needle and spent a great deal of time stitching clothing for widows and orphans. So, she was certainly useful. But was she happy?
Her thoughts retreated from this question and focused once again upon Sir James Brownell. She’d made up her mind last night, as she prepared for bed and said her prayers, to approve of Sir James Brownell as her cousin’s suitor—for Aunt Judith’s sake, if no other. Her aunt had insisted the man was generous and accommodating. That was one view. At Lady Oldenfield’s, Prudence had concluded he was
Before Prudence could demure, Sir James said, “Please say you will come. My mother is a fond and over-proud parent. She loves to show off the bullet.” He tapped his lame leg. “She keeps it under glass, don’t you know?”
“So I have been told,” Prudence said. She wasn’t certain she wanted to spend an entire evening in Sir James’s company.
As though sensing her reluctance, he added, “She has already sent ‘round an invitation to Miss Leyes and your aunt. Naturally, you are included in the invitation, so you need not feel as though you’re pushing in.”
Prudence frowned. She found his manner infuriating. One minute he was serious and attractive in a brusque, but manly way. The next moment he was teasing and impudent.
“Do not frown at me, Miss Pentyre,” he whispered, leaning closer. He glanced sidelong at his mother and Dorothea Greenwood, who were discussing something between themselves. “I am sorry to see neither you nor Margaret have a keen sense of humor. It must be a family trait—one that should be remedied. You need to smile more often. When you do, it quite transforms your face.”
“Our family is not lacking in this regard,” Prudence protested. “We simply don’t appreciate the ridiculous.”
“Bah,” he muttered softly. “You go to the Pump Room and parade around the hall, putting yourself on view like so much horseflesh at Tattersall’s. Also, because it is the current fashion, you drink the disgusting water there, even though it smells and tastes foul. How can you say you do not appreciate the ridiculous?”
Prudence’s mouth quivered. The insufferable man had a point. He grinned at her. She thought his face also appeared transformed when he smiled. “I don’t know why Margaret should consider putting up with you,” she told him.
His grin broadened. “She’s got gumption, that’s why. I like a girl with an ounce or two of steel in her,” he insisted. “I could never marry one of those tame, clinging creatures—no matter how pretty or well connected she might be.”
****
Later, as Prudence walked the short distance between Dorothea Greenwood’s residence and her aunt’s, she found herself in a slow, simmering temper. If pressed to give a reason for her sudden ill humor, she would not have been able to do so. Rather than agreeing with Sir James’s assessment of Margaret as a “girl with an ounce or two of steel in her,” Prudence took exception to it. While she wouldn’t describe her younger cousin as “tame” and “clinging,” Margaret had no spunk either and certainly no steel. But on second thought, perhaps she did. Margaret had, thus far, stubbornly refused to give in to her mother’s wishes to marry Sir James!
Did she, herself, boast an ounce or two of steel? Prudence pondered the possibility. If so, she would consider trading it for a modicum of beauty. Her mother had told her once beauty was not necessary to find happiness. “I want you to be happy, even if you do not ever make a splendid alliance,” Mrs. Pentyre had said at the time.
But was she happy? She was generally content and affable, Prudence admitted to herself. As a vicar’s daughter, she had to be. It was expected. But unlike her sister Patience, Prudence had never excelled at the usual female arts: her singing was mediocre, and her playing of the pianoforte mechanical at best. She could not paint or sculpt. She was, however, competent with a needle and spent a great deal of time stitching clothing for widows and orphans. So, she was certainly useful. But was she happy?
Her thoughts retreated from this question and focused once again upon Sir James Brownell. She’d made up her mind last night, as she prepared for bed and said her prayers, to approve of Sir James Brownell as her cousin’s suitor—for Aunt Judith’s sake, if no other. Her aunt had insisted the man was generous and accommodating. That was one view. At Lady Oldenfield’s, Prudence had concluded he was
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