The Passion of an Angel. Kasey Michaels

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СКАЧАТЬ the words at him? Oh yes. He remembered now. Don’t blame me for the promises you made.

      And he had been making a plethora of promises in recent years.

      He had promised her brother that he would care for his “angel.”

      He had promised his sister he would fetch that same unwanted ward to Mayfair where she could mold her into a simpering, giggling, die-away debutante.

      He had promised Shadwell MacAfee a quarterly allowance against the fortune Prudence deserved.

      He had promised his father that he would put away the silliness of youth when it came time to take on the family title, and would behave with the circumspection and sobriety befitting that title.

      He had promised a multitude of things to people he could neither contact nor refuse.

      But the real trick of the thing, the promise he would find most difficult to keep, was the one he made now to himself late on this quiet night in Epsom—his personal vow to stay as removed from the life of Prudence MacAfee as possible. To banish the image of this obstinate, headstrong, willful, profane, smudged-face “angel” from his mind, and—if he was very, very lucky—from even the fringes of his heart….

      CHAPTER SIX

      I stood

      Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

      Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

      George Noel Gordon,

      Lord Byron

      IT WAS JUST COMING ON TO dusk when Daventry’s coach entered the city, Miss Prentice snoring rather loudly in the shadows after being pushed into a corner by Rexford, who had squealed in disgust when the slumbering woman’s angular body had listed in his direction, her wide-brimmed purple bonnet slamming into the bridge of his nose.

      Prudence, who had been sitting squarely in the center of the facing seat ever since reentering the coach at the last posting inn—stubbornly refusing to move to one side to allow Miss Prentice to sit beside her as she had done since leaving Epsom that morning—scooted to one of the windows and dropped the leather curtain, eager for her first sight of the metropolis.

      “Do not look, Miss MacAfee,” Rexford warned unexpectedly, raising a snow white handkerchief to his nose. “And, whatever you do, do not drop the window. We will be past this unfortunate area shortly, and into more civilized territory.”

      Rexford’s warning was all Prudence needed. Where she had been interested in seeing London, she was now avid to take in all its sights and sounds and even its smells. “I have lived with a man who bathes in dirt,” she said, reaching for the latches that would lower the glass. “I doubt that I—oh my God!” She slammed the glass back to its closed position, turning to Rexford to exclaim in disgust, “Do they use the streets for latrines?’

      “Among other things,” the valet told her, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a small bottle of scent. He then pulled out the stopper and handed the perfume to a grateful Prudence, who quickly waved it beneath her nostrils. “As Prentice is a dead loss,” he went on, his rather high-pitched voice holding the tone of an indulgent, wiser adult speaking to a child, “and as Lady Wendover, although a lovely creature, is not known for her mental profundity, I suggest you listen carefully to what I have to say as we near the end of our journey.”

      Prudence grinned, for the man had barely opened his mouth all the way from MacAfee Farm, unless it was to bemoan his fate at having been sent into the country in the first place.

      “Feeling more the thing now that you’re closer to home, are you, Rexford?” she asked, passing the scent bottle back to him and watching as he dripped some of its contents on his handkerchief then breathed in deeply. “I didn’t think Daventry would keep you if whining and retching were your only fortes. And I must say, I do admire the way you dress his lordship. He is a credit to your art. Please, anything you might say that could be helpful in easing my way into Lady Wendover’s world would be most appreciated by this country bumpkin.”

      Rexford inclined his head to her, the ghost of a smile visible behind the handkerchief, and Prudence knew she had made her first conquest. Finally. She had begun to believe she had lost her touch! Not that her brother had said she was all that lovable. It was, according to him, just her wide, golden eyes and “innocent angel” expression that had everyone from dairy maid to Squire tripping all over themselves to help her, to confide in her, to—simply—like her.

      “We don’t have much time,” Rexford pointed out, “and I won’t be seeing you on a regular basis, I imagine, but I believe you would be best served by keeping your mouth firmly shut when you are unsure of yourself, restrain the impulse to scratch at any covered areas of your body, imitate Lady Wendover’s manners at table and in the drawing room, and lastly, find some way to get yourself shed of—as I have noticed you have so aptly dubbed her—the lizard.”

      “Rexford! How naughty of you!” Prudence exclaimed, liking the valet more with each passing moment. “I am ashamed to admit to not paying attention to you these last days. I now know that it is entirely my loss.”

      “Yes, it is,” Rexford said matter-of-factly, slipping his handkerchief back into his pocket. The coach accelerated slightly as it ran over smoother cobbles, hinting that they were leaving both the congestion and rough streets of the poorer district behind them. “But I have been observing you, Miss MacAfee, and I believe you have some promise. Now, listen closely. With your coloring—those strangely pleasing dark golden tones—you are not to wear white. Never. Not at all.”

      Prudence was confused as well as fascinated. “But white is the color of debutantes, isn’t it, Rexford? You wouldn’t be trying to coax me into making a cake of myself, would you? That wouldn’t be nice, you know.”

      His eloquent shrug was barely perceptible inside the rapidly darkening coach. “There are shades of white, Miss MacAfee. Try for materials with a slight sheen to them for evening, muslins for daytime. You may wear ivory—if it has a golden cast. Ecru. Any shade that has either a golden or beige cast to it—even a hint of peach, which would, now that I think on it, be a particularly outstanding choice.”

      “Rather the shade of aged linen?” Prudence offered, remembering her sheets at MacAfee Farm.

      “Exactly. You may also, in your day dresses, spencers, riding habits, cloaks, and the like, gravitate to carefully chosen shades of faded green, lightest yellow—and more of a soft gold, actually—dusky rose, and even the most delicate lilac. No pinks, Miss MacAfee, as I believe you have already discovered. No clear colors, no whites, and nothing that could be considered in the least bit bright. Select nothing that is not muted, subdued, almost colorless—and always be sure the color has a hint of drabness to it, of beige. This is most important, for your complexion must be made to be a part of your ensemble. I want you to appear all of a piece, a vision of honey and cream. My, I am becoming almost poetic. It has been a long journey, hasn’t it?”

      Prudence bit her lip, trying not to giggle even as she longed to reach across the space that separated them and give the valet a hug. “Rexford, you amaze me. Truly.”

      “Yes, well, I do have my master to consider, now don’t I? It wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all, for his ward to be an embarrassment to him—to us. I have hopes that Lady Wendover will have some sense when it comes to the dressing of you, but as she has this most lamentable tendency to bow to the wishes of the person closest to her, and as СКАЧАТЬ