Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(37)

“But . . . but . . .” Prudence said in dismay when he told her he was leaving town, “you won’t go without first talking to my father, will you?”

“Talk to him about what?” Christopher asked, although he knew.

“I should think you’d want to ask for his permission to court me formally,” Prudence said, looking indignant.

He met her green eyes directly. “At the moment, I’m not at liberty to do that.”

“Not at liberty?” Prudence jumped up, obliging him to stand, and gave him a glance of baffled fury. “Of course you are. There is no other woman, is there?”

“No.”

“Your business affairs are settled, and your inheritance is in order?”

“Yes.”

“Then there is no reason to wait. You’ve certainly given every impression that you care for me. Especially when you first returned—you told me so many times how you had longed to see me, how much I had meant to you . . . Why have your passions cooled?”

“I expected—hoped—that you would be more like you were in the letters.” Christopher paused, staring at her closely. “I’ve often wondered . . . did someone help you to write them?”

Although Prudence had the face of an angel, the fury in her eyes was the exact opposite of heavenly serenity. “Oh! Why are you always asking me about those stupid letters? They were only words. Words mean nothing!”

“You’ve made me realize that words are the most important things in the world . . .”

“Nothing,” Christopher repeated, staring at her.

“Yes.” Prudence looked slightly mollified as she saw that she had gained his entire attention. “I’m here, Christopher. I’m real. You don’t need silly old letters now. You have me.”

“What about when you wrote to me about the quintessence?” he asked. “Did that mean nothing?”

“The—” Prudence stared at him, flushing. “I can’t recall what I meant by that.”

“The fifth element, according to Aristotle,” he prompted gently.

Her color drained, leaving her bone-white. She looked like a guilty child caught in an act of mischief. “What has that to do with anything?” she cried, taking refuge in anger. “I want to talk about something real. Who cares about Aristotle?”

“I do like the idea that there’s a little starlight in each of us . . .”

She had never written those words.

For a moment Christopher couldn’t react. One thought followed another, each connecting briefly like the hands of men in a torch race. Some entirely different woman had written to him . . . with Prudence’s consent . . . he had been deceived . . . Audrey must have known . . . he had been made to care . . . and then the letters had stopped. Why?

“I’m not who you think I am . . .”

Christopher felt his throat and chest tightening, heard a rasp of something that sounded like a wondering laugh.

Prudence laughed as well, the sound edged with relief. She had no idea in hell what had caused his bitter amusement.

Had they wanted to make a fool of him? Had it been intended as revenge for some past slight? By God, he would find who had done it, and why.

He had loved and been betrayed by someone whose name he didn’t know. He loved her still—that was the unforgivable part. And she would pay, whoever she was.

It felt good to have a purpose again, to hunt someone for the purpose of inflicting damage. It felt familiar. It was who he was.

His smile, thin as a knife edge, cut through the cold fury.

Prudence gazed at him uncertainly. “Christopher?” she faltered. “What are you thinking?”

He went to her and took her shoulders in his hands, thinking briefly of how easy it would be to slide his hands up to her neck and throttle her. He shaped his mouth into a charming smile. “Only that you’re right,” he said. “Words aren’t important. This is what’s important.” He kissed her slowly, expertly, until he felt her slender body relax against his. Prudence made a little sound of pleasure, her arms linking around his neck. “Before I leave for Hampshire,” Christopher murmured against her blushing cheek, “I’ll ask your father for formal permission to court you. Does that please you?”

“Oh, yes,” Prudence cried, her face radiant. “Oh, Christopher . . . do I have your heart?”

“You have my heart,” Christopher said tonelessly, holding her close, while his cold gaze fastened on a distant point outside the window.

Except that he had no heart left to give.

“Where is she?” were Christopher’s first words to Audrey, the moment he had reached her parents’ home in Kensington. He had gone to her immediately after leaving Prudence. “Who is she?”

His sister-in-law seemed unimpressed by his fury. “Please do not scowl at me. What are you talking about?”

“Did Prudence put the letters directly into your hand, or did someone else give them to you?”

“Oh.” Audrey looked serene. Sitting on the parlor settee, she took up a small needlework hoop and examined a patch of embroidery. “So you’ve finally realized that Prudence didn’t write them. What gave her away?”

“The fact that she knew the contents of my letters, but nothing of the ones she sent.” Christopher stood over her, glowering. “It was one of her friends, wasn’t it? Tell me which one.”