“I’m not taking your money,” he said firmly. “However, you could use it to return to London on your own, I suppose. Though, I’m loath to let you go alone.”
She gritted her teeth. “Are you worried something will happen to me? That perhaps I’ll be abducted?”
He laughed and immediately sobered. “Ow. You aren’t supposed to be witty.”
“Then stop saying stupid things. You don’t get to ‘let’ me do anything.”
“Yes, my lady.” He sounded as though he’d been reprimanded, but didn’t necessarily look it.
Mrs. Logan returned with brandy, setting a bottle and two glasses on a table next to the settee. “Pardon me for taking so long. Mr. Logan came into the kitchen, and I was helping him take off his wet coat. I’m heating water for baths now. I daresay you should both get out of your sodden clothing before you catch cold.”
Prudence nodded. She was all too aware of her damp clothing and the mud drying on her face. “Thank you, Mrs. Logan, we’ll do that.”
Mrs. Logan’s features tightened as she briefly clasped her hands. “Mr. Logan said the horses are fine, but I’m afraid your coach is rather damaged, my lord.”
“Did he say how badly?” Bennet asked, noting her sudden pallor. “It’s all right. You can tell me the truth.”
“Irreparably, I’m afraid.” She looked at him with sympathy.
“Thank you, Mrs. Logan. For everything.”
Mrs. Logan returned to the kitchen, and Prudence fixed her attention on Bennet. She pulled the towel from his wound and was pleased to see the blood was no longer flowing. Although, it hadn’t quite stopped either. “Hold this,” she instructed as she folded the towel over to a fresh side.
Bennet took over from her, and she poured the brandy, putting a glass in his free hand, then taking the towel duty back from him. She took a long, fortifying drink, glad for the heat working its way down her throat and into her abdomen.
“We’ll find a way to get you home—tomorrow,” he said. “Not that you can leave tomorrow, but I’ll come up with a plan.”
Prudence pulled the bloody towel away and set it aside. Grabbing a fresh one, she wet the cloth in the small basin of warm water Mrs. Logan had set on the same table as the brandy. “Tomorrow is Sunday, in case you’ve completely lost track of time.”
“I had, somewhat.”
“I daresay you’ll be busy helping with the tree and whatever else.” She cleaned the dried blood from his cheek.
“Yes, the yard is a mess, and the storm isn’t over yet. I’ll still do what I can to make plans for your return to London.”
Turning the towel, she wiped at the mud on his face. “When it’s possible. This storm has worsened the roads, and they’re going to take some drying out.”
“As will we,” he noted, glancing at her hand. “You’re shaking.”
She hadn’t noticed. “I’ll be fine.”
“Enough.” He pulled his head back and took the towel from her. Plucking up the remaining clean towel, he dipped it into the water and wrung it out before setting to work on her face. His strokes were a bit rough.
“You aren’t a very good nursemaid,” she murmured.
He gentled his ministrations. “Better?” At her nod, he went on. “I’m afraid the dirt is quite caked onto your skin. It looks as though a beast squashed you into the mud.”
“That’s precisely what happened.” She barely suppressed a smile.
He dropped the cloth into the basin. “That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid. Now, upstairs with you. Get out of those clothes and warm up in the bed until the bath is ready.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll come up in a while and fetch a change.”
She stood from the settee. “I’ll close my eyes while you dress.”
“You don’t have to.”
Was he flirting with her? It seemed so, though she had no experience. “Of course I do.” Though the invitation was most alluring. The muscular lines of his chest were imprinted on her memory. If she saw more than that, she wasn’t sure what she would do.
Straightening her shoulders, she gave him a prim stare. “Don’t tempt me, Ben. You owe me that much.”
As she walked away, she heard him say, “I owe you far more than that.”
Somehow, things had changed between Prudence and Bennet. Or at least it seemed that way to her. Was it that he’d prevented her from suffering harm? That he’d openly flirted with her? That they were now stranded here indefinitely?
Prudence didn’t know the precise reason, only that things were different. Last night, she’d been far too aware of him sleeping, probably shirtless, mere feet from her bed. Breakfast had been awkward, and while he’d read to her afterward, the interlude had been short. He’d wanted to get outside to help clean up the yard. Thankfully, it had finally stopped raining. The sun had even made an appearance that afternoon.
Not that Prudence had spent any time in the yard. She’d committed herself to tidying the bedchamber and helping Mrs. Logan in the kitchen. After cleaning up from breakfast, she’d helped Mrs. Logan prepare a midday meal for the men working so hard to clear the yard. They’d managed to move the tree from against the house, and someone was busy sawing it into pieces for the fire.
Prudence pulled a loaf of bread from the oven and set it atop the worktable, pleased with the golden crust.
“My goodness, your bread looks wonderful,” Mrs. Logan sang as she strode into the kitchen carrying an empty tray of mugs. She’d taken ale out to those laboring.
“Let me help.” Prudence took the tray and went to the sink to clean the mugs.
Mrs. Logan followed her and pumped water into a basin. “You have an ease with cleaning and cooking for a lady of your station, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
She hadn’t asked a question, but Prudence had heard one just the same. “I grew up more humbly. My father inherited when he didn’t expect to. Things changed, but I haven’t forgotten my earlier years.” It was only a half lie. She had grown up humbly. But happily. “My mother taught me to make bread.”
“That explains why you seem so unassuming, so approachable,” Mrs. Logan said. “I’ve not met a great many Society ladies, but you aren’t like any of them.”
Because she wasn’t one of them, even if she mingled in their circles. However, her real mother was one of them, as was her real father, whose identity she knew. When Imogen Lancaster had revealed the truth of Prudence’s birth, she’d given her a ring that had belonged to her real mother. The ring was a family crest, something only a woman of means and position would have owned. That she’d gifted it to Prudence seemed to indicate she wanted Prudence to find her. In truth, if the woman had wanted her identity known, wouldn’t that information have been shared along with Prudence’s father’s identity? Prudence had since learned her father was dead. It was possible her mother was as well. Perhaps it was time to stop wondering and searching.
“How did you and his lordship meet?” Mrs. Logan’s query jolted Prudence back to the present.