Pru took the opportunity to watch him. There he was, the consummate charmer. The heir to a marquess. The golden boy who lived life dangerously, led by his heart and his soul and his passion.
She caught a pathetic little sigh before it could escape.
Oh yes, Damian’s appeal was undeniable, but her aunt was right. He was not for her. Even if he felt this way for her. Even if it wasn’t just kindness and pity on his part…
Choosing her would be selfish on his part.
Choosing him would be even more selfish on her part.
“And so, if you’ll excuse us,” he was saying to her aunt with a wave of his hand that seemed to include Prudence. “I’d like a word with my protege before the recital begins.”
The recital.
How had she managed to forget that in mere moments her world would come to a crushing, brutal, humiliating end?
Drat. She truly was turning into Louisa. Perhaps love made everyone dramatic.
Her aunt gave them space. Not so much that they could repeat the incident that occurred earlier today, but enough so that they could speak privately in hushed voices.
“We didn’t finish our talk earlier,” he said the moment her aunt had reached the far side of the room to loudly criticize the flower arrangement. A nearby maid looked ready to cry.
That girl wouldn’t last in this household for long if she couldn’t handle being yelled at.
She couldn’t bring herself to look directly at Damian. It was easier to watch the poor girl tremble than to face the tenderness and affection she feared she might see when she looked to Damian.
“Pru, look at me.”
She huffed, pursing her lips as she tried to feel annoyed with him for his heavy handedness. “I do not know why you got me into this in the first place,” she said when she finally dragged her gaze upward to look at him.
His lips twitched with amusement. “You couldn’t avoid this forever, you know.”
For a moment she wasn’t sure to what he was referring. To this moment right here and now? To her potential marriage? To another dreaded recital?
It didn’t matter.
“I’m not ready,” she hissed.
“Of course you are.” For once there was no laughter in his eyes, no twitch to his lips. He was serious. “You are Prudence Pottermouth, the strongest, bravest girl I know.”
She tried to think of a way to snap at him, to chide him or glare at him...but she couldn’t. Her lips were trembling too much to purse, tears were pricking the back of her eyes, and her heart…
Her heart felt as though it was breaking. The way he was looking at her right now, with such confidence and admiration, with such tenderness and...and love.
It made her want to laugh and weep and scream all at once.
Instead she turned away. Her gaze moved toward the door where the small crowd of soon-to-be-horrified audience members were talking amongst themselves. The marquess seemed to be the center of attention and she watched in horror as her potential fiancé fawned over the man like he was the prince regent himself.
“I can’t go through with this.” The whisper escaped before she could stop it. She wasn’t even certain herself to what she was referring. Watching this man—this bore—this would-be gentleman who cared not for her intellect nor her company, but who was merely in the market for a show horse. Someone with the right connections he could trot out at gatherings to impress his colleagues.
She pressed a hand to her belly. No, she could not do this.
“You can.” Damian murmured the words of encouragement gently. “I did not lie to your aunt when I said that you were ready.”
“You told her I was perfect,” she hissed, latching on to anger and her fears of performing in front of an audience because it was easier than thinking about what else was to come. The stand she must take. The decision that had been made in her heart that could not be undone.
“Music is not meant to be perfect,” he said, his voice low but insistent. His gaze held hers, so fierce. So kind. So understanding. “It is meant to be filled with emotion, which you have. It is meant to encompass passion and beauty and elegance.” He leaned forward, so close that his lips brushed against the wisps of hair at her temple. “And that is all you, my dear.”
She shut her eyes as if that could shut out the words. “You know what I mean, Damian. Now they expect me to be good. To be perfect.”
“And you are perfect.”
Her eyes snapped open and she found herself looking straight into her worst fear. Love.
“You are perfect to me,” he said. His fingers touched her chin, tilting her face up so she was forced to see the emotions there.
Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of it, at once so eerily familiar and so disconcertingly strange.
“Just keep your eyes on me,” he said. No, he commanded.
Her brows arched in surprise at his tone and his lips quirked. “Just this once, Pru, do as I say. Yes?”
She nodded and even managed to add, “I suppose I must. You are the musical genius.”
His low rumble of laughter warmed her all the way through and eased the tension that had been choking her throat and making her rib cage feel too tight.
“This is as simple as singing a hymn at church, which you did beautifully as a child.”
She opened her mouth to protest but he held up a finger to stop her.
“And today will be no different. Do not try to be anything other than who you are, Prudence, and you will be perfect.”
She swallowed down the last of her protest and gave him a short nod instead.
Her aunt was shooing the small audience to their seats and Prudence moved so Damian could take his seat at the pianoforte. As he passed her, he paused. “And Prudence?”
“Yes?” She looked
