Heather and Velvet by Teresa Medeiros Read Free Book Online

cheeks.
    He passed her by without a second glance. “Good morning, Miss Prudence. Your aunt sent word that she was off to London for a fortnight. She trusts you to amuse yourself.”
    Prudence stared after his rigid back, her eyes huge, then looked down. Her skirt hung in tatters around muddy, scratched ankles, and the buttons of her dress popped like springs from loose threads. A tangled wad of hair hung over one eye.
    Her shoulders slumped. She had just had the most extraordinary adventure of her life and not one soul had even missed her.
    She slipped into her small room, no longer bothering to muffle her footsteps. The terrible silence of the house closed in around her. She had freed her kitten to cavort in the walled herb garden, but now wished she had brought him up for company. Hoping a soothing bath would lift her spirits, she rang for a maid. The cozy confines of her tent-bed looked tempting, too. It would be simple enough to plead a headache and spend the rest of the afternoon there. Heaven knew her aunt did it often enough. But her aunt was not always alone when she did it.
    At that thought, pain burst through Prudence, so intense it was almost physical. She turned too quickly, sweeping a porcelain figure of the goddess Diana from her dressing table. The figure shattered on the floor, leaving only thejagged circle of a mouth to chide her for her uncharacteristic flare of temper.
    Two maids dragged in the tin tub. They swept up Diana and took the clothes Prudence commanded they burn without betraying so much as a flicker of curiosity.
    After her bath, Prudence donned a linen wrapper and sat at her dressing table. She dragged her hair away from her face in a severe chignon. Not a single damp tendril was allowed to escape. She anchored it at the nape of her neck, methodically shoving in the hairpins. Heavy hair, she thought. Impossible hair. It took powder poorly. It would not curl without scorching. How many times had her aunt suggested she chop it off and purchase a fashionable wig? If she refused, it was best that she wear it flat and close to her scalp so no one else would notice how impossible it was.
    You don’t need poetry, Prudence. You are poetry
.
    The husky burr haunted her. She dug her fingers into her forehead as if she could somehow stop its echo. The highwayman had buried his face in her impossible hair. His warm, sweet breath had stirred the heavy coils. He had looked deep into her eyes and asked if he could touch her. She jabbed another pin into her hair, relishing the distraction of the pain.
    She opened a cherrywood box and drew out a pair of heavy spectacles, then perched them on her slender nose. Her father had taken time out from his inventing to fashion the pair for her.
    Lifting her head, Prudence faced her reflection. The impetuous girl who had spent the night in a highwayman’s arms was gone. In her place was a plain woman whose features were too even to be given even the distinction of ugliness. Prudence Walker. Plain Prudence, dutiful daughter, sensible niece. Thick shells of glass hid her eyes. Even at eleven, she hadn’t the heart to explain to her papa that the blurred edges of life were sometimes kinder than clarity.
    The mirror swam before her and her reflection turned as misty as gray eyes the color of sunlight on steel.

Four

    T he leaded glass window distorted the world into sparkling diamonds of green. Sebastian heard the door behind him open and close. Before turning, he shifted his weight to disguise how heavily he leaned upon his cane.
    The Persian carpet muffled D’Artan’s steps. He seated himself behind the walnut desk as Sebastian faced him. The older man leaned back in his chair and steepled his bony fingers beneath his chin. A cryptic smile touched his thin lips. He did not offer Sebastian a seat. The study was devoid of all but the desk and D’Artan’s thronelike chair. Sebastian knew what D’Artan was doing. He would maintain his enigmatic silence until Sebastian