Prim sniffed as though scenting something foul. What a cad, showing his airs as if he weren’t partaking in the pleasures of Vauxhall himself. She did not care for his attitude one whit—or rather, she did not care for him.
“Just because I am at Vauxhall does not mean I’ve lost all sense of correctness.”
“I did not say that.” No, but he’d said enough. He’d called her motivations trivial and criticized her decision to be here.
“How correct can you be? I would never be so unkind as to insult a lady . . . er, if I were a gentleman that is. Or even if I weren’t a gentleman.” She winced a little. She was babbling. “I would not insult a person at all.”
She suffered a quick stab of guilt at the memory of all the times she had joined Aster in poking fun at Violet when she returned from Bond Street with some ridiculous confection that she insisted was the height of fashion. Prim shoved the memory aside. Violet was a sister. Insults were their love language.
“It was not my intention to insult you.”
“And why are you here?” She pointed at him. “Why is it acceptable for you and not me?”
“I—I am . . . older . . . and . . .” he sputtered, and she knew he was on the verge of declaring himself a man in the belief that that gave him an advantage—as it almost always did in this world.
“A prig?” she queried, blinking innocently.
He narrowed his eyes. “No.”
“I have every right to be here,” she went on to insist.
“Do you?” He angled his head as though skeptical of that.
“I may not be officially out in Society, but—”
“Wait. What?”
“What?” she echoed, uncertain of what she had just said that made his eyes round with incredulity, but already regretting it.
“Let me be clear. Not only have you snuck out from your home, but you are not even formally out in Society?”
“Oh.” Perhaps she should not have mentioned that. She took a bracing breath. “As diverting as this has been, I really do need to find my friend.”
He expelled a rough laugh. “Diverting?” He glanced around as though needing a reminder of their surroundings to fuel his outrage. “You ventured out to Vauxhall and you have not even entered Society yet?” Clearly he was not ready to let go of that.
“I came here with my friend unescorted and in secret. We’ve donned dominos for discretion.” She touched her mask as though to verify it was still in place.
He scoffed. “Let us not even feign that it offers any true concealment.”
She stiffened at his tone. “I do not understand why this matters to—”
He shook his head as though he had not heard her. “It ought to matter to you. It’s quite one thing for you to sneak out with a friend to Vauxhall for an evening, but you’re not even yet out of the schoolroom and here you are in this iniquitous den—”
“I’ve finished my schooling,” she hotly protested. “I’m scarcely a child.” This felt eerily similar to arguing with her mother.
“What could you have been thinking? You’ve yet to learn to navigate a ballroom. What made you think a night at Vauxhall would be simple to manage?”
“Most girls my age are already out in Society.”
“Except you are not.”
“It is merely because my mother is too overwrought attending to my sisters. One is marrying in a fortnight and the other is in her third season. I’ll get my turn.” She was babbling and could not seem to stop. Words poured from her in a torrent. “Once the wedding is over and Aster has a suitor, it will be my turn to—”
“You should not be here.” He nodded as though this was the only point that mattered.
Except his opinion did not matter.
She squared her shoulders. “Well, fortunately for me, you have no authority over my choices.”
“As a gentleman, I must insist—”
“As a gentleman, you can stuff it.”
He blinked, clearly astonished at her aggressive language. She could understand that. She was shocked at herself, too. She’d admired him earlier today, his good looks leaving her tongue-tied, and now she was snapping at him as though they were familiars. Granted, he had rescued her from the tavern brawl, but why did he affect her so? It was odd.
And yet that realization did not stop her. What was he waiting for? A medal from the king for rescuing damsels? She was certainly no damsel.
She pressed on: “Force your will elsewhere. I’m sure there are servants waiting to do your bidding. I, fortunately, don’t have to.” She motioned to the tavern. “I really need to return inside and look for my friend.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Unaccompanied?”
There was that judgment again. “Do you have a better suggestion?” She lifted her chin.
Her mother had demonstrated imperious behavior over the years. Primrose knew how it was done. Not only did she recognize it in others, she could imitate it. In fact, she could most expertly convey haughty disdain. She had practiced it behind Mama’s back often enough to the amusement of Aster and even Violet. Her sisters were always devotees of her imitations.
The Ainsworths might not have been nobility, but Mama did not let that stop her from acting like it. She had hoped that one day they would legitimately be peerage, after all. Much to Mama’s disappointment, her two eldest had failed in that endeavor, decisively putting an end to her dream.
Mama considered Aster and Primrose her least eligible daughters and had no ambitions for them to marry into the peerage. Truthfully, Primrose had to agree with her mother on that score. Aster was cripplingly shy, especially around gentlemen, and the list of Primrose’s faults was long and extensive. Her wanton hair, her indecorous spots—her penchant for talking without forethought—to name just a few of her mother’s complaints. At least only one of my daughters has such wretched hair and spots on her face, Mama would state from time to time
Prim didn’t know from whom she may have inherited her smart mouth, but there had been a great Aunt Josephine, a spinster, on Papa’s side. She died before Prim was born, but apparently she had possessed fiery-red hair and freckles. It almost felt like an omen. Aunt Josephine had never married, and spent her entire life caring for her elderly parents until they passed of natural causes due to old age. Very old age.
Prim suspected that if her fate were the same, she would be the one to go to the grave first.
Prim started for the tavern.
Man-boy fell in beside her. “I don’t think you know at all what you are about here,” he insisted in that deep voice of his.
She stopped and glared at him.
He continued, “Vauxhall is not suitable for unchaperoned ladies.” Suddenly his voice did not sound so appealing to her ears.
“I do not require a chaperone at the moment. I am quite capable.” Truth be told, she was beginning to tire of this conversation. It wasn’t as though she was going to go steal away to one of the dark walks. Even if she had not already been warned, she knew better than that.
The dark walks of Vauxhall were a vast labyrinthine network of paths famous for all manner of vice—assignations being the foremost.
“That remains to be seen . . . and I did just happen to rescue you from being trampled on a tavern floor. You did not strike me as entirely capable when I was carrying you from the tavern.”