“I am not preventing anyone from congratulating Miss Lloyd on her engagement to the Duke of Orrinshire,” she said defiantly. “And I believe congratulations are in order for you, too. We…we have not really discussed it, have we?”
He hesitated, a prickle of discomfort moving across his shoulder blades. “Is this really the first time that we have talked about it?”
Surely not. He talked about everything with Priscilla. There had never been anything they had hidden from each other.
She nodded, and for a moment, her voice was unsteady. “You told me about it months ago, and we laughed. That was it.”
All the tension and frustration that the day had built in his heart melted as he looked at her. God knows, if he was finding this whole engagement strange and unnatural, Priscilla would feel it, too. She always understood him. Always had, even when no one else had.
Instinctively, he reached out and took Priscilla’s hand in his.
In that moment, there was a flash of something between them, a burn, a spark of energy that passed from skin to skin. It was wild, untamed, and soared from his hand through his arm and into his chest.
Charles dropped her hand as though he had been burned.
“What you are saying,” Priscilla said, as though she had felt nothing, “is that I am a rival for Miss Frances Lloyd’s attention.”
Charles’s tongue did not appear to be working. What had happened? Surely she had felt it, too – some strange connection between them, a heat that had naught to do with the weak sunshine.
“Rival?” he repeated, attempting to get his bearings in the conversation. “I suppose so. Really, Priscilla, you should have known.”
She smiled and twirled her parasol. “If Miss Lloyd is concerned I am making a scene, then that is something Miss Lloyd can talk to me about. I do not see why you are being sent on her errands, Charles.”
He rolled his eyes as the scent of rosemary wafted on the breeze. “You always were stubborn, Priscilla.”
“And you were always concerned about upsetting someone, anyone,” she countered, taking a step forward, so she stood just a few inches away. “It is why you never owned up to scrumping those apples, why you did own up to stealing that ice sculpture at old Axwick’s ball, and why you have been sent to chastise me now.”
How was it possible that she knew him so well? He always seemed to forget, somehow, that Priscilla was not his sister, she was such a part of his life.
“And why,” she continued, not taking her blue eyes from him, “you have managed to entrap yourself in an arranged marriage.”
There was something strange in her voice as she said that, but Charles could not make it out. Was she attempting to say that she wished he had not entered into an arranged marriage? Why would she think such a thing?
His throat had become dry, but he managed to croak, “You have never protested arranged marriages before. You never condemned mine.”
Priscilla leaned closer, and he caught her scent and swallowed. There was something…well, if it had been any other woman, he would have said intoxicating about her.
But this was Priscilla. It could not be.
“That is because,” she whispered, her gaze unwavering, “I never thought you would actually go through with it.”
Charles stared, utterly transfixed. Her hand was just an inch from his, and the temptation to take it in his, he knew not why, almost overwhelmed him.
“Any marriage will not change our friendship,” he murmured.
Priscilla laughed softly. “But it will, won’t it? Can’t you see, Charles, how it has changed it already? I cannot be seen as a rival for Miss Lloyd’s attention simply by wearing a new gown to a picnic? You…you really believe we will continue to be friends as we always have been once she is your wife?”
She was so close, so fragile in a way he had never been before. Something in Charles was tempting him to lean forward, to close the gap between them.
An even louder part of him was shouting that this was Priscilla. Priscilla. She was always there, always a part of his life.
Charles opened his mouth, unsure what to say but desperate to reassure her.
“Charles Audley, come here!”
His head dipped as he sighed. “That is my mother.”
Priscilla touched her forehead to his. It seemed natural, this closeness, but it brought back that strange, hot lurching feeling in his stomach.
“You have never been able to say no to her. Off you go,” she breathed. “I will try not to scandalize anyone…”
Charles’s eyes closed as he breathed in her presence, calming and gentle as always, but then she was gone.
“Charles Audley, there you are!”
He opened his eyes to find Priscilla had disappeared, and his mother was barreling toward him.
“I have never been so disgraced,” she said fiercely. “Really, Charles! Your betrothed is out there, attending her engagement party completely alone! Perhaps you might find it in yourself to go to her?”
Charles nodded, unable to speak. He followed his mother meekly out of the kitchen gardens and toward the sloping lawns.
Two figures caught his eye. One was Miss Lloyd, surrounded by a gaggle of well-meaning ladies, pestering her with questions about the wedding, her trousseau, and the flowers.
The second wore bright blue and stood alone, separate from the entire party, with a blue parasol obscuring her face.
Charles swallowed down the instinct to ascertain why Priscilla was upset, and how in God’s name, he had managed to do it, but instead, walked toward his betrothed.
Chapter Four
Priscilla halted before the large door of Orrinspire Park and took a deep breath. The sun was shining, the rain of the morning had been burnt away, and her strange plan was going far better than she could have ever imagined.
A smile crept over her face, and she turned to look out at the lawn. Just two days ago, she had been here
