Priscilla opened her mouth to reply, but the door opened, and her mother popped her head through.
“Mrs. Busby is delighted to have you for luncheon, Your Grace,” she said with a smile that Priscilla knew meant, Mrs. Busby has been instructed not to panic, and just give His Grace what she was going to give Miss Seton. “Good afternoon, Charles, and I hope we see you again soon. Bring Lord Westray.”
Priscilla sighed as her mother departed. Any other mother would be desperately attempting to hook a duke – a duke! – into the family by marriage.
Not her mother. Mrs. Seton saw Charles as part of the family, just another young scamp running around as they always had. It would not occur to her that Charles could be a match for her daughter.
The door closed behind her, and Charles turned back– and only then did Priscilla realize just what a sight she was.
Embarrassment curled around her heart as she raised the clean handkerchief to her face. This was not exactly the circumstances she wished to spend more time with Charles in!
Red streaming nose, red eyes, and a throat that did not permit her to speak without a scratchy hoarseness. No gentleman in the world would be able to see any beauty in her now!
Charles grinned. “You look just like you did when we attempted camping that one time, and you came down with a cold. Do you remember?”
Despite herself, Priscilla laughed. “The old major lent us a tent he had taken to France, didn’t he? The three of us squeezed in, I remember. Really, we should have asked for two.”
“I do not think he had two,” mused Charles. “It had seemed such a warm day, but by the middle of the night, the dew was up, and I think both you and Mary came down with rotten colds.”
“What a thing for you to remember,” she said ruefully, tucking the clean handkerchief up her sleeve. “Though you seem to have fonder memories of that adventure than I do.”
He grinned, his hair falling over his eyes, making Priscilla’s heart quicken. “We blew our noses like trumpets for a whole week, and I still think your nose is redder now than it was then!”
Priscilla did not bother to respond to his rudeness but threw a cushion, which hit Charles full in the face.
He emerged from it laughing. “Well, it is!”
“A young lady does not wish to hear such things about her complexion,” Priscilla said primly. “But I am sure you are right. I have not even been able to bring myself to gaze in a looking glass this morning, but it feels red if that is possible.”
He was still smiling, and Priscilla felt her cheeks threaten to become just as red as her nose.
“I apologize for not being good company this afternoon,” she said, trying to force herself to remain calm, even aloof. “You may find you enjoy yourself better elsewhere.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she cursed her own folly. What was she doing, encouraging Charles to seek better entertainment? What if he decided to visit Miss Lloyd?
But instead of leaping up and agreeing he would leave, he shrugged. “I am not sure about that. You can still listen to me talk, can you not?”
Priscilla frowned. “I can still speak, Charles, you cannot silence me that easily!”
He grinned, and once again, that discomforting fluttering made her heart contract. Just looking at him was enough. Why had she not felt this months ago, years ago?
Something about Charles made her weak in the knees, and though a new sensation, it was now all-consuming.
If only she could make him feel what she did.
She took in his blue eyes, sparkling with mischief, the way he lounged in every situation, always at home, always certain in the knowledge he was welcome. There he was, sprawled across a settee, and he looked more at home than she did.
If there was a way to force him to love her…but, no. Priscilla knew she could never do such a thing. She needed Charles to want her freely, without hindrance.
“No, I knew I could never silence you,” he retorted. “You always were a chatterbox, Priscilla, and even now, when you have a cold, and I bet your throat feels like sandpaper, you will still have plenty to say.”
She smiled weakly. He had been a constant in her life now for…what, fifteen years, twenty?
Her entire life, and now she was going to lose him to Miss Frances Lloyd. Her entire world would change.
“And did you enjoy the ball?”
Pulled from her reverie, Priscilla coughed as she thought desperately of something to say. Thankfully at that moment, she was rescued by Mrs. Busby, entering with two large silver trays.
“Y-Your Grace,” she said, curtseying low and almost dropping both trays to the floor.
Charles rose and bowed to the housekeeper. Before a platter left her hands and hit the floor, he removed it from her shuddering hands.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Busby,” he said seriously. “I know I was not expected, and it is very gracious of you to feed me with such little notice.”
Priscilla had to hide a smile. Mrs. Busby had not been with the Setons long, and she had arrived with excellent references. Still, she had never quite accustomed herself to the fact that the Setons, not nobility at all, were such close acquaintances of the Duchy of Orrinshire.
“Thank you, Mrs. Busby,” she said aloud as the woman placed the second tray on the settee beside her. “That will be all. I have the bell if we need anything else.”
Mrs. Busby bowed gratefully and left the room in a genteel run.
Charles kept his chuckle low. “Dear Mrs. Busby. Still afraid of me?”
“It is not fear, ’tis healthy respect,” chided Priscilla as she lifted the lid of her tray and breathed in the hearty chicken soup. “Now be quiet and eat your lunch.”
They ate in silence, Priscilla becoming more aware of just how snotty she felt. Why on
