“So,” he said finally, the last of his chicken soup and bread having vanished at an extraordinary speed. “Did you enjoy the ball last night?”
She nodded and immediately ceased the movement as her head protested. “Yes, a most enjoyable evening, I thought. I hope your friend, Lord Westray, had a pleasant time.”
Was it her imagination, or did Charles frown as she mentioned Lord Westray?
The emotion, whatever it was, flickered and was gone. “Yes, old Westray knows how to have a good time,” Charles said gruffly.
Priscilla smiled. “Just as long as you promise me that you will keep him out of my mother’s way, or he will find himself in an arranged marriage of his own!”
The words were out before she could stop them.
Despite the pain on Charles’ face, he said nothing but, “Indeed.”
Priscilla sighed and pushed away her tray. “Forget what I said, Charles. Ignore me.”
“How can I?” His voice was low and bitter, his gaze focused on his hands.
She would have done anything to stop him from feeling this way, even if it meant never being with him. Anything to stop the pain in his eyes.
“I…I do not know what to say,” she said honestly. “And this is a first for me. I always have something to say.”
Was that a twitch of a smile?
“I cannot believe it is happening, truly,” Charles said quietly. “It does not seem real.”
Priscilla’s heart was thundering. What did he mean – did he regret the engagement? Was this the first time he would admit that he wished he were not marrying Miss Lloyd?
But the moment passed in an instant. “Miss Lloyd is a very elegant woman, of course, a very good family. I am fortunate that she…”
His voice continued, but Priscilla did not take it in. Charles could praise Miss Lloyd all he wanted, but she knew, she could see that his heart was not in it.
Only his sense of duty.
Pulling her handkerchief from her sleeve, she blew her nose again. “While you praise Miss Lloyd, do you mind passing me back that cushion?”
Charles stopped. “You know, by rights, I should throw it back at you.”
“But you will not, will you?” Priscilla said sweetly. “You would not attack a poor invalid on her sickbed, would you?”
He sighed. “No, of course not. Here you go.”
It was the slightest connection. Just one inch of his finger brushed hers, yet it was enough to set her body alight.
At the ball, she could have imagined it. The heat of the room, the pounding of her heart as they danced, the joy in movement, the excitement of the ball—it could have clouded her judgment, made her see something that was not there.
But this was real. This was special, somehow, whatever connection they had between them. Couldn’t he feel it?
Despite the rush of emotions pouring through her, it appeared that he did not.
Charles leaned back. “You will be up to your feet in no time, and then I want a rematch.”
Priscilla blinked. “A rematch?”
“Conkers!” he said triumphantly. “I am determined to beat you this year.”
Conkers. Of course, it was something as innocuous as their childhood game.
“I wonder whether Miss Lloyd will play conkers with you when she is the Duchess of Orrinshire,” she said lightly, picking at the leftover bread on her plate.
Charles frowned. “You know, I have no idea. I shall have to find out. I suppose you will beat her every time – you were always the best rival I ever had, and I suppose you can become hers, too.”
Priscilla smiled weakly but was rescued by the reappearance of Mrs. Busby with the tea tray.
“Yes,” she said softly as Mrs. Busby bustled about pouring tea. “I am sure I will become Miss Lloyd’s best rival.”
Chapter Seven
“About time!” Charles’s voice carried further than he intended, but he had been waiting for an age for the woman striding toward them.
Priscilla smiled as she quickened her pace, and all his irritation dropped away. What did it matter if he had been standing here waiting? Now she was here, that ball of bitterness melted from his stomach.
“You know, we have been waiting for at least five minutes, Miss Seton,” Jacob Beauvale, Lord Westray, said in a mocking voice. “At least five minutes!”
Miss Sophia Worsley, a newer addition to their social set, piped up, “At least twenty minutes, by my reckoning. See, there is the church clock chiming quarter past eleven, and I have been here since before the hour.”
Harriet Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire – Harry, to her friends – was the last of their party, and she was laughing at the others. “The countryside is hardly going anywhere, Westray, I would not concern yourself. I am sure Miss Seton has a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
Charles allowed the other three to chatter as Priscilla walked around the churchyard wall toward the gate. He had been impatient for her to arrive.
All would have been for naught if Priscilla had been engaged this afternoon and couldn’t join them for the walk he had planned.
“You look perfectly recovered,” Westray was saying as Priscilla closed the gate behind her and started walking up the church path. “Your cold could not have been too dreadful, then.”
“No, thank goodness,” she said. “Two or three days at home, doing very little was sufficient to cure me.”
Charles did not permit himself the luxury of looking at her. He was engaged to be married to Miss Frances Lloyd. Other ladies should not be attracting his eye—particularly those who evidently did not consider him a suitor.
His heart overruled his head, and he took a closer look at Priscilla. Had she always been this beautiful? Had her blue eyes always been so bright? Had the corners of her mouth always lilted just before she laughed?
How could he not have noticed these things until now?
“…and I must apologize profusely,” she was saying as Miss Worsley linked arms with her. “Tardiness is never acceptable, especially amongst friends. But I must say Charles told me
