“Ah, I did not catch the name – yes, ’tis Miss Lloyd I am thinking of,” he said hastily.
Miss Worsley started to prattle on about their wedding, a conversation that Charles was apparently not required to contribute to.
Miss Frances Lloyd. The woman he was to marry, but all he could do was think about Priscilla.
The five of them turned another corner, and a woodpecker flew past them, a red, white, and black blur against the gold of the leaves.
What was wrong with him? Why did Priscilla haunt his waking thoughts just as much as his dreams, although admittedly with more clothes on? Why was it so hard to prise his mind away?
“Such a shame Miss Lloyd could not join us,” Priscilla said, her voice cutting through his thoughts.
His stomach lurched. Damn. He had not even thought to invite her to their country walk. He needed to buck up his ideas if he was going to go through with this wedding.
The path turned again, taking them into even denser trees. The coolness was a welcome relief to Charles, too hot and uncomfortable in his greatcoat. All he had to do was stay calm and quiet. The walk would be but an hour, perhaps a little more, and then he could return home, far away from the temptation of Priscilla Seton…
“And how are the wedding plans going?” Miss Worsley asked. “It cannot be long now.”
Just stick to the facts. “No, it is not that far away now. The wedding plans…yes, they are coming along.”
He saw Miss Worsley frown. “Coming along?”
He sighed and pulled at a blackberry, just turning ripe. The tartness of the fruit jolted him awake in a way that nothing else had.
“If I am honest with you, Miss Worsley, I have been leaving the planning of the day to Miss Lloyd and my mother,” he said airily. “I will admit, I am not really involved.”
Was it his imagination, or had Priscilla’s gaze dropped to the woodland floor as he spoke? What did that mean?
“How very wise of you,” said Miss Worsley delicately, apparently not noticing the downcast expression on her friend’s face. “It is, after all, a day for the ladies.”
“I am not sure if I agree, Miss Worsley,” Charles said without thinking. “True, there is more attention focused on the bride and on the mothers of the couple. But surely a wedding day should be about both the bride and the bridegroom. That is what a marriage is for.”
He had spoken without conscious thought and felt a little vulnerable now his sentiments were exposed.
But Miss Worsley did not appear to be aware he had just opened himself in a fresh way. “Yes, but marriage and a wedding are very different things, are they not?”
Charles glanced at Priscilla, whose gaze was still focused on the ground.
He swallowed. This was dangerous territory. He could not be certain that what he said would not eventually get back to the ears of Miss Lloyd – or arguably even worse, his mother.
“The wedding day itself does not interest me,” he said eventually. “It is the marriage that is important. I would rather be focused on deciding on the marriage that I want than the wedding I want.”
Why did his eyes betray him and keep looking at Priscilla? It was impossible to drag his gaze away, and he wished Miss Worsley would catch up with Westray and Harry, who had marched off ahead of them.
Miss Worsley, however, merely nodded. “That is a fair argument, I suppose. And what are your plans for your marriage?”
Charles tried not to sigh aloud. Why did every conversation with ladies end up being about weddings?
“I am far more interested in learning more about you, Miss Worsley,” he said, allowing the Orrinshire charm to come to the surface. “Tell me, have you –”
His voice stopped as they turned around a corner.
A large bull with horns far greater than any Charles had seen before was standing in the middle of the field panting, and its feet tapping at the ground. Just ahead of them stood Lord Westray and Harry, looking mightily uncomfortable. About twenty feet away, leaning against a fence, was a man Charles recognized as a Tanner.
“Goodness!” Priscilla said. “What on earth…”
Charles strode forward. This was his land, after all, and his tenant. Didn’t that make it, in a strange sort of way, his bull?
“Careful, Orrinshire!” Harry said urgently as he passed. “You have no idea what you are doing!”
There was fear in her voice. It was clear both she and Miss Worsley were afraid. Even Westray looked a little uncomfortable, town boy that he was.
The bull stood and watched Charles, but did not move.
Charles sighed as he approached the farmer. He was not afraid – one could not be the master of hundreds of acres and grow up afraid of cattle. But he was intelligent enough to have a healthy respect for animals, especially those who were unsettled.
“Afternoon,” he said breezily, putting out his hand to shake that of the farmer’s. “I must apologize, I cannot remember your name – but you are a Tanner, am I right?”
The farmer doffed his cap and shook hands warily with his landlord. “’Sright. Ben Tanner, old Thomas Tanner’s eldest boy.”
Charles nodded. The Tanners had been tenants of the Orrinshires in their southern holdings time out of mind. They said in the village that instead of their profession giving them their name, it was the Tanners who had named the profession.
“Well, Mr. Tanner,” Charles said. “You seem to have a problem with your bull.”
Mr. Tanner scowled. “’Tis my problem, and I will deal with it, y’lordship.”
Charles hesitated. He was no fool. Evidently, Mr. Tanner was not a ‘loyalist’, as his mother would put it, but he could hardly allow the man to attempt to herd the bull back into its field alone.
“Ben! I thought it was you – how is your mother?”
Charles’s head turned so quickly, he cricked his neck. Priscilla was beaming, walking toward them quickly as she pulled off her jacket.
“Afternoon, Miss
