Why had it taken him so damn long to see it?
Charles swallowed. It did not do to be so bitter. This had gone on too far, and someone was going to be hurt.
His fingers found the feather quill again, twisting it as his mind attempted to find a solution.
Either he married Miss Lloyd. That left him and Priscilla hurt, desperate for what they knew was real affection.
Or, he abandoned Miss Lloyd, breaking their engagement. That left Miss Lloyd devastated, he was sure, and his mother…
Well, he did not even like to guess what her reaction would be.
Was it possible to find an option in which no one was hurt? A frown creased across his forehead. He was in the wrong, that was certain. He should have thought for more than five minutes before he agreed to this arranged marriage.
The small carriage clock which had been his father’s chimed quietly. It had sat on his desk – his father’s desk, really – since Charles had inherited the dukedom. Placing the quill down, his fingers brushed over the ornate gold filigree across the face.
Quarter to midnight. He should go to bed, he was getting absolutely nothing done here, and with two weeks – only a fortnight! – until the wedding, his mother was requiring more and more help with the final touches.
Charles almost laughed as he rose from the desk. Had any gentleman regretted his matrimonial prospects as much as he did? The day approached like a harbinger of death.
A little dramatic, he would admit, but it was impossible not to consider the fourteenth of October as the end of his life.
It would certainly never be the same again. Instead of going upstairs to an empty bed, he would find within it…
Charles closed his eyes for a moment and tried not to think. Miss Lloyd. Well, he knew his duty. She would, as well. They would create heirs for the dukedom of Orrinshire, and once their duty was done, he would not trouble her again.
Something was trying to get his attention, and it was not until he had closed his eyes that he realized what it was. There was a noise in the hallway, quiet, soft noises, but a disturbance, nonetheless.
Charles opened his eyes. Someone was speaking with Hodges. It was a voice he knew, but so muffled that he could barely make out a single word.
“I implore you to come in,” the butler was saying in a hushed voice. “The weather outside, it is simply –”
His voice broke off as more muttering crept under the study door. Charles moved over to it, his heart starting to beat. Who could be outside at this hour? A vagrant, someone who should have gone begging to the servants’ entrance? A tenant, hurt and unable to make their way back to their cottage?
But no. As he calmed his breathing down and pricked up his ears, he heard the murmuring again. It was a woman’s voice.
“…leave a message…”
Those three words were enough. He knew that inflection, would know it anywhere. Priscilla.
Almost tripping over himself to open the door and fling himself through it, his feet managed to steady themselves as he stumbled into the hallway.
Hodges turned, the front door wide open, and there, a silhouette in the doorway thanks to the lanterns on either side of the door, was Priscilla.
She was absolutely drenched. Her bonnet had collapsed under the weight of the water, her hair straggled down her back, utterly undone from its pins, and her gown and jacket were sodden.
“Priscilla,” he said weakly.
The hallway echoed the word, amplifying it. She started, eyes darting between him and the butler.
“Ah, Your Grace,” Hodges said smoothly. “I was just encouraging Miss Seton to step inside and dry off before she returned –”
“And I said no, thank you,” Priscilla interjected. Her eyes were wild, her cheeks pink.
Charles swallowed. She evidently did not consider herself welcome here, though what she was doing at his door in the middle of the night…
This was it. Charles had heard about these moments: those instances when a decision, one way or another, would transform the rest of your life. There were two directions he could go in, and each would give him an entirely different life.
He knew what he should do. It was on the tip of his tongue to wish her well on her walk home and instruct Hodges to shut the door and lock up for the night.
But he hesitated. How could he do that to Priscilla? Something pulled him to her. Just because he did not understand the tide, that did not mean it did not tug him. They were two ships pulled in a current, moving faster and faster toward each other no matter what they did.
Whether or not he agreed with her that his engagement to Miss Lloyd should end, he would not have left a dog outside in this weather.
“You are being ridiculous, Priscilla,” he said stiffly. “You must come inside, look at that weather. The rain will be gone soon, I dare say, and you can change into some of my mother’s things before you depart again, if you really insist on returning home. If not, there are plenty of spare chambers at Orrinspire Park.”
“Let me show you to a guest bedroom,” said Hodges smoothly, stepping aside to invite Priscilla in.
She stood, still dripping water on the step, and bit her lip. It was clear she had absolutely no wish to step inside, but the state she was in left her very little choice.
“Under protest,” she said darkly as she stepped inside.
Charles saw the butler wince as she started to drip on the Axminster rug.
“Come on upstairs, Miss Seton,” said the servant hurriedly. “I will instruct a maid to bring towels and a change of clothes for you, along with some…some bedclothes, if you decide to stay the night.”
Hodges placed an arm around Priscilla and herded her toward the stairs. The pair of them walked past Charles, who stepped aside. Priscilla’s eyes were downcast. She did not look up.
Their echoing footsteps
