Priscilla. What in God’s name did she think she was doing here? Well, he could not allow himself to be distracted. He had the study to tidy, papers to put away before he went to bed. Whenever he left it untidy, he received a disapproving sigh from Hodges.
His fingers made light work of the paperwork scattered across the desk, but as he turned to the documents box, they fumbled. Cascades of paper and parchment fell to the carpet in a scattered mess.
Charles sighed, dropping into his armchair. Concentration had utterly abandoned him the moment that Priscilla had entered his house. His mind was not here, in the study, attempting to file away papers. It was upstairs, with Priscilla.
A Priscilla who was undressing at this very moment.
Charles moved quickly, anything to take his mind off the delectable hidden delight just a few feet away, and knocked over a bottle of ink in the process.
“Damn and blast it!”
A quick attempt to wipe up the ink with his handkerchief merely spread the ink further, and he cursed again.
What was he doing here, cleaning up like a footman in the butler’s bad graces, when he could be where he wanted to be: upstairs, with Priscilla?
Within seconds he had reached the study door, and he flung it open and marched through it without a second thought.
He was always trying to keep everyone else happy, but what about his own happiness? When was the last time he had done something that was selfish for his own enjoyment?
Hodges was walking sedately down the sweeping staircase. Charles ran past him, taking the steps two at a time.
“Miss Seton is in the Blue Room, Your Grace.”
Charles did not reply. Did the butler guess? Perhaps he did, perhaps not. It ceased to matter when he reached the landing.
The Blue Room was only six doors down on the left, and he thrust open the door and stepped inside without even considering a knock.
Priscilla screamed as he shut the door behind him. She was holding up her sodden gown around her breasts, the ribbon ties trailing along the floor. She was evidently just about to strip off the wet gown to dry herself off.
Every part of him stiffened, and he forced himself to not feel but to think as he leaned against the door. He had to get this right.
“Why are you here?”
In the silence that followed, all that could be heard was the gentle drip of water from her soaking wet gown.
Priscilla stared. “This – this is the room that Hodges showed me. If you would prefer me to change in another, I can –”
“No,” Charles said, waving away her words impatiently. “Not here, in this bedchamber. Here, in my home.”
He watched her swallow, saw the panic in her eyes, and had to force his attention away from the rising and falling of her breasts.
“I-I intended to leave a note with you,” she began.
“And you did not wish to speak with me?” Charles could hardly keep the bitterness from his voice. “After almost two decades of friendship, it comes to this? Notes left in the dead of night?”
But Priscilla did not attend to his words, nor give any reason for her actions. “Your mother will not be best pleased if she finds me here,” she warned in a low voice, avoiding his gaze. “And will be even less pleased if she finds you here. With me.”
Charles took a step forward. The instinct to be close to her was impossible to ignore. She retreated, the back of her legs hitting the large, four-poster bed.
“My mother is not here,” he said shortly. “She is in London for the weekend. What was in the note?”
She was but a few feet away. If he moved forward again, he could pull her into his arms and…
No. He must be strong. He had to force down those thoughts, ignore those desires. It would not do to lose control, not when Priscilla was barely clothed.
She finally lifted her eyes to his, and he was astonished to see that they were full of tears.
“I have decided,” she said quietly, “not to rival Frances – Miss Lloyd – any longer. It was wrong of me to do so, wrong of me to think I could just step in and claim you for myself. I have no wish to hurt you, Charles, and so I…I will leave you alone from now on.”
Leave him alone? What did that mean?
“I am not that sort of woman,” Priscilla said, more strongly now. “I am not a lady who takes pleasure in making another’s life miserable, and…and that is all I am doing. So no more.”
Charles shook his head, as though that could remove the words. “You speak as though you are abdicating your very existence from my life.”
What was life if Priscilla was not in it?
She did not reply. Seeing her standing there, defiant, angry, and utterly defeated in her hopes, a new certainty washed over Charles’s mind.
He did not want to marry Miss Lloyd. More than that, he wanted to marry Priscilla.
It was a certainty he had never felt before. He could not apologize for it, just as he could not apologize for being the Duke of Orrinshire, or for having blue eyes.
It was who he was.
“Why are you deciding to give up your…your rivalry now?” He spoke quietly, with no resentment. There was no need to be bitter when the way forward seemed so clear.
Priscilla laughed wryly. “Well, I have hardly been succeeding up until now! I had thought our…our encounter last week would tempt you. Would make you see…but you are too good for that, Charles. You honor your commitments, and it is time that I honored them, too.”
“I am not too good for that.” The words came out almost as a croak. He took another step closer, and Priscilla could not back away. “Priscilla, all I have been able to do in the last seven days is
