Charles bowed but had no time to say anything before the gentleman had already gone. He swallowed. He had thought it such a clever idea that morning, go to the village. Wait in Orrinbrook because it is Wednesday, and Priscilla always wandered into the village on Wednesdays.
A wry smile crept over his face. She was far more devoted to the village than he. How many times had he seen her: hundreds, over the years? Basket in one hand and flowers in the other, visiting the poor of the neighborhood and making sure they had enough to eat for the week.
He leaned against the wall, feeling the rub of the brick against his coat. Bridges would not be pleased, but that could not be helped.
Where was Priscilla?
He had waited here for…goodness, two hours, by the church clock. So, where was she? Surely, she had not stopped going to help the poor because he had abandoned her?
Swallowing again, he tasted the bitterness in his throat. More for something to do than because he felt such anger, he kicked at the gravel again.
“I say, do you mind?” A portly woman with a fur stole around her shoulders had turned the corner and found herself showered with little stones. “Really, if you have nothing better to do than kick gravel at ladies, sir, then I would say you should be off home!”
Charles was forced to hide a smile. Dressed as he was, in his oldest jacket and the top hat that Bridges had threatened to throw out two years ago, few people would guess that the gentleman she had just berated publicly was the Duke of Orrinshire – and the entire village’s landlord.
It was not enough to pull his mind from the woman he had hoped to see here.
Priscilla.
Just the thought of her name made his heart flutter, fool that he was. How had he allowed himself to fall in love?
He had written to her, of course. What could he do but beg her forgiveness, tell her that he was worthless?
Placing his hand in his pocket, Charles pulled out her reply. He had almost memorized it, at no great difficulty. It had been short, sharp, and to the point.
Charles,
Your letter has been received. Do not send another. I have no wish to hear from you again.
Miss P. Seton
He scanned over the few words again, taking in every twist and curl of her handwriting. It was as familiar to him as his own.
The missive, however, was not the response he had hoped for. As a few people passed him, carrying new purchases from Market Day, he read the letter again.
Well, he was abiding by her wishes, Charles reasoned wretchedly. Waiting in the village to accost her in person was not writing to her.
The clock above the church struck two, and Charles sighed heavily. He had promised Miss Lloyd that he would meet her and his mother in town at three o’clock. He was almost certain to be late now, and there were only…what, six days until the wedding?
Even he knew he was foolish. If one of his friends – Wynn, perhaps, or Westray – had asked his advice for this very situation, he would physically turn him around, place him on a horse, and say one simple thing: “Ride to town, and do not look back.”
Even his unconscious was against him. This was foolishness, he told himself, the inner debate fueled by love and fear. What did he think he would gain by accosting Priscilla in the street? More pain for them both? He was still engaged to be married to Miss Lloyd, and by his own admission, he was not going to break that engagement.
He was seeking nothing but pain, but the pain from seeing Priscilla was worth every iota of agony.
As Charles looked down the street, he saw Miss Busby, Priscilla’s housekeeper’s daughter. She was walking, head bowed, and cheeks flushed, arm in arm with Bridges.
Charles could not help but smile. His valet and the housekeeper’s daughter. Well, there had been worse matches.
They passed him, thankfully, without realizing the ruffian in the old coat was the duke of the county, and Charles leaned back against the wall. He knew his own foolishness, but now it was time for his rational brain to take control. If he paced quickly back to Orrinspire Park, he could be on a horse in five minutes, ten at the outside, and he would only be a few minutes late to meet Miss Lloyd.
His heart sank at the prospect. Tea and cake with Miss Lloyd and her parents, discussing their honeymoon. He would rather take a dive into the Orrinbrook duckpond.
Charles turned to head home and hurtled headlong into Priscilla.
“Good afternoon.” She spoke with some surprise, and Charles could not tell whether his mere presence was enough to confuse her or whether his apparel had startled her.
He opened his mouth, expecting his breeding to supply words of charm and elegance. “Ehughgh…”
Charles shut his mouth hurriedly. Damnit, of all times for him to go weak at the knees, this was not it!
But he could not help it. Priscilla looked radiant. Not only was she dressed in the latest fashion, her spencer jacket with the most incredible ruffle he had ever seen, but her complexion was fair, her eyes bright, and she had a smile dancing on her face that had fallen as recognition dawned.
“What are you doing here?”
The question was quite reasonable, and Charles was unsure why he was unable to answer it. Had she worn that jacket before, or had she always looked this beautiful, and he had never noticed? Months, years wasted because he had not looked further than the end of his nose for happiness.
Charles’s knees started to droop, and he gathered himself together with a brusque cough. He was not going to fall apart in the street at the mere sight of Priscilla – he was not!
“Hello,” he managed. “I…I thought…would you like some company into the village?”
“No,” Priscilla said curtly.
Charles deflated. What had he expected? The last words
