Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Her tone was respectful, but she stared at Priscilla as though she was a strange creature walking on her hind legs. Had she something on her nose? Was her bonnet askew?

  “You know, I thought you were in London this week.”

  Charles’s voice cut through Priscilla’s thoughts, and he returned to her side.

  Absentmindedly, she took his arm once again before replying. “I was, but I wanted to be home – besides, Town is only ten miles away.”

  Their conversation was stilted once more as they turned a corner into the village square. It was market day, every inch packed with stalls, the clucking of hens, the shouts of farmers selling their wares, and a blacksmith in one corner arguing with someone about the cost of a horseshoe.

  Priscilla glanced at Charles and saw his face break into a grin.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” he said, looking out at the scene. “Every single one of them is connected to the Orrinshire land, and we all benefit from them. Our pantries are stocked with their produce, their game on my table, their brothers and sisters on my staff. We are all connected.”

  Priscilla looked at him. There was a wistful look on his face, as though he knew he was at the same time utterly disconnected from them. How could he be one of them? He was the duke, the lord, the owner of all their homes.

  As they started to walk around the square, many looked up and bowed in the direction of their landlord – but even more stared at her. Priscilla started off by smiling back, after all, she had grown up just outside this village as Charles had done. She was no stranger to them.

  But after a few minutes, the stares were far too pointed to ignore. Some were whispering as she approached, whispers that were suddenly silenced as they came close enough to hear them.

  Perhaps it was all in her imagination.

  “Tell me,” Charles murmured as they turned a corner and put a little distance between themselves and the crowd. “Why is it that so many people are looking at you?”

  Priscilla swallowed. The Times may not have the largest readership, but gossip in a village spread far quicker than printed paper. It appeared her exploits at the engagement picnic were common knowledge – and clearly, not approved of.

  It had all felt like a game when she had spoken with Miss Lloyd at the Viscount Donal’s wedding. Rival her for Charles’s heart – what harm could it bring?

  It had felt wonderful arriving at Charles’s engagement party dressed in her finery, certain that she would attract the attention of all there. This rivalry had felt like the cleverest idea, but she was not just playing the rival now. She was playing for keeps, and if she were not very much mistaken, this was the rough she would have to take with the smooth.

  She glanced at Charles and felt her stomach melt. He was the prize of this rivalry, even if he did not realize it. Could he even fathom how much pain she felt at the mere thought of him marrying another?

  And what about Miss Lloyd? She had seemed eager for this rivalry, for anything that would help end her engagement. Was it not possible, however, that her reputation would be damaged by all this? If Priscilla was successful, and with every passing moment in Charles’s company, she was more sure of it, then Miss Lloyd would be a jilted bride. Who would marry such a woman?

  Priscilla swallowed. She had not really thought this through, had she? But her feelings for Charles, complex and new and yet always present, seemed to blot all those concerns away as a streak of sunlight gleamed on his hair.

  “Ah, the chestnut tree!” Charles’s voice cut through her thoughts as he dropped her arm and ran toward a tree just outside the church. “Do you remember gathering chestnuts every autumn?”

  “Conkers,” she corrected, shaking her head as she raised a hand to the tree. The bark felt warm, the last of the summer heat pouring through its veins. “We used to battle with them on a string, and I think I beat you every time.”

  “Not every time, surely?” Charles looked up at the golden leaves. “This tree must be what…a few hundred years old? I wonder how many Orrinshires have battled with its conkers.”

  Priscilla walked around the trunk of the tree. Every knot, every branch was a familiar part of home.

  “I wonder whether any of them actually won,” she teased.

  His mouth fell open with mock outrage. “Slander, slander on my good name! I can think of…well, at least five occasions when I beat you!”

  She laughed. No matter what was happening in the world, there was always Charles. “I let you! Besides, I always won back my money. Remember, I do not have the Orrinshire fortune and lands behind me. I’ve only ever had two thousand for my dowry – I had to get a few coins from you!”

  He joined with her laughter, and the bolt of love she had been ignoring shot through her heart.

  Charles Audley, Duke of Orrinshire. She was so desperately in love with him that she would take a bullet for him. The idea that he would shackle himself with a woman who did not even like him? It was intolerable!

  It had always been him. As Priscilla watched him root around in the fallen leaves for this year’s conkers, she realized that no other gentleman had ever come close. A few girlhood crushes, perhaps, but nothing comparable.

  Charles drew her to him like no one else ever had, and now her body was responding as a woman, not a child.

  “Priscilla? What are you thinking?” He examined her closely, concern etched onto his features, and she colored at the thought that he could somehow see what was on her mind by the mere intensity of her feelings.

  “Nothing of import,” she said hastily. “Did you find any conkers?”

  But the childhood toy from nature was forgotten. Charles stepped toward her, a slight frown across his forehead.

  “You cannot hide anything from me, you know,” he said seriously, taking her hands in his. “What is it?”

  His sky-blue eyes met hers, and Priscilla’s heart started to race. Was this the moment? Could it be this simple? They would hold hands, he would look into her eyes, and suddenly he would realize he felt more passion for her than could even be attempted for Miss Lloyd?

  Could he feel the frantic pulse in her wrist? Could he sense the desire in her soul?

  “Priscilla,” Charles whispered.

  She swallowed. They were so close, if she just leaned forward, their lips would touch. Hers tingled at the very thought.

  “Yes?”

  His eyes were wide, and he leaned forward very slowly. Priscilla could feel her eyelashes lowering. This was it. This was the moment that she experienced not only her first but her last first kiss.

  “There is a fox behind you.”

  Charles’s whisper was so delicate that she almost did not register the words, just the intimacy of his breathing. Then her eyes snapped open.

  “Fox?” She turned slowly, her hands still in his.

  He was right. A fox stood, startled, keeping a close eye on them. Then without warning, it slunk off into a hedge.

  Priscilla’s stomach lurched with disappointment. It had all been her imagination, her own longing.

  “Goodness, I do not think I have seen one this close to the market in years,” Charles said, his eyes still attempting to watch the fox. He dropped her hands without a second thought as he took a step toward the hedge. “Do you remember hearing them in the park when we were young?”

  Priscilla forced a smile and leaned against the chestnut tree. “Yes, they sounded awful. Was it you or Mary who made up the story about the horrible goblins that lived under the dell?”

  Charles laughed softly. “You, most certainly. Mary would never have had the imagination for such a wild thing. And I believed anything you said then.”

  “Then?” Priscilla had not intended it to be a whisper, had never meant for it to sound as erotic as it sounded.

  Her whole body seemed overwhelmed by heat, the rough bark behind her and the strong body of Charles before her. Everything she had ever thought of herself, a naïve and innocent woman, had melted away in the heat of her de
sire for him. All she wanted was him to take her into his arms, and…

  “Well, probably now, too,” he admitted. He took her hands again and said, “There has been no one else for me but you, you know that, Priscilla? No better friend I could ask for. Now come on, we had better return home or my mother will think we have eloped!”

  He laughed heartily as he pulled her away from the tree and tucked her arm in his.

  She tried to laugh with him. For an instant, the smallest of moments, she had thought…but no. Even the idea of them eloping was a joke to him.

  A week ago, she would have giggled with him. Now the pain of his laughter cut into her soul like a knife.

  Chapter Five

  “If you make me dance one more time, I will vomit,” Charles complained, rubbing his temples.

  Jacob Beauvale, Lord Westray, threw back his head and laughed. “Damnit, man, you are almost a married man! Do you not want to relish the chance of dancing with other lovely young ladies before you commit yourself, forever, to just one?”

  Charles sighed heavily and looked around the room. It was a private ball, which meant there was some semblance of class from the guests, but the invitation list had been too long in his books.

  Crowds of people toppled over each other as they attempted to move from room to room, giggling from the ladies and guffaws from the gentlemen. Around the edges stood the older generation, dressed in last decade’s fashions and with today’s frowns as they looked out at the levity.

  “I came into London for this?” he said, shaking his head. “I thought more of my friends and acquaintances would be here, saving your presence, Westray.”

  Westray was not listening. He had been offered a platter covered in small, edible treats, but rather than select two – one for each hand – he had taken the entire platter from the bemused footman and was now piling the food into his mouth.

  “Parfon?”

  Charles could not help but smile as his friend sprayed pastry. He had known Westray all his life. Five years older than him, but with hardly any more sense, Westray was known throughout town as a gentleman who knew how to have fun.

  If only he could make this ball a little more palatable.

  “No one is here,” Charles said, raising his voice over the cacophony of sounds. A smile broke across his face. “No one worth speaking to, anyway.”

  Westray swallowed his mouthful. “You have danced three times, Orrinshire, which is no mean feat in a place like this.”

  Charles shrugged rather than reply. Yes, he had danced twice. Once with Miss Lloyd, who had naught but insipid conversation about the weather, once with a Miss Olivia Lymington, who had plenty of conversation but all about her own fortune, and once with Miss Emma Tilbury, which was naught but boredom as she recounted her requirements in a man, now that the Earl of Marnmouth had abandoned her as his mistress.

  Was this it, then?

  “You will have to become accustomed to balls if you are going to live in Town after you are married,” said Westray with a grin. “That is your intention, is it not?”

  Charles frowned. “You know I have not thought about it much. I suppose we will reside mostly at Orrinspire Park, unless we are in Orrinshire itself, in the north.”

  “Ah, the Highlands.” Westray shook his head. “You know, I have never been further than York?”

  “You must come further than that if you are to see any real beauty in this country,” teased Charles. “The lochs, the mountains, the fells… God’s own country, and I care not what any Yorkshire man says. God may have loved Yorkshire, but he lived in Scotland.”

  Westray’s dark eyes twinkled. “And yet you do not even know whether you will live there with your bride or down here in the dirt of London. You surprise me, Orrinshire. I would have thought your Miss Lloyd and yourself would have spent hours discussing these sorts of things. Where you want to live, what home you will run, how many carriages, that sort of thing.”

  A slither of discomfort slid down Charles’s throat and into his stomach. It had never occurred to him to converse on these topics with Miss Lloyd.

  He was an Orrinshire, and she would be in a few short weeks’ time. Orrinshires did things in a certain way, and when she became his wife, she would bend to fit them.

  “You have not discussed servants, or balls, or whether you will travel to Europe?” Westray persisted, the silver platter in his hand almost empty.

  Charles shook his head. “You know how it is, Westray, with these arranged marriages. I do not believe I have had one single meaningful conversation with Miss Lloyd in our entire acquaintance.”

  His friend’s eyes bulged. “Not one?”

  “Why would we? I knew I would have an arranged marriage, Miss Frances Lloyd – the Honorable Miss Frances Lloyd, I should say – was chosen for me, and I acquiesced.” Charles prided himself that he could speak of it with only a hint of bitterness. That was an improvement, at any rate. “I suppose it is not the sort of marriage that would agree with everyone, but it is what the Orrinshire name expects.”

  Westray offloaded the empty platter onto the unsuspecting arms of a passing footman and scowled at his friend. “You speak as though you have agreed to a death sentence.”

  Charles bit down the retort that this was worse because he would be alive to endure it. “My marriage will certainly not be like some.”

  A cheer went up as the musicians returned from their refreshment, and people started pairing off and moving to the center of the room.

  “Most dukes do not marry for love,” Westray said quietly.

  “I thought I always would,” Charles said somewhat fiercely. “If we do not have the opportunity to choose our partners for life, then who does?”

  Westray removed two glass of wine from a passing footman’s platter, downed one, and handed the other to Charles.

  “Was there someone, in particular, you had in mind?”

  Panic flooded through Charles’s veins. “Of course not!”

  As the pounding of his heart slowed, a memory surfaced in his mind, Priscilla Seton, leaning against the chestnut tree, her eyes bright and a smile dancing on her lips.

  Priscilla? Why had he thought of her?

  “Besides, if you ask me, there is very little wrong with your Miss Frances Lloyd,” Westray was saying. “I have met her but a few times, admittedly, but on each occasion, I was not repulsed.”

  Charles could not help but laugh. “Is that the standard we are going for now? Not repulsed?”

  It was all so absurd. Here they stood, in a virtual sea of eligible young ladies moving as though pulled by the tide, and he was engaged to a woman that…well. He felt nothing for whatsoever.

  “Not repulsed is far better than some marriages.” Westray grinned. “Trust me, if I had to endure an arranged marriage, being not repulsed would be something I would cling to.”

  Charles sighed. How long had he been at this damned ball, and when could he leave? Westray was good company, but he could not stand being here much longer.

  “Miss Lloyd is a respectable, amiable, pretty girl, I suppose,” he said. “But she is not the one I would have chosen, and I dare say given a choice, she would not have chosen me either. We mean nothing to each other – less than nothing!”

  His words seemed to hang out in the air before them.

  Westray shuffled his feet before speaking quietly. “In a few weeks, you will be husband and wife.”

  Charles opened his mouth, but no words came out. Weeks? Yes, it was weeks before their wedding, as his mother kept reminding him. Just a few weeks, and then his freedom, such as it was, would be over.

  “Yes, I cannot believe it is so soon!”

  Charles closed his mouth. His mother had appeared as though conjured by his very thoughts, and she was beaming.

  “I must confess myself more than a little excited, Lord Westray,” the dowager duchess said as Westray fell into a hasty bow. “Are you not excited, Charles?”

  The temptation to grimace and s
tride away was strong, but as always, with his own inclinations, Charles forced it down.

  He was doing this for his mother and the family name. No other reason could have induced him to accept an arranged marriage to a stranger, so the least he could do was smile while he was about it.

  A smile carefully constructed across his face, he said, “Of course, Mama. Very excited.”

  Lady Audley placed a hand on his arm. “I know, but you will have to wait, you impatient boy! Now, it is almost midnight, and I estimate the carriage ride home is at least half an hour. Charles, if I leave now, you can find your own way home?”

  Charles could not help but laugh. “Mama, I am over five and twenty – closer to thirty than twenty! If I cannot hail a cab, I can stay at the club. Really, you must not treat me like –”

  “A yes would have sufficed, Charles,” interrupted Lady Audley. Removing her hand from his arm, she tapped him with her fan. “Now, be careful. There are goodness knows how many robbers and thieves out there – remember the Duke of Mercia’s sister! Goodnight, Lord Westray.”

  Lady Audley swept away in a myriad of skirts and silks, and Charles’ shoulders slumped. Well, at least he did not have to concern himself with entertaining his mother for the rest of the evening.

  “Your mother is…” Westray began, respect in every word but a smile on his face, and eventually, it became a laugh. “God’s teeth, man, you really are twelve years old to her, aren’t you?”

  Charles stiffened. He considered himself a fairly easy-going man, especially to his friends, and Westray was one in that number. But his mother was not a topic for external mockery.

  “Perhaps,” he said curtly. “But that was the age my sister, Mary, was.”

  No more needed to be said. Westray had known Mary, albeit briefly, and he knew what a terrible loss her passing had been to the family.

  “My apologies, old man,” he said immediately, a look of genuine contrition on his face. “You know I would never – finest woman in town, your mother.”

  Charles’s hands had unconsciously balled into fists, but he allowed the hackles on his back to lower and his hands to relax.