She could not admit anything to Charles. She could not tell him how she felt, reveal to him the secret inner workings of her heart.
What if he laughed at her? Thought less of her? What if he demanded their friendship came to an end?
Priscilla swallowed down the panic and instead said, “Well, you have the book back safely. I will go home now. Goodnight, Charles.”
She almost made it to the door before he spoke, leaning over the settee with a smile.
“Don’t be silly, Priscilla. Come and sit down, have a nightcap with me before you go back out there in the rain. It sounds horrid, to tell the truth.”
Her hand was on the handle, but she hesitated. “I should not be drinking with a gentleman, not really.”
“You’re not,” said Charles. “You’re drinking with me.”
Everything in her bones told her to go home. She was alone here. Society would not care if they were friends. No, society would call her a ruined woman if caught with a gentleman so indecorously dressed.
“Just one drink then,” she relented. “Or I shall be unable to walk straight on the path home!”
Returning to the fire, she sat on the same settee Charles immediately vacated. He had moved to the drinks cabinet, pulling out two glasses and a bottle of sherry.
“You know, everything has been a bit strange recently,” he said nonchalantly.
Priscilla attempted to match his demeanor. “Oh?”
He poured a small amount of sherry into one glass and a much larger portion into the second. “Yes. I mean, since the engagement. It has all been a little…odd.”
“Has it?”
Charles put the bottle away and walked over to pass her the sherry.
“Yes,” he said, sitting down next to her with his own glass. “I hope…well, that things will go back to the way they were before. After the wedding, I mean.”
Priscilla brought the sherry glass to her lips and took a large gulp of the scalding liquid. It was the sherry, she thought afterward. She could think of no other reason why she said it.
“No. Nothing will be the same again.”
Charles frowned. “Well, I suppose not, but we will still be friends. We will still see each other regularly, I expect. In town and things.”
Pulse roaring in her ears, Priscilla’s whole body seemed taut, like a tightrope waiting for someone to attempt a great distance. If she did not speak now, she would regret it, perhaps for the rest of her life.
“Do you not see how impossible that will be?” she said, taking another sip of her sherry. “I mean…Charles. You will be a married man. You will not just be able to see me whenever you like!”
It was evident by the look on his face that this was not something he had considered. A frown crept over his face, and he took a large gulp of his drink without saying anything.
Priscilla looked down at her own glass. It was almost empty. It had hardly been half full when Charles had passed it to her, but if she were going to continue, she would need a little Dutch courage.
Tipping the glass back and finishing the last of the amber liquid, she put it down on a table and looked directly at the man she loved.
“Charles,” she said, far more calmly than she felt. “I have something to confess to you.”
The words were out before she could stop them, and regret poured through her body.
Heady sherry, sheer panic, and the intoxication of his presence had forced those words from her lips. But now they were said, and she could not take them back.
Even if she wanted to.
Charles leaned toward her. “Confession? I hope this is not another book theft, Priscilla, because my library only has so many.”
Priscilla swallowed before replying. Was this the right time? There could be no better, that was certain, but that did not make it right. Was she mad to even be considering this at all?
Looking at him melted away all her concerns. She could not play games anymore. Arriving at his engagement picnic dressed to take attention away from the bride was one thing, but she could have been seriously injured if that bull had lurched the wrong way.
She could not put herself in harm’s way just to attract his attention anymore. She may be rivaling Miss Frances Lloyd for his heart, but if she were to feel any pleasure in the prize, she would have to win Charles in a fair fight.
Priscilla took a deep breath. “I had a conversation with Miss Lloyd. At the Donal wedding.”
The interest which had sparked in Charles’ eyes died away. “Oh, yes. Miss Lloyd.”
It was still possible to escape this conversation without revealing all, but Priscilla knew this was it. This was the moment. “And ever since then, I have been…been trying to rival her.”
Charles frowned, taking another sip of the sherry. “Rival? I don’t understand.”
Heartily wishing that she had not drunk the entire glass of sherry, Priscilla tried to think straight. Charles’s presence was more than enough to confuse her at the best of times, but now she needed all her concentration. She had to get this right.
“The picnic, the ball, your friend Lord Westray, the bull…Charles, I have been trying to get your attention.” He still looked confused, and Priscilla’s gaze dropped to her hands for a moment before she met his eyes again. “To draw it away from Frances. Miss Lloyd.”
Charles sat unmoving, just staring. Every inch of Priscilla’s felt as though she had just dived into cold water.
He placed his glass down on the side table and took a deep breath. “Why?”
Priscilla fought down the instinct to make a joke. A simple jest would turn him away from the truth.
Or she could be honest with the man she loved.
If she wanted him, truly wanted Charles, then she needed to accept that marriage would involve discomfort, difficult conversations, and moments of awkwardness.
If she really wanted him, she had to accept the good and the bad.
“I think I have been in love with you for a long time.”
Charles’s eyes widened. “You think?”
“I-I hardly knew it until you were engaged,” Priscilla said quietly. “But since then, I have realized that…yes. I am in love with you, Charles.”
The words hung in the air like butterflies hovering around them. There was still nausea in her stomach, and her hands did not know what to do with themselves, but as she sat and waited for Charles to respond, he did…nothing.
What was he going to say? That he loved her, that he hated her, that he did not care, that he could never have guessed?
Anything to break this terrifying silence as he just stared, soundlessly.
And then he sighed heavily. “Damnit, Priscilla, you should have said something sooner. Then we could have done something about it. As it is, I am engaged to Miss Lloyd.”
Was it – was it possible that he felt the same way? Did he mean he would rather be engaged to her? He had not said enough to be clear, and she could not think of a question to ask him.
No questions, then. Just action. She had been patient long enough, passive long enough. Sure this could still all be a terrible mistake, she leaned over, shaking slightly, and kissed him.
Charles responded with such ardor that he pinned her against the settee, his arms around her, his fingers clutching her, his lips passionately pressed against hers.
This was a dream, surely! Priscilla could hardly believe it, so lost in the moment, but it was real. Charles was kissing her, and with such desire that she had leaned back, and he was now on top of her, holding his weight on his elbows to prevent her from being crushed. The strength of his body, the hardness of his muscles, made her feel more alive than she ever had done. Every inch of her was crying out for him, and now his body was answering that call.
Eventually, the kiss ended, desperation for air only just surmounting their desperation for each other.
“Charles,” she whispered, eyes wide, staring up at the man she loved.
Hearing his name on her lips mad
e him groan and kiss her even more passionately, his kisses trailing from her lips to her neck.
Priscilla’s eyes closed in adoration as she allowed bliss to overwhelm her. How was this happening? If she had known it was as simple as making herself vulnerable, she would have done it weeks ago!
Charles returned to her lips, unable to leave them alone, teasing them open and making Priscilla shudder as their tongues met.
“I knew it,” Priscilla said jerkily between their kisses. “I knew you must feel this way.”
He chuckled, stroking her cheek with his free hand. “Damnation, Priscilla, I didn’t – not before that damned bullfight! Why didn’t you tell me?”
She smiled and answered in the only way she knew how, by pulling him closer and kissing him, abandoning all thought of control and letting her desires free.
As he kissed her, his hand was not idle. It moved to her hips, pulling her closer, and Priscilla let out an instinctive moan of delight.
In an instant, he was gone.
Priscilla opened her eyes, hazy with love, to see Charles standing on the other side of the room. “What is wrong?”
His breathing was heavy, and he was looking away as he managed, “It is too late. I am…I am engaged to Miss Lloyd.”
Barely able to catch her own breath, she forced herself upright and tried to smooth down her gown. “Engagements can be broken.”
“No,” said Charles quickly. “I will not do that to her. She has done nothing wrong.”
“And neither have we,” said Priscilla quickly. What was happening? Was it possible the joy she had only just found was to be taken from her within the same minute of discovering it?
He sighed and turned to face her. Anguish covered his face. “Do you think I like this? Do you think I wish to marry a woman with whom I have nothing in common, no real affection for? But this is the situation I am in, Priscilla, and I know my duty. I will marry Miss Lloyd.”
Priscilla found herself on her feet. “So, because you made a mistake and refuse to rectify it, we all have to suffer?”
“You could have said something earlier! Why did you not admit your feelings to me, if you felt so strongly about them?” Charles dropped into another chair, his shirt still unbuttoned, but now there was a hardness to his breeches that Priscilla knew was all down to her.
Trying to keep her voice calm and not escalate their argument, she said, “I only realized when you became engaged. Of…of course, I would have said something if I had known before, but I did not – and neither, may I point out, did you!”
Charles put his head in his hands. It was awful seeing him like that. So hurt, so unable to do anything about the pain he felt – and yet Priscilla knew he could act. Miss Lloyd had seemed, at best, nonchalant about their engagement. Surely she would not be injured if Charles called it to a close?
But then, it was not her place to say that. If Miss Lloyd wanted to be released from their engagement, she would have to say. Just like Charles would.
“I do not know what to tell you,” he said heavily.
So, he was truly not going to do anything. Anger rose in Priscilla’s heart, anger at the situation, but predominately anger at Charles. He could do something about this, he could break the engagement with Miss Lloyd – but he would not.
“I should not have said anything,” she said, moving around the settee toward the door, her skirts rustling in the silence. “I thought if you – if you cared for me at all, you would wish to be with me. I see now that I should not have spoken at all.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have,” said Charles coldly.
If he said anything else, Priscilla did not know. She slammed the door behind her and paced down the corridor toward the hallway. She did not need to wait for Hodges; she knew where the cloakroom was.
Not until she reached the cool of the night air did she allow the tears to fall that had threatened from the moment Charles had said he would not break his engagement.
It had all been too little, too late.
Chapter Nine
Charles fell heavily back into his soft leather chair and sighed.
A week. Seven days. One hundred and seventy-odd hours.
However he thought about it, it was far too long to go without seeing Priscilla. A week ago, she had stormed out of his drawing room and out of his life, it seemed. She was not in town; she was not at home. She was nowhere to be found.
Well, that was what Mrs. Busby had said. With tinged cheeks and a stuttering voice, both times Charles had called at the Seton house, she had informed him that Priscilla was unwell and not to be disturbed for visitors.
Charles closed the lid of his inkpot and frowned. What did that mean, unwell? Was it another cold – it was the season for them, after all. Autumn nights drawing in, dew bringing a chill to the evening air.
Was it something worse? Was she bedridden, so ill that she could not descend the stairs?
Or was she so unwell, and the thought made his hands clench, that she had gone away, perhaps to the Continent? Could she have come down with something awful, and the last thing he would ever say to her was that she should not have spoken of her affections for him?
Charles shook his head, laying down his quill and pushing away the paper he had been working on all evening. Priscilla had a far stronger constitution than that, surely. A few colds, perhaps, but she had never suffered anything worse.
A painful twist seared his heart. Or perhaps, the traitorous voice inside his soul murmured, she was not indisposed, but merely does not want to see you…
His gaze dropped to his paperwork. Lists of names, food orders, tack orders; the plans for the autumn hunt had never interested him less. What was the point in inviting nobility and gentry from up and down the country if Priscilla was not there?
He should finish the instructions to his groundskeeper. Mr. Michaels wanted to know how many horses to prepare, how many fox dens to hunt out before guests started to arrive.
Mr. Michaels would have to be disappointed. Charles had spent all week attempting to force Priscilla from his mind, never allowing himself to dwell on her. He had been worse than unsuccessful. Every moment, she was never far from his thoughts.
His eyes were sore, but that was not surprising. It was nearly midnight. The clock in the hall, just beyond the study door, had chimed half-past eleven not long ago, and he could concentrate no longer.
However much he attempted to convince himself it was because of the time, or the headache of trying to ascertain whether Lady Romeril would be offended if her son were not invited to the Orrinshire hunt, he knew the real reason for his distraction.
Priscilla.
How could he concentrate with the memories of that delicious kissing on the settee in the drawing room?
Charles stirred in his seat, his body tensing at the very remembrance of that moment a week ago.
Had he ever felt like this before? Not that he could recall. He had found women attractive, he was hardly dead, but never before had he allowed himself with complete abandon to pour the passion in his blood onto the lips of a woman.
A gentleman at six and twenty usually had far more experience, he knew that. It did not bother him. No wife of a duke was ever going to complain.
And it had not mattered, in the end. He had not needed practice nor advice. His body had just known, and so had Priscilla’s, and when they had allowed themselves to put caution aside and just be together, as they were so desperate to…
Charles smiled. It had been incredible. How was it possible to feel something so powerfully, and then not be able to do anything about it?
“Engagements can be broken.”
“No, I will not do that to her. She has done nothing wrong.”
Had he done the right thing? It had been easy, in that moment, to try to be righteous – but now he had to live with that decision each and every day of his life.
It was torture, and not only he was condemned. No, he condemned Priscilla to the loneliness that she und
oubtedly felt. How could it be wrong when two people loved each other, freely, and wanted to…
His body twitched. Well, he knew what he had wanted to do.
But Miss Frances Lloyd. Charles sighed as the memory of his betrothed forced its way into his conscience.
Sometimes he could barely remember what Miss Lloyd looked like. He had been in her presence…what, perhaps ten hours in total? Ten hours with a woman who would become his second self, his waking shadow, for the rest of his days.
He laughed aloud in the dark and empty study. He had probably spent more than ten hours with Priscilla in one day, countless times. He knew her better than he knew any other person in the world.
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.
Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7) Page 9