“Late?” She glanced at the clock, which now showed it was five past ten. “’Tis not so late, not when I am in such good company and home is but a fifteen-minute walk away.”
“I am very busy,” Charles said desperately. Anything to remove her from his presence. Every minute she stayed here, his resolution to marry Miss Lloyd faltered.
Priscilla frowned, that crease he knew so well appearing in her brow. “Busy? You are just sitting there, reading…what are you reading?”
Charles hastily started pulling all the letters together. “You would not understand,” he said frantically. “It is just paperwork, letters, numbers…”
His voice trailed off as he shoved all the letters under a cushion, his insides cringing. Was this how his father had dealt with financial matters? Just pushed them away, out of sight and out of mind?
Priscilla sat beside him on the cleared space on the settee. “I may not understand now,” she said softly, “that is true. But I will. I am going to be your wife, after all, so I will need to learn how to look after the estate with you.”
Her words, innocently spoken, felt like a dagger in his side. Charles knew in his heart she had meant nothing by it – just pure excitement about their nuptials.
“I do not need any help,” he barked, heat rising in his chest. He knew what he had to say, but how could he possibly explain? “Priscilla, I –”
“Not need any help? Now that is nonsense, a wife is there to support her husband,” Priscilla said calmly, but her face still looked concerned.
Charles breathed deeply. “You are not my wife, Priscilla.”
It was not the best introduction to the topic, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances.
She laughed. “Well, no, not at the moment. But I will be soon.”
He said nothing, his gaze drifting to the fire. It was easier to stare into the flames than look at Priscilla.
Her voice was firmer as she said, “We will be married, won’t we, Charles?”
He sighed heavily. Every inch of him wanted to run, but that was the coward’s way out. He had to face her. Even if it was killing him inside.
Rising to his feet, he walked over to the fireplace, putting a hand on the cooling marble of the mantelpiece.
“I…” he started, still not looking at her. How could he look into her blue eyes and say what he had to say?
“Charles?”
“Priscilla, I cannot do it,” he managed. “I cannot do it, and I thought I could, but I can’t.”
The words echoed around the room. There. It was done. The worst was over.
“What? What can’t you do?” Priscilla’s voice was calm, if anything, curious.
Charles bit his lip. “The engagement.”
“Oh.” Understanding seemed to dawn for Priscilla. “I know it must be difficult to find the words to tell Miss Lloyd that you wish to break the engagement, but Charles, you must speak the truth. If she is reasonable, I am sure she will understand that you must do what you believe is right.”
Charles almost collapsed against the mantelpiece in pain and frustration. That she would say those words, little knowing…
He had to speak. No matter how wretched he felt, or how much he would surely regret this in years to come, he owed it to his family name, the Orrinshires that would come after him, to say this.
“I cannot break my engagement with Miss Lloyd.”
There was silence. Eventually, the silence continued for so long that Charles was forced to screw up his courage and turn around.
“You cannot break your engagement with Miss Lloyd.”
“I know what you must think of me,” Charles said hastily. “I know how this must look, and I –”
“That is because that’s exactly what it is – you lied to me!” Priscilla stared as though she had never seen him before. “You, Charles. You lied to me.”
“No!” Charles took a step forward, but she shrank back into the cushions of the settee. “At the time, I promise you, I had every intention of breaking my engagement to Miss Lloyd –”
“Just not anymore?”
Her words cut into his soul, into everything he had been taught about fairness and the importance of giving his word.
How much could he tell her? Charles’s gaze caught the edge of one of the letters pushed under the cushion. He could not reveal the dire straits his family had managed to get themselves in. His mother, certainly, would never forgive him.
“Have…have you spoken with Miss Lloyd about this?” Priscilla’s voice was faint.
Charles swallowed. His throat did not appear to be working, so he shook his head miserably.
Priscilla rose slowly and walked over to him, stopping just before him. Charles wanted nothing more than to pull her toward him, to bury all his passion and frustration into her lips, but he must not.
He must never touch Priscilla again.
She, however, did not have such an intention. Her finger reached out, lifting his head, so their eyes met. “And is there anyone else? Another rival for your attention, maybe?”
Charles pulled away and shook his head.
“Then,” she said softly, “I do not understand. If you do not want to marry her, and you do want to wed me, then what is the problem? Why deny yourself happiness?”
He could not stay this close to her, or she would convince him into more promises he could not keep.
Stepping away and toward one of the large sash windows, he felt his heart break.
“I have family responsibilities I simply cannot shirk,” he said stiffly to the curtain. He could feel Priscilla watching him, even without turning around.
“I am not asking you to shirk them.”
Charles swallowed. “I cannot tell you the reason, Priscilla, but this is how it has to be. You must trust me. I know what I am doing.”
He turned around to continue speaking, but the sight of her pain melted away any of his fine words.
“I am meant to accept this without any details or explanation?” She stared in genuine hurt and confusion. “I do not believe I have warranted any of this, Charles. You were the one who came to me, asked to make love to me, you said yourself that engagements could be broken!”
It was all true, and Charles could think of no retort but the truth. “My love for you isn’t enough.”
The look on her face told him at once he had made a mistake, but not one he could take back.
“Well, I am sure I cannot compete against an invisible enemy you will not tell me about,” said Priscilla briskly, pain in every syllable. “Goodbye, Charles. I hope you are happy with the woman you have chosen.”
“Priscilla,” Charles began, but she had already walked around to the armchair with her jacket and bonnet. Not bothering to put them on, she stormed out of the room.
“Priscilla!”
He followed her into the corridor, but by the time he caught up with her, she was in the hallway.
“Priscilla!”
She did not heed him and had almost reached the door by the time he caught her.
“Wait!”
“Why?” she said, and only then did he see tears flowing down her face. “Why are you hurting me, Charles? Did you get what you wanted from me and then decide Miss Lloyd was a better dancer? A better lover? Have you bedded her, too?”
Charles looked around to make sure no servants could have overheard that particular accusation. “No, of course not.”
“Was I not…not enough for you?”
He hung his head in shame. How had he managed to get himself into this mess?
“I am not good enough for you,” he said urgently, desperate to wipe away her tears but knowing that would do more harm than good. “Priscilla, you deserve someone…someone far better than me.”
Something in his words seemed to affect her. The tears stopped, and she pulled herself from his arms. “You know, I believe you are correct,” she said, sniffing. “I love you, Charles, but I will not… I do deserve better. Good
night, Charles.”
The door closed behind her, and Charles leaned against it. It was done. Now he had to face the rest of his life with a woman he did not love, but whose purse would save the Orrinshire name.
Chapter Fourteen
Priscilla felt her finger slip. The jarring note echoed in the music room. Her fingers left the keys.
She had never liked playing the piano. As a child, she had been forced to practice at least an hour a day, ending with a compromise when she was eight that she would be permitted double the portion of pudding if she did.
It had not been worth it. Aged twelve, she had thrown her last tantrum, and her mother had finally agreed that her lessons, and the dreaded practice, would end.
Priscilla’s hands fell into her lap as she gazed at the music on the stand. How strange that since that day, she had felt drawn to the piano on occasion when words were simply insufficient. The once dreaded instrument conveyed emotions in a way she simply could not.
She breathed in slowly, lifted her hands, and placed them on the keys. She started to play but did not even reach halfway down the page before her treacherous fingers slipped again.
Priscilla glared at them. They simply would not do what she instructed them. It was no good. She could not play this morning.
Priscilla looked listlessly through the sheets of music. Mozart, Bach, Salieri…none of them seemed right for this morning.
“Scales, then,” she said under her breath. “Something to refresh the mind. C major.”
The easiest scale, no sharps or flats, but even that did not seem to come outright. Her left hand moved slower than her right, the difference slight but excruciating to a musical ear.
Frustration poured down her fingers, and she slammed them down on the keys, creating a horrendous discord that echoed around the room.
Priscilla stared at the piano, unseeing.
“Why are you hurting me, Charles? Did you get what you wanted from me, and then decide Miss Lloyd was a better dancer? A better lover? Have you bedded her, too?”
Slowly, without allowing the pain in her heart to tempt her to slam it, she closed the lid of the piano and put the music away. It took only ten or so steps before she had left the piano, stepped into the drawing room, and flopped onto the settee.
She closed her eyes. There was not a sound in the house. Mrs. Busby and Annabelle, their lady’s maid, were both out. Her mother was in town, enjoying a better social life than she had ever had. Mrs. Seton, charming, beautiful, witty, was always in demand.
She was completely alone in the house. Alone, and likely to remain that way for a long time.
Priscilla opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. An elegant pastel pattern had been painted onto it a few years ago, Mrs. Seton following the fashion that had swept across the continent and into English homes.
The sun moved behind a cloud, and the blues and greens darkened. Priscilla blinked. The cloud moved, and the room was filled with light again.
Try as she might, she could not prevent the conversation she had shared with Charles only last night from creeping into her memory.
“I know what you must think of me. I know how this must look, and I –”
“That is because that’s exactly what it is – you lied to me! You, Charles. You lied to me.”
Priscilla sighed, her fingers twisting together. She knew Charles, or at least had thought she had known him, and he would never act like this. What was he hiding? What hadn’t he told her?
Or perhaps she was not asking the right questions. Perhaps the question should be, who was he protecting?
Perhaps, and the very thought made her stomach curl with pain as it crossed her mind, he was not only charming and devilishly handsome with her.
Perhaps Charles was a natural seducer. If he had bedded Miss Lloyd, and they had been thoughtless, she could be with child.
Priscilla sighed. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. It was the lack of knowing that was so – so damned annoying! Even the thought of the forbidden word made her smile.
“Damn,” she whispered, even though the house was empty. “Damn, damn, damn.”
The small rebellion gave her no relief. If Miss Lloyd was indeed with child, then Charles’s actions made perfect sense. He would have to marry her, there was no question about it. He was too much of a gentleman to even consider leaving her alone to face the world.
And the child – her stomach swooped painfully – would be his. Charles’s child. It could look like him, the same smile, the small twinkle in the eyes…
Priscilla forced herself to sit up like a lady. It did her no good attempting to guess how Charles had betrayed her, why he had made such promises, and then rescinded them.
He would have acted differently, of course, if they had been incautious. If they had not protected themselves.
She placed her hands on her stomach. There was no life there, no fluttering movement of a child growing. A small part of her wished they had not been so careful. If she had fallen with a child…
“No,” she said firmly. “No, Priscilla. You would never have tried to entrap him.”
Probably, she thought silently. Her love for him notwithstanding, she could not imagine a world in which they were married, but he had felt trapped by her actions.
She wanted him to want her! Was that so very difficult?
The sun disappeared again, dropping the room into shadow. A flicker of light in a looking glass on the wall reminded her of the flickering candlelight at the Donal wedding.
That was where it had all started, the Donal wedding. She had spoken with Miss Lloyd for the first time, and that conversation had sparked all her actions. The engagement picnic, the walks, the way she dressed…
It had all seemed so funny at the time. A witty, clever way to ensure she gained Charles all for herself without anyone getting hurt. It had seemed possible then, what was it – only a few weeks ago?
Priscilla swallowed. Frances had not wanted him, so what was the harm in Priscilla having him?
But it had all gone wrong, and in ways, she could never have predicted. What had she achieved, other than to hurt everyone?
Just as she rose to trudge up the stairs, the door opened and almost slammed into the wall.
“Aha, I thought I would find you here!”
Priscilla stared. It was Miss Ashbrooke, beaming and removing her bonnet for what was intended to be, clearly, a visit.
“And you know, ’tis quite shocking in my opinion that such an eligible young lady is at home during visiting hours,” Miss Ashbrooke continued, evidently unconcerned that she had been neither invited nor welcomed. “Just why are you not with your mother, Miss Seton?”
Priscilla swallowed. The last thing she wanted was to sit here and exchange pleasantries for half an hour with Miss Ashbrooke, but at least her guest would do most of the talking.
“Miss Ashbrooke,” she said, curtsying. “If I had indeed gone to town with my mother, then I would not have been here for you to find me. What a shame that would have been.”
“Very pretty, but hardly beside the point now, is it?” Miss Ashbrooke said breezily, laying down her spencer jacket and bonnet on a table. “And where are all your servants? It was a good thing I tried the door, for otherwise –”
“Miss Priscilla?” A face peered around the door, nervous eyes and a wide mouth open in surprise at seeing Miss Ashbrooke.
“Ah, Mrs. Busby,” Priscilla said with relief. “You have returned, and not a moment too soon. Miss Ashbrooke has just arrived, and we –”
“We require cake, and a good deal amount of tea,” Miss Ashbrooke interrupted, moving across the drawing room and seating herself without being invited. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Busby looked instinctively at Priscilla, who nodded wearily. It was going to be a tiresome visit, but even Miss Ashbrooke would not be so rude and stay beyond the socially acceptable half an hour.
“Your health, my dear? Is it good?”
Priscilla lowered herself
slowly onto the settee opposite Miss Ashbrooke.
“Yes, thank you,” she said quietly. “And how are –”
“Oh, yes, I am very well,” Miss Ashbrooke said with a smile. “It does me a world of good, you know, to see all my charges find happy matches. I am working on another, which I truly think will bring great joy to both families. I am always in desperate need of ladies, of course – never enough ladies in town! When I met this Miss, who I shall not name until all is agreed, I said to myself, Theodosia, you must find…”
Priscilla found it easier just to nod and smile rather than attempt to partake in the conversation. Miss Ashbrooke, probably the best-known matchmaker in London, was usually a sufficient conversationalist all by herself.
“Ah, and here is the tea,” Priscilla said after a five-minute monologue from her guest. “Thank you, Mrs. Busby.”
Priscilla smiled at Mrs. Busby, who hovered, waiting to ensure all was as it should be.
“You do not look well, Miss Seton,” she said decidedly as Priscilla poured the tea. “Not well at all, if you do not mind me saying so.”
Priscilla smiled. “Not at all, Miss Ashbrooke. Cake?”
Their encounter in Morgan and Fenning’s had taught her one thing, at least. Miss Ashbrooke had a sweet tooth, and she was at least momentarily distracted by the delicious treats now available to her.
Her guest’s hand hovered between the fruit cake and the millefruit biscuits, eventually choosing to put both onto her plate.
“Thank you, Miss Seton, and Mrs. Busby.”
The housekeeper glanced at Priscilla, who smiled and nodded. The servant scuttled out of the room, evidently desperate to no longer be of any notice.
Priscilla took a bite of her own fruit cake, relieved that cake consumption at the very least would slow down Miss Ashbrooke’s tongue.
But it was not to be.
“You know, I have enjoyed the beginning of this Season most prodigiously, have you not?” Miss Ashbrooke swallowed a mouthful of cake and did not wait for Priscilla to answer before continuing, “Though I must admit myself disappointed, Miss Seton. I missed you at the Debutantes Ball, and I do not believe I saw you at the Axwick ball, either, nor Almack’s last week. Why are you not at every ball?”
Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7) Page 14