Priscilla smiled wanly. “My dear Miss Ashbrooke, you cannot surely expect every lady to attend every ball?”
Miss Ashbrooke put her plate down. “And why on earth not? Your youthful years, Miss Seton, are finite and ever disappearing. There is no better time to seek out a husband than today, now – unless, of course, you already have a gentleman in mind?”
“Of course not.”
Miss Ashbrooke laughed. “Now, it is not my remit to prise out secrets from the hearts of ladies, but if you would be grateful for my help, then, of course, all your mother has to do is have a quiet word in my ear…”
Her voice trailed away as she looked eagerly at the platter of cake.
“Please, help yourself,” Priscilla said with a repressed smile, one which broadened as her guest fell eagerly on the sweet things.
Miss Ashbrooke, society’s matchmaker. Well, it could not be denied that she was excellent at it, her particular skills of nosiness, ease of inserting herself into other people’s business, and an eye for attraction all coming together to make her a very successful matchmaker.
Why, for the last few years, almost all weddings announced had included that delicate little missive, with thanks to Miss Theodosia Ashbrooke.
“I suppose it was that awful cold you had that prevented you from attending?”
“Yes,” said Priscilla, falling on the ready-made excuse. “Yes, I had a cold. It was very chilly at the ball, was it not?”
At last, neutral conversation. She was not sure she could survive much longer on endless discussions about her future marriage.
“Yes, I understand now, Miss Seton,” said Miss Ashbrooke in a knowing way. “Much harder to attract a gentleman if one’s nose is all red.”
Priscilla was tempted, not for the first time, to ask Miss Ashbrooke whether there was anything else in her head other than matchmaking. Really, it appeared that nothing else ever occurred to her. What did she do when there was no one seeking her services?
But the thought faded quickly. There was no real harm in Miss Ashbrooke. She was like one of those maidenly aunts one was forced to visit as a child. Plenty of cake, plenty of discomforting conversation, but no real harm in her.
Priscilla’s gaze took in the matchmaker properly for the first time. Now that she came to look at her, Miss Ashbrooke was probably only a few years older than herself.
“There is no point in hiding it, by the way,” Miss Ashbrooke said suddenly. “I can see that you are in love.”
Her treacherous cheeks heated immediately. “N-No you can’t! How can you, ’tis impossible!”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Priscilla sighed.
Her guest laughed. “Well, now I know it for sure. You must remember not to give yourself away so easily, Miss Seton.”
There was nothing for it. Priscilla leaned forward and helped herself to another slice of cake. “I respectfully remind you, Miss Ashbrooke, that I have not sought your advice nor services and do not need them. Although…although it is none of your business,” and she felt a little shiver of rebellion for being so direct, “yes, I am in love, and it is unrequited. Please, let us leave it at that.”
There was a moment of silence, and Priscilla thought in that instant that the matchmaker would leave it alone.
“Unrequited love, you say,” she mused aloud. “Well, there is a simple remedy for it.”
She sounded so certain, so sure of herself that Priscilla’s heart twisted in her chest. “Yes?”
The idea that Miss Ashbrooke could help her had never occurred to her. A professional in the ways of love surely had more ideas than she did.
“Find another gentleman!” Miss Ashbrooke beamed. “And you are in luck, for I have plenty on my books at the moment, too many gentlemen. I need ladies, Miss Seton, ladies of good breeding, name, and beauty, like yourself.”
Priscilla leaned back in the settee. She should have known. “It is simply not possible for me to consider any other gentleman.”
She had not intended to speak aloud, but it had not mattered. Miss Ashbrooke was not listening.
“It is your Charles’s wedding in just over a week, isn’t it?”
“My Charles?” Priscilla could feel heat searing across her cheeks, her shoulders, her palms, her stomach. Her entire body was on fire. Her Charles?
Miss Ashbrooke was nodding. “Yes, your friend Charles – does he not live just down the road here, on the other side of the village? And to Miss Frances Lloyd, what a wonderful match.”
Priscilla nodded, unable to trust her tongue.
“Yes, I was very pleased with that one,” mused Miss Ashbrooke. “And of course, so critical for the Orrinshires that he marry quickly. What a scoop.”
For the first time since she had entered the room, Miss Ashbrooke had actually said something interesting. Intrigue filled every inch of Priscilla’s heart.
Need to marry, and quickly? She had not heard anything of the sort from Charles, Lady Audley, or the gossip that always surrounded people of that stature in society.
“Critical, you say?” Every syllable was as nonchalant as she could make it.
“Oh, yes, absolutely desperate,” Miss Ashbrooke said. “’Tis an open secret, of course – house mortgaged up to the hilt, and for years. If he does not marry money soon, the Orrinshire name will be hung over a cottage, not a mansion. It is no wonder really that Lady Audley chose Miss Lloyd. Her twenty thousand pounds will be a welcome relief to them, I warrant. Now, Miss Lymington, for example…”
Priscilla allowed the matchmaker’s words to wash over her, as pain and discomfort filled her mind.
Not for a single moment had it occurred to her to ask Charles why the engagement with Miss Lloyd had been made in the first place, and now she knew. The Orrinshire estate needed funds quickly, and as the only child and the heir to boot, it came down to Charles to find a wealthy bride.
Her own two thousand, always a little on the smaller side, now felt insignificant compared to Miss Lloyd’s fortune. There was no contest. If Charles were to save his family fortunes, he could not consider her as a bride.
Why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t she asked?
It had all happened so quickly, this foolish engagement, but she had never thought to question it, not for an instant.
“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.”
Priscilla bit her lip. In one laughing jest with Miss Lloyd, she had almost ruined everything for Charles and his family. Had her own selfishness really brought her to this? After all their years of friendship, she had not even thought to ask why the wedding had to go ahead?
“ – but I really must go.”
Priscilla started. “Go?”
Miss Ashbrooke nodded. “Yes, I have an appointment in town at three o’clock, and if I do not leave now, I will sadly miss it. I have greatly enjoyed our conversation, Miss Seton.”
She rose, and Priscilla did, too, stepping to the fireplace and ringing the bell.
“I shall see you in town, I suppose,” said Miss Ashbrooke as she placed her bonnet back on.
Priscilla nodded. Mrs. Busby entered at that moment, and she said gratefully, “Ah, Mrs. Busby. Please see Miss Ashbrooke out – good day, Miss Ashbrooke.”
The two ladies curtseyed, and then the housekeeper curtseyed as her guest passed her into the corridor.
Priscilla fell back onto the settee and stared into nothingness. The Orrinshire estate mortgaged to the hilt. She had not even heard a rumor, a whisper.
“Let me clear that away for you, miss.” Mrs. Busby had returned and was reaching for the platter of cakes.
“Leave the cake,” Priscilla said sharply. “Thank you, Mrs. Busby.”
The servant smiled, nodded, and carefully carried the tea tray from the room.
Priscilla lifted the cake platter, placed it firmly on her lap, and started eating. Well, she could not go back in time and change anything that
she had done, but she wished to goodness she could.
Had she managed to ruin what could be the only chance for stability for Charles, and broken her own heart to boot?
Chapter Fifteen
Charles kicked the gravel, which did nothing to alleviate the tension rolling in his stomach. Every breath tightened it, every minute that passed as he waited here on the corner of Market Street grew the bubble of anxiety, tearing him apart from the inside.
“Good day,” a gentleman said nonchalantly as he passed.
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 between them had hardly been cordial, and now he expected her to walk with him in public?
“You know, I believe you are correct. I love you, Charles, but I will not…I do not want to be treated like… I do deserve better. Good night, Charles.”
He swallowed. “Walk with me, Priscilla. It cannot hurt.”
She glared. “Five minutes. Then I arrive at the Tanners.”
There was a basket on her arm with a cloth covering its contents.
“The Tanners,” Charles said, desperate for something to say as they walked down the pavement, Priscilla leaning as close as she could to the wall. “I was not aware that they were in need.”
“Young Benjamin Tanner’s wife is confined, her baby due any day now, and she has not been well,” Priscilla said stiffly. She did not look at him as she spoke, her gaze instead affixed to the pavement. “I have brought a little broth, some bacon, some smelling salts, just a few things. And then there are the Smiths, two doors down. Their youngest is…”
Charles allowed the words to wash over him as they walked down the street. She was not smiling, and neither was he. He felt wretched, for he wanted to touch her so badly that when they turned a corner, he had to be careful not to brush against her arm.
He could not have her. He had made that abundantly clear.
So why was he desperate to touch her, crush her against the wall, take her in his arms and –
“ – and then I will return home.” Priscilla glared as her speech came to an end. “And what are you doing in the village?”
They were passing the conker tree, and the street in both directions was deserted. Charles stopped in his tracks.
“I…” His mouth was open, and he kn
ew he had to speak, but no words came to him. How could he possibly explain all he was feeling, the regret he had for bedding her without considering the consequences… “We should never have done it.”
It was the thought uppermost in his mind, but all the thoughts around it, the pain he felt for betraying her, the desperation to touch her again, the torment that he would never make love to her in the future…none of those could be expressed. He did not have the words.
Priscilla was staring, her mouth now open, and she placed her basket onto the ground before speaking. “You regret…you regret our – that we made love?”
Charles wanted to say, “Of course not!”
But he hesitated. What was he doing? This whole encounter had been orchestrated by him, on a day when he should have been with his fiancée – Miss Lloyd, damn her – and what was he doing?
Nothing good, that was certain. He was losing control with every moment, and if he waited much longer, he would push her against the old bark of the tree and kiss her in desperation.
He had been foolish to do this. He had been wrong, and now there was only one way, perhaps, to break this connection for good. It would take every ounce of his courage, but perhaps this would give Priscilla the freedom to forget about him and…well. Find another.
The thought was repellant to him, but if it broke their connection…
“Yes,” he said, hating every syllable of his lie. “Yes, I wish…I wish we had never done it.”
Her face twisted in a pure expression of heartbreak, but then she found her equilibrium, and her face was quite blank.
Damn you, Charles raged at himself. The only thought that kept him from striding away and abandoning her in the street was that this falsehood was for her sake. She needed to break free from him.
Priscilla swallowed. “Well, that…that is a terrible thing to hear you say when that meant so much to me.”
Her voice was low, despite no one else being on the road, and Charles caught every painful word.
What kind of monster was he? Stuck with a woman he did not love and another before him that he would literally die for.
Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7) Page 15