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CHAPTER 1—WHEN YOU HAVE LITTLE CHOICE
Belton , Lincolnshire, England, November 18th, 1826
Priscilla fought a yawn, discreetly pressing her nails into the palm of her left hand. Mr. Netherborne expected a reply to his last question, no doubt. She struggled to remember what he’d just said. She opted for the safest answer.
“I completely agree.” She pasted on a smile to accompany her answer and focused on his thick head of neatly combed blond hair.
Mr. Netherborne, on the other hand, furrowed his brows, the corners of them meeting in a pronounced V over his pale blue eyes. “Pardon, Miss Pratt? I asked if you would be willing to participate in distributing food baskets to the poor.”
Oh that.“Forgive me, Mr. Netherborne. What I meant to say is I completely agree that the poor are in need of our charity.”What?She cringed at the stupidity of the statement. Contrary to what many believed, Priscilla wasnotstupid.
Oh, she was many other things.
Foolish.
Over eager.
Too easily persuaded.
Or she had been.
Her willing participation in the forced compromise of the Duke of Ashton three years prior gave testament to that. Now she paid the price.
Dearly.
Oh, how she missed the city. When thetondiscovered her part in her mother’s nefarious plot to trap the duke into marriage, she’d been shunned—practically run out of London.
She longed for the busy Season with balls at Almack’s—she’d never be allowed entrance there again—soirées, garden parties, nights at the opera, Vauxhall Gardens, Gunter’s Tea Shop.
She had loved it all, but the mere thought of returning and facing thetongenerated a sick sinking in her stomach. The glares, pointed fingers, and whispers behind fluttering fans would be the constant reminder of her disgrace. A brazen letter carved into her forehead would be no more condemning. There would be no welcome back with forgiving, open arms.
Instead, she and her mother were exiled to the family’s estate in Lincolnshire, her only dancing partners the veritable Mr. Netherborne, the parish curate, and—well—sheep.
Lots of sheep.
Not that sheep could dance. They were frightfully stupid creatures.
And to make matters worse—if that were even possible—winter approached. The sky had grown gray and foreboding, the smell of snow heavy in the air.
Mr. Netherborne studied her. “Yes. Well, that is . . . yes, of course.” He coughed, the sound forced.
Her mother eyed her from across the room, her head tilting toward the teapot lying on the table between Priscilla and Mr. Netherborne.
“More tea, sir?” Priscilla asked, her mother nodding her approval.
“Thank you, Miss Pratt.” He held out his cup, still three-fourths full.
She added a tiny amount, not spilling a drop. She excelled at pouring, as she did with embroidery, and making small talk.
Except when it came to Mr. Netherborne, then her skills at conversation seemed to fly out the window, seeking the same escape she, herself, yearned for.
There wasn’t anythingwrongwith Mr. Netherborne. Young, by his account, a mere eight-and-twenty, with even features on a moderately attractive face. He had all his hair and teeth—thank goodness. Not exceptionally tall, but taller than she was—which admittedly wasn’t a difficult feat, as she stood barely over five-feet. He acquired his lanky build by spending hours upon hours studying scripture and visiting parishioners.
She’d managed to catch a glimpse of his forearms once during the autumn when he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to help the tenants with harvest. She took heart that there had been a modicum of muscles visible. Perhaps other, more concealed, areas of his body would be similarly well-formed.
No. There wasn’t anythingwrongwith him. But there wasn’t anything especiallyrightwith him either. Aside from when he preached against moral turpitude, his face remained passive at all times, never exhibiting emotion, whether it be embarrassment, joy, or even anger. Mr. Netherborne was—in a word—unflappable.
The fiery passion he exhibited denouncing sin never found its way to other encounters. Try as she might, Priscilla never witnessed such heated fervor from Mr. Netherborne directed toward her.
