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Priscilla!
Icy fear shot up Timothy’s spine, and he reached out with a hand to the side of the bed.
Empty.
He ran a hand over his face, clearing away the vestiges of slumber, and sat up.
“What is it, sir? Is something amiss?” Rivers stared at where Timothy’s hand rested on the spot where Priscilla had lain.
Was it a dream?
He lifted the counterpane and peeked beneath. A tiny splotch of red marred the white bed linens, confirming he hadn’t imagined it. He’d made love to Priscilla, taken her innocence, and now she was gone.
“Sir?” Rivers stood waiting.
Did he know? Timothy studied the man’s inscrutable face, cursing the schooled features of his servant.
For an instant, Timothy considered giving his servants’ gossip free rein, ultimately forcing Priscilla into a marriage with him, and just as quickly, he dismissed it. His concern for Priscilla, more than his own vow to avoid an emotionally charged marriage, decided the matter. He couldn’t, in good conscience, further damage the reputation she valiantly tried to restore.
Had she delivered a message by slipping away in the middle of the night?“Thank you, Timothy. Now proceed with your life as I will proceed with mine.”
Although he questioned her decision to marry the boring country curate, it was indeed what she had chosen. What right did he have to sabotage it?
He lowered the counterpane. “I seemed to have injured myself slightly.” He raised a hand to quell Rivers’ concern. “It’s nothing. A minor cut. However, please alert Bess not to be alarmed when she changes the bed linens.”
Suspicion flashed in Rivers’ eyes, but he nodded. He shaved and dressed Timothy in silence.
When Timothy passed Bess, his maid, in the hallway, she gave a curt nod but did not meet his eyes.
At breakfast, his toast was charred at the edges, his coddled egg overcooked, the tea tepid. He pushed his half-finished, unappetizing plate away.
What little food he’d consumed sat heavily in his stomach as Rivers entered, holding a blue cloak.
“Sir. It would seem Miss Emma forgot her cloak when she departed last night.”
* * *
When Priscilla arrivedhome in the wee hours of the morning, she’d skirted around the house toward the mews. Victor had promised to wait for her by the servants’ entrance. After she tapped lightly twice, it seemed to take an eternity before he opened the door.
He’d pulled her inside a bit too forcefully. “Good God. I’ve been worried sick. I had a mind to go after you.” His gaze traveled over her.
Instinctively, her hand reached up to where her once artfully crafted curls hung in loose strands about her shoulders.
Yet it was not her hair that caught his attention. His grasp tightened, and he shook her. “Where is your cloak?”
Chills knifed in her stomach as if she’d had too many ices at Gunter’s.
After pulling herself away from Timothy’s bedside, her only thought had been to leave the house unnoticed as quickly as possible. She’d completely forgotten Timothy had taken off her cloak in his study.
Batting away Victor’s hand, she pulled free. “I’m tired, Victor. I wish to retire and try to get some sleep before sunup.”
Muttered curses sounded behind her as she walked away. Then he said more loudly. “Very well. But we will talk about this in the morning.”
Not if she could avoid it. However, the only thing she avoided was sleep. She tossed and turned, Timothy’s face appearing each time she closed her eyes. Each brush of the bed linens or counterpane reminded her of his touch.
Morning arrived without fanfare and without the respite of slumber.
Priscilla stared in the mirror as her maid dressed her hair, wondering if, somehow, she looked different. Her gaze darted to Nancy’s reflection. Could she tell?
