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Exactly where Priscilla had lain in his arms a mere four nights before.
Damnation!
Selfishly, he’d held onto the garment, even though he should have returned it posthaste. When he’d plucked it from Rivers’ hand the morning after the blissful night with Priscilla, it was like holding her in his arms again.
His logical mind weighed every scenario.
If he returned it immediately with a note written in his hand and someone other than Priscilla received the package, he would expose her without her consent—effectively betraying her trust.
Having been on the receiving end of betrayal, he could not countenance being the perpetrator and categorically dismissed that option.
If he returned it sans note, she would think him cold and unfeeling, callously disregarding what they had shared.
And although he couldn’t promise her love, he had no desire to sully the memory of what had transpired between them.
Delivering it in person was definitely out of the question, for obvious reasons. Even using one of his servants to return it would raise suspicion.
Inspiration struck with the idea he could use a third party to handle the matter. If she had left it at a party, the hosts would have seen to its return. He searched his memory. Had she worn it to Bea’s garden party? Chances were unlikely, as the day had been unusually warm, eliminating the need for an outer garment.
Besides, what would he say to Bea to explain why he had it in his possession? Although he trusted his sister, she still had reservations about Priscilla and Timothy’s involvement with her.
And so the cloak had remained with him. He’d held it to his face, breathing in the lemony scent that clung to its fibers. At night, he’d placed it on the bed beside him and touched it, imagining Priscilla’s body encased within its folds, her blond curls peeking out from beneath the hood.
Each day when Rivers entered Timothy’s bedchamber to wake him and perform his daily ablutions, the valet cast a castigatory glance at the blue material. And even if speaking the words wouldn’t have been out of line for the servant, they weren’t necessary—his expression spoke volumes.
The damn garment had become an obsession.
Timothy wondered if perhaps Priscilla would return to retrieve the cloak herself. He clung to the hope he’d see her, to gaze into her eyes and see if she still held him in regard—perhaps even tell him after much thought, she’d cried off and sent Mr. Netherborne back to Lincolnshire.
Yet she did not.
And her wedding was to be held the next day.
Timothy’s time had run out.
She’d made her choice, and he should make his.
After calling Rivers in, he dictated the brief note as his valet transcribed it in his precise hand. Then he instructed Rivers to hire a hackney driver to deliver it to Lord Cartwright’s address under strict instructions the driver should not reveal the sender.
It was a simple solution, one he should have thought of immediately—a fact Rivers’ quiet acquiescence to his task confirmed. In fact, the man didn’t bat an eye at the package’s destination.
Had Rivers known all along thatEmmawas Priscilla Pratt?
It was a stark reminder of how much servants observed and knew about their employers—not to mention how well they held their tongues.
Once he married Honoria, Timothy would raise Rivers’ wages substantially.
Honoria.
He’d put it off long enough. With Priscilla wed, no excuse remained to delay the inevitable. Timothy needed a respectable wife with a large dowry.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it quite yet.
He would call upon Honoria the next day—Priscilla’s wedding day—and make his offer.
The thought did not bring him joy.
* * *
