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She twisted the lace handkerchief with her fingers. “I’m just nervous. Given what happened at my last wedding.”
“I doubt Mr. Netherborne will run off to rescue another woman.” Her father reached over and patted her hand, his knowing gaze studying her. “If you wish to cry off, I would understand.”
“Am I doing the right thing, Papa? Is there no one else who would want me?”
“Thereisstill Mr. Ugbrooke. He left in a huff the other day when I informed him of your pending nuptials.”
Gah!Mr. Ugbrooke and his brood of unruly children. Although, in fairness, two didn’t really constitute a brood, but it always seemed as if their number multiplied whenever she was near. She exhaled a heavy sigh. “No. I suppose Mr. Netherborne it is.”
She glanced down at the lovely pale pink dress. Black would be more fitting—along with a heavy veil covering her face. Before she could delve deeper into her misery, the carriage slowed to a stop, and she peered out the window at the church.
“Ready?” her father asked.
“Will you give me a moment?”
He nodded and, when the footman opened the door, exited, waiting patiently for her to descend.
While she tried to gather her courage, her father’s attention jerked away from her, his expression startled. “I say there. What are you doing?”
Suddenly, the carriage jerked forward, throwing her against the squabs. The open door flapped wildly, slamming against the side. She scooted forward, grabbing it as it moved back against the opening, and closed the latch.
Twisting in her seat, she stared out the back window at the sight of the driver sprawled on the pavement, rubbing his jaw and her father, running after the carriage in vain, shouting and waving his cane.
What was happening? Was she being abducted? And by whom? Thinking back to her failed wedding with the duke, terror froze her in her seat at the thought of that horrid man and what he did to the duchess. Was this an act of vengeance against her? Would her abductor demand a ransom?
She needed to think and develop a plan to extract herself from the situation. In an attempt to gain her bearings, she peered out the window, desperately looking for familiar landmarks to gauge her location.
There! On the side of Regent’s Park near Camden Town. The carriage slowed, and she frantically searched about the compartment of the carriage for something to use as a weapon. Her father’s black umbrella! Thank the stars!
Holding the instrument like a club, she readied herself and pulled in a deep breath when the carriage door opened.
She took a furious swing, hitting Timothy soundly on the head.
CHAPTER 29—WHEN PASSION PREVAILS
Ow!” Timothy howled. “Must you always be lobbing things at my head?”
“Timothy!” Priscilla had the temerity to look aghast as she fell back inside the carriage. “What the devil are you doing?”
Not able to resist the grin spreading across his face, nor the opportunity to tease her simply because vexing her was so much fun, he answered, “My, my such language from a gently bred lady. As to what I’m doing, I would think it would be perfectly clear. I’m stopping your wedding.”
When she remained firmly ensconced in the carriage, he held out his hand, motioning for her to place hers in it. “Well, are you going to sit there all day?” He tilted his head in question. “Or do you wish me to return you to Mr. Netherborne, who is no doubt wondering what’s happened to his bride?”
Her mouth opened and closed several times, making no sound, which, although completely out of character for her, at this point of things, was a blessing.
“Well, whom shall it be? Me or Mr. Netherborne?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits.Ah, there she is.
“What do you mean, you or Mr. Netherborne?”
He exhaled a purposely dramatic sigh. “And here I thought you were an intelligent woman. Allow me to state it plainly so you may comprehend. Whom do you wish to marry? Me or Mr. Netherborne?”
“But why? Hadn’t you planned to propose to Lady Honoria?”
He shook his head. “She pointed out the error of my ways. Informed me in no uncertain terms that I love you.”
At that, she slid from the carriage, although perhaps slid was not the precise word. He wouldn’t describe her movements as graceful. It was rather like watching a reanimated corpse, stiff and jerky, as if the brain no longer controlled the muscles. Not an attractive image for the woman he wished to marry, but if nothing else, he was an honest man.
