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And he loved her nonetheless.
Loved her.
No matter what.
All the years he fought it, pushed the painful memories down, vowing never to become vulnerable again. He’d dismissed any romantic feelings as balderdash and for weak fools, leading only to pain and grief. Believed people, men in particular, deluded themselves to the existence of that simple four-letter word.
Love.
Instead of weighing him down, the reality of it spilled through him like lightness flowing through his body. He felt practically giddy and dangerously close to giggling like a child.
Thank God he held the urge in. Priscilla would never let him live that down. She would hold it over his head for the rest of their very long married life.
Which speaking of . . .
“So, whom shall it be? Me or Mr. Netherborne? If it’s the latter”—he pulled out his pocket watch and took a peek—“I had best return you posthaste. I believe the wedding was scheduled for—“”
She hurled herself into his arms, knocking him off balance, and they both tumbled to the ground, Priscilla landing atop him, arms and legs akimbo.
Although not precisely a giggle—thank goodness—he emitted a rather high-pitched laugh, drawing attention from people passing by.
He lifted his head enough to whisper in her ear, “I believe we’re gathering a crowd, Priscilla. Perhaps we should right ourselves and proceed inside my home for some privacy?”
She rolled off of him, none too gracefully, he had to admit with some satisfaction. It gave him joy that he’d flustered her so. He rose, held out his hand, and helped her to her feet.
Horses’ hooves pounded against the cobbles, and carriage wheels rumbled their syncopated response. When the conveyance came to a halt behind the purloined carriage, a young man bolted from the compartment, followed by Lord and Lady Cartwright.
The younger man approached, and as he grew closer, Timothy recognized the similar features in his face to those of Priscilla’s. Clear blue eyes narrowed to slits, and his mouth was drawn so tight all that remained was a thin, straight line.
“Unhand my sister, you cur!” The man—Victor, if Timothy recalled correctly—pulled the glove off his hand and stepped closer.
Timothy braced himself for the challenge. Of course, he wished to avoid a duel, but skirting tragedy or possibly prosecution was not the deciding factor in how he would respond. He would willingly—no, eagerly—promise to marry her.
The rightness of it settled within him, down to the marrow of his bones. Although she hadn’t officially accepted his rather gauche proposal, her reaction indicated she was more than amenable.
“Victor, no!” Priscilla leapt between them.
Did she really doubt his intentions and worry that he would rather face her brother in a challenge?
“I’ve already struck him with an umbrella. Please don’t inflict any further injury upon him.”
Ah.He chuckled. So it wasn’t a matter of doubts.
“You find this amusing, sir?” Victor pushed Priscilla aside none too gently.
Timothy’s own rage surged. “Donotmanhandle the woman I love in such a manner, or I shall be the one to demand satisfaction.”
Priscilla emitted an exaggerated huff, drawing their attention. “Will you two dunderheads cease this ridiculous masculine posturing immediately!”
“Priscilla!” Lady Cartwright said, her hand clutching a handkerchief to her ample bosom.
Both Timothy’s and Victor’s heads jerked toward Priscilla.
Lord Cartwright’s calm voice of reason broke through the chaos. “Dr. Marbry, if you would kindly explain the meaning of this. There is a groom waiting at the altar for his bride. It would be, at the very least, common courtesy to inform him if she has cried off.”
All eyes landed on Timothy, each pair exhibiting a different emotion.
Lord Cartwright’s seemed concerned, and as they darted toward Priscilla, the love they held for his daughter was evident.
