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It had been impetuous for her to claim to be someone she was not, then careless to give her fiancé’s correct name. Timothy could easily make inquiries to determine her true identity.
But would he? It would serve neither of them well to make it known the snowstorm had stranded them together overnight with no appropriate chaperone. As a gentleman’s son, he would be honor bound to marry her—precisely something her mother would encourage, especially given past events. And Timothy Marbry was exceedingly more preferable than a stodgy clergyman.
But did Timothy deserve to be trapped into a marriage he didn’t want?
She rather thought not. She hated to admit it, but she had grown to like him—at least a little.
Especially when he studied her with those entrancing green eyes as he did in that moment. “I believe it’s your turn to share about your family. Do you have siblings?”
“I have an older brother,” she said, deciding to share what she could honestly. Victor had been abroad for the past five years studying painting with a master in Italy, but she withheld that bit of information. In order to pose as a merchant’s daughter, having a well-traveled brother would raise suspicion.
When Timothy sent her a rakish smile, her heart did a little jig in her chest.
“Did he play pranks on you when you were children?”
She laughed remembering the affectionate teasing they shared. “He did. Sometimes the most awful things. Once he put a dead spider in my bed when I was sleeping. I screamed for hours.”
Timothy laughed, a bright crack of sound that seemed to lighten the darkness of the room. “I did that once myself. Unfortunately, my sister was thrilled and set the creature aside to examine at a later time.”
Minutes passed quickly as they settled into an easy conversation.
Unlike her time spent with Mr. Netherborne, Priscilla found herself enthralled as Timothy spoke with conviction and pride about his studies and his plans to work in the Hope Clinic under the tutelage of the unconventional Duke of Ashton.
“He has the most brilliant ideas, Emma.” Timothy’s chest puffed out with pride. “I impressed him when I discovered an effective treatment for my brother-in-law’s allergic reaction to my sister’s cat.”
Priscilla smiled but remained silent. She was all too familiar with the duke’s endeavor to provide medical care for the poor. Even under different circumstances, Timothy’s association with the duke was yet another reason Priscilla could never seek an attachment with the increasingly attractive Dr. Marbry.
Delicious aromas of herbs and vegetables simmering in the pot by the hearth teased her nostrils, and her stomach voiced its desire to be filled. Heat crept up her neck, warming her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze to her hands.
He chuckled, the sound as pleasant as the scents of their soon-to-be supper. “No need to be embarrassed. My own stomach agrees with yours.” He rose from the settee and hobbled to the hearth, using the crutch. He’d brought a ladle with him from the kitchen and stirred the mixture, then lifted the spoon to his lips, taking a cautious sip.
“Almost done,” he said with a satisfied nod. “And none too soon. I’m feeling weak from hunger.”
Indeed, even with the crutch, he stumbled back to his seat. His face appeared flushed, but it may have been due to standing over the open fire. Once seated, he sighed, and his eyelids drooped, giving him a sleepy look she found most alluring.
“My head is spinning like the devil. Talk to me, Emma. Keep me awake.”
She searched for a safe topic, one that would flow from her with ease yet not reveal too much. She settled on telling him about Abner Netherborne’s latest sermon.
“Mr. Netherborne is adamant about honesty. He said liars are an abomination to the Lord, and their tongues will burn like flames in the fires of hell.” Her own tongue tingled in accusation. Why had she chosen that particular sermon?
Timothy’s lips curved up. “Honesty is important, but have you ever told a lie because to speak the truth would inflict harm on someone?”
“Well. Once, I told a gentleman he was an excellent dancer even though he trod on my slipper. My foot throbbed the remainder of the evening.”
He chuckled again, the sound not nearly as hearty as it had been. “And do you believe that’s something that will lead to your eternal damnation?”
“I certainly hope not.” She’d told more than one such untruth during her Seasons in London, not to mention more than a few to Mr. Netherborne himself. “But I suspect Mr. Netherborne will demand complete truthfulness from me when we marry.” The idea itself depressed her.
“And if he asks if you love him, what will you answer?”
“I . . . I . . . don’t know. Perhaps I’ll grow to love him.”
“Perhaps. If you believe in love.”
“Don’t you?”
He delivered his response without hesitation. “No.”
