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More than anything, Priscilla longed to know she set a man’s heart ablaze and to see the spark from that fire in his eyes. She’d seen it before, but not in relation to herself.
She vividly recalled it when Harrison Radcliffe, the Duke of Ashton, spoke of his—now—wife, Margaret.
The duke had that fire for Margaret, and Priscilla hoped one day to experience it for herself.
Priscilla’s heart longed for passion, the soul-deep connection, as much as her body required air to breathe.
She met Mr. Netherborne’s gaze and found . . . nothing.
“Mrs. Wilson’s baby is expected in a month, is it not, Mr. Netherborne?” Priscilla’s mother asked, obviously sensing the lull in conversation.
Priscilla expected a sound tongue lashing when Mr. Netherborne departed.
“It is indeed, Lady Cartwright. Perhaps our dear Miss Pratt might assist with the other children when the midwife is called?” He turned his gaze on Priscilla, his face passive and unemotional.
“I would be honored,” she lied. She didn’t dislike children, but being in the same house with a woman giving birth terrified her.
The briefest of smiles curled Mr. Netherborne’s lips, then vanished as if a gentle breeze had blown it away.
An ominous shiver raced up Priscilla’s spine when he turned and addressed her mother. “Lady Cartwright, might I impose upon you to give Miss Pratt and me a moment alone? If you deem it necessary, leave the door ajar for propriety.”
Priscilla’s mother practically bolted from the chair as if she’d suddenly found herself sitting on a bed of nettles. “Of course, sir. And I have the utmost confidence in your comportment.”
As she passed Priscilla, her mother side-eyed her as if to say, “You know what to do.”
Rather than leave the door ajar as Mr. Netherborne had suggested, her mother closed it with a firmclack.
So, this was it? She’d been expecting it for weeks. More like dreading it. Because once he asked, she’d have to answer. And as much as she didn’t want to lose the only suitor she’d had in the three years since her disgrace, a tiny part of her still hoped that Mr. Netherborne would magically transform into an ardent and passionate lover.
He cleared his throat, as if deducing she’d not fully given her attention.
He was not wrong.
“Miss Pratt. Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice during my frequent calls that I enjoy your company.”
Really?What had she missed?Perhaps her mind had wandered or she’d blinked one too many times.
“As a member of the clergy, it is vital for me to lead an upright and moral life. One that is beyond reproach. To that end, the vicar has encouraged me to secure a wife to dissuade any of the young ladies of the parish from improper thoughts about me.”
What?Didanyonehaveimproperthoughts about Mr. Netherborne? She reminded herself he wasn’t unattractive. Perhaps the other unmarried young ladies of the parish—all three of them under the age of fifty and over the age of thirteen—hadn’t had thepleasureof becoming better acquainted with him as she had.
That indeed was possible. She remembered their first meeting when he moved to the small village outside of Grantham after completing his studies. Her heart had skipped a little at the first sight of him, then settled into a steady, unexcitingthump-thumpwhen he’d opened his mouth to speak. Thinking of him at night did wonders when she wanted to fall asleep.
She gave the expected answer. “The vicar is a wise man.”
His smile made a quick in-and-out appearance, and he nodded. “He is, indeed.” He cleared his throat again, the sound—irritating.
She wished to grab him by the coat lapels and shake him, shouting, “Spit it out!”
Instead, she smiled placidly, restraining her hands by clasping them on her lap.
“I’ve decided, given time, you would make a respectable wife, fitting for my aspirations as vicar when Mr. Evans departs this life to meet our maker.”
He’s decided?Given time?She stared at him, at a loss for words. It wasn’t actually a proposal requiring a yes. Was it?
It appeared he did indeed expect an answer.
“I’m flattered you should think so, Mr. Netherborne,” she said through clenched teeth.
