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“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home now.”
The men nodded. Mr. Netherborne had the decency to assist her onto his horse, choosing instead to walk and lead the animal back to Priscilla’s home.
He remained silent throughout the short trip, but Mr. Wilson blathered on about the new babe, telling Priscilla what a fine job she had done delivering him.
Priscilla tried ignoring him, annoyed at listening to what a cute button nose the baby had and how he cooed upon seeing his father’s face. She remembered the child as a red-faced, squalling bundle, looking strikingly like a monkey she’d seen in a drawing. How people viewed the creatures as adorable was beyond her understanding.
She breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing her home rising before her on the road.
If only she hadn’t stumbled upon Timothy, she would have been home, safe and warm in her own bed, her stomach full from a delicious meal their cook had prepared. Instead, she’d wrangled a chicken, started a fire, and snuggled next to a handsome man to steal a bit of his warmth.
A tiny voice inside her head prodded her.Perhaps becoming lost was a blessing.
True, any regret she may have harbored had more to do with not having met Timothy under more acceptable circumstances. And even if she had, she would never have been able to be herself. Not when he most likely would give her the cut direct upon learning her true identity. No doubt he’d heard all about the debacle with the Duke of Ashton—perhaps even from the duke himself.
Yes, she admitted, it was better this way. Better to have one sweet memory of a kiss than to see loathing and rejection in his eyes. She’d cherish and relive that moment in the years ahead—years most likely trapped in a loveless and passionless marriage to Mr. Netherborne.
As Mr. Netherborne assisted her from the horse, her mother appeared at the doorway, a handkerchief clutched to her bosom.
“Where have you been!”
It seemed being welcomed home with open arms and smothered with kisses and hugs was not to be. No word of thankfulness fell from her mother’s lips for Priscilla’s safety at being found.
At the scowl on her mother’s face, Priscilla steeled herself.
“You will be the death of me.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. The snow blinded me, and I lost my way.”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “What’s on your face?”
“Minor scratches, Mother.” Priscilla wanted to add that she’d been assured they would heal and not leave scars, but she held her tongue. It would not do to have her mother question how Priscilla had received that particular information.
Mr. Wilson tipped his hat. “As you’ll not be needing me further, I’ll be on my way. Glad you’re home safe, Miss Pratt. Do call to say hello to the fine little fellow you helped deliver. My wife wishes to thank you again.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson. I shall.” Mrs. Wilson might prove the perfect source of information regarding how those fine little fellows come to be. An explanation seemed the least the woman could do to repay Priscilla for her services.
“Well, come inside.” Her mother motioned Priscilla and Mr. Netherborne in.
Priscilla could envision the flames shooting from her mother’s eyes—flames that would have come in handy in lighting the fire the night before.
Her mother’s tone softened, becoming sugary as she turned toward Mr. Netherborne. “Thank you, sir, for finding my wayward daughter. I pray she’s learned a valuable lesson, which will benefit your marriage.”
Mr. Netherborne shifted, his eyes darting to the floor. Not embarrassment—something darker—more foreboding, shadowed his face. “With your consent, may I have a word with Miss Pratt alone?”
“Of course. Of course. Please use the drawing room. Keep the door ajar a bit, if you would. For propriety, you understand.”
Mr. Netherborne nodded, but again, the strange look in his eyes unsettled Priscilla.
Alone in the drawing room, Mr. Netherborne stood before her, not quite meeting her gaze directly, his hands clasped behind his back.
Awkward moments passed. She opened her mouth to enquire why he wished to speak with her, but clamped it shut when he raised his hand to silence her.
“Miss Pratt,” he finally said. “Were you alone all night in Mr. Thatcher’s cottage?”
A lump formed in her throat, and she tried to force it down along with the lie. “Yes. Of course.”
His eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappeared. “Think carefully, Miss Pratt, and revise your answer if you must.”
