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Dull. With nothing of interest to catch the eye and spark the imagination.
After the severe dressing down she’d received from her mother, she'd cried herself to sleep. At least she’d resisted the pressure to name Timothy as the man with whom she’d spent the day and night alone in Mr. Thatcher’s cottage.
The glorious day and night.
She stroked the window’s lace curtain, running the material through her thumb and forefinger. Something about the texture reminded her of the kiss she’d shared with Timothy. How could something be both soft and rough at the same time?
She had little faith that Mr. Netherborne would forgive her transgression, but in truth, the fact she had most likely lost yet another chance at marriage didn’t upset her as it might have. Oh, she still wished to be married, but life as Mrs. Netherborne had become even less appealing after spending time with Timothy. Never had she experienced that spark of excitement when in Mr. Netherborne’s presence. And the fire sizzling in Timothy’s eyes never once flickered in Mr. Netherborne’s.
Out of desperation, she’d risen early the next morning and wrote to her father, who remained in London, living separately from her mother. Although she didn’t expect to be welcomed back into London society, she much preferred to spend the remainder of what would be her life as a spinster in the bustle of the city.
And away from sheep.
She’d confessed everything to him. Well, all except Timothy’s name. No good would come of that. Even living in the same city, she would remain on the fringes and out of Timothy’s circle. However, a small part of her wondered what would happen should they chance upon each other.
Of course, all depended on her father’s answer. She had tried living with her father after her initial disgrace, but the wagging tongues of thetonhad been more than her young heart could bear. She had been desperate to get away.
She’d grown up a bit in the last three years, and it wasn’t as if she was going to regain her voucher to Almack’s or be admitted to homes of the more elite. But while strolling through the park on her father’s arm, she would square her shoulders and hold her head high when passing the gossip mongers.
If he allowed her to come home.
For two days, her mother refused to speak with Priscilla directly, instead mumbling to herself what a disappointment her daughter had been—again. Within Priscilla’s earshot, of course.
Priscilla wished there were a way to fly her letter to her father, that she might receive his response with greater rapidity.
Fortunately, her mother did not prohibit her from visiting the Wilsons and their new babe. Mrs. Wilson had been most gracious with Priscilla’s thinly veiled questions about marital intimacy. And although not precisely detailed, Mrs. Wilson’s accounting eased Priscilla’s mind that nothing she and Timothy shared would result in a child.
Four days after her return, on Christmas Day, her mother tapped on her door. “Priscilla. Mr. Netherborne is here to see you.”
She smoothed her skirts and patted her hair. The least she could do was look presentable when he broke off their engagement. As she entered the small parlor, she found him with his hands clasped behind his back, facing the window away from her.
“Mr. Netherborne.” Relief eased the tension in her neck. Her voice sounded strong and not filled with desperation.
He turned, his expression unreadable, his demeanor unflappable. In short, as he always appeared. “Miss Pratt.”
She moved toward a chair and motioned for him to take a seat.
He declined. “I will not stay long.” He paced before her.
Not a good sign.
Eyes downcast, he pursed his lips before speaking. “I spent the past few days in prayerful consideration.”
Clenching her fists, she tamped down an urge to grab his lapels and give him a firm shake to get on with it. However, one did not interrupt Mr. Netherborne when he prepared to make a pronouncement.
“I have decided to give you another chance.”
She blinked, unsure she’d heard him correctly. “Pardon?”
“It would be most uncharitable of me to not give my future wife the benefit of the doubt.”
She should be happy.
Relieved.
Yet, as she gazed at her future husband, she was anything but.
“There is one condition,” he added.
