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A chill trickled down her spine.
“Which is?”
“I demand to know the name of the man. Surely you at least obtained his name? I searched around the cottage when I left, but found no trace of him, although it was clear a rider had left the stable and traveled south.”
“And why do you wish to know his name? What good can come from such knowledge?”
“I wish to question him. To determine what type of man he is and if he is . . . honorable.”
Priscilla sensed a trap. Would Abner Netherborne, a man of God, purposely mislead her in order to reveal Timothy’s identity? Something was afoot. She straightened before him, determined to protect Timothy at all costs. “You say you wish to be charitable. To give me the benefit of the doubt. And yet, you demand—your words—information which I do not have.”
“I suggest you think about this, Miss Pratt.” He paced again, his austere expression chilling the air around them. “I understand you have requested to return to London to see your father.”
“How did you . . .?”
“Your mother intercepted your letter.”
Anger boiled within her, and she opened her mouth.
He held up a hand to silence her. “Rest assured. You shall have your wish. Your mother has suggested that time in the busy city will help you rethink your priorities and come to realize your place is here . . . with me. I agree. It’s my belief once you return to that devil’s pit, you will see the error of your ways. I shall give you six months, at which time I shall come to London personally for your answer.”
With that, he nodded and strode from the room.
She wanted to shout at him she didn’t need his bloody six months, and he could take it and shove it up his . . .
But all she could think about was—she was going back to London!
CHAPTER 9—MARRIAGE CONVERSATIONS
Timothy bounced baby Lizzy on his knee as the family gathered to celebrate Christmas. “Mother says she looks exactly like you did as an infant, Bea.” Indeed, the child had a shock of red hair and green eyes like her mother.
“Oh, but she is like her father through and through,” his sister answered, glancing up from her book. “If we deviate from her schedule by mere seconds, she howls for hours. You can set a clock to her cries when she wants to eat. Exactly like Laurence. In fact . . .”
Laurence strode into the room, stopping beside his wife and kissing her on the cheek. “Did I hear my name?”
Timothy exchanged a smile with Bea. “Bea was saying what a delightful child Lizzie is and how she takes after you.”
One of Laurence’s eyebrows quirked. “Why do I have the feeling there is an insult buried in that statement?”
Bea covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. However, Timothy hid nothing from his best friend and guffawed. “Because you know I cannot ignore any opportunity to get in a sound dig.”
Laurence lifted his daughter from Timothy’s grasp. “That’s true. Insultmeall you like. Lizzie, however, is perfect.” He jostled the child gently. “Aren’t you my sweetling?”
As if to contradict her father, Lizzie wailed.
Bea set down her book and stood, retrieving her daughter. “As I was about to say, it’s her feeding time.”
Laurence’s gaze remained on Bea as she exited the room with their daughter.
“Tell me.” Timothy said. “What is it that makes a man so besotted? I should like to avoid it at all costs.”
Laurence turned toward him, his eyebrows tugged down in confusion. “Beg pardon?”
“My point, exactly. Has marriage caused your renowned mind to rot? You watch my sister like a forlorn puppy.”
Laurence sent him a sheepish glance. “I suppose I do. But that’s what love does to a man—at least this man.”
“As I said, I shall avoid it then.” Timothy rose and poured them both a brandy. “I have no desire to mope about after a woman.”
