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The idea of having Em—err—Miss Pratt included in his time with Lady Honoria strangely appealed to him. However, the greatest hurdle would be Lady Honoria herself.
He called on his military training to develop a strategy for his attack—err—proposition. One thing he had learned about the proper daughter of the Marquess of Stratford—she had a compassionate heart. Often during their strolls in Hyde Park, she would question him about the patients at the clinic, asking if there was anything she could do to help.
“Keep them in your prayers, my lady,” he had said.
“Oh, but Dr. Marbry, I wish to do something more actionable than pray.” She had darted a quick apologetic look his way, color draining slightly from her rosy cheeks. “Not that I believe prayer ineffective. But I would like to do something more . . . personal.”
“Perhaps assist Her Grace in raising funds for the clinic? Also, the poor have need of work. If you know of any position with which they could be employed . . .”
“I shall do so forthwith,” she answered.
Yes. Lady Honoria had a good heart. Of that, he was certain. But would she help a woman who could be considered her rival?
Wait? What?Where had that thought come from? Miss Priscilla Pratt would not be a suitable bride.
Would she?
No! If her reputation alone didn’t disqualify her, his tumultuous feelings toward her certainly did.
He shook his head to clear the unsavory notion. He needed to maintain his focus on Lady Honoria. Yet, would he be sabotaging himself with such an outrageous request? Would Lady Honoria respond by telling him to go to the devil?
And if she did, why didn’t the prospect bother him?
Now that he knew the lady in the blue gown was Emma—err—Miss Pratt, he found his attention continually diverted, scanning the room for her. The evening had taken a strange turn.
Someone tapped his arm. “You appear to be off in a distant land,” the familiar voice said.
He turned toward his sister, Bea. “Hmm?”
“Is all well? Laurence told me about your encounter with Miss Pratt.”
“Of course he did.” He ground out the words, reminding himself to have atalkwith his friend later about minding his own business.
“Really, Timothy. You must be on guard.”
“Not you, too? Is she sentenced to carry one mistake to her grave?”
Bea’s eyes blinked behind her mask. “I hadn’t realized you were her defender. What have I missed? Laurence said you called her Emma.”
“And as I told your husband, he needs to mind his own business.”
She reeled back from the sharpness of his tone.
Regret pinged in his chest. “I’m sorry, Bea. I didn’t mean to snap. All I ask is to give her a chance. She desperately wants to redeem herself. You, of all people, should understand what it’s like to be the butt of gossip.”
And yet again, he offended his sister, but although he knew his words stung her, she remained stalwart. “Your sword has become more pointed as of late. I shall remember to be on guard.” She turned, searching the room, her gaze stopping in the direction where Miss Pratt stood speaking with a gentleman.
* * *
After leaving the small parlor,Priscilla had wandered the hallways of the duke’s home in need of air. That which remained in the small parlor had been sucked out with Timothy’s words about Lady Honoria Bell.
Did she expect him to remain unattached and waiting for her—considering he didn’t even know who she truly was?
But now he did, and he didn’t seem to hate her. In fact, his offer to assist, albeit with Lady Honoria’s help, indicated he’d forgiven her deceit.
Still, pain knifed through her chest at the thought of Timothy in Lady Honoria’s arms—forever.
Gah!
