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“He has a rather unsavory reputation, I’m afraid. In addition, I’m uncertain he would be amenable to the idea of marriage.”
She couldn’t be suggestinghim? Surely not. “Are you going to tell me?” Timothy held his breath.
“Lord Nash. I considered him, but discarded the notion almost immediately.”
It was enough that Nash had meddled in Bea’s affairs. Although, truth be told, it had worked out rather nicely for his sister and Laurence. Even Laurence admitted he had thanked Nash for his hand in things.
But Nash and Priscilla? An unsettling panic crept up his spine.
One thing was certain—unlike Highbottom, by all accounts, Priscilla would have no complaints in the bedroom from Nash. The image of them together had Timothy ready to pound something.
“Perhaps I discarded the idea too hastily,” Honoria said. “Given his own reputation, he may be more amenable to securing an attachment with a lady in similar circumstances.”
“No,” Timothy uttered the single word with express finality.
Lady Honoria blinked. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession. “Is there a reason you seem so adamantly opposed to Lord Nash? Other than his reputation? I heard Edgerton has been eager to see his brother married, no doubt hoping to quell some of the wagging tongues.”
For the life of him, Timothy could think of no rational reason. In fact, Nash might be the only viable prospect, whether he be on Honoria’s list or not.
“No. I concede to your logic. I only hoped there would be a more respectable and desirable choice.”
Honoria studied him, her lips pressed in a tight line. “We shall not give up, Dr. Marbry. But as I can attest, the choice of truly desirable, eligible men has become quite limited. You are the one rare exception, and I am fortunate you have sought an attachment with me.”
Although the gratitude she expressed with her words was no doubt flattering, her belief in them did not quite reach her eyes. Sadness lingered there as if she, like himself, had resigned herself to a life of mediocrity rather than the exceptional. The realization took him aback. She heralded him as a considerable catch, but in her eyes, he was but a mere consolation prize.
They were both settling, and he found it most unnerving.
* * *
Priscilla nearly spilledher tea when Digby, her father’s butler, appeared by her side, holding the silver salver with an invitation addressed to her. As if she had found a prize of great value, she lifted it with care from the tray, running her fingers over the quality parchment.
“What is it?” her father asked. He’d been mercifully silent not only on their ride home from the Duke of Ashton’s masquerade ball, but also in the days following. He’d simply asked if he had enjoyed the ball and upon her curt answer of “I suppose” had left the matter at that.
Her eyes widened at the design pressed into the red wax sealing the letter.The Marquess of Stratford’s crest?After opening the missive, she scanned the contents, not sure if they were even more surprising than the identity of the sender. “It’s an invitation from Lady Honoria Bell to a card party.” The parchment dropped to her lap, her hands too shaky to retain their grasp.
“I hadn’t realized you and Lady Honoria were on friendly terms.”
Her father’s statement, although not spoken harshly, still took her aback.
“We’re not. Other than a few social gatherings prior to my . . . stay in Lincolnshire, we had little contact with each other.” Her mind drifted to Timothy and her plea for help. As promised, he must have appealed to Lady Honoria. However, it would not serve to share that bit of news with her father.
He lifted his cup of tea and, after taking a sip, peered at her over the rim. “She had to deal with her own bit of opprobrium several years ago, so perhaps she sees you as a kindred spirit.”
Priscilla hadn’t considered that. Perhaps she and Honoria had more in common than their mutual attraction to one red-headed and very attractive doctor. “It’s a week from Tuesday. Will you accompany me, Papa?”
His eyes crinkled as he peered over the rim of his cup. “I would be delighted. A rousing game of whist sounds marvelous.”
Renewed hope and excitement bubbled within her, and she excused herself to go through her gowns in preparation for the upcoming event.
When the day of the card party arrived, the sky threatened to mar the occasion with rain. Ominous clouds hovered overhead, some forming the shapes of warriors upon horses, ready to attack.
She sighed, allowing the curtain she had pulled aside to fall back into position at the window. Nothing like storms and dreary weather to dampen both her gown and her spirits.
However, the point was, she reminded herself, that she had actually been invited to a social event, no matter what the weather.
Thunder mixed with the clatter of the carriage wheels and clopping of the horses’ hooves as they journeyed toward the Marquess of Stratford’s elegant home. A fat drop of rain plopped against the carriage window, followed by another and another.
Priscilla’s delicate pink parasol, edged with white ruffles, had been more designed for appearance rather than practicality. Her father patted the sturdy black umbrella, leaning against the seat. “I’ve come prepared.”
