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When they arrived, the footman held an umbrella over them as they exited the carriage, and her father, as any gentleman would, used his own to shelter her more than himself. She’d made it inside the entry with only slightly dampened skirts.
The butler greeted and directed them to a large parlor where they waited for their hostess. “Some guests have already arrived. Lady Honoria should join you shortly.”
Priscilla shot her father a wary look.Who had Lady Honoria invited?What if some of the women who had shared such disparaging comments at the duke’s ball were in attendance? Would they give her the cut direct?
Her father gave her arm, threaded through his, a comforting pat. “I shall not leave your side, my dear.”
She took a deep breath, held her head high, and entered the room. Men and women in approximately equal numbers were chatting amiably but stopped short.
Every head turned in her direction and stared. It appeared Honoria had not informed her other guests that she’d invited society’s foremost pariah. Priscilla’s lips quivered as she forced a smile, and her father tightened his hold on her arm.
If anyone had dropped the proverbial pin, she would not only have heard it drop, but every speck of dust, had there been any, would make a swooshing sound as it floated in the air from where it had been discharged.
The Duchess of Ashton’s gaze locked on Priscilla’s. “Miss Pratt, how lovely to see you. Won’t you take a seat by me?” She motioned toward the empty chair. Gasps echoed from several other women, drawing a quelling, but not unkind, look from the duchess.
Priscilla nodded and walked on shaky limbs toward the group. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Once seated—her father remaining steadfastly by her side and taking the seat next to her—she focused on her hands, folded neatly on her lap.
“Have you found London much changed since your return?” the duchess asked.
Was the question designed to trap her? She jerked her attention to the duchess, finding no ill intent on her face. “No, madam. It appears much as I’d left it.”
Her Grace leaned in closer. “Pay them no heed. You are Lady Honoria’s guest as much as any other. Now, chin up and smile.”
Unlike the forced expression of happiness Priscilla had presented when she’d first entered, a genuine expression of contentment not only spread across her face, but warmed her heart. The duchess was the one woman in the room who had every right to hate her, spurn her—and yet she did not.
“You are too kind, Your Grace.”
Before the duchess could say another word, Lady Honoria entered. “My apologies for my tardiness, everyone. I was overseeing the arrangement of card tables in the solar for our games. If we have the appropriate number, we shall pair up in sets of four.” Honoria quietly counted off the attendees, pointing a discreet finger as she calculated the total.
“Oh, dear, we seem to be one short. But Dr. Marbry has yet to arrive.”
Priscilla’s heart lurched.
* * *
Timothy arrived lateto Lady Honoria’s card party, having requested time off from his duties at the clinic. Harry questioned him, and upon giving his permission, informed Timothy that he hoped it didn’t become a habit. With Harry’s duties in Lords, leaving the clinic only with Dr. Somersby to tend to patients was a burden.
Although Lady Honoria had claimed Timothy’s presence wasn’t necessary, he insisted, finding it difficult to remain uninvolved regarding Priscilla’s search for a suitable husband. Indeed, Timothy felt as if he needed to oversee each and every encounter.
Why, he couldn’t say.
Or perhapswouldn’twas the more likely word.
The thought of Priscilla in the arms of another man put him in the foulest of moods. In fairness, he had no right to such thoughts and emotions, and it certainly wasn’t fair to Honoria, who, without so many words, waited patiently for him to speak with her father and ask for her hand.
Each time he convinced himself it was the proper day and hour, an emergency at the clinic, or a call at Bea and Laurence’s to bounce little Lizzie on his knee seemed to crop up.
Once Priscilla had chosen someone—Timothy told himself—he would proceed with his proposal, and he and Honoria would be married.
Neither thought brought him joy.
Rain splattered against his hat as he descended from his carriage at the marquess’s home. Although he’d been there numerous times when calling upon Honoria, the expansive, ostentatious home never failed to make him feel insignificant.
Would he become used to its impressiveness once he and Honoria were married? Would he take for granted all the things money could buy and forget what it was like to struggle to put bread on the table as his patients at the clinic did? He certainly hoped not. Yet, he’d seen the kind of complacency that allowed many in thetonto disregard the needs of the less fortunate. What were Priscilla’s thoughts about the poor? Would she support his work at the clinic?
He bounded up the stairs and gave a firm knock against the door, reminding himself that it was Honoria he should think about rather than Priscilla.
Higgins, the marquess’s butler, led him to the parlor where everyone waited.
