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Honoria would be the perfect wife.
Respectable.
Compassionate.
Safe.
It should have brought him joy to know he had the approval of her father, but instead, he felt a tightening around his neck, choking the freedom right out of him.
* * *
Nothingabout the situation was pleasant. Four-year-old Mary cried and pulled at Priscilla’s skirts. Six-year-old Vincent had a runny nose and wiped it on his own sleeve. Mr. Ugbrooke watched Priscilla’s every move, as if she were taking some sort of examination.
“Children need a firm hand, Miss Pratt.” Mr. Ugbrooke sniffed. “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”
If she had a rod, she wouldn’t spare it on Mr. Ugbrooke. That was a certainty. If he was such a proponent of discipline, why didn’t he do it? Priscilla decided she really had no use for the miniature creatures. She thought back to the red, wrinkly babe Mrs. Wilson had delivered and shuddered.
Still, Mr. Ugbrooke had made it clear he seriously considered her as a wife, so she stiffened her back, put on her most authoritative expression, and did her best to mimic the voice her mother used. “Mary, there is no need to cry over every little thing, especially simply because Vincent looked at you.”
The girl wailed even louder, and Priscilla sent a pleading look toward Mr. Ugbrooke.
Priscilla pitied Nancy, her abigail, who stood to the side and grimaced, holding her hands over her ears. No doubt, the woman would pray that Priscilla made a match quickly so she could be relieved of her onerous duties as chaperone and focus only on those of lady’s maid.
Vincent stuck his tongue out at his sister, causing her to howl again.
Priscilla’s head felt like it would explode if the horrible caterwauling didn’t cease soon. She practically jumped a foot in the air when Mr. Ugbrooke slapped his large hands together.
“Children. You will cease this instant!”
The crying stopped. Thank goodness.
How did he do that? Hadn’t she exhibited the same amount of firmness and vigor in her demand?
A remnant of a quiet sob left Mary’s lips, but she peered up at her father and nodded.
Inspiration took hold. As a child, she’d always been on her best behavior with the promise of an outing. Surely things hadn’t changed that much in twenty-some-odd years? “Mr. Ugbrooke. If the children promise to be on their best behavior, why don’t we take them to the park?”
Victorious joy filled her when the children’s eyes lit with excitement at the prospect. “Please, Papa,” little Vincent said, tugging on his father’s coat sleeve with a snotty hand.
Mr. Ugbrooke brushed the child’s hand away, then pulled out his handkerchief to wipe away the remaining residue. “Too much idleness at the park. But you may have an idea, Miss Pratt. Something educational, perhaps, to build their minds as well as their bodies. We shall take them to the booksellers.”
All the joy on Vincent’s face vanished the instant his father mentioned books. Mary didn’t seem to care one way or the other. She probably only wished to take leave of the house long enough to breathe something fresher than the stale air circulating throughout the dank home. Priscilla decided if she were to marry Mr. Ugbrooke, serious redecorating would be in order.
“An excellent idea, Mr. Ugbrooke,” she lied. Truth be told, she didn’thatebooks, but she loved the park more.Ah ha!“And perhaps on our return, we could detour through the park?”
Vincent perked right back up.
Mr. Ugbrooke pursed his lips, his face scrunched up as if the idea caused him pain. “We shall see.Ifthe children can behave at the booksellers—and onlyif.”
Vincent jumped up and down. “We will, Papa. We will.”
With the matter settled, they made their way to the bookseller’s, Mr. Ugbrooke discussing a volume of political essays andCoelebs in Search of a Wifehe’d been hoping to read. Priscilla thought they sounded frightfully dull and hoped to find the latest romantic novel. Of course, reading such books only depressed her spirits further. There would be no Mr. Darcy, Colonel Brandon, or Captain Wentworth for her. At this point, she’d even take a Willoughby or a Wickham.
She glanced at Mr. Ugbrooke. Nothing scandalous at all about him. But Timothy, on the other hand . . .
Good Lord, would she ever stop thinking about the man she couldn’t have? She was pathetic.
* * *
