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“Perhaps that’s what Miss Pratt and Lord Nash have decided.” She nodded back toward the garden, where the aforementioned scorners of society’s rules ascended the steps back onto the terrace.
To Timothy’s relief, Priscilla refrained from using Nash’s arm for support, and they kept a respectable distance between them. However, they garnered enough disapproving stares to support his argument that society was still quick to judge and slow to forgive.
Nash caught Timothy staring, his dark eyes drilling into Timothy’s skull as if to extract the secrets held within regarding his feelings for Priscilla. The cad turned toward Priscilla, lifted her hand, and placed a chaste kiss upon her knuckles, having the gall to slide his gaze toward Timothy in the process. With that one fluid motion, an ugly churning in Timothy’s stomach replaced his momentary relief.
Was Honoria’s assessment correct? Was Nash truly pursuing Priscilla?
More importantly, why did that matter?
CHAPTER 22—LIES WE TELL OURSELVES
Unseen forces propelled Timothy forward toward Nash—the blackguard—and Priscilla. The audacity of the man to flaunt such familiarity in public. How dare he!
Aware that Honoria was on his heels, Timothy knew he should curb his reaction.
Yet he could not.
“Dr. Marbry, whatever is the matter?” The poor woman’s words came out breathy.
Had his pace truly been so fast it made it difficult for her to keep up?
Volcanic fury built within him, the pressure reaching dangerous levels. “He kissed her hand.” He ground out the words through clenched teeth.
“Why . . . yes. A good . . . sign, wouldn’t you . . . say?”
Refusing to look at her, Timothy pressed forward. “I would not.”
He skidded to a halt a few feet before the unlikely pair, sensing Honoria’s hand on his forearm. He spun toward her.
Face flushed, she gawked at him, her eyes searching, probing. A quick shake of her head brought him to his senses.
Apparently, Honoria wasn’t the only one present who was aghast at his indecorous display. Fans paused mid-flutter. Glasses of lemonade were poised inches from waiting lips. Music from the string quartet stopped mid-measure. His own mother held a canapé mere moments away from consumption.
If not for the chirp of a bird, who obviously hadn’t received the message to cease its song, Timothy would have believed time had frozen before him.
He could have easily borne those things. But the smug look of satisfaction on Nash’s face? Never!
The cad’s gaze refocused on Priscilla. “Will you permit me to call upon you tomorrow, Miss Pratt?” The unctuous tone in his voice made Timothy’s stomach churn anew.
A flicker of hope ignited when Priscilla appeared taken aback by Nash’s request, then sputtered out with her answer. “I will look forward to it, my lord.”
My lord, my foot.Well, in truth, Nashwasa lord, but only through familial association.
Nash—the cad—executed a deep bow. “If you will excuse me while I bid goodbye to our hosts. I shall count the minutes until tomorrow.” A smirk played across his lips as he passed Timothy, who half expected Nash to bump into him, adding insult to injury.
Instead, Nash nodded. “Lady Honoria. Marbry.” Moments later, he stood before Bea and Laurence, then mercifully, he left.
So focused on the blackguard Nash, when Timothy turned around, Priscilla was gone. “Where did she go?”
“To join her father,” Honoria said, nodding to a small cluster of attendees to their left. Concern shone in Honoria’s green eyes. And although he expected a touch of condemnation, he saw none. Perhaps he had not betrayed his feelings as much as he feared. Either that, or she didn’t care, which was both disconcerting and strangely comforting.
“It is what she requested of us, is it not?” she asked. “To aid in securing a husband.”
“Arespectablehusband who would reestablish her place in society. I fail to see how a marriage to Nash Talbot would provide either.”
“As I said before, perhaps she simply no longer cares.”
“Hmm.”
