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An uncomfortable silence settled around them, and he feared opening his mouth again lest his boot seek the opening. He resisted pulling out his pocket watch to see how much time had passed. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his leg.
“Oh,” Honoria said, jolting him out of his stupor. “Have you heard the news?”
He shook his head. Even if she imparted something he’d already known, at least it would break the interminable silence.
“Miss Pratt is engaged.”
What the devil was in the tea? The room began to spin, Honoria’s words hitting him like a punch to his stomach. “Wh—what?” he croaked, coughing and pointing to the tea as if to blame it, even though he hadn’t even had a sip in the last few minutes.
“To a Mr. Netherborne. I believe they are keeping things rather quiet. Father heard it from Lord Cartwright at his club. I understand, he’s a curate she met during her time in Lincolnshire.”
“But she told me she didn’t want to marry him.”
“She did? I don’t recall that conversation.”
“It was . . .” He stopped himself. Was it when they’d spent time together in the cottage and she’d called herself Emma, or here in London? “I don’t recall precisely when she said it, but I believe it’s why she decided to seek a husband here.” There. Not a lie.
“Perhaps being apart from him has made her reconsider.”
He doubted it, especially if the man was still as judgmental as Priscilla had implied.
Honoria leaned forward, concern shining in her eyes. “Forgive me, but you look unwell.”
“Perhaps I’m more exhausted than I imagined. If you will excuse me, I think I shall return home and rest.” He rose and bowed, hoping he didn’t appear too anxious.
“Of course,” she said, rising to ring for a servant to escort him out.
Not willing to wait, he practically raced from the room.
He hated lying to Honoria, although he seemed to be doing it more often, but he had no intention of returning home and resting. Instead, he made his way to Lord Cartwright’s townhouse to hear the news directly from Priscilla’s own lips.
* * *
In no hurry toreturn to the country, Priscilla requested a London wedding, and Mr. Netherborne reluctantly agreed. Oh, he’d blustered and argued that they should marry in Lincolnshire where he served, but Priscilla’s father insisted, and how could a lowly country curate refuse a viscount?
Despite Mr. Netherborne’s protests over an elaborate wedding, Priscilla’s mother flitted about like a nervous bird, making the arrangements. However, at Priscilla’s insistence, her mother made one concession. Lord Cartwright procured a common license to eliminate the reading of the banns, and no other announcements were made. Priscilla had no wish to be the topic of society’s scandal sheets again, and surely her less than prestigious match would set tongues wagging. She had no illusions of avoiding the gossips forever, but she hoped to be out of London by then.
Two times she prepared to be a bride, both times fraught with guilt. Shouldn’t brides be joyous, anticipating a happy life with their new husband? Of course, it had been different with the duke than it was with Mr. Netherborne. She had done the duke a great disservice by trapping him, and her guilt at wounding him still ate at her to that day. But at least he had escaped and found happiness.
This time, she had trapped and doomed herself to a loveless marriage. She prayed she would find a way to grow in affection toward Abner, but the fanciful dreams of a young girl had vanished the moment he had placed a chaste kiss on her lips at their engagement.
The resulting comparison to the magnificent kiss she shared with Timothy was inevitable, and she found Mr. Netherborne’s attempt sorely lacking.
It was like kissing a snake. Not that she had ever kissed a snake, but she did have a vivid imagination. Lips as dry as parchment barely brushed against hers, cold, perfunctory, and—passionless.
In the four days he remained in London after their engagement, he made no further attempt, presumablysavinghimself for the marriage. When he returned to Belton almost three weeks ago, she did not feel the loss.
She slumped against her chair and gazed out the window of her bedroom. Sun bounced against the pavement, casting short shadows from the people strolling leisurely along the streets of Mayfair. Why couldn’t it be the typical London weather—gloomy and rainy? Something to match her mood.
A carriage pulled up in front of the house, and a gentleman descended, his form familiar. Priscilla’s heart rose to her throat. When he craned his neck and caught her peering down at him, he gave a little wave. She shot from her seat as if propelled by a cannon.
“Victor!” she shouted as she raced down the stairs, caring little she would receive a severe dressing down for her unladylike behavior. “He’s come! Victor’s come home!”
She hadn’t seen her brother in five years since he’d been touring the continent and taking painting instruction from a master in Italy. He must have received her letter announcing her upcoming nuptials. Tears of happiness slid down her cheeks that he’d come home.
He’d barely made it inside when she hurled herself at him, knocking his hat off in the process.
Digby muttered something about not needing to announce anyone as he picked up Victor’s hat.
