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“I . . . I . . .”
“For God’s sake, Priscilla, spit it out.”
Fire blazed in her eyes. “You don’t have to be so rude and blaspheme.”
He rolled his eyes. Bea would be proud. He flashed Priscilla a grim smile. “Very well. To what do I owe the honor of your presence so late at night? Aren’t you concerned about propriety?”
“I wanted to see you, speak with you alone.”
He refrained from another eye roll. “Obviously.”
“I received your letter.”
No longer able to look at her and maintain control, he turned his back and reached for the whisky decanter. “Let me guess. You came here to rub it in my face personally. ‘Ha ha, Timothy. Surprise! Everything was a ruse.’ Giving me a false name should have been my first clue,Emma.”
Fresh drink in his hand, he spun back around to face her. The glass nearly slipped from his fingers as his heart tumbled in his chest.
Suspicious brightness shimmered in her eyes, shaming him.
“No,” she said, the word choked. “You had questions. I came to answer them.”
He lifted the glass of whisky. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“May I have one?” She pointed to the glass.
“Strong for a lady of delicate sensibilities, but I would be an ungracious host to refuse.” He poured a finger of whisky into a crystal glass, then, on second thought, poured another finger’s worth.
After handing her the drink, he tipped his forward, clinking the glass to hers. “To truth.”
She stared into the amber liquid, swirling it gently, but didn’t drink. “Truth. Yes. The man you saw me with was not Mr. Netherborne.” She lifted her impossibly blue eyes to his. “He is my brother, Victor, recently arrived home from Italy. And yes, I love him dearly, so the affection you witnessed was truly genuine, as his is for me.”
A strange mixture of shame and hope churned in his stomach. “But youareengaged to Mr. Netherborne?”
She nodded. “But to answer your questions, my feelings for him haven’t changed. Nor have mine for you. If anything, I’ve underestimated them.”
“Then why? Why agree to marry a man you don’t love when, by your own admission, it is passion and love you seek most?”
Silent tears rolled down her cheeks, and the anguish in her eyes speared him square in his heart. “Because byyour ownadmission, although you desire me, you cannot love me, and you seek a wife whom you neither love nor desire.”
Her words propelled him back as sure as if she’d struck him. “I never said that.”
“You did. You said you seek to marry Honoria because she is safe. How else am I supposed to interpret that?”
“That doesn’t explain why you are choosing to marry a man you don’t love. To relegate yourself to a life in the country—which, by your admission, you detest.”
“It’s preferable to a life here where I remain the object of scorn and derision. Sheep do not judge.”
“So you’re running away? I would have never pegged you as a coward.”
“If gossips were the only thing to contend with, I might withstand it, but to remain here and see you across a ballroom, in the park, to long for you, knowing what I feel could never come to fruition, would be too much to bear.” She shook her head, then took a large drink of the whisky.
Fitful coughing followed, and her eyes watered not from sadness but from the reaction to the strong spirits.
His physician’s instincts kicked in, and he raced to her side and pulled the glass from her grip. “Trust me.” Moving quickly, he unfastened and removed her cloak, not caring that it tumbled in a pile at her feet. With the cloak out of the way, he grasped her wrists, lifting her arms over her head. “Slow breaths.”
They stood together, dangerously close, as he held her arms aloft. Her coughing eased, yet he didn’t release his hold. The nearness of her heightened each of his senses. He heard her slow exhales as she caught her breath, saw the droplets of tears lingering on her lashes, smelled the faint remnants of liquor on her lips, and felt the heat from her body seeping into his own.
And every inch of him burned for her.
