Always the Rival (Never the Bride #7) - Emily E K Murdoch Page 0,15

the village. “Do you really think there was a single person left in London? They all wanted to come and gawp at you.”

He laughed, and she laughed with him, every fiber of her being crying out with happiness. This was how it was supposed to be. Could he not see they were made for each other? Everything just fell into place when they were together.

“You just wait until it is your own engagement party,” Charles retorted as they stepped onto the pavement – a recent addition to the village paid for by Orrinshire gold. “I will be the one turning up in all my finery and laughing at you!”

All the joy in her bones disappeared immediately. The thought of her engagement party to another man – and what is more, Charles turning up to see her, undoubtedly with Miss Lloyd on his arm, silenced her.

But no. She would be the Duchess of Orrinshire then. Charles’s wife.

He had not noticed her sudden silence. “What a moment that will be, your engagement!”

Priscilla could have attempted a smile, but she knew it would look false, and said instead, “You assume you will be invited to any of my parties!”

Charles shook his head. “Friends for all these years, and you are going to cut me from your guest list?”

Their conversation was halted as a woman approached them with a wicker basket, evidently going to a butcher or baker. The pavement was not wide enough for all three of them, so Charles quickly dropped her arm and stepped into the road, bowing as she passed.

The woman nodded. “Your Grace.”

Her tone was respectful, but she stared at Priscilla as though she was a strange creature walking on her hind legs. Had she something on her nose? Was her bonnet askew?

“You know, I thought you were in London this week.”

Charles’s voice cut through Priscilla’s thoughts, and he returned to her side.

Absentmindedly, she took his arm once again before replying. “I was, but I wanted to be home – besides, Town is only ten miles away.”

Their conversation was stilted once more as they turned a corner into the village square. It was market day, every inch packed with stalls, the clucking of hens, the shouts of farmers selling their wares, and a blacksmith in one corner arguing with someone about the cost of a horseshoe.

Priscilla glanced at Charles and saw his face break into a grin.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” he said, looking out at the scene. “Every single one of them is connected to the Orrinshire land, and we all benefit from them. Our pantries are stocked with their produce, their game on my table, their brothers and sisters on my staff. We are all connected.”

Priscilla looked at him. There was a wistful look on his face, as though he knew he was at the same time utterly disconnected from them. How could he be one of them? He was the duke, the lord, the owner of all their homes.

As they started to walk around the square, many looked up and bowed in the direction of their landlord – but even more stared at her. Priscilla started off by smiling back, after all, she had grown up just outside this village as Charles had done. She was no stranger to them.

But after a few minutes, the stares were far too pointed to ignore. Some were whispering as she approached, whispers that were suddenly silenced as they came close enough to hear them.

Perhaps it was all in her imagination.

“Tell me,” Charles murmured as they turned a corner and put a little distance between themselves and the crowd. “Why is it that so many people are looking at you?”

Priscilla swallowed. The Times may not have the largest readership, but gossip in a village spread far quicker than printed paper. It appeared her exploits at the engagement picnic were common knowledge – and clearly, not approved of.

It had all felt like a game when she had spoken with Miss Lloyd at the Viscount Donal’s wedding. Rival her for Charles’s heart – what harm could it bring?

It had felt wonderful arriving at Charles’s engagement party dressed in her finery, certain that she would attract the attention of all there. This rivalry had felt like the cleverest idea, but she was not just playing the rival now. She was playing for keeps, and if she were not very much mistaken, this was the rough she would have to take with the smooth.

She glanced at Charles and felt her stomach melt. He was the prize