interest in the political landscape, Priscilla,” he said aloud.
Both she and Miss Worsley looked at him and grinned, making Charles feel a little like he had missed the punchline of a very funny joke.
“Just because women cannot vote nor represent themselves,” Priscilla said with a smile, “that does not mean we have no interest in politics. If anything, the opposite!”
Charles frowned as they turned a corner into deeper woodland. There were few birds singing in the trees this close to autumn, but a woodpecker beat against a tree a little way off.
“The opposite?”
Miss Worsley nodded as Priscilla continued, “Well, consider the situation. We must become more involved than society would deem necessary, precisely because we are unable to interact in any meaningful way. It is only by being vocal in this manner that our representatives actually know what we want!”
“Careful!” Westray shot back over his shoulder, evidently listening to Priscilla. Charles felt a spark of jealousy ignite in his bones. “That sounds like bluestocking talk to me, Miss Seton!”
Instead of taking offense, as something wicked in Charles’s heart wished she would, Priscilla merely smiled. “A little logic never hurts, Lord Westray.”
He grinned and turned back to continue conversing with Harry, and Miss Worsley mentioned something fresh, taking Priscilla into a different topic.
Charles was consumed with pride in Priscilla, pride in her mind, her wit. Had she always been this elegant, this well-spoken, this charming?
Her mind was first-rate, and he had always known that – hadn’t he always been the butt of her jokes as children?
“What do you think, O-Orrinshire?”
But this was different. Something within him reacted when he looked at her.
“I said, what do you think, Orrinshire?”
Charles’s attention snapped back to the present. Miss Worsley looked concerned, and it was only then that he realized she had been asking him a question.
“I beg your pardon?” he said hastily.
Miss Worsley laughed. “My, you must have been hundreds of miles away to mishear me. Perhaps thinking of Frances?”
Her smile was knowing – a little too knowing. They had not been acquainted long, and he could not think of who this Frances was supposed to be.
“Who?” he asked.
Miss Worsley glanced at Priscilla and smiled. “Why, Miss Frances Lloyd, Your Grace. Your betrothed?”
Damn and blast it! Of course she meant Miss Lloyd. But it would not do for that report to get back to his intended. Not that he would suspect Miss Worsley of such base gossip, of course. But then, you never knew.
“Ah, I did not catch the name – yes, ’tis Miss Lloyd I am thinking of,” he said hastily.
Miss Worsley started to prattle on about their wedding, a conversation that Charles was apparently not required to contribute to.
Miss Frances Lloyd. The woman he was to marry, but all he could do was think about Priscilla.
The five of them turned another corner, and a woodpecker flew past them, a red, white, and black blur against the gold of the leaves.
What was wrong with him? Why did Priscilla haunt his waking thoughts just as much as his dreams, although admittedly with more clothes on? Why was it so hard to prise his mind away?
“Such a shame Miss Lloyd could not join us,” Priscilla said, her voice cutting through his thoughts.
His stomach lurched. Damn. He had not even thought to invite her to their country walk. He needed to buck up his ideas if he was going to go through with this wedding.
The path turned again, taking them into even denser trees. The coolness was a welcome relief to Charles, too hot and uncomfortable in his greatcoat. All he had to do was stay calm and quiet. The walk would be but an hour, perhaps a little more, and then he could return home, far away from the temptation of Priscilla Seton…
“And how are the wedding plans going?” Miss Worsley asked. “It cannot be long now.”
Just stick to the facts. “No, it is not that far away now. The wedding plans…yes, they are coming along.”
He saw Miss Worsley frown. “Coming along?”
He sighed and pulled at a blackberry, just turning ripe. The tartness of the fruit jolted him awake in a way that nothing else had.
“If I am honest with you, Miss Worsley, I have been leaving the planning of the day to Miss Lloyd and my mother,” he said airily. “I will admit, I am not really involved.”
Was it his imagination, or had Priscilla’s gaze dropped to the woodland floor as he spoke? What did that mean?
“How very wise of you,” said Miss Worsley