Always the Rival (Never the Bride #7) - Emily E K Murdoch Page 0,34

me, if you felt so strongly about them?” Charles dropped into another chair, his shirt still unbuttoned, but now there was a hardness to his breeches that Priscilla knew was all down to her.

Trying to keep her voice calm and not escalate their argument, she said, “I only realized when you became engaged. Of…of course, I would have said something if I had known before, but I did not – and neither, may I point out, did you!”

Charles put his head in his hands. It was awful seeing him like that. So hurt, so unable to do anything about the pain he felt – and yet Priscilla knew he could act. Miss Lloyd had seemed, at best, nonchalant about their engagement. Surely she would not be injured if Charles called it to a close?

But then, it was not her place to say that. If Miss Lloyd wanted to be released from their engagement, she would have to say. Just like Charles would.

“I do not know what to tell you,” he said heavily.

So, he was truly not going to do anything. Anger rose in Priscilla’s heart, anger at the situation, but predominately anger at Charles. He could do something about this, he could break the engagement with Miss Lloyd – but he would not.

“I should not have said anything,” she said, moving around the settee toward the door, her skirts rustling in the silence. “I thought if you – if you cared for me at all, you would wish to be with me. I see now that I should not have spoken at all.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have,” said Charles coldly.

If he said anything else, Priscilla did not know. She slammed the door behind her and paced down the corridor toward the hallway. She did not need to wait for Hodges; she knew where the cloakroom was.

Not until she reached the cool of the night air did she allow the tears to fall that had threatened from the moment Charles had said he would not break his engagement.

It had all been too little, too late.

Chapter Nine

Charles fell heavily back into his soft leather chair and sighed.

A week. Seven days. One hundred and seventy-odd hours.

However he thought about it, it was far too long to go without seeing Priscilla. A week ago, she had stormed out of his drawing room and out of his life, it seemed. She was not in town; she was not at home. She was nowhere to be found.

Well, that was what Mrs. Busby had said. With tinged cheeks and a stuttering voice, both times Charles had called at the Seton house, she had informed him that Priscilla was unwell and not to be disturbed for visitors.

Charles closed the lid of his inkpot and frowned. What did that mean, unwell? Was it another cold – it was the season for them, after all. Autumn nights drawing in, dew bringing a chill to the evening air.

Was it something worse? Was she bedridden, so ill that she could not descend the stairs?

Or was she so unwell, and the thought made his hands clench, that she had gone away, perhaps to the Continent? Could she have come down with something awful, and the last thing he would ever say to her was that she should not have spoken of her affections for him?

Charles shook his head, laying down his quill and pushing away the paper he had been working on all evening. Priscilla had a far stronger constitution than that, surely. A few colds, perhaps, but she had never suffered anything worse.

A painful twist seared his heart. Or perhaps, the traitorous voice inside his soul murmured, she was not indisposed, but merely does not want to see you…

His gaze dropped to his paperwork. Lists of names, food orders, tack orders; the plans for the autumn hunt had never interested him less. What was the point in inviting nobility and gentry from up and down the country if Priscilla was not there?

He should finish the instructions to his groundskeeper. Mr. Michaels wanted to know how many horses to prepare, how many fox dens to hunt out before guests started to arrive.

Mr. Michaels would have to be disappointed. Charles had spent all week attempting to force Priscilla from his mind, never allowing himself to dwell on her. He had been worse than unsuccessful. Every moment, she was never far from his thoughts.

His eyes were sore, but that was not surprising. It was nearly midnight. The clock in the hall, just beyond the study door,