Always the Rival (Never the Bride #7) - Emily E K Murdoch Page 0,58

Busby entered at that moment, and she said gratefully, “Ah, Mrs. Busby. Please see Miss Ashbrooke out – good day, Miss Ashbrooke.”

The two ladies curtseyed, and then the housekeeper curtseyed as her guest passed her into the corridor.

Priscilla fell back onto the settee and stared into nothingness. The Orrinshire estate mortgaged to the hilt. She had not even heard a rumor, a whisper.

“Let me clear that away for you, miss.” Mrs. Busby had returned and was reaching for the platter of cakes.

“Leave the cake,” Priscilla said sharply. “Thank you, Mrs. Busby.”

The servant smiled, nodded, and carefully carried the tea tray from the room.

Priscilla lifted the cake platter, placed it firmly on her lap, and started eating. Well, she could not go back in time and change anything that she had done, but she wished to goodness she could.

Had she managed to ruin what could be the only chance for stability for Charles, and broken her own heart to boot?

Chapter Fifteen

Charles kicked the gravel, which did nothing to alleviate the tension rolling in his stomach. Every breath tightened it, every minute that passed as he waited here on the corner of Market Street grew the bubble of anxiety, tearing him apart from the inside.

“Good day,” a gentleman said nonchalantly as he passed.

Charles bowed but had no time to say anything before the gentleman had already gone. He swallowed. He had thought it such a clever idea that morning, go to the village. Wait in Orrinbrook because it is Wednesday, and Priscilla always wandered into the village on Wednesdays.

A wry smile crept over his face. She was far more devoted to the village than he. How many times had he seen her: hundreds, over the years? Basket in one hand and flowers in the other, visiting the poor of the neighborhood and making sure they had enough to eat for the week.

He leaned against the wall, feeling the rub of the brick against his coat. Bridges would not be pleased, but that could not be helped.

Where was Priscilla?

He had waited here for…goodness, two hours, by the church clock. So, where was she? Surely, she had not stopped going to help the poor because he had abandoned her?

Swallowing again, he tasted the bitterness in his throat. More for something to do than because he felt such anger, he kicked at the gravel again.

“I say, do you mind?” A portly woman with a fur stole around her shoulders had turned the corner and found herself showered with little stones. “Really, if you have nothing better to do than kick gravel at ladies, sir, then I would say you should be off home!”

Charles was forced to hide a smile. Dressed as he was, in his oldest jacket and the top hat that Bridges had threatened to throw out two years ago, few people would guess that the gentleman she had just berated publicly was the Duke of Orrinshire – and the entire village’s landlord.

It was not enough to pull his mind from the woman he had hoped to see here.

Priscilla.

Just the thought of her name made his heart flutter, fool that he was. How had he allowed himself to fall in love?

He had written to her, of course. What could he do but beg her forgiveness, tell her that he was worthless?

Placing his hand in his pocket, Charles pulled out her reply. He had almost memorized it, at no great difficulty. It had been short, sharp, and to the point.

Charles,

Your letter has been received. Do not send another. I have no wish to hear from you again.

Miss P. Seton

He scanned over the few words again, taking in every twist and curl of her handwriting. It was as familiar to him as his own.

The missive, however, was not the response he had hoped for. As a few people passed him, carrying new purchases from Market Day, he read the letter again.

Well, he was abiding by her wishes, Charles reasoned wretchedly. Waiting in the village to accost her in person was not writing to her.

The clock above the church struck two, and Charles sighed heavily. He had promised Miss Lloyd that he would meet her and his mother in town at three o’clock. He was almost certain to be late now, and there were only…what, six days until the wedding?

Even he knew he was foolish. If one of his friends – Wynn, perhaps, or Westray – had asked his advice for this very situation, he would physically turn him around, place him on a horse, and say