Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7), стр. 37
Grudging acceptance of Charles’s words filled her heart. If Mrs. Bryant saw the two of them holding hands, then the entire world would know their feelings within twenty-four hours.
“I take your point,” she said quietly. “But I still wish to know when we will announce our engagement.”
Was it her imagination, or did Charles’s shoulders slump a little lower at her words?
“’Tis not that simple.”
Ice dropped down Priscilla’s throat. Those words…they could not mean what they sounded like.
“I beg your pardon?” she said coldly. It was all she could do to prevent panic seeping into her tones.
She did not want Charles to think she did not trust him – but why would he say something like that?
He had not looked up from his coffee cup, nor said a word.
“Why would it not be that simple?” she asked, her voice low but urgent. “Charles, we…we love each other. We both know it. You cannot go ahead and marry Frances – Miss Lloyd, I mean, knowing how we feel about each other.”
Charles twisted the cup around, moving the handle between each hand. He said nothing.
“We will be married, and that is an end to it.”
Only then did a twisted smile move across Charles’s cheeks, and he looked up. “Do not worry yourself, Priscilla. I am not going to break my promise to you. I told you the truth when I said that engagements could be broken, and I meant it when I said I…I loved you.”
A waiter meandered to their table. “Another pot of coffee, sir, miss?”
“No, thank you,” she said, smiling. “We are quite happy with what we have.”
The waiter bowed and moved on to the next table.
“Do not worry yourself, Priscilla. I am not going to break my promise to you.”
“But Charles,” she said slowly, “you say you keep your promises, and I believe you. But what about your promises to Miss Lloyd?”
“That is different,” he said nonchalantly, devouring the last of the fruit cake.
Priscilla’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
If Charles had a fault, and she had to really force herself to think this way, then it was his ability to be overridden by the person he was speaking to at the moment.
He was not weak. Principles he would stand behind until death. But his mother…
Priscilla bit her lip. She had taken a terrible risk when she had made love to him. How could it make much difference, allowing yourself to succumb to desire a few weeks before your wedding rather than a few hours after?
That had not been in doubt when she had been sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they would wed. Now she felt reckless. What had she been thinking?
“The promises I made to you were real, from a place of love, of devotion,” said Charles quietly. His blue eyes seared into hers. “Without coercion. I do not think I even proposed to Miss Lloyd. Our mothers decided, and that was it. The promises are incomparable.”
A smile crept over Priscilla’s face, despite her concerns. “I am not sure I would ever be able to argue with your mother.”
Charles laughed, and it was a true laugh now, his whole face lighting up. “Well, you can see my predicament! But do not worry, please, Priscilla. I…I meant what I said. I will break my engagement.”
She could feel the truth in his words, knew that he meant it. The knot of concern that was twisting in her stomach loosened.
“Thank you,” she said. “I cannot tell you what it…knowing that you will honor your promise to me. I knew you would, but I know it is complicated.”
Charles sighed heavily and finally drained his coffee cup. “Complicated does not even encompass it, Priscilla. And now, my apologies, I have another appointment.”
He stood up quickly, and Priscilla once again almost knocked over her chair in her haste to mimic him.
“Until next time,” he said, and this time instead of merely bowing, he reached out and kissed her hand. The place where his lips had touched hers seared like a brand, marking her as his own.
Her whole body flamed with desire, but there was nothing she could do. Not until they had said vows before a vicar would she allow herself to descend to that sort of decadent pleasure again.
“Good day,” said Charles, and then he was gone.
Priscilla stood, the bustling of the coffee house filling her ears. Her smile lingered. Her future husband: Charles would be her husband, and they would be so happy together.
“Ah, Miss Seton!”
She turned around to see Miss Ashbrooke beaming with a knowing smile on her face.
Priscilla hesitated. Could Miss Ashbrooke, society’s great matchmaker, have seen Charles kiss her hand? Would she think anything of it? Everyone knew they had been acquainted for so many years…
“Miss Ashbrooke,” she said, curtseying.
“It appears that you are without company, a dreadful situation for a young lady,” said Miss Ashbrooke smoothly. “Here, let me rescue you.”
Without waiting for a response, she sat in the seat Charles had just vacated and smiled.
“And how are you, Miss Seton? I have to say, as a professional matchmaker, I am surprised that your mother has not called on me. You must be what, four and twenty?”
Priscilla lowered herself slowly into her own seat and prepared for a very tedious ten minutes. “Yes, Miss Ashbrooke, four and twenty – but I have no desire to –”
“Oh, you are not the oldest on my books, not by a long shot,” Miss Ashbrooke said breezily, ignoring her completely and picking up a slice of cake. “My word, this stuff is good, isn’t it? I always come to Morgan and Fenning’s whenever I am in town, my cook can’t do cakes properly.”
Priscilla smiled weakly. Miss Ashbrooke was unlikely to desist until she said everything she wished to say.
“And I saw young Orrinshire head out just a moment ago, what a fine gentleman, and one of my triumphs, too.”
Now Priscilla was paying attention. “I-I