Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7) Read online

  His voice trailed away as discomfort rose between them. The wedding. His wedding. They had barely spoken about it, and now it was so close, there did not seem to be anything to say.

  “I will see whether the bride requires anything more of my services,” Priscilla said lightly, dropping a quick curtsey and walking away.

  Charles sighed. Even Priscilla, who was more like family than a friend, would not speak about this. Somehow this wedding had forced a wedge between them, a topic of conversation now forbidden between them. It was unheard of in the last twenty years, and yet…

  And yet. Why was he just as restrained? It was not her engagement that they were avoiding.

  He spent five minutes in miserable thought, eyes glazed to all around him, until a voice forced him from his reverie.

  “Orrinshire!”

  The bridegroom was striding toward him with a beaming smile.

  “Donal! A fine day, a fine woman, and a damn fine piece of luck.”

  Patrick O’Leary, Viscount Donal, grinned as he slapped him on the back. “You never said a truer word! Now, come with me, I have a damsel in distress, and only you can save her.”

  “Save her?” Charles said as he was pulled around the edge of the dancers. “What do you mean?”

  “You must dance with her, old boy,” Donal said. “Here we go!”

  Charles was thrust toward Priscilla.

  “What, Charles?” Priscilla colored and laughed loudly. “I cannot dance with Charles! He is an engaged man.”

  “Dance?” Charles barked an uncomfortable laugh, painfully aware that Mariah was glaring, and Priscilla’s embarrassment was growing. “I do not think my future wife would approve of such a thing!”

  What possessed him to say such a thing? As if the lack of conversation was not already awful, he had to invoke his future bride as an excuse?

  “It simply would not be right,” Priscilla said softly, her cheeks still pink.

  Charles cleared his throat. There were words, he was sure, that he could say, and everyone would laugh, and the tension dissipate. They did not come to mind at present.

  “Absolutely not,” he said instead, bowing to the bride and groom and turning on his heels. He only looked back twice to see what Priscilla was doing.

  Damnit. This whole wedding was becoming a farce, first entrapped by his mother’s tiresome conversation, then a moment of pure discomfort with Priscilla, and now a public confrontation with her!

  At the very least, if he had been smart enough to simply dance with her, he could have enjoyed a pleasant conversation. What had possessed him to say no?

  An hour, his mother had said. Well, he was sure he could find a way to entertain himself for sixty minutes. There must be a card table set up somewhere in this place, wasn’t there?

  “Ah, I knew I would find you!”

  Charles groaned. His mother’s voice sounded triumphant, and that could only mean…

  Turning around, he forced a smile on his face. He was right. The dowager had found Miss Lloyd and was pulling, almost dragging her over.

  The look on Miss Lloyd’s face matched Charles’s own internal embarrassment. Did his mother have to be so overbearing, so certain she was right at all times?

  “Here you go, Charles,” his mother said delightedly. “I have found her! To think, she was at the wedding all along but was standing through there with her parents. Miss Lloyd, it is so good to see you!”

  Charles said nothing but bowed.

  Miss Lloyd curtseyed. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, I think we can dispense with those formalities, do you not think?” The dowager beamed at her future daughter-in-law. “What a delight that you were invited, too. I wish I had known, we could have sat together in the church!”

  “And how are you, Miss Lloyd?” Charles asked politely. He knew his place and would not forget it.

  “She is absolutely blooming,” the dowager said cheerfully.

  Miss Lloyd glanced at her and said quietly, “And how are you, Your Grace?”

  Charles opened his mouth to say something inane and harmless but was immediately interrupted by his mother.

  “Oh, he is moping about for the lack of you, Miss Lloyd, but it will not be long before you two are never parted!”

  He caught Miss Lloyd’s eye and exchanged a knowing smile. Throughout their six-month engagement, it had been impossible for them to converse properly without one of their parents present.

  Not that it really mattered. Miss Lloyd was the Honorable Miss Frances Lloyd, daughter of Viscount Lloyd, who was himself the younger brother of an earl. She was nobility, as was he. They knew what was expected of them – had been bred for it.

  Still, Charles thought ruefully. If only his mother did not continuously trip over herself to fawn on Miss Lloyd, it might have been possible to become acquainted with her a little. Perhaps even grow to like her.

  As it was, that was impossible. Like his father and his father before him, and God knew how many others before that, he would have to wait until he was married before he discovered anything meaningful about his wife’s temperament.

  None of these thoughts were ones he could voice. Charles watched as his mother barraged Miss Lloyd with a thousand and one questions about the upcoming nuptials, Miss Lloyd’s eyes glazing over.

  This was the rest of his life. He would be a fool to think his mother would gracefully cease offering advice when they were married – as it was, he had not yet been brave enough to broach the topic of whether she would finally move to the dowager cottage.

  Charles swallowed and tried to focus on the conversation before him. It did not matter that he was desperate to escape his fate. He never would.

  Duty required this of him, and an Orrinshire never shirked duty.

  Chapter Two

  Priscilla fought the urge to lean back in the hard chair as she watched a young lady who could only be Miss Frances Lloyd simper at the Dowager Duchess of Orrinshire.

  Hidden from their view by a large potted plant, Priscilla nevertheless could feel her heart thunder at the sensation. It was not like she was eavesdropping. They were at a wedding, everyone could see, and she was not close enough to hear what they were saying.

  Still. She could see as she smoothed down the folds of her gown, that neither Charles, his mother, or Miss Lloyd for that matter, looked particularly happy.

  A small frown creased her forehead as she beheld them. Charles, in his best and most loathed cravat, the dowager in all the diamonds from the family vaults, and Miss Lloyd, looking slightly stunned at the rate at which the dowager was speaking.

  Priscilla brought her hands together in her lap, her frustration overpowering her will as she started to pick at the skin around her nails. How was it possible that this had occurred? Charles, engaged?

  She had laughed when he had first told her, months ago now. It had seemed utterly ridiculous, the idea of an arranged marriage in this day and age. He had not even met Miss Lloyd. They had giggled together, guessing whether she would be tall, bookish, speak French, embroider…

  That was a lifetime ago. The weeks had slipped by, weeks without Charles because he had to attend to wedding preparations.

  Wedding preparations! Priscilla smiled wryly as she sat alone, quite content in her own thoughts. A few months ago, Miss Lloyd and Charles had never met. Now they would spend the rest of their lives together. Miss Ashbrooke, the matchmaker, had worked another wonder.

  It was madness! Who would marry someone they barely knew?

  The instant the thought crossed her mind, Charles spoke, and Miss Lloyd laughed.

  Bile rose in Priscilla’s throat, but she forced it down. This was not the time to permit her emotions to overwhelm her.

  “Ah, I thought Charles would be here.”

  Priscilla jumped. Her mother had returned from some gossiping with her acquaintances, but Priscilla had been so enrapt in her own thoughts, she had barely noticed.

  “Yes,” she said demurel
y, trying to keep the fire of her emotions from her voice. “Charles, his mother, and his betrothed.”

  Mrs. Seton looked over at the trio and smiled. “You know, I cannot remember a time when I did not know young Charles, and Mary, too.”

  Priscilla’s smile was wan. “When Mary…well, that only brought us closer together, if possible.”

  Her mother, a handsome woman of almost fifty, looked at her daughter. “He was like a son to me, you know. An excellent brother to you when you were growing up.”

  Priscilla opened her mouth to protest but was immediately interrupted.

  “Ah, there is Lady Romeril.” Mrs. Seton sighed heavily. “Goodness knows what will happen if I do not acknowledge her and pay some sort of compliment. I will not be long, Priscilla.”

  Her daughter barely noticed her leave. Charles, a brother? She had never consciously considered him that way, exactly, but there had certainly never been any awkwardness or discomfort around him. He was…well, Charles. It was like not recognizing your reflection. It was a part of you, part of the landscape.

  Miss Lloyd laughed again, and Priscilla’s frown returned. The engagement had changed everything. When was the last the time they had gone for a walk, a ride, had an actual conversation without anyone else?

  She swallowed, her throat dry, as something like jealousy but also anger bubbled in her stomach.

  Charles had always been an acquiescing child and had grown into an acquiescing man. Her frown disappeared briefly at the memories of his innocence, the time they had borrowed a horse for the day and caused a park-wide panic, the incident with the water fountain that had earned him a thrashing for swimming with a girl, and that time he instructed food to be taken to those gypsies and had emptied his mother’s larder right before a state dinner.

  There was no one quite like Charles. So what did he think he was doing, allowing himself to be engaged to…to a fool like that?

  Priscilla’s gaze examined Miss Lloyd, her first time at a distance, and regretted the fierce thought. She did not appear to be a fool, from what one could tell.

  Elegant shoulders, a fine neck, bright eyes, and an interesting conversationalist, though the dowager was not an excellent barometer of that. She was pretty, Priscilla had to grudgingly admit, but what else was she?

  Rich. Priscilla almost spat the word aloud, it was so irritating. Miss Lloyd’s twenty thousand pounds was incomparable to her own two thousand. There was no contest.

  She had known the dowager as long as she had known Charles, and though she loved her like a wayward aunt who was too strict at times, now Priscilla had entered adulthood, she had started to realize that her childhood idols were, perhaps, a little tarnished.

  It was an unpleasant realization to see that the dowager was more interested in her son’s wealth than his happiness.

  An image flashed across her mind, so clear and vibrant it felt more like a memory; but this vision had never occurred, and never would do.

  There she was, standing opposite Charles…at an altar. A vicar was bringing their hands together, and it felt…it felt like returning home after months abroad. His hands were warm, his eyes bright, and he leaned forward…

  Priscilla jolted in her chair so fiercely that she almost fell off. Rising hurriedly to mask her own foolishness and taking a sweeping look around to see whether her imbalance had been spotted, she cleared her throat and started walking around the edge of the dancers – in the opposite direction to Charles and Miss Lloyd.

  She almost wanted to laugh it was so ridiculous. Charles – marry Charles?

  But accompanying that thought was something she had never experienced before. A heat, a tug in her stomach. A longing for something she did not entirely understand.

  Was it…desire?

  She’d had her fair share of childhood crushes when first entering society. As she weaved between laughing couples, moving toward the dancers and clusters of ladies discussing the bride and bridegroom, she remembered her obsession with the Earl of Chester, which had lasted far too long.

  But Charles…Charles had never tempted her. Priscilla glanced back over her shoulder as she wondered why. There he was, handsome, which she had always known.

  But it had been like knowing the full moon was rising. Until you really stopped to examine it, it was just a white blob in the sky. You knew it would be there, so did not look.

  Now she looked, and Charles appeared to transform – and yet, he had always been that way. Tall, broad shoulders, his jaw clenched at this very moment, which meant his mother was being more trying than normal.

  Then he laughed, and that dimple she knew better almost than her own appeared.

  Priscilla found she had stopped walking to stare, take him all in.

  Charles was in many ways, the perfect gentleman. Titled, not that it mattered. Kind, which was far more important. A strong sense of fairness, a strong sense of fun. Joyful, playful, educated without being stuffy, honorable without being dull…

  And as she looked at him, her gaze dropped to his hands. Strong hands. An engulfing hug from Charles could knock the wind from you, and she shivered at the very thought of it.

  Well, if marriage was what he needed, why not her?

  The thought was laughable, but was it impossible? Many a marriage was less companionable than theirs would be – and if the heat that had just risen through her body was any judge, they would have plenty of pleasure, too…

  Now her cheeks were warm, and she tore her gaze away from Charles and continued walking around the dancers.

  The very idea of it! Just thinking of…well, that intimacy that belonged between a husband and wife…it was shameful.

  A young lady from a respectable family such as hers should not be even considering something as scandalous as wooing and making love. It was not merely impermissible, it was inconceivable that she would wish to!

  “Such a wonderful wedding…”

  “I thought the bride very elegant despite her bluestocking nature.”

  “And Irish! I had no idea…”

  Voices flittered in and out of Priscilla’s hearing as she circled the room and moved into another, which comprised of no dancing but plenty of chatter.

  She looked back through the doorway, at the slice of dancing she could still espy.

  Was not dancing just a facsimile of the marriage bed? True, it was not an exact metaphor, but there was enough similarities for it to strike her. Finding your perfect partner, coming together, touching, enjoying each other…

  Priscilla raised a hand to her cheeks and almost gasped at the heat. They must be flaming, and no wonder! It simply was not right thinking this way.

  Even less, thinking of Charles this way.

  A drink, Priscilla thought wildly. A nice, calming, refreshing, and most importantly, cold drink would restore her equilibrium. She noticed a punch table at the back of the room and hastened there as elegantly as she could.

  As she reached out for the ladle, a hand bumped into hers.

  “Oh, I do apologize,” she said, looking up.

  “No, the fault is all mine,” said the voice of Miss Frances Lloyd.

  Priscilla had to work hard to keep her face calm as she realized Charles’s betrothed was standing right beside her. Was it possible that – but no, she chided herself silently. Miss Lloyd could have no idea what licentious and scandalous thoughts had flashed through her mind!

  “I should have looked at what I was doing,” Miss Lloyd was continuing with a gentle laugh. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  Priscilla’s mouth fell open. She had never spoken to Miss Lloyd before, their circle of acquaintances had never intersected. And yet here she was, still apologizing for something as simple as touching her hand.

  “I am afraid I was a little distracted,” Miss Lloyd said. “Are…you are Miss Seton, are you not?”

  Priscilla closed her mouth. Well, she had never sought out Miss Lloyd’s company, but it had been thrust upon her by…what? Fate? Destiny?

>   Whatever it was, she was not going to let the opportunity disappear.

  Smiling as naturally as possible, she said, “Miss Lloyd. Will you walk with me?”

  In the hindsight of a few seconds, she could have been warmer, but Miss Lloyd did not seem put off by her slightly brusque approach. On the contrary, she nodded with a curious look.

  Priscilla did not know why her heart was fluttering as they began to promenade around the room slowly.

  Say something, her mind urged her. You need to say something!

  “I…I do not believe we have been officially introduced,” she said haltingly.

  Miss Lloyd nodded. “No, but I know you. Miss Priscilla Seton, am I right? Friend of the Orrinshire family.”

  A spark of jealousy pushed through Priscilla’s heart like a barb, and she had to bite down her instinctive retort that she was no friend to the Orrinshire family, but she was Charles’s closest friend in all the world.

  It was probably not a clever idea to say that to Charles’s betrothed…

  “And I know you,” she said instead.

  As they turned a corner, she noticed Miss Lloyd’s cheeks pink.

  “You call him Charles, as though it were nothing.”

  Priscilla sighed. Already, she was making mistakes. Was it a mistake to even speak to Miss Lloyd if she could not recall the requirements of deference?

  “You have to understand, Miss Lloyd,” she said hastily, “we have known each other for…why, almost fifteen years now. When you know each other as children, the formalities of society are difficult to maintain.”

  They passed the open door to the card room, from which rowdy laughter poured. The wedding was entering the evening as the wine flowed, and tempers started to fray.

  Miss Lloyd had a wistful expression on her face. “I suppose if we do marry then, we will become very well acquainted.”

  Something in her tone made Priscilla frown. “I beg your pardon…if you marry?”

  Panic was clear now on her companion’s face. “Please, forget I said that – I misspoke.”