Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Three days later, Priscilla sat in the morning room, a pink silk gown floating about her as she waited for her scheduled visit with the Viscount Ware.
He was taking her for a drive.
And while she had a great many questions about the man himself, she needed to actually escape the house in order to have them answered.
He wasn’t due for another quarter hour and so her mother and Clara waited with her.
Priscilla wished she didn’t have to keep the details of her meeting with the viscount secret from her mother, but the older woman would never approve of Priscilla’s plan.
Her mother was a gently bred woman. Not that Priscilla wasn’t also raised to be a lady. But her father had instilled in her a practicality that many of her contemporaries lacked.
At least she hoped practicality is what dictated her actions now.
As a child, her father had walked her through difficult choices, like when to sell land in order to make certain the people were fed or when to plant more crops to prepare for lean years that might be ahead.
He’d known she couldn’t take over his earldom but it had been a means to spend more time together and she’d enjoyed the lessons.
She’d been attempting to utilize those teachings when she’d placed the ad.
“I’m not sure I realized one of your relations was a viscount,” her mother said, her brows drawn together in contemplation. “But how fortunate you happened upon one another in the park.”
“No. I suppose we don’t talk about him all that much. He’s a bit of a recluse, as I mentioned.” Clara gave Priscilla a sidelong glance. Clara fibbed admirably, and in full support of Priscilla, but that didn’t mean her friend didn’t have reservations about this entire arrangement.
Priscilla understood Clara’s hesitation. It had all seemed fine when the ad had only been paper, but when a flesh and blood man had appeared…
Priscilla acknowledged that the man was a bit different. The scar on his face, which ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth, was nearly an inch wide, red and angry. Then there was the limp which told her there might be more extensive damage underneath his clothing.
But neither of those concerned her all that much.
The scar did not hide the fact that he was handsome, tall, and muscular.
Besides, plenty of men were physically appealing while completely lacking in character.
And a good man would make a far better husband than a handsome one.
If she wanted a man without character, she might as well just marry Eugene.
Which would entirely defeat the purpose of her father leaving his money with her.
And while she had no idea what sort of man Viscount Ware was, she did know a few things. He’d considered her proposal, for one, and then proposed a logical next step.
Which is why she’d take this opportunity to learn more about the man.
She certainly wouldn’t do something so foolish as to agree to wed him without understanding him better.
Was he kind, caring? Would he be good to her mother?
Did he have a temper? A mind for business?
Whomever she wed would be in charge of her father’s fortune.
Priscilla would choose wisely.
“A recluse,” her mother asked, leaning forward. “Priscilla mentioned something about a that too.”
Priscilla reached for her mother’s hand. “He has a scar on his face, mother, and he’s a bit sensitive about it.”
She winced at the way she misled with that comment. He did seem sensitive, if averting his face was any indication, but she spoke as though they’d actually conversed on the subject, as though she understood the man, when in fact, she knew almost nothing.
A situation she hoped to correct today.
And then she could be more honest with her mother.
Not completely honest but enough that she might stop feeling so guilty.
Her mother had been her greatest advocate.
She deserved Priscilla’s honesty, at the very least. And if Priscilla couldn’t give her mother that, at least she could provide her mother the opportunity to relax and enjoy her life.
Priscilla hoped to provide that opportunity for her soon enough.
Carriage wheels sounded outside the house and Clara rose, crossing to the window. “It’s him!”
Priscilla stood too, shaking out her skirts and fidgeting with the collar of her dress. Nerves flitted in her stomach, but she tamped them down.
She could do this.
Above the mantel hung a portrait of her father, his face serious but his eyes ever kind. How she missed him.
She gave the picture one more glance before she left the room and made her way to the entry, her mother and Clara following behind.
Eugene already stood by the door, his shirt collars starched to perfection and so high they pricked at his cheeks.
He hardly acknowledged her as she joined him near the door.
He’d been outwardly livid when he’d learned from the butler she had a gentleman caller, and Priscilla knew that if this endeavor failed, she’d be unlikely to have any more visitors. Eugene would make certain.
The butterflies in her stomach beat harder.
Would Eugene scare Lord Ware away before she’d even left the house? His color was already rising, his eyes narrowed into slits as he waited, looking like a cat ready to pounce.
The sound of footsteps on the granite steps alerted everyone the viscount had arrived, and her mother came to stand next to her, her hand brushing her arm. She gave her mother a returning smile as they exchanged a quick glance.
The door swung open and Viscount Ware stepped inside, removing his hat as he bowed to Eugene. “My lord.”
“Ware,” Eugene answered, his lip curling around the single syllable.
“Thank you for having me today.”
“You’re not particularly welcome.”
“My lord,” Priscilla said as she stepped forward, looking at the viscount. She’d like to tell Eugene to cease being a bore but her words would fall on deaf ears. Worse still, they’d further incite his temper.
But how to maneuver her exit around Eugene’s volatile emotions? While her mother irritated him, her attempts to speak out seemed to send him into a rage. He seemed to find her resistance as a personal rejection, which she understood, not that her knowledge made him any less frightening.
She forgot her worries for a moment as her gaze collided with the viscount’s. His dark brown eyes held her captive as she tilted her chin higher to glance up into them. What did he think about all this? Would he change his mind about courting her?
She broke her gaze, allowing a quick glance down his tall frame. He still used his cane, but his limp was less pronounced, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe.
“Lady Priscilla.” He bowed over her hand, taking her gloved fingers into his.
Eugene stepped forward as well, tugging at the lapels of his coat. “I’m afraid, Lord Ware, you’ve come in vain. Priscilla is not able—”
Lord Ware’s cane thwacked the marble tile causing a sharp crack to echo through the foyer. “Is this true?” Ware asked, not Eugene but herself.
“No, it isn’t.”
With a simple nod, he held out his elbow and she slipped her fingers into his arm. Once he’d secured her person, he looked back at Eugene. “Even the king applies certain manners to social situations. If you’re going to be a proper earl, you’ll have to learn them.”
Eugene spluttered, seeming lost for words.
Without a backward glance, Lord Ware steered them toward the door.
Priscilla couldn’t help her brief glance back, noting Eugene’s near-purple hue to his skin. As she faced forward again, she tried to hide the small smile that tugged at her lips. Eugene was going to be a nightmare later, but for now, she’d enjoy Lord Ware’s small victory.
* * *
Wyatt’s fingers itched with the effort to keep them at his side. He’d like to raise his fist and plant it into Purlington’s sour features.
The man was loathsome.
Any questions he’d had about the particulars of why Priscilla had used such an unconventional method to acquire a husband had been succinctly answered.
Not that he didn’t need more detail. A fact he intended to remedy today.
He handed her into the seat of the phaeton, and climbed up next to her, snapping the reins and starting the carriage down the street.
They moved at an easy trot, quickly leaving the house behind them.
Priscilla bent closer and he caught a whiff of her scent, gardenias. Which was intoxicating in and of itself. During the day the flower smelled sweet like a peach. But at night, it changed, growing spicier.
He shook his head, giving a quick glance back at Ralph.
His valet had come along, acting as footman, but the truth was, he performed even worse at the latter position than he did at the former.
Still, he’d be a most excellent chaperone considering how much he hoped to eavesdrop on Wyatt and Priscilla’s conversation.
“Your cousin,” he started, looking over at her profile. Her nose had the slightest uptilt. Adorable. “He’s pleasant.”
She glanced at him, that little nose wrinkling. “That is the absolute last word I’d use.”
He smiled, despite himself. “Is he your guardian?”
One shoulder lifted. “In a manner of speaking.”
His brows lifted as he slowed the carriage. “Would you care to explain?”
“He is a guardian of nurture but not of testament. He controls my person but not my money and, thanks to my father’s will, not my choices in the matter of marriage.”
Interesting. “How does that work?”
She glanced at him, then, her skirts brushing his legs as she partially turned. “My father was very savvy with how he structured his finances and the addendums within his will.”
Behind him Ralph cleared his throat. Did he like Priscilla? Was he concerned about how much trouble this cousin might be?
“So he can’t stop you from marrying a man of your choosing.”
“No,” Priscilla shook her head. “Though he’s been rather savvy about my schedule in limiting my ability to meet potential suitors. And other than a small allowance, I don’t receive control of my inheritance either. Not until the age of five and twenty. Four more years.”
“Ah,” he said, thinking about how the man had nearly kept them from seeing each other today.
“So you’re trapped for a good long while then.
” An irritation, usually only reserved for the criminals of the night or spectres from his past seeped into his muscles.
Automatically, he snapped the reins so the carriage picked up speed again.
The vehicle lurched forward as Priscilla grabbed the side of the carriage, her body careening back. He reached out a hand to steady her, his fingers wrapping about her upper arm.
His fingers and palm nearly circled her entire biceps, he noted, as he held her steady. Slowing the carriage again, he easily controlled the horses with one hand. “Apologies, Priscilla. My irritation over your comment seemed to have affected my driving.”
Which was odd. He never allowed himself emotional responses.
Rather than upset her, he earned another smile, this one sending tendrils of something warm curling through his body. “Think nothing of it. Eugene drives me to distraction as well.”
He chuckled at first until a more sinister realization made him stop. His hands clenched tighter on the reins though he did not push the horses faster this time. “Is he hurting you, Priscilla?”
Her head dipped, shielding her features from his view as she paused.
When she tipped her head back up, her warm brown eyes had a distinctly resolute glint.
“Any harm that befalls me at his hands is tolerable provided that it is temporary. What drove me to place the ad is that the new earl would like to make our relationship more permanent.”
He blinked in surprise. “Permanent? How so? He wants to marry you?”
She nodded. “He does.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why when Ralph mumbled behind him, “She must have one hell of a dowry.”
Priscilla turned back to look at Ralph, her brows lifting even as her lips parted. “Good afternoon.”
Wyatt gave a quick look back and noted that Ralph had the decency to look embarrassed by his interruption.
Even he knew that it was rude to insert himself into a conversation.
Ralph didn’t generally abide manners, which Wyatt enjoyed, mostly.
“Don’t mind him,” he said with a wink. “He forgets to control his tongue.”
Priscilla assessed Ralph for another moment before she turned back to him. “Since we’re putting a fine point on the situation… Yes, Eugene would like control of all the funds my father managed to will to me.” Then she cleared her throat. “And your reason for answering my ad?”
He turned his face to the right, pointing at his scar. “I think it’s obvious.”
Priscilla glanced at his cheek for a moment before her gaze returned to his. There was no hint of revulsion only confusion. “Surely that is only a minor setback.”
Ralph barked out a laugh that he quickly covered with a cough.
“What do you mean by that, my lady?” He appreciated her words, truthfully. First because he’d been worried that the scar was more than minor. Perhaps it was just his memory of how he received it that made him uncomfortable.
She shook her head. “You’re still attractive, youthful, and titled. Which leads me to wonder why you might want to strike a bargain with me. You’d have your pick of women, I’d think.”
She was shrewd, he’d give her that. She’d been honest too, which is why he’d return the favor.
To a point. “I’m scarred enough that I’d prefer not to participate in society.
You know how the gossip columns are. What do you think they might name me?
I’ll guarantee it will be nearly as painful as acquiring this mark. ”
And besides. He’d much prefer a quick match of convenience.
Her tongue came out, giving the smallest lick to the corner of her mouth.
His gaze settled on the spot, hardly able to look away.
Why was she able to drive him to distraction when no one else had?
Not in some time. Perhaps it was just because he’d not spent time with any woman in two years at least. “If it’s not too impolite to ask, how did you get the mark?
It looks new.” Her voice held a concern that made him ache but he cast that emotion aside to focus on the question.
It was one he hated to answer.