Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7)

with someone about the cost of a horseshoe.
Priscilla glanced at Charles and saw his face break into a grin.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he said, looking out at the scene. “Every single one of them is connected to the Orrinshire land, and we all benefit from them. Our pantries are stocked with their produce, their game on my table, their brothers and sisters on my staff. We are all connected.”
Priscilla looked at him. There was a wistful look on his face, as though he knew he was at the same time utterly disconnected from them. How could he be one of them? He was the duke, the lord, the owner of all their homes.
As they started to walk around the square, many looked up and bowed in the direction of their landlord – but even more stared at her. Priscilla started off by smiling back, after all, she had grown up just outside this village as Charles had done. She was no stranger to them.
But after a few minutes, the stares were far too pointed to ignore. Some were whispering as she approached, whispers that were suddenly silenced as they came close enough to hear them.
Perhaps it was all in her imagination.
“Tell me,” Charles murmured as they turned a corner and put a little distance between themselves and the crowd. “Why is it that so many people are looking at you?”
Priscilla swallowed. The Times may not have the largest readership, but gossip in a village spread far quicker than printed paper. It appeared her exploits at the engagement picnic were common knowledge – and clearly, not approved of.
It had all felt like a game when she had spoken with Miss Lloyd at the Viscount Donal’s wedding. Rival her for Charles’s heart – what harm could it bring?
It had felt wonderful arriving at Charles’s engagement party dressed in her finery, certain that she would attract the attention of all there. This rivalry had felt like the cleverest idea, but she was not just playing the rival now. She was playing for keeps, and if she were not very much mistaken, this was the rough she would have to take with the smooth.
She glanced at Charles and felt her stomach melt. He was the prize of this rivalry, even if he did not realize it. Could he even fathom how much pain she felt at the mere thought of him marrying another?
And what about Miss Lloyd? She had seemed eager for this rivalry, for anything that would help end her engagement. Was it not possible, however, that her reputation would be damaged by all this? If Priscilla was successful, and with every passing moment in Charles’s company, she was more sure of it, then Miss Lloyd would be a jilted bride. Who would marry such a woman?
Priscilla swallowed. She had not really thought this through, had she? But her feelings for Charles, complex and new and yet always present, seemed to blot all those concerns away as a streak of sunlight gleamed on his hair.
“Ah, the chestnut tree!” Charles’s voice cut through her thoughts as he dropped her arm and ran toward a tree just outside the church. “Do you remember gathering chestnuts every autumn?”
“Conkers,” she corrected, shaking her head as she raised a hand to the tree. The bark felt warm, the last of the summer heat pouring through its veins. “We used to battle with them on a string, and I think I beat you every time.”
“Not every time, surely?” Charles looked up at the golden leaves. “This tree must be what…a few hundred years old? I wonder how many Orrinshires have battled with its conkers.”
Priscilla walked around the trunk of the tree. Every knot, every branch was a familiar part of home.
“I wonder whether any of them actually won,” she teased.
His mouth fell open with mock outrage. “Slander, slander on my good name! I can think of…well, at least five occasions when I beat you!”
She laughed. No matter what was happening in the world, there was always Charles. “I let you! Besides, I always won back my money. Remember, I do not have the Orrinshire fortune and lands behind me. I’ve only ever had two thousand for my dowry – I had to get a few coins from you!”
He joined with her laughter, and the bolt of love she had been ignoring shot through her heart.
Charles Audley, Duke of Orrinshire. She was so desperately in love with him that she would take a bullet for him. The idea that he would shackle himself with a woman who did not even like him? It was intolerable!
It had always been him. As Priscilla watched him root around in the fallen leaves for this year’s conkers, she realized that no other gentleman had ever come close. A few girlhood crushes, perhaps, but nothing comparable.
Charles drew her to him like no one else ever had, and now her body was responding as a woman, not a child.
“Priscilla? What are you thinking?” He examined her closely, concern etched onto his features, and she colored at the thought that he could somehow see what was on her mind by the mere intensity of her feelings.
“Nothing of import,” she said hastily. “Did you find any conkers?”
But the childhood toy from nature was forgotten. Charles stepped toward her, a slight frown across his forehead.
“You cannot hide anything from me, you know,” he said seriously, taking her hands in his. “What is it?”
His sky-blue eyes met hers, and Priscilla’s heart started to race. Was this the moment? Could it be this simple? They would hold hands, he would look into her eyes, and suddenly he would realize he felt more passion for her than could even be attempted for Miss Lloyd?
Could he feel the frantic pulse in her wrist? Could he sense the desire in her soul?
“Priscilla,” Charles whispered.
She swallowed. They were so close, if she just leaned forward, their lips would touch. Hers tingled at the very thought.
“Yes?”
His eyes were wide, and he leaned forward very slowly. Priscilla could feel her eyelashes lowering.