Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7)

This was it. This was the moment that she experienced not only her first but her last first kiss.
“There is a fox behind you.”
Charles’s whisper was so delicate that she almost did not register the words, just the intimacy of his breathing. Then her eyes snapped open.
“Fox?” She turned slowly, her hands still in his.
He was right. A fox stood, startled, keeping a close eye on them. Then without warning, it slunk off into a hedge.
Priscilla’s stomach lurched with disappointment. It had all been her imagination, her own longing.
“Goodness, I do not think I have seen one this close to the market in years,” Charles said, his eyes still attempting to watch the fox. He dropped her hands without a second thought as he took a step toward the hedge. “Do you remember hearing them in the park when we were young?”
Priscilla forced a smile and leaned against the chestnut tree. “Yes, they sounded awful. Was it you or Mary who made up the story about the horrible goblins that lived under the dell?”
Charles laughed softly. “You, most certainly. Mary would never have had the imagination for such a wild thing. And I believed anything you said then.”
“Then?” Priscilla had not intended it to be a whisper, had never meant for it to sound as erotic as it sounded.
Her whole body seemed overwhelmed by heat, the rough bark behind her and the strong body of Charles before her. Everything she had ever thought of herself, a naïve and innocent woman, had melted away in the heat of her desire for him. All she wanted was him to take her into his arms, and…
“Well, probably now, too,” he admitted. He took her hands again and said, “There has been no one else for me but you, you know that, Priscilla? No better friend I could ask for. Now come on, we had better return home or my mother will think we have eloped!”
He laughed heartily as he pulled her away from the tree and tucked her arm in his.
She tried to laugh with him. For an instant, the smallest of moments, she had thought…but no. Even the idea of them eloping was a joke to him.
A week ago, she would have giggled with him. Now the pain of his laughter cut into her soul like a knife.

Chapter Five
“If you make me dance one more time, I will vomit,” Charles complained, rubbing his temples.
Jacob Beauvale, Lord Westray, threw back his head and laughed. “Damnit, man, you are almost a married man! Do you not want to relish the chance of dancing with other lovely young ladies before you commit yourself, forever, to just one?”
Charles sighed heavily and looked around the room. It was a private ball, which meant there was some semblance of class from the guests, but the invitation list had been too long in his books.
Crowds of people toppled over each other as they attempted to move from room to room, giggling from the ladies and guffaws from the gentlemen. Around the edges stood the older generation, dressed in last decade’s fashions and with today’s frowns as they looked out at the levity.
“I came into London for this?” he said, shaking his head. “I thought more of my friends and acquaintances would be here, saving your presence, Westray.”
Westray was not listening. He had been offered a platter covered in small, edible treats, but rather than select two – one for each hand – he had taken the entire platter from the bemused footman and was now piling the food into his mouth.
“Parfon?”
Charles could not help but smile as his friend sprayed pastry. He had known Westray all his life. Five years older than him, but with hardly any more sense, Westray was known throughout town as a gentleman who knew how to have fun.
If only he could make this ball a little more palatable.
“No one is here,” Charles said, raising his voice over the cacophony of sounds. A smile broke across his face. “No one worth speaking to, anyway.”
Westray swallowed his mouthful. “You have danced three times, Orrinshire, which is no mean feat in a place like this.”
Charles shrugged rather than reply. Yes, he had danced twice. Once with Miss Lloyd, who had naught but insipid conversation about the weather, once with a Miss Olivia Lymington, who had plenty of conversation but all about her own fortune, and once with Miss Emma Tilbury, which was naught but boredom as she recounted her requirements in a man, now that the Earl of Marnmouth had abandoned her as his mistress.
Was this it, then?
“You will have to become accustomed to balls if you are going to live in Town after you are married,” said Westray with a grin. “That is your intention, is it not?”
Charles frowned. “You know I have not thought about it much. I suppose we will reside mostly at Orrinspire Park, unless we are in Orrinshire itself, in the north.”
“Ah, the Highlands.” Westray shook his head. “You know, I have never been further than York?”
“You must come further than that if you are to see any real beauty in this country,” teased Charles. “The lochs, the mountains, the fells… God’s own country, and I care not what any Yorkshire man says. God may have loved Yorkshire, but he lived in Scotland.”
Westray’s dark eyes twinkled. “And yet you do not even know whether you will live there with your bride or down here in the dirt of London. You surprise me, Orrinshire. I would have thought your Miss Lloyd and yourself would have spent hours discussing these sorts of things. Where you want to live, what home you will run, how many carriages, that sort of thing.”
A slither of discomfort slid down Charles’s throat and into his stomach. It had never occurred to him to converse on these topics with Miss Lloyd.
He was an Orrinshire, and she would be in a few short weeks’ time. Orrinshires did things in a certain way, and when she became his wife,