Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7)

if only she could breathe properly.
“I always said if you do not wrap up warm, particularly around the neck, then you will get a cold,” said her mother, moving about the drawing room with the air of someone who, once again, had been proven right. “Especially as autumn draws near. Really, Priscilla! A woman with your dowry should consider things more carefully!”
Priscilla’s only reply was to blow her nose again, the little trumpeting sound ending in an ‘uggghh’ as the doorbell clanged.
If her throat had not hurt so much, she would have replied. Merely blowing her nose put more pressure on her head, and she clutched it, closing her eyes. A woman with her dowry – two thousand pounds – was hardly likely to get her far in the marital market, head cold or no head cold.
It had all been worth it, though. Despite the agony, and Priscilla knew herself well enough to know she always suffered far more with a cold than anyone else, the evening had been entirely well spent.
Dancing with Charles. Nothing made her feel so alive. Not like that. She had felt something between them, a spark, a moment she could not describe.
Had he? It had passed quickly, and that foolish Lord Westray had interrupted what could have been…
Priscilla opened her eyes and swallowed, her throat scratchy. No, she could not think that way. Charles thought nothing of it, and here she was, celebrating a simple dance. They had danced before. They would dance again.
But next time, he would be a married man.
“I really have no way to release myself from this engagement,” her mother sighed. “Oh, and there goes the doorbell again. Mrs. Howarth has invited me three times for lunch, and I have been previously engaged each time, so it would hurt her feelings to cancel now – but if you need me to stay –”
“No,” croaked Priscilla. She swallowed again and said a little more strongly, “No, Mrs. Busby is here. If I am in dire need of anything, I can ring the bell, and she will attend to me.”
She gestured to the small silver bell beside her. It was a childhood favorite, the bell that had brought Priscilla in for her dinner each evening – unless, of course, she had disobeyed her parents and wandered into the grounds of Orrinspire Park, as she so often did.
“You go and enjoy your luncheon with Mrs. Howarth,” Priscilla continued, “and I will see you when you get back. Give her my best regards.”
Mrs. Seton frowned. She was a handsome woman, silver-haired and with a few wrinkles around the eyes, but you could still see the debutante who had entered society in 1783.
“I would be happier if someone was with you,” she began. “Mrs. Busby cannot sit with –”
The doorbell clanged for the third time, and Mrs. Seton’s frown became more pronounced. “Mrs. Busby!”
The sound of footsteps echoed through the door from the hall, and then a murmur of voices.
Priscilla tried to push herself more upright. “It is only a cold, Mother, and I will stay right here with this book and not stir an inch. I will be perfectly – Charles!”
The door to the hallway had opened, and there stood Charles, his hair ruffled by the wind but a smile on his face, nonetheless.
His face fell. “Oh, no, you caught the same lurgy that got Lord Westray, by the looks of it!”
“Lord Westray?” Mrs. Seton said, turning quickly to greet her guest. “Who is Lord Westray, pray?”
Priscilla rolled her eyes at Charles over her mother’s shoulder. Of course, her mother would ignore the fact that she should be greeting the Duke of Orrinshire to their home and focus instead on the passing mention of a new gentleman’s name.
A gentleman, any gentleman – anyone who may marry her daughter.
The pressure in her head increased as she tried not to sneeze. Could her mother not see the perfect gentleman for her was standing quite literally before her?
“Why, my friend Jacob Beauvale, Lord Westray,” Charles was saying with a bow to his host. “He is a friend of mine, residing in town at present…”
Priscilla stopped paying attention, though her mother stood raptly, following every word. What care did she have about Lord Westray? He was a nice enough fellow, but he was not Charles, and that was the fault of every gentleman.
But she could not spend time moping. She needed to rescue Charles from her mother.
“Yes, I have a cold,” she said, interrupting her mother’s frantic questions about Lord Westray’s family and connection. “And it was nice of you to visit, Charles, but for your own health, I beg you, stay away.”
Stepping around her mother, he waved her concerns away. “Nonsense! I came to see you, and so all I need to do is sit on this settee here,” pointing to the one opposite her, “and you can hack and cough all you want. Mrs. Seton, where are you sitting?”
Mrs. Seton looked a little disgruntled that her questioning about Lord Westray had come to such an abrupt end, but her charming smile returned. “Sadly, I am just about to depart, Your Grace, as I would greatly appreciate your company. I am due at Mrs. Howarth’s for luncheon, but if you are content to sit here with Priscilla, I would be most grateful. She needs someone to keep her company.”
Charles bowed and dropped onto the settee. “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Seton – and please do give my regards to Mrs. Howarth. Thinking about it, Priscilla, would your housekeeper, Mrs. Busby, be happy to feed me luncheon?”
Priscilla imagined Mrs. Busby’s face at the idea she would be feeding a duke with twenty minutes’ notice.
“Let me go and speak with her,” said her mother, and she caught Priscilla’s eye with a smile. She had clearly thought the same thing.
Charles stretched out his legs and sighed. “Goodness, I hope so. I missed breakfast, and I slept in so late. I almost decided to sleep at the club, but then nowhere is quite as comfortable as your own bed, is