Not that Priscilla doubted their sincerity in welcoming her aboard after her twenty-fifth birthday. They might not remember to come home to fetch her, but wasn’t that what the inheritance was for?
Once she found them, however; once she joined their caravan in Africa with as much zeal and doggedness as any man; once she displayed her willingness to cook or clean or tend camels and horses; once she not only proved herself an asset at camp but also her ability to communicate as easily in French as well as English…
Why, she’d be positively indispensable, wouldn’t she? Her grasp of Baoulé was limited, granted, but she’d pick it up while she was there, garnering Papa and Grandfather’s admiration and respect in the process… and finally become non-leave-behind-able.
The image sent her heart pounding with the familiar rush of hope and excitement. She was almost there. She just had to stay away from the altar—and from scandal—for a little while longer.
“Miss Weatherby?” The Duke of Colehaven stood before her with his hand outstretched. “Never say you’ve forgotten our dance.”
“Woolgathering,” she admitted, and placed her hand in his. “I’ve been looking forward to this all evening.”
Normally, Priscilla wouldn’t be caught dead in the arms of a titled gentleman. Romantic interest from a duke would spur romantic interest in all the others, and romance was the last thing she needed.
The Duke of Colehaven, however, was safely married. He was also the elder brother of Priscilla’s friend Felicity, who had orchestrated this quadrille in order to partner with a certain earl.
Or was it a marquess? Felicity’s list of admirers read like a summary of Debrett’s Peerage. If word had got out that she was finally willing to accept an offer, gentlemen would be queuing up for miles.
“How is your parrot?” Colehaven asked.
“A joy and a terror,” Priscilla answered promptly. Although few other than Thaddeus had met Koffi, Colehaven knew of his existence because of Priscilla’s friendship with Felicity. “How is the Wicked Duke?”
“Wickeder by the day,” Colehaven assured her. “This is our tenth anniversary, but so far I’ve spent much of it in Parliament.” He pulled a face.
Priscilla schooled her features into an appropriately sympathetic look. “Less beer for you?”
“More, actually.” His grin was contagious. “Diana and I are installing a brewing room at home. I can’t wait to taste what we come up with. She knows just as much about ale as I do.”
Twenty points to the duke and twenty to Diana, Priscilla decided. If one were to leg-shackle oneself to a man equally leg-shackled to London, marrying someone as obviously devoted as the Duke of Colehaven was the best possible outcome. She was thrilled for both her friends.
Thrilled, but not jealous. Diana and Colehaven were one couple in a million. The rest of the ballroom was filled with empty husks rushing into miserable marriages for political or societal or monetary reasons.
They either doomed themselves to a lifetime of sharing a bed and a dining table with a barnacle they longed to leave behind, or they gave up the pretense altogether and lived as strangers, taking their pleasure in the arms of a lover or anywhere else they might find it.
No, thank you. Priscilla preferred to do the leaving-behind herself.
“What do you think?” Colehaven asked, tilting his head toward his sister and her partner. “Is the marquess the one?”
If his pockets are deep enough.
Priscilla would never make such a statement aloud, of course. At least, not to Colehaven. Felicity was always open about her necessary qualifications for a suitor. Unlike Priscilla, she expected to live at a level significantly above sweaty camels and mud-splattered tents.
They were opposites in so many ways. Priscilla had never wanted for any creature comfort or physical luxury. What she hadn’t had was support, encouragement, love… someone to miss her.
Felicity, on the other hand, had suffered through years without every possible physical comfort and necessity… but had never once doubted that she was needed, and loved, and important, and cherished.
“Your sister will be fine,” Priscilla said softly.
The duke nodded. “I know. But I can’t stop worrying. She’s my sister.” His brow lined with worry. “Mayhap I’ll increase her dowry again.”
Priscilla nodded, and pretended to understand.
The money left in trust was one of the few instances of proof her father and grandfather thought of her at all, much less placed any specific value on her.
At her come-out, when a young, wide-eyed Priscilla had asked about the size of the dowry, she’d been devastated to discover there was no dowry at all. Nothing.
Either Papa and Grandfather forgot, as Felicity tried to assure her, or they expected her to make a brilliant match through her own wiles, as Grandmother preached, or they didn’t expect her to choose the bridal path at all, as Priscilla believed.
Why else would they fail to create a dowry? They were waiting for her. Counting on her. She would not let them down.
