“Yes.” Hunt would be perfectly honest with her. “A year ago, I would never have considered such an arrangement, but I’m afraid my circumstances have taken a turn—and these circumstances now preclude my personal inclinations.”
“You need money.”
A blunt way of putting it. “Quite a lot, actually,” Hunt agreed. “And that puts you in the center of it. I need your dowry, and your father wants an earl for a son-in-law, specifically me. He wishes me to make a countess of his daughter.”
“I’m not interested in becoming a countess.”
He understood this. When he’d arrived at Meadowbrook’s sprawling and modern estate on Christmas Eve, Meadowbrook had been in something of a temper.
Because this chit had secretly departed her father’s home to return to school. She had, in fact, run away when she’d been told Hunt was due to arrive.
She’d run away from him.
Hunt inhaled, catching a whiff of her scent, which like the rest of her, wasn’t at all what he would have expected.
Vanilla and cinnamon. Almost as though she’d spent the afternoon baking. But he needed to keep his focus.
“I understand you have a few reservations. That’s perfectly normal.” He kept his tone level. He was attracted to her, but she was young and might find that frightening. The last thing he needed to do was give her more reasons to resist the betrothal.
She shifted in her seat to face him more directly, and her gown brushed his hand as she did so. And then she lifted her chin.
“I have more than a few reservations, my lord. I’m afraid my father has led you on a merry chase. Contrary to what he’s told you, I cannot agree to this betrothal.”
“You cannot?”
“I will not.”
Not so Fast
Priscilla held her breath and then swallowed hard. She’d done it. She’d refused him!
“May I ask why?” He didn’t appear entirely convinced. His frown drew her gaze to his lips, however, and she was pleased to see they’d returned to a healthy color.
“You didn’t take a chill this afternoon?” He seemed perfectly fine, but the last time they’d spoken privately, he’d been on the verge of turning into an icicle.
Changing the subject had nothing to do with her reluctance to answer his question.
“No.”
“I’m glad.” She stared down at her hands. It was difficult to pretend she was unaffected when staring into his eyes. Outside earlier, the color had appeared a light green—inside, they were darker and reminded her of fresh leaves dancing in the sunlight.
The image of his smile when he’d emerged from the lake flashed in her mind.
Only, he wasn’t laughing now. In fact, he’d gone quite still.
“Is it me you are opposed to, or marriage itself?”
Priscilla wished she could be anywhere else. Why did she have to be the one to disappoint him? Especially after he’d shown such heroism when he’d saved Fiddlesticks.
She cleared her throat. “I am too young for you, my lord.” She tested her first excuse, which, even as the words left her mouth, felt extraordinarily feeble
“You are seven and ten.” He had done his homework. “How old do you think I am?”
His question gave her the perfect excuse to study him.
She spied a few barely-there creases at the corners of his eyes, but his skin appeared smooth and firm and his hair, which was black and thick, showed no sign of receding. When she dropped her gaze to his hands, she noticed the skin was smooth and tanned, his fingers elegant but strong-looking.
She presumed he was not much older than herself if she was to make an honest guess.
