She doubted he had turned thirty yet.
“Forty?” She intentionally tightened her voice. “Fifty?”
Perhaps insulting him would do the trick.
But rather than be offended, he burst out laughing. It was a rich and pleasant sound. Warmth unfurled in her chest.
“I am eight and twenty,” he answered when his mirth settled. “I realize eleven years seems like a very long time to you, but it isn’t really. I know several couples separated in age by a good deal more than that.”
Priscilla knew this as well.
He reached across the space separating them, and with both of his hands, gently grasped her fingers. “I will not be an ogre, I promise.”
“I wish to travel before I marry. I believe it’s important that I see some of the world.” This was not one of the excuses they’d decided upon, but Priscilla thought it might be a convincing one, nonetheless.
“I will take you wherever you want.”
His fingers gently stroked hers, effectively disconnecting her brain from her mouth.
“You would…?”
Wait! What was she doing?
“Megrims.” The word burst out of her mouth. “I suffer horrible megrims.”
And now, he appeared concerned. “Are you ill now?”
“No! Not today. But…” How had Primm suggested she put this? Hot embarrassment ebbed up her neck and into her cheeks. How was it that none of this had sounded as unseemly when discussed amongst themselves?
“Yes?” Her fingers remained clasped in his and curled around them of their own volition.
“The megrims.” She cleared her throat for the second time since beginning this conversation. “According to the local physician, and the midwife, they are indicative of….” The delicate word they’d decided upon escaped her. But she needed to convey her meaning in a manner that left no room for miscommunication.
Because if she sat alone with him much longer, allowing him to hold her hand, all the while she inhaled his unique scent of cloves and freshly cut wood, she’d have Allison engaged within the hour.
He waited patiently, watching her with the most understanding eyes.
“It’s quite possible—most probable, in fact—that I am barren.” Priscilla lowered her gaze to stare at their hands. But rather than relinquish hers, he applied gentle pressure.
“Physicians can never be certain of these sorts of things.” He only sounded a little embarrassed to be discussing this with her.
“But you are an earl.” Priscilla comprehended the importance of having an heir all too well, her own father having excelled at it.
A sharp longing rolled through her. If not for her foolishness, she likely would have children of her own by now. Perhaps even a husband who loved her. A man like—
Ridiculous.
Priscilla sat up straight and would have moved away from him if it wouldn’t have appeared obvious. Finally, he released her hands.
She felt horrible for lying to Lord Hardwood, and although she liked him very much, she longed desperately for the meeting to end.
Only because she liked him.
Very much.
Any second, he was going to rise and take his leave. No earl would enter marriage with a woman knowing she could not provide him with children—knowing there were doubts that she would conceive.
However, aside from withdrawing his hands from hers, he hadn’t moved.
