Priscilla closed her eyes. Could she do it? Could she keep up the charade for two weeks? When she’d been Allison’s age, she’d made every mistake a girl could make—and all because of a man.
And since coming to teach, Priscilla had shelved her girlhood dreams, even if she hadn’t forgotten them. Would this be akin to pouring salt on her wounds, or might it exercise some demons?
She inhaled. “Do I have a choice?” Priscilla asked, ignoring Allison’s pleading. Priscilla’s compliance would not be a matter of sympathy or compassion.
“You always have a choice,” Primm answered.
“What about my classes?”
“Miss Adelaide and Lady Rosewood can cover them,” Primm announced, and Victoria and Addy nodded. “Miss Fortune will go along and act as your companion.”
Cautious Advice
“My thanks for making this easy.” The Earl of Rosewood clasped Hunt’s hand with a firm grip. Hunt ignored his regret and set his mind to the future.
“Doing so was in my best interest.” Hunt hadn’t any choice.
He tilted his head back to absorb the history he’d always felt when visiting Longbow Castle, his maternal grandfather’s legacy. Selling it felt like a betrayal, but the decision was a practical one.
Rosewood intended to renovate the property with no expenses spared—shore up the crumbling spires, the eroded roof, renovate the shabby interior, not to mention repair the foundation where the entire north wing listed to one side.
With no male heir to claim it, the property had been bequeathed from his maternal great-grandfather to his grandmother, who, upon her passing two decades before, had left it to Hunt’s mother. But, unfortunately, the will didn’t prevent it from falling under Hunt’s father’s control.
Who’d allowed it to fall into disrepair.
Hunt possessed fleeting memories of a few childhood visits. The place had been falling apart even then.
“It has good bones.” The second gentleman present pounded a closed fist onto the half-wall that encircled it. “If one discounts the north wing, that is.” Mr. Roman Stewart, the engineer Rosewood had hired, would be heading up the construction.
“Damned shame, your Mayfair project,” Hunt said. The year before, Mr. Steward had overseen the erection of a large townhouse on a coveted lot adjacent to Hyde Park, but vandals had affected extensive damage. Mr. Stewart was well-known in London—for his architectural projects—but also as the Duke of Bedwell’s bastard brother.
“Bloody vandals…” The enigmatic dark-skinned man kicked the ground.
“Will you rebuild?”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Stewart answered. “I’m quite looking forward to this project for the time being.”
“And the school,” Lord Rosewood added.
“And the school.” Stewart nodded.
“Speaking of the school.” Rosewood eyed Hunt curiously. “My wife tells me you are intent on marrying one of her students. Anxious to get your hands on the Meadowbrook fortune, are you?” The earl’s tone hinted at nothing more than casual curiosity, yet Hunt clenched his jaw.
It wasn’t something he was proud of, but yes, as a matter of fact, he was—more than anxious, really.
Hunt's accounts were still short despite the revenue generated by selling his maternal family’s oldest treasures.
By quite a lot.
“You appear to find marriage amenable,” Hunt countered. Because the earl had recently made a trip to the altar himself.
“I do.” Rosewood bent down to open the leather pack he’d brought along and surprised Hunt by removing a bottle. Sunlight sparkled and danced in the contents—an amber liquid.
“Scotch?” Hunt asked.
“Only the best.” Rosewood then withdrew three metal cups. “Seeing as a man doesn’t sell off his ancestral property every day, I thought a dram or two might ease the sting.”
“Not sure it’ll do much good, but it can’t hurt.” Hunt accepted the cup and then downed nearly half the contents in one swallow. Perhaps Rosewood was correct because, for a few seconds, the sensation burned away some of his regret.
