“They’ll do,” Chloe said.
Unsettled by the notion that in agreeing to this charade, she was going back in time, Priscilla changed the subject. “I need to go over lesson plans with Addy and Beatrice.”
But Beatrice shook her head. “Primm and I are going to cover Chloe’s classes. Addy is taking your history classes, and Miss Shipley will teach all things pertaining to the management of domestic sciences.”
“Miss Shipley? She’s more likely to burn the school down!” Addy mourned.
“Not necessarily,” Priscilla said.
Because although Miss Shipley had unfortunately spent a good deal of the holidays alone in the bedchamber with the Earl of Rosewood. Priscilla knew that they’d also spent some of their time alone in the kitchen.
“Just don’t leave her alone for too long.”
Priscilla rose and drifted toward the door. “But that reminds me, I need to check on my dough. I need to roll it out this afternoon if I want to make cinnamon buns.” She inhaled, anxious for the comfort of the kitchen. At least there, she was in control. And no one stood to be hurt if she made a mistake.
“She refused your offer?” Damien Reddington’s voice rose half an octave as he asked from where he lounged across the room. With blond hair and violet eyes, Hunt’s cousin, the most eligible Viscount Bloodstone, would find the possibility of rejection quite incomprehensible. “Is she simple?”
“She is not simple.” Hunt lifted the tankard of ale to his lips to try the latest batch—direct from his cousin’s brewery. “This one isn’t as bitter.” The first batches had tasted stronger—too strong.
“I’m trying something new.” But Damien wasn’t prepared to abandon the subject of Hunt’s pending nuptials. Or not pending, as matters currently stood. “What the devil is wrong with her?”
“No doubt she’s one of those chits who requires romance.” Captain Sterling Edgeworth lifted his leg to rest a gleaming boot on his opposite knee. Edgeworth’s father, the Baron Dartmouth, owned the property bordering Hardwood Cliffhouse on the north, whereas Damien, Viscount Bloodstone, was lord of Reddington Park to the south. Having grown up within a few miles of one another, the three had run together since childhood. They’d been inseparable until Baron Dartmouth purchased a commission for his second son.
Edgeworth hadn’t been the same since returning from the Ashanti conflict last year. Neither Hunt nor Damien pushed for details. Edge would talk about it when he was ready.
Or not.
Hunt stared into his drink, unwittingly recalling the woman who currently held far too much power over his future.
She was as attracted to him as he was to her. A man knew these things.
Her inconsistent behavior ought to be annoying, but instead, it intrigued him.
He couldn’t count the times he’d found himself recalling her deep blue eyes, soft skin, and that mouth of hers, utterly kissable and all that more alluring since she’d denied him the favor. And when she smiled, two small dimples appeared just above the corners of her mouth.
That mouth… Ah, the possibilities…
Hunt adjusted himself and shifted in his chair.
She had admitted that she might not be capable of providing him with an heir. Truth be told, that was troublesome. He was his father’s only son. And not that he cared to keep the title alive for the villain who sired him, but he’d hate for his family to lose their home to some distant relative.
Hunt scrubbed both hands down his face. Because, unfortunately, he hadn’t the luxury of taking any of this into consideration.
Damien and Edgeworth, who could be trusted implicitly, had inklings as to the extent of his father’s sins. But even they didn’t know the worst of the details. The truth could not be made public.
It would devastate his mother and sisters.
“You’re quite sure she’ll come?” Edgeworth backed the conversation up. “Tomorrow?”
“Along with a chaperone.” Hunt nodded. “And then I have two weeks to garner her consent.”
“And her parents?” Edgeworth leaned forward, resting his cigar on the edge of the ceramic dish before him. “I take it Meadowbrook and his wife will be joining her?”
“That is not part of our bargain.” Hunt had considered writing her father, but instinct urged that he’d have better luck without the man present to complicate matters. Miss Allison Meadowbrook seemed less than amenable to having her father’s will imposed on her.
She’d already made a run for her freedom once.
“Odd that,” Damien commented. He looked thoughtful from where he sat, rubbing his chin, his eyes focused on nothing in particular.
