“And opens up others. Allows you an excuse to touch her. Hell, she was practically wrapped around you when we showed up,” Edgeworth countered Damien’s concerns.
“Not exactly the way I imagined this going,” Hunt answered, having difficulty thinking now, his foot throbbing mercilessly. Gritting his teeth, he hissed out a relieved breath when he caught a glimpse of the end of the trail.
He’d be damned if he’d allow such an inconvenient injury to deter his efforts, though. Allison Meadowbrook was here—he possessed signed contracts by her father. All he needed to do was convince her that he could make her happy.
He’d show her kindness and make her trust him. But likely even more effective than those would be the attraction that blazed between them.
It was a simple matter, really.
Why wouldn’t she want to marry him?
It wasn’t as though he was his father.
Playing Hostess
Despite the upheaval created by Lord Hardwood’s injury, which included a visit from the local doctor and not a small amount of concern expressed by the earl’s mother, the house party was to proceed as scheduled.
Which meant his mother’s guests would still be arriving throughout the day.
Isadora’s assurances didn’t prevent Priscilla from growing increasingly worried about Lord Hardwood’s condition. She would have far preferred to hide away in her chamber until she could be assured his injuries were limited to his ankle, but she wasn’t allowed the choice.
Lady Hardwood herself was welcoming, making references to Priscilla and Lord Hardwood’s pending nuptials and treating her like one of her daughters. “With all but a formal announcement to solidify your position at Cliffhouse,” Lady Hardwood declared, “you might as well make use of this opportunity to practice performing hostess duties with my guidance, of course.”
Because they believed that Allison, of course, was the daughter of a merchant.
They also believed an announcement to be forthcoming in a matter of days.
And therefore, she and Chloe spent a major part of the day with the countess in the drawing room, greeting guests and making conversation. At the same time, trunks and valises were carried upstairs by servants to the appropriate guest chambers.
Midway through the afternoon, a little overwhelmed, she wondered if this was a small house party, how did Lord Hardwood describe an extensive one? No less than thirty additional guests arrived as the day wore on. If the estate’s coffers were low, his lordship had neglected to inform his mother of their dire straits.
Lord Hardwood himself, of course, was noticeably absent.
Because of Priscilla’s selfishness.
Because of an injury that he’d suffered after she’d insisted they take the more challenging hike down to the beach rather than a leisurely stroll along the cliffs. The combination of remorse and concern made conversing difficult.
Had the injury somehow putrefied from the inside? Could he have other injuries she hadn’t noticed initially? She should not have allowed him to attempt to climb up with only her for assistance. Doing so could have made the injury worse.
However, she seemed to be the only person imagining such possibilities.
Even his mother dismissed Priscilla’s worries.
“Your concern warms my heart, dearest Allison, but Doctor Haversham has known Emerson since he was a baby and has assured me he’s going to be fit as a fiddle in no time.” Lady Hardwood had then led Priscilla across the room where most of Hardwood’s sisters sat stiffly making conversation with a few cousins.
Priscilla remembered what that had felt like—the desire to act dignified when mingling with distant family members until one of them broke the ice.
“Most of you are near the same age, are you not? Did you realize Miss Meadowbrook is a student at Miss Primm’s?” Lady Hardwood inserted Priscilla into the group. “Now don’t you worry about my son,” she whispered while encouraging Priscilla to mingle. “He’s nothing if not resilient. So enjoy yourself tonight, and he’ll no doubt join us for the festivities tomorrow.”
But Priscilla couldn’t help but think his mother was being too optimistic. When Gabriel had been shot, the infection had nearly killed him.
Logically Priscilla knew that a twisted ankle wasn’t the same as taking a bullet, but one could never be too careful…
She forced a smile and pretended interest in the conversation around her.
Seated between two of Hardwood’s gentlemen distant cousins, she noted that they were at that awkward age where they hadn’t quite grown into their bodies: ten and six—perhaps ten and seven? With a few red spots and the charming ungainliness of boys on the cusp of manhood, both of them competed for her attention.
She answered their questions in a distracted manner—about her father—who in their eyes was both an oddity and a giant in the industrial world. Then, when they’d tired that subject out, they inquired about the classes she took at Miss Primm’s.
