Only five days had passed since she and Chloe had arrived at Cliffhouse. The house party wasn’t even half over!
The more time she spent in his company, the less confident she was in her ability to maintain this facade.
This lie.
“How was little Fiddlesticks when you left the school?” he asked, lightening the conversation. “No ill effects from his swim?”
Priscilla ran a gloved hand along Buttercup’s neck. “Aside from being slightly more pathetic than usual, he was fine. Hopefully, he’s learned his lesson.”
They had been climbing in altitude, and Emerson paused and turned so the two of them could admire the view.
Yellow and gold grass extended down the meadow and then turned greener where it encircled Cliffhouse. Beyond that, the sea churned, looking gray and ominous.
Even though the sea, ironically, warmed the air in winter.
And this was his home. He’d opened it to her. He’d wanted her to feel comfortable with him and his family.
The weight of her deception slammed into her.
If he was, in fact, a decent person, then she was the villain. “We should go back,” Priscilla said. Not because she didn’t like being with him, but because she did.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
And Priscilla noticed he was looking pale again. Likely, his foot wasn’t adequately healed enough that he should go riding yet. But he’d made an effort to take her out anyway. It would have been romantic if she wasn’t pretending to be someone else.
“I’m sure,” she answered. But it was the only thing for which she had any confidence. Her sole reason for being here was to convince him they wouldn’t suit. But how in Hades was she to accomplish that when each moment in his company had her believing the opposite?
But for herself, though, not Allison!
One More
As Hunt watched Allison ride Buttercup toward the stable ahead of him, he mulled over the fact that this morning’s ride hadn’t gone at all as he’d intended.
He’d meant to woo her but had accomplished little, if any, romancing.
More than once, he’d sensed an inner conflict behind her carefully worded answers. She admired him, but there was something else.
The only time she’d dropped her guard had been those when she’d held his gaze meaningfully, remembering the events in his chamber three days before.
Remembering their embrace, which had been more than a kiss.
He ought to have taken advantage of that awareness, but he hadn’t the heart. Not when some part of her desperately wanted to push him away.
Hunt refused to act in such a calculated manner; not when the woman stood to one day be his wife. He’d hate himself if he accomplished his goals by resorting to one of his father’s tricks.
Oh, hell. He’d divulged some of whom his father was—not the worst of it—but still, a painful family secret.
That his father was violent, that he’d wished a longer estrangement. It was a miracle she’d not run away in a panic.
Allison Meadowbrook was made of sterner stuff than other girls her age. And in hindsight, he didn’t regret telling her.
Because before she consented to a marriage with him, it was only fitting that she knew the truth.
The horses strolled into the paddock, and Leroy approached to offer assistance. “Finished for the morning, my lord?” he asked.
If not for his aching foot, Hunt would have taken Arturo out a little longer and stretched his legs while trying to make some sense of his thoughts. But the ache in his foot was persistent, and if he ever hoped to get back to full strength, he was going to have to be careful.
Regret taunted him as he watched the stable master assist Allison out of the side-saddle and onto the mounting block. He should be the one taking her hand.
