Not to riding a horse, anyway...
He smirked at his own joke.
But then he grew somber again. The picnic idea wasn’t a horrible one. Allison liked the sea. They could talk first, and then—
“And if she refuses you again, move on to another chit,” Damien suggested.
As much as he hated admitting it even to himself, Hunt was nervous. How many times had she refused his proposal? If it was a game, he was growing weary of it.
And if she rejected him again, he’d demand to know the real reason. She frustrated him, but he also sensed turmoil in her. If he couldn’t eliminate whatever it was that was keeping her from accepting him, he’d have to find another heiress—and quickly.
But that course of action held no appeal either.
Lost in thought, he realized Edge was quieter than usual. “Have you decided yet?”
Hunt didn’t have to specify his meaning. Edge hadn’t been quite the same since he returned from West Africa. He’d seemed more irritable than before he’d left. Angrier.
“No.” Edge’s mount threw back his head, but the military captain calmed the skittish horse. “Easy, girl.”
“You haven’t decided, or you aren’t going back?” Hunt pushed.
Edge simply shook his head. “The former. It’s all I know. I no longer feel as though I’m fighting for my country. We die rather for cotton, wool, sugar, and tea.” He made a cynical sound under his breath. “And for the glory of the king.”
Edge scowled. The only time he’d alluded to the tragedies of the last mission, they’d been deep in their cups. He’d not talked about it since.
“Are we going to stand about all day, or are we going to ride?” Edge urged his horse in the direction they’d come.
Edge was right. Why kill himself worrying over events he had no control of when he could ride?
The Gentlemen’s Study
“You do look a little pale.” Chloe frowned and stared at Priscilla. “I don’t need to go into the village. Why don’t I stay here with you?”
But Chloe looked none too happy at the prospect.
“You should go,” Priscilla said. “Get away for a few hours. Isadora mentioned a special shop that sells rare stones. Don’t miss out on my account. I’m going to try to catch up on my sleep.”
That part was believable as by the time Chloe woke up this morning, Priscilla had already spent over three hours in the kitchen.
Cook had thanked her for her help and invited her to return any time.
And not having worked in a kitchen for nearly a month, Priscilla’s arms and shoulders ached from the exertion.
It was the good kind of ache—one that was simple and straightforward.
“You’re going to sleep?” Chloe looked torn.
“I’m going to try.” Priscilla could be partially honest anyway. After she and Emerson had their talk, she would return to her chamber and sleep.
If he didn’t send her packing back to Miss Primm’s, she thought ruefully.
Because she could not accept his proposal—no matter how charming or convincing he might be. Regardless of how desperately she wanted to spend her life with him. For a fraction of a second she pictured herself as his wife—the mother of their children—but dismissed the image before it could take root.
And then she dismissed other images—of him kissing her—touching her—pleasuring her.
In the matter of a few days, she’d returned to the hoydenish behavior that had gotten her banished from society six years ago.
She would not kiss him again. She would not!
