Sunlight splashed through sparkling windows, and it reflected from the sapphire signet ring on his finger and added warmth to the cozy parlor. Her father smiled, creasing the lines on his weathered face, and extended his hand toward her. “Ah, my dear. Join us.”
She did as bid, immediately regretting her decision not to visit her bedchamber to tidy her hair before learning their visitor’s identity. She also regretted her choice of day dress, for her primrose muslin gown paled in elegance to their guest, who seemed more suited to a visit to London than the moor.
“This is my daughter, not to mention my pride.” Her father beamed. “Miss Charlotte Grey.”
Their guest presented a smile that dimpled his freshly shaven cheek. And bowed. “A true pleasure, Miss Grey.”
“My dear, this is Mr. Roland Prior, visiting us from Prior Mill in Leeds.”
She returned her prettiest smile and extended her hand coyly in greeting. “Welcome to Hollythorne House, Mr. Prior.”
“I had no idea I would have such a charming hostess.” Their guest’s smile grew wider, dazzling and bright, and his gaze was enticingly direct as he accepted her hand. “If I’d known, I’d accepted your father’s offer to visit much sooner.”
Warmth rushed her face at the obvious flirtation in his tone.
Remembering her manners, she lowered her hand to her side. “I had no idea we were expecting company. What brings you to Hollythorne House, Mr. Prior?”
His clear eyes twinkled in the most becoming manner, and he leaned toward her slightly as if to divulge a very great secret. “Wool.”
She almost laughed. “’Tis a far way to travel merely for wool.”
“I agree with you, Miss Grey, but I blame my brother entirely.” He raised a brow. “He insists that before we sign any supply agreements that we see the scope of the operations for ourselves.”
“Agreement?”
Her father stepped in. “Mr. Prior’s business buys wool for one of their mills, and he is interested in working with the sheep farmers on our estate.”
“My family’s business signs supply agreements for large quantities. In this case, if we sign an agreement with your father, we’d agree to purchase all the wool from all the sheep farmers on Hollythorne tenancies.”
“Ah, I see. And what do you think of Hollythorne sheep, Mr. Prior?”
He shrugged. “I’ve yet to see them.”
“Mr. Prior will be staying on with us for a bit,” explained her father. “We’ll call on the tenants in the coming days.”
“My apologies, Miss Grey, for the unexpected, sudden intrusion. Your father and I have been corresponding for some time, and I found myself in the neighborhood, so I took the liberty to pay a call. I do hope my assumptive nature will be forgiven.”
At the idea of Mr. Prior as a houseguest, Charlotte’s stomach leapt. An attractive gentleman. In her home. Suddenly the days that had seemed to stretch so long and gray before her sparkled with opportunity. “It is no trouble at all, sir. You are most welcome here. I only hope our hospitality can live up to what you are used to in Leeds.”
The ensuing conversation flowed in easy continuity. Not since Anthony had a man piqued her interest so. Maybe this was how her wounded heart would heal—infatuation would open her mind to the possibility of something new and exciting. A new future. A new love.
Later, as Mr. Prior stood in the courtyard speaking with the groomsman, she admired him from the window in the parlor.
“I do think our fortunes may be turning,” her father said, his voice low, as he reentered the room.
She wrapped her arm around her father’s affectionately as he stepped to her side. Worries over the tenants had been hard on him. It sounded like this opportunity with Mr. Prior’s mill could be an answer to some of the issues facing the estate as of late. “I hope so. For your sake.”
He patted her hand. “For your sake as well. This estate will be part of your dowry, and, with any luck, will continue to be profitable.”
She did not like talk of dowries and marriage. The thought of leaving Father alone when his health was so poor did not sit well with her.
“Do you know what I think?” Her father nodded in Mr. Prior’s direction. “I think that’s the sort of man for you.”
“Oh, Father.” She laughed in an effort to conceal her own thoughts. “I’d be foolish to think so. Besides, a man like him surely will pursue an elegant society lady.”
“Do not sell yourself short, my daughter. He’s wealthy. Steady. Good-humored. If I knew that you had married a man as established and upstanding as Mr. Prior, I could go to my grave and rest in peace.”
The mention of her father’s eventual death summoned a shadow over her budding optimism. “Please do not speak of such things. You know I cannot bear it.”
“Like it or not, we must speak of it someday. None of us live forever.” He retrieved his handkerchief and coughed into it before he wiped his mouth and tucked the square of fabric back into his pocket.
She sobered, noticing afresh how he seemed thinner. Paler.
“Just promise me that you will be receptive if he shows interest. And something tells me he will.”
Roland proposed a month later.
How could she have possibly known during that first interaction how deceptive their guest had been? How could she know that mere weeks after her marriage, his true nature would emerge?
Her mistake became evident as soon as they returned from their wedding trip. Once they were installed in Wolden House and he was back in his normal environment, his demeanor altered to a point that he was unrecognizable. She’d tried desperately in those early days to recapture the happiness of their courtship, but his aloof manner and his frequent journeys away from home clarified his intentions. Roland Prior had not wanted a wife. She’d been a conquest, and once they were married, she was a fixture in the house, nothing more.
Charlotte retrieved a fresh bucket of water and rag from the kitchen and set about cleaning the grime from the parlor windows, and her last conversation with Roland played in her mind.
It had taken place two days before he died, and their words had been terse, cold. During that same afternoon she’d overheard one of the footmen tell another that Roland had made plans for Lady Maria Descer, his rumored mistress, to travel to London with him.
Charlotte had long known that Roland had another life that did not involve her.
But now he was gone, and there would be no final conversation—no way to make peace with any of it other than to simply accept it.
She focused on the dirty window and scoured it harder, determined to remove every trace of filth, until the brittle glass suddenly cracked and splintered, cutting her hand and shattering to the ground. Blood dripped from the back of her trembling hand and from a large cut on the side of her forefinger.
Tears flooded her eyes, and she spun around to find one of the clean rags to press against the wound. Exasperation flared. How could she have been so careless? Before she had a chance to fully clean the wound, movement in the distance captured her attention.
She frowned as she spied a lone horseman cantering up the path.
Recognition blazed and Charlotte stood, frozen in her spot, resisting the urge to panic.