Page 33 of Saving Miss Pratt

His expression softened, and a wan smile crossed his lips. “Tell me the truth. Do you wish to marry this Mr. Netherborne?”

Timothy’s visage coalesced in her mind. Would the man never leave her in peace? “Not particularly. But I do wish to marry, and he has been my only prospect. Now, I suppose I shall be a spinster.” She blinked back the tears welling in her eyes. “But if I am to be a spinster, I should much rather be one in London than in the country.”

“You’re hardly ancient, my girl. People’s memories grow cloudy with time.” He grew pensive, staring out the window at the passing countryside. “Eligible gentlemen are more abundant in London. I shall increase your dowry. A number of men, titled or not, are in need of an infusion of funds that an agreeable match would remedy.”

Something about the prospect of becoming nothing more than a walking purse rankled Priscilla. “So, he would be marrying my dowry to fill his coffers?”

Her father turned his gaze back toward her. “People have made matches for less. You could have your pick, the ultimate choice to accept would be completely up to you. Of course, other options exist. Lord Middlebury is still looking for a wife.”

He waited, as if gauging her response.

Horror must have shown on her face, for he broke out in a grin. “Relax, Cilla. If you ever accepted a man like Middlebury, I would disown you. I’ll admit that dangling the incentive of a large dowry in front of a man’s nose isn’t the most palatable idea, but why don’t we try?”

“Very well.”

“Perhaps I’ll host a small soirée to test the waters. A bit of a welcome home party for you. Let’s see how thetonresponds to your return and go from there, shall we?”

A party did sound lovely. “Would there be dancing? Oh, how I miss dancing.”

“Of course. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to rest. The journey has tired me.”

At that, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the back squabs of the carriage.

But Priscilla couldn’t sleep. Her mind raced with images of new gowns, lavish table settings overflowing with rich food, beautiful music, and—most of all—dancing in the arms of handsome gentlemen.

Foremost among them—Timothy Marbry.

* * *

Timothy trudgedup the steps of his parents’ townhouse, exhausted from another day at Hope Clinic. Word had spread about the new young doctor assisting Doctors Radcliffe and Somersby, and Timothy had quickly developed a list of regular patients. Many of them giggling young women.

Both Harry and Oliver exchanged knowing glances and strongly suggested that Timothy might wish to consider finding a wife with alacrity.

It was the one thing his fellow doctors had suggested that he adamantly refused to consider.

Preston took his hat as he lumbered into the foyer of the house. “Your father wishes to speak with you in his study, sir.”

“Can’t it wait?” Timothy’s only wish was for a hot meal and a glass of whisky to numb his already overworked brain.

“I’m afraid not, sir. Lord Saxton specifically requested to speak with you immediately upon your arrival home.”

Timothy nodded and made his way to his father’s study. After knocking softly, he entered without waiting for a response.

His father lifted his gaze from the journal before him. “Ah, son. Perfect timing. Take a seat.”

Hours spent at the clinic during the past week had made examining his father’s features an automatic response. No sign of illness was evident, although a trace of concern furrowed his father’s brow. “What is it? Preston said it was urgent.”

His father harrumphed and settled against the high-backed chair at his desk. “Preston exaggerates everything. I swear the man thrives on drama. But I’m glad you’re here. I wished to speak with you regarding the finances of the estate.”

Timothy’s gut clenched. Had his father been gambling again? He’d hoped the man had learned his lesson after the previous year’s fiasco. “Are you ill, or is there another . . . problem?”

His father lifted a hand. “No, no. I know what you’re thinking. But I’m not getting any younger. Now that you’re home, it’s time you grow accustomed to running things once I die.”

“Can’t it wait? I’ve been rather busy at the clinic.”

“About that.”

“If you’re going to join Mother and start in about how it’s unseemly for a viscount to have an occupation—”

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