A Preacher's daughter for the smitten Duke (Regency Romance) (Regency Tales Book 6) (3 page)

While Amy’s even temper appeared to her family to have been restored, she nursed a secret grief as she thought about the man whom she admired. What did his intended look like? When would they marry? Would there be a grand party? She spent more and more time by herself in the days that followed her brothers’ visit to the manor house, practicing her brave face and burying her pain. And then one morning, about a week later, as she was sitting by the stream reading from a favourite book, the sound of a single horse’s hooves disturbed the quiet.

She looked up from where she sat, and watched as the duke approached. She had not forgotten her father’s admonition to tell him if the man approached her or tried to speak with her. Though she had told her father she understood, she had not agreed to do anything she did not wish to do. She saw no harm in being courteous to the man who was allowing them to use his land without paying for the privilege. However, she was fully aware of the role she played in his life. She was the stranger whose father preached to people by the wayside, begging for alms to feed his family. They had nothing in common.

“Good morrow, Miss Williams,” he said when he stopped beside her and dismounted. “How fare you today?”

Amy fought to keep the colour from her cheeks and smiled at him politely. “I am well, Your Grace. As I hope you are.”

She had stood up when he dismounted, and stood with her book clasped in front of her like a shield.

“It is a lovely day today, is it not?” he asked, and she could feel his eyes on her as he spoke.

“It is indeed, Your Grace,” she replied. “A perfect day for reading and preparing sermons.”

He smiled. “As I assume it is your venerable parent who is preparing a sermon, may I take it that it is you who are reading?”

“You are indeed a perceptive man, Your Grace,” she replied with a smile.

“And what, if I may be so bold as to ask, are you reading?”

Amy offered him the book, and he raised a brow when he saw the title. “Ah! Pamela. Some might say this novel is evocative of the situation of many nowadays, would you not agree, Miss Williams?” He handed her back the book, and waited to hear her response.

“For those women who aspire to marry above their stations, it is, Your Grace,” she replied.

“And what of those men who seek to marry below theirs?” he wondered.

“I cannot speak for them, Your Grace, though I would venture to suppose that as they are already blessed to be in a higher sphere, they will most likely be given greater leeway to act as they choose without fear of repercussions.” Amy answered from the heart, knowing as she did that he was already spoken for, and that nothing she said could be construed as in any way personal.

The gaze he rested on her gave her pause. There was something almost regretful in it, something sad. His words confirmed her impression. “One must be careful never to make assumptions about others based on appearances, Miss Williams. Sometimes the truth bears no resemblance to our expectations and prejudices.”

Amy had no response to that comment, except to say, “No doubt you and my father would agree on that, Your Grace.”

He looked at her for another long moment without speaking, and then said, “I must be going, Miss Williams. It was a pleasure speaking with you today.” He mounted, and nodded smartly. “Enjoy the rest of your day.” Then he smiled and cantered away as her father emerged from the tent.

“Was that the duke?” Mr Williams asked angrily.

“It was, Papa,” she replied truthfully.

“Have I not told you to fetch me when he appears?” He was clearly put out by her disobedience.

“Would you have me ignore his greetings while I fetch you to protect the virtue he has no interest in besmirching, Papa?” she asked, as she turned around. “Should I be rude to him when he stops to be polite as he rides his borders? Am I to be the reason he recants his goodwill toward us and assesses a fee for our use of his property?”

Mr Williams looked at the person standing before him. She was so much like her mother that it astonished him how he had missed this core of strength in her, assuming instead that she was merely a sweet-natured and obedient child. The girl facing him, asking questions he had no ready answers for, was a woman, not a child. He asked the question that had been on his mind since the day of Mary Anne’s revelation.

“Why are you angry with me, child?”

“First, for that, Papa,” she answered at once. “I am not a child, I am as much a woman as Mary Anne is, and yet you persist in taking her word, and trusting her more than you do me. And you close your eyes to the things she wants you not to see in herself.”

Amy’s manner was animated. She had not put so much energy into a conversation with him since the day in question. “And what things in herself am I ignoring?” he asked, trying to withhold judgment.

“Did it ever once occur to you that Mary Anne’s words about me that day were actually as much true for her as you assumed they were for me?”

Her father struggled for words. He was not unaware of his older daughter’s ambitions, but he also knew that she would land on her feet, that no man would ever make a fool of her. She was tough, and he felt safe in leaving her to her own devices for the most part. But Amy was his baby, the one he knew he needed most to protect, though it seemed she was less in need of that than he had previously imagined.

“I am aware that she has aspirations to become a lady, yes,” he replied. “That does not, however, mean she is panting after the Duke of Ashton.”

“It does not mean that I am, either, Papa,” she said. “What it does mean is that you have two daughters who are now young ladies, and who may, or may not, want to marry men for whom they have affection. Would you deny either of us the chance for happiness that you had with our Mama before her passing? Or am I the only one whose happiness you feel personally responsible for controlling?”

“Mind how you speak to me, girl!” he said sharply, angry with her for reminding him of his loss, and for invoking her mother to make a point he had no answer for. The pride he felt in her at that moment warred with his irritation.

“Forgive me for my plain speaking, Papa,” she said, and he noted that she wasn’t asking for forgiveness for the things she had said, but only for saying them. “I hear Mary Anne coming. I will go help her get ready for lunch.”

He watched her walk away, and sighed. He had made things worse, not better, by losing his temper. When would he learn?

Percy took to riding by the meeting tent on his way to various engagements in the village or in neighbouring towns. After their conversation two days prior, he had found himself thinking almost incessantly about the woman who had not given a second thought to telling him what she thought of men like him, whose wealth gave them privileges that people like her could never hope to have. Her beauty had stunned him from the first moment of their meeting, and when he closed his eyes at night, her hazel eyes and golden hair were the last thing he envisioned. Her skin was creamy, and would no doubt be soft to the touch. And more and more he wanted to touch her, to feel the fire he sensed burning beneath her demure surface.

The next time he passed by, she was laying the table for their midday meal, and her sister was with her. He had not stopped, but had raised a hand in greeting as he rode by. Two mornings later, he had ridden by with his steward, ostensibly to introduce the man to the Williams.

“Mr Williams, this is my steward, Mr Hayward,” he had said. Then he had turned to the preacher’s family and added, “And these are his children: Matthew, Jacob, Mary Anne, and Amy. He will provide you with any assistance that you may need.” He had ignored the steward’s scandalised glance, knowing he would do whatever he was instructed.

All the men shook hands, and he had left at once with his servant, wondering what they made of the introduction. He admitted that he could not see the prideful preacher ever asking his steward for assistance of any kind. Still, it had given him an excuse to be near Amy, and he would take any that he could find.

The third time he stopped by, it was early afternoon, and the women were nowhere in sight. He could hear but not see them, so he chose to engage the brothers in conversation. It was then that he discovered Jacob’s interest in horses and Matthew’s in gardening. He talked with them briefly, and left, feeling better about getting to know her family.

On the fourth occasion, she was again alone, this time just outside the tent. She saw him and walked over to meet him as he brought Hunter to a stop.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said. “What brings you out this way today?”

He wondered what she would say if he were to tell her the truth. Instead of doing so, he smiled. “I was just taking a ride. Every so often, I ride the perimeter of the estate to ensure that my borders remain unbreached.”

She laughed. It was a deep, melodious sound, and he wanted to make her laugh more. “Well, you have once again stumbled upon a breach in your borders. And we remain grateful to you for allowing it, Your Grace.”

He laughed with her, and knew, as he rode away, that he had to speak to her formally of his feelings. He could not bear the thought of not seeing her, and the daily outings were not getting him any closer to her. He was determined to make his feelings known, and decided to visit the tent when her father was preaching. The next chance he would have to do that came the following Saturday afternoon.

He arrived as Mr Williams began his sermon. Choosing to stand in the back of the tent, he listened as the preacher spoke of the wrath of God to be meted out to those who were guilty of the sin of pride. Apparently he had just begun a series of sermons on the seven deadly sins, pride being the first. Percy did not listen too closely, though he did hear some of the preacher’s more passionate speech.

“We are all, to a greater or lesser degree, guilty of this sin,” he said. “No one is exempt, not even myself. It is an insidious corruption, one that drains away our faith in God, replacing it with inappropriate and unfulfilling trust in our own abilities. We come to see ourselves as the author of our lives, the ruler of our destinies, and the shaper of our own ends. We do not see the grace of God, but only our accomplishments.”

While the man spoke impassionedly, Percy looked for his children, and saw them all together in the front of the tent. Jacob was fidgeting, but the others were still as stones. Amy, whose profile he could see, seemed perfectly enraptured by her father’s words. Was she also a dissenter, he wondered? And did he care? His growing attachment to her had no interest in her religious beliefs, though he was happy that she held fast to some kind of faith.

When the service ended, Percy waited until the assembled congregation had departed, and then approached the family, who all stood with the preacher at the makeshift pulpit. He registered the shock on all their faces as he approached. Mr Williams spoke first.

“Your Grace,” he exclaimed, “welcome! I must say I am somewhat surprised to see you here.”

“I thought it wise, since you have been here now a month, to hear your words for myself, Mr Williams.”

“And what is your conclusion?” the man asked.

“It is very easy for us to forget where we have come from, and to ascribe to ourselves greater power than we really possess,” he replied. “It seems, therefore, that we agree, sir.”

Mr Williams smiled in acknowledgment. “I see that you were listening, Your Grace,” he said.

Percy inclined his head. “It would have defeated the purpose not to have done so otherwise.”

His family had begun to tidy the space while they talked, and the preacher excused himself to speak to a straggler who had appeared with a question. Noticing Amy standing alone, he approached her.

“Good evening, Miss Williams,” he said. “I hope you are well?”

“I am, Your Grace,” she replied looking guarded. “Why is it that you are here?”

He smiled at her bluntness. “I wish to speak with you, if you wouldn’t mind. May we go for a walk?”

She looked up at him then, a question in her eyes. “I would need my father’s permission,” she replied, and lowered them again.

He turned in time to see her sister watching them, annoyance plain in her face. Percy ignored her, and waited until Mr Williams approached then said, “Mr Williams, would you allow me to take Amy for a walk?”

The man looked sharply at him, searching his face as though he thought he would find some evil intent written there. Then he looked over at his daughter, who was studiously ignoring both of them. Percy felt the struggle that the man was undergoing, and hoped he would overcome his natural reluctance to allow any man with whom he was uncomfortable to address his daughters.

“I suppose it would be all right, Your Grace,” he said grudgingly. “However, I will only allow it if she is accompanied by her sister. Mary Anne can act as her chaperone. If this is acceptable to you, then you have my permission.”

Inwardly, Percy sighed. He would have preferred to walk with Amy alone, because he wanted to tell her of his feelings for her. But the dictates of polite society still held true, even among the poorer classes, and definitely in the family of a former vicar, who well knew the damage that a ruined reputation could have on a young woman. Outwardly, he smiled and went to speak to Amy, while her father spoke to Mary Anne. Shortly thereafter, he led the way out of the tent along the path bordering the stream. They walked in silence for a while, Mary Anne never managing to keep a discreet distance between herself and the couple in front of her.

He started to speak on several occasions, and refrained at the last second, because he did not want an audience for the things he wished to say. Finally, exasperated and out of all patience, he turned to her and said, “While I appreciate your care for your sister’s reputation, Miss Williams, I think it will not hurt if you walk a few paces behind your sister and I. You will have full view of us at all times, and can stop any contact you deem to be inappropriate.”

He waited while she stared indignantly at him, before casting her eyes to her sister, who remained stubbornly silent. Finally, she stepped away, and Percy resumed their walk.

“Miss Williams...Amy, may I call you Amy?” he asked. When she nodded, he continued, “Amy, I must tell you that I have formed an attachment to you.”

“Your Grace, I’m sure I do not know what you mean,” she replied tremulously.

“I mean that I have formed an affection for you that I have never had for another woman,” he told her. “I mean that I think of you every day. You are my last thought each night, and my first upon rising. My attachment grows more intense daily.”

She stopped walking. “I cannot take any pleasure in these words, Your Grace. Not when I know that you have someone already waiting to be your wife.” She looked at him with sad, wounded eyes. “I had thought you a better man.”