Charming the Vicar's Daughter (2 page)

She shouldn’t have looked at him. The man was easily as handsome as his cousins, but for some reason his looks made her melt inside. His stormy blue-grey eyes were filled with concern. His thick, brown hair had an indentation where his hat rested, and her fingers twitched with the desire to fluff it out. How lucky she was that he was only visiting the Lumleys. She could easily lose all thought when she gazed upon him.

Taking off her bonnet, she tucked her gloves inside and set them on the table in the entryway. She led Mr. Harrow into the drawing room. “Please, have a seat. I shall find my maid to join us.”

In all honesty, Rebecca hoped her father’s business would wind down before she returned to the drawing room, so she might speak to her father alone. Mr. Harrow had a look in his eye that said he was determined to be her knight and rescue her from whatever distress he imagined her to be under. Whether that might stretch so far as to include marriage, she wasn’t certain. Why couldn’t he have walked away when she first told him she didn’t need his help?

She would never understand men.

She was letting her imagination get away from her. No man would jump to marry someone he’d known only a matter of minutes, especially given the innocence of their actions. Besides, the widows knew her well enough to know she would never behave as they accused her of doing.

Rushing belowstairs, she found the housekeeper in the kitchen stirring a steaming pot. The sharp scent of leeks filled the air. “Mrs. Hook, I’m going to be delayed taking a basket to the Upjohns. Do you think Sally could drop it by on her way home?”

“Yes, I’ll tell her to go soon, and maybe lend a hand while she is there. That poor woman could use a bit of help caring for all those young ones.”

“Thank you.” Rebecca trotted back upstairs, slowing to the graceful pace her father would approve of as she reached the top step. She couldn’t hear voices from the front of the house. Perhaps she’d gotten lucky, for a change.

She glanced into the open doorway of the drawing room, relieved to see it empty, then crossed the hallway to Father’s study. In that unnerving way of his, he turned before she could speak.

His forbearing glower greeted her. “What am I going to do with you, daughter?”

Bowing her head in feigned penance, she said, “I’m sorry my actions have upset you again.” She dared a glance at him without lifting her head.

Father shook his head and adjusted his spectacles. “I believe it was all as innocent as Mr. Harrow says, but did you have to disgrace yourself in front of the widows?”

“I didn’t plan to do so. How was I to know the Widows League was down the street? I’ll make certain the next time to plan my assignations more carefully.”

Father’s side-whiskers twitched, and he cleared his throat. “Please stop calling them that. I have failed your mother. I promised on her deathbed to raise you to be a genteel lady. Must you always make light of a serious situation?”

The familiar refrain was spoken with love, not the chastisement she deserved. Father was too lenient on her, and she tried her best to live up to the version of herself reflected in his eyes.

Yet she didn’t have a genteel bone in her body. Her needlework was rippled with uneven tension. She tended to sing hymns in a volume close to her father’s booming level, although she was closer to the correct key. Instead of disappointing the one mother she missed so dearly, she had three meddling widows keeping a stern glare over her every move.

The Widow’s League, as she called them, was determined to see her properly wed, preferably to a son of the local landowner and her father’s benefactor, the Earl of Bridgethorpe. Lord Knightwick, his heir, had been their first choice of husband for Rebecca. He spent most of his time in London lately, and had never spoken more than a passing word to her after services or the annual picnic the earl threw for the village.

The widows had moved down their list to Mr. David Lumley next, the second son. His passion was his horses, and he made his home at the family stud in Newmarket. Last Season he’d found love quite by accident in London, according to his sister, Lady Hannah. In just a few weeks Mr. Lumley would be married and safely distanced from the widows’ consideration.

Why did Mr. Lumley have to bring his cousin to the vicarage? Now the widows had a new name to scribble onto their creased scrap of foolscap. Rebecca hated to think how many more names might be there in addition to the remaining two Lumley brothers.

She looked out the window at the village, where people strolled and scurried about in their ordinary lives. They all moved with a purpose. They had errands to run, jobs to do. She envied them in many ways. Visiting her father’s parishioners was all she had to keep her mind occupied most days.

Lifting her chin, she forced away any inkling of self-pity. “Perhaps I should go visit Aunt Cookson in Ebbw Vale.”

Father closed the book of sermons he was paging through. “What brought this on?”

“I bring too much shame on you. How can you preach to the parishioners about what God expects of them when you can’t even control your own daughter?” She continued before he could argue, knowing he would defend her even when she criticized herself. “I hear the whispers around town. If I’m not an embarrassment to you, I should be. I’m forever being caught in situations I shouldn’t be in.”

She never truly behaved improperly, it only appeared she did, if one imagined the worst in every situation. Since her horrid mistake seven years ago, they usually did. The young men of the parish would no longer speak with her at social assemblies. Of course, none of her mishaps had involved actually being compromised…she had never even been kissed. Nor had a young man reached for her hand while walking.

For that matter, she hadn’t gone walking with any young man who wasn’t a servant. If a situation could be misconstrued to have romantic implications, the widows gladly elaborated the degree of intimacy involved. They loved their romances and tried so hard to live one vicariously through Rebecca.

They just couldn’t find a young man willing to play the leading man.

Father steepled his index fingers and pressed them to his lips. “Why run now? Why this time, when the mishap is so minor?”

She had no answer for him. Was there something she had seen in Mr. Harrow that made her fear the widows would succeed in their matchmaking? Or perhaps she feared Lord Bridgethorpe would laugh at the suggestion that his nephew marry beneath him.

She knew better than that. The earl was a generous man with no airs about him. Lady Bridgethorpe had sent one of her own maids to help care for Mama when she took ill, and the girl had come daily over the course of the three months it took for Mama to slip away. They were kind people who watched over their neighbors.

Rebecca was only one more generation removed from a title than Mr. Harrow, since her grandfather had been a baron. Some might not consider her Lord Knightwick’s equal, but she was proud of her father’s choice to serve his God. She wouldn’t require her husband to be a man of the cloth, but wanted him to care about his fellow man as much as she did.

The sunlight outside the window called to her again.
Run
, it whispered.
Run while you can
.

Her life was about to change. Either by her own machinations or those of the widows, life could not go on as it had.

Father leaned both hands on his desk. “I will hear no more talk of you going away. If you did so, it would convince the widows you had something to hide.” He cleared his throat and lowered his gaze. “And if you stayed away too long, they’d assume your condition was becoming quite obvious, if you catch my meaning.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened and she gaped at him. “Father, they couldn’t believe that I—that Mr. Harrow—right there in the park?” She shivered, and ran her hands over her arms. Her eyes burned. How could anyone think that of her?

“No, the widows wouldn’t believe it of you, but others might. You know how some love to gossip and bring their betters down to their level. The best way of proving your innocence is to remain in the village and go about your calls to those in need just as you always do.”

She grew weary of the widows’ matchmaking efforts. For the first time in her twenty-four years, she wished there was even one man among her acquaintance whom she felt might make a suitable husband.

Chapter Three

The Earl of Bridgethorpe sat in the leather chair behind his massive cherry wood desk, his complexion more wan than the last time Neil had seen him. Clutching the arms of his chair, he seemed to be forcing himself to remain upright. Neil’s cousin Knightwick stood at his side like a royal guard, his hands clasped behind him.

Neil looked down at the scuffed toes of his boots, unable to meet Bridgethorpe’s eye. The last thing his uncle needed was a wayward nephew causing trouble. The idea his life plans could be foiled by his few moments in the village had his stomach burning. “I assure you, sir, there was nothing improper in my conversation with Miss Cookson this afternoon.”

The earl nodded—or was that just a tremor? “I believe you. But those old women you speak of, the widows. They are known to cause gossip where there is no foundation.”

“I thought I was doing the gentlemanly thing, offering to climb the ladder in her place. I never imagined how it could be misconstrued.” Neil rubbed a finger over the scratch on his cheek, where the skin still stung.

He hoped there was no gossip, nor any backlash from this silly mishap. Nothing was going to interfere with his bachelorhood, now that he was finally on his own. He planned to enjoy all-night card games, meals at all hours, and not answering to anyone regarding where he spent his days. Several of his school chums had been writing to him for several years of their escapades. Neil planned to make up for missed time.

Bridgethorpe spoke again in a thin voice. “I am pleased you’ve come to visit, in spite of the rough beginning. Your mother is well?”

“Quite well, thank you. Her hands are full with my sister being indisposed.”

His uncle smiled. “Yes, Lady Bridgethorpe read your mother’s latest letter to me. When is the grand event expected?”

“The baby should be here in July.” Neil planned to remain in London until at least August, if he came home at all. He was certain Mother would expect him to hold the squalling infant and coo over it as if it were the heir to the throne. He had no experience with babies, being the youngest of his siblings. And he planned to keep it that way for another few years. At the very least.

The earl seemed to sag ever so slightly, just enough for Neil to notice. It was time to end this conversation. Rising, Neil said, “I shall go find my aunt and cousins. Thank you for your time. I doubt anything will come of this misunderstanding, but wanted you to have the facts before any gossip reached you.”

“I’m pleased you did. Go and greet your cousins. I will see you at supper.”

Mother had mentioned the earl’s failing health, but Neil hadn’t realized how weak the man had become. Bridgethorpe was only a few years older than Neil’s mother, in his mid-fifties, yet he looked as frail as a ninety year old. His doctor could give no name to what ailed him, according to the letters Lady Bridgethorpe had written. How awful it must be for his family to watch the life slowly fade out of him.

Neil heard laughter and the shuffling of feet abovestairs in the billiards room and turned instead toward the library, where he hoped to find some solace. In spite of saying he would find his cousins, he wished to write his mother and suggest she come visit her brother before the baby came. Before it was too late. He doubted his aunt, in her way of making light of her worries, had stressed the actual severity of the earl’s illness, whatever it was he suffered from.

Neil was contemplating the closing of the letter when his cousin Hannah entered.

“There you are, Neil. David said you had come with him but I didn’t believe him. I am so pleased to see you. What brings you here?” She perched gracefully on a small chair near the table where Neil sat.

“Your brother invited me, as a matter of fact. I went to Fernleigh to enquire about some horses, and ended up with an invitation to a wedding.”

Her blue eyes rounded. “David put off finding a horse to come home instead? I’m all astonishment. I should have expected him to write Joanne and delay the event so he could stay at Fernleigh. Those horses are his life.”

Neil nodded. He’d been equally astonished by David’s distraction and could find no explanation to support it. “Apparently he has room for another passion. What is she like, this Lady Joanna? Pretty, I imagine. And docile? Or is her head in the fashion plates, planning what to wear to the next ball?”

Hannah’s laughter was more schooled than he remembered. “You have the pretty part correct, but are far off with your other guesses. She is my dear friend now and you know I’d never be a friend of such a goosecap. You will be pleased when you meet her. Perhaps she’ll bring her friend Amelia to the wedding, and we can introduce you.”

He held up his hands to ward off such an idea. “Do not waste your time making matches for me. My rooms at the Albany would not accommodate a wife. I won’t be looking to marry for many years to come.”

“You are going to Town? Mother and I leave next month, after she recovers from the wedding.” Her features softened. “She can’t bear to think one of her children is leaving for good. David hasn’t lived at home in years, but he’s the first to marry, aside from cousin Stephen.”

“I think Knightwick has the right of it. He is still unmarried. I plan to emulate him. And what of you? Will you be following closely in David’s footsteps, now that you are out in Society?”

“I hope not.” Her face glowed with the good humor she couldn’t keep contained. “I am quite enjoying the balls and Venetian breakfasts, evenings at the theatre, and having so many friends to call upon. My life will seem so dull once I give all that up to marry.”

“Perhaps your husband will prefer to remain in London year-round. Of course, it would seem rather quiet there when most of the
ton
retires to their country homes.”