Charming the Vicar's Daughter (4 page)

David didn’t need to finish the sentence. Neil understood. Perhaps to keep his mood from becoming maudlin, he looked out over the heads of the villagers in search of one covered in rich brown curls as he led Lady Joanna to the dance area. While he thought he was keeping up his share of the conversation as they danced, Neil was startled when Lady Joanna questioned his attention.

“Who is she?”

He jerked his head around to meet her eye. “Whom?”

“The young lady you can’t keep from staring at. Why don’t you ask her to dance?”

“I plan to.” If anyone else had noticed his staring, as she called it, he must ask Miss Cookson or risk causing more gossip. “You will meet her at your wedding tomorrow, I am certain. Her father is the vicar.”

“I see.” Lady Joanna’s tone of voice told him Lady Patience and Lady Madeleine had been telling tales. Her smile grew and she studied the woman in question. “She is very lovely. You won’t find many prettier young ladies in London.”

He would not take the bait and admit to any interest. He wouldn’t be in the area long enough to pursue any acquaintance with Miss Cookson. David had located a second horse to match the one in his stable and was having it delivered to London. Neil planned to leave on Monday, so there was no need for him to continue to deny an attraction to Miss Cookson. He simply smiled and finished out the set, returning her to David’s side when the music ended.

Neil moved swiftly, with a purpose this time, and reached Miss Cookson before anyone could delay him. The portly man who had partnered her stood by her side, apparently trying to charm her with his wit. Neil nodded to them both in greeting. “You look well this evening, Miss Cookson. Would you be free for the next dance?”

Her eyebrows quivered, and she gave the slightest shake of her head before sighing. “I am free, sir.”

“How lovely. I know so few of the villagers. It will be a pleasure to dance with someone other than my cousins.”

The older gentleman clasped Neil’s arm. “If it’s an introduction you require, I shall be happy to assist. Come, we will start with the Carlyle family.”

“Ah, well, yes…lovely,” Neil stammered. The widow Carlyle had unmarried daughters or granddaughters? He shuddered at the idea of how much more interference a man might receive in pursuit of the woman’s kin. Besides, he was standing before the only person he wished to know. “I fear I would miss my chance to dance with Miss Cookson, sir. Mayhap we can wait to meet the others?”

“Of course, how silly of me.” The man remained close to Miss Cookson’s side.

Reverend Cookson joined them. He gazed at Neil as if trying to discern his motive for speaking with his daughter.

Neil’s blood heated. Did the entire village keep guard over this young lady? Was she not allowed to have friends? He needed to ask Knightwick what had happened to her for her neighbors to rally round her this way. He forced a smile and tried to feel it inside. “Reverend, how do you do? Your daughter has agreed to honor me with the next dance.”

“She is most considerate. Have your cousins made introductions? There are many young ladies here who would love to dance.”

“Yes, Mr.—ah, I don’t believe I know your name sir,” Neil said to the portly man.

“I am John Hutchinson. My property abuts your uncle’s land. Reverend, I have offered to assist Mr. Harrow in finding partners for the evening.”

The two men continued to discuss with whom Neil should dance, as if he were a young boy at his first social gathering. Neil used the time to study Miss Cookson. She held her head high, to his surprise, although she must have felt him watching her. Pride was etched in her features. He practically ached to find out what her story was. “How is your friend, the one you were returning from when we met you on the road?”

“She is growing stronger each day, thank you for asking.”

“I am pleased to hear it. No doubt your nursing skills are aiding her recovery.” The musicians returned to their seats, to Neil’s relief. “Come, it is time we take our places.”

She followed him to the center of the room where the other dancers began to gather. After greeting those who stood near them, she turned back to Neil. “You will be leaving for London soon?”

“In two days, yes.”

“Have you been there before? What is it like? Are the streets there crowded with hawkers and ladies of the
ton
? My mother had a Season there before she met my father. I miss hearing the tales she told.”

Having traveled to Town several times as a child, he tried to picture it from a newcomer’s viewpoint. “Yes, I suppose it is crowded, depending on where you are and what time it is. Lady Hannah might be better able to talk about the areas of interest to a young lady.”

At the moment, Neil was more interested in the way her neighbors treated Miss Cookson than his move to London. It was not a subject he could broach without hurting her feelings. He could, however, set an example to the others gathered of how she should be treated. When the dance brought them in contact, he was a font of delightful conversation. He commented on the weather, the number of dancers and the skill of the musicians, in spite of their narrow repertoire.

Miss Cookson answered in kind.

Wanting to see her smile again, he decided to flirt. What harm could come of light conversation in a crowded room? “The color of your gown is most becoming. Is there a name for that shade of green?”

When the dance brought her close again, she responded, “It is Pomona green. You don’t think it’s too bold?”

“On the contrary, it heightens your color.” He tried to find something flattering to add, but her hair ornaments were more simple than most of the other young ladies, so she would likely think he spoke falsely. The last thing he wanted was to upset her. He blurted out the next thing that came to mind. “Is your cat well? She hasn’t found herself caught up another tree, has she?”

A frown marred her smooth skin. “She is as troublesome as always.”

He realized she might wish to forget about their episode under the tree, be he was looking upon their conversation then in a different light than she was. She’d matched his wit so well, even in her exasperation when he wouldn’t leave. As he sought to entertain, rather than aggravate, he let that topic go. He knew one thing most young ladies loved to hear—flattery. “You dance very well.”

Neil caught himself just before he made reference to the likelihood of her dancing often. He’d seen how she was overlooked by the men their age, which had led to his wish to increase her enjoyment of the night. He needed to tread carefully around her.

Their set ended and Neil returned her to her father’s side, then sought out Knightwick, who motioned toward the door outside.

Once they were clear of the others mingling in the cool night air, Knightwick pounced on Neil. “What were you thinking, flirting with Miss Cookson? Haven’t you caused enough damage?”

Neil took a half-step back. “What do you mean? I was merely polite, which is a far sight kinder than the rest of the village. Why does no one dance with her? Speak with her? She is treated like a pariah here.”

“She is treated with respect. You’ve seen how she is the subject of more gossip than most, and in that vein, the men here leave her alone. She does not need the speculation you are encouraging with your flirtation—and yes, it does appear to be such when you encourage her laughter and speak in low tones to her alone. Save that behavior for London. You are in Bridgethorpe Village and everything you do reflects on the Bridgethorpe name.” In the light from the torches along the walk, Knightwick’s flaring nostrils and narrowed eyes implied the anger that his lowered voice restrained.

Neil stiffened at the force of his cousin’s emotions, but would not give Knightwick the satisfaction of seeing him hang his head. He would not be spoken to like a child. “I am sorry you feel my actions have reflected badly on the family. Miss Cookson is a kind young lady who does not deserve to be ignored or shunned, and by not making an effort to speak to her, I condone those acts by the other men here. I cannot sit by an allow it to continue.”

“You do her no favors.” Knightwick raked a hand through his hair, then glowered down at Neil again. “You will not change the ways of the village in one evening. All you do is add to the fodder they seek.”

Neil shook his head. The idea was ridiculous. “How is my speaking politely to a young lady in full view of half the village giving them reason to gossip? Why is everyone so protective of her?”

Knightwick glanced away. “It is not my story to tell and I won’t belittle Miss Cookson by gossiping about her. Suffice it to say we all care about her wellbeing and will do anything to keep her safe. If you cannot stay away from her, you should leave now. Take my horse, and I shall ride home in the carriage with the others.”

Neil watched his cousin stride back up the staircase to the assembly room, his mind trying to catch up to what had just happened. He’d been summarily sent to the corner —sent home, in fact—like a recalcitrant schoolboy.

Shock kept away the anger, leaving him empty and curious more than upset. He’d thought he’d outgrown such a reprimand. What was hardest for him to discern was what, exactly, he’d done to deserve this severe a setting down.

As he strolled to the stables to have Knightwick’s horse brought out, Neil decided he couldn’t leave Bridgethorpe Village soon enough.

Chapter Six

Rebecca loved weddings only slightly less than she loved baptisms. Both were filled with the promise of a glorious future. Both involved the gathering of one’s family to celebrate a blessing. Rarely was anyone in a bad mood.

The wedding between Mr. David Lumley and Lady Joanna Hurst met those conditions in abundance, given the size of the Lumley family. Rebecca was surprised to see the Earl of Bridgethorpe in attendance, as it had been many weeks since he’d come to church. Any weakness in his manner was outweighed by the pride beaming from his entire being. He obviously approved of his son’s choice of bride.

The bride’s family was fewer in number, with her brother, the Earl of Northcotte, standing in his deceased father’s stead. Her mother, still wearing widow’s black although her husband had died some years prior, sat with Lady Joanna’s aunt and uncle. They were a quiet group, but easily as proud as Lord Bridgethorpe.

The ceremony passed quickly while Rebecca daydreamed on whom their first child would resemble, and which of the Lumleys would marry next. Her guess was Lady Hannah, who would enjoy a second London Season this year. The young Lumley men seemed to have little interest in making a match.

Her thoughts couldn’t help but turn to Mr. Harrow, who looked so fine in his navy coat, gold damask waistcoat and navy trousers. After dancing with him at the assembly, she realized he was the one man who could tempt her from her spinsterhood, if he were so inclined. He seemed so good natured. He’d surprised her by speaking to her father when she’d fallen on him, rather than running for the hills as most of the local men did when they saw her approaching.

What would it be like married to a man such as he? Would he speak to her over coffee in the morning, or bury his face behind the newspaper? Her parents hadn’t been visibly demonstrative of their love, but back when she had real hopes of marrying, she’d imagined her husband would find excuses to touch her arm or her cheek, or steal a kiss. There was nothing in Mr. Harrow’s manner to suggest he might be that sort of man, but remembering how he smelled, the odd blending of starched linen, clean, warm wool and bay rum, made her wish, for a moment, she would find out one day.

Before she knew it, the others around her were filing out of the church behind Mr. Lumley and Lady Joanna. Rebecca had been woolgathering so long she’d missed the final recitations of the ceremony. As she hurried to not be left behind, she prayed no one had noticed her lack of attention.

Rebecca and her father were invited to the wedding breakfast at Bridgethorpe Manor, and Knightwick escorted them in his own carriage. He was the one brother who most intrigued her. At thirty-one, he’d shown no interest in taking a wife and setting up his nursery. Rebecca wondered if he was too involved in the management of his father’s estates to find love, or if there was some other reason.

Knightwick was the opposite of his cousin, Mr. Harrow. Where Knightwick was serious and all that was proper, Mr. Harrow didn’t appear to take anything seriously. He seemed oblivious to the fact his actions had consequences. She wondered how his tutors had spoiled him thus, or was this an improvement on his natural inclinations?

It came as no surprise to find herself seated beside Mr. Harrow at the dining table, with Mr. Trey Lumley on her other side. Rebecca was certain Lady Bridgethorpe had arranged them by rank, as society insisted upon, and not because the two young men were of marriageable age and Rebecca was still single. If the lady or her husband had any desire to see one of their sons married to a vicar’s daughter, they would have arranged such a match when Rebecca first came of age to marry.

Rebecca directed her first question to Mr. Lumley. “When do the bride and groom leave for Newmarket?”

“Tomorrow, I believe. David is concerned about his mares who will be foaling.”

She forced herself to eat some of the eggs on her plate before turning to Mr. Harrow. One questioned begged an answer. Where had he gone last night? He’d rushed out after their dance as if his coat tails were on fire, and she didn’t see him again. For her, the light had dimmed after that one dance.

A niggling voice in her head insisted she knew the reason he’d gone. Had someone revealed her secret? Only a few knew the entire truth of the matter, but any one of the tales she’d overheard would be enough to send a man running.

Sighing, she took another bite of the meal. Her life wasn’t meant to be bright and gay. Hers had a purpose, one beyond that of a wife and mother. Once she had accepted that and put aside those dreams, she was able to fulfill her purpose tending to Father’s parishioners. It hadn’t been an easy adjustment, but she’d managed. Until Mr. Harrow came to call on his cousins, that is.

Mr. Harrow pushed his food around his plate with his fork. “Lovely wedding, wasn’t it?”