The Devil's Own

by Liana Lefey

  She didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not. “According to my mother, I’m too outspoken for my own good.”

  “I find your candor surprisingly refreshing,” he said drily.

  Now it was her turn to be wry. “As Mr. Messingham said, I’m ‘a female who neither dissembles nor cries over a perceived slight.’” It wasn’t entirely true. She’d cried plenty of times, hurt by the things people said. But having been the “new girl” so many times over the course of her life, she’d learned to hide her vulnerability.

  They continued chatting as they made their way through lazily drifting snowflakes to the cart. This time when they boarded, he let her ride up on the box—the crutches were still propped between them like a fence, but it was a vast improvement.

  As they traveled on to the next house on the circuit, she asked how he’d come to be a vicar and was told he’d first gotten the idea at the age of eight. “So young! Did you never think to become anything else?”

  “I considered piracy for a while,” he replied, his deep blue eyes sparkling with good humor. “But I was dissuaded by the thought of my ear being pierced and my tender hide getting tattooed.”

  Their mingled laughter echoed down the lane. A different sort of warmth enveloped her at the sound of it. One that reached inside her and settled into her bones.

  The next house belonged to Mrs. Mickelby, the elderly widow she’d referenced when trying to convince him to make this joint excursion. The silver-haired matron welcomed them with a scolding. “Out in such weather? Madness! Come in at once and get warm, both of you, before you catch your deaths of cold and damp.”

  It was a nice change. Mrs. Mickelby’s circumstances were somewhat better than those she’d seen thus far. Mary could tell the lady had sunk into genteel poverty in recent years. Her cottage was impeccably neat and clean, but like Mrs. Small’s, her furnishings were worn and beginning to grow threadbare in places.

  Nevertheless, their hostess made them tea and served it with pride in delicate china cups hand-painted with violets. It was a pleasant call, filled by cheerful conversation, the occasional laugh, and the satisfaction of salving a lonely heart.

  They visited two more houses on the village’s outskirts before turning back to finish up in the village proper. Both the elderly cottagers seemed to be dealing tolerably well with the weather and their declining circumstances, but Reverend Wayward warned her the family they were to visit next was in far worse straits.

  “The remaining blankets and food are for Mrs. Stone,” he told her as they drew up to a dilapidated old house in the shabbiest part of the village. “She is caring for two young grandchildren, a girl aged three and a boy of five. They were orphaned last year.” He paused, a pained look flitting across his face. “Mary, I’m afraid I must ask you not to offer to do any work while here. Mrs. Stone would not welcome it.”

  Glancing at the house, she marveled that its mistress would be so proud as to reject any assistance offered, but nevertheless nodded.

  The gifts they’d brought were received with humble gratitude that made Mary’s heart ache. It also deepened her curiosity concerning the reverend’s command to do nothing. Of all the people they’d visited today, it was clear that Mrs. Stone was most in need of help.

  The house was in a terrible state of disrepair, and while the children weren’t starving, they were awfully thin. Their clothes, all clearly castoffs, were either too large or too tight, and the soles of their shoes were worn through in places. Mary wriggled her toes, snug inside their warm woolen stockings and leather boots. She’d have given them the cloak off her back this instant but for the reverend’s warning.

  How privileged am I to live in a state of ease and plenty! She couldn’t help making the comparison between their humble circumstances and her own life. Her family wasn’t wealthy, but they were quite comfortable. Enough that, though she considered herself no spendthrift, she’d never been concerned over the cost of a new gown or trifle.

  In that moment, she resolved to do something meaningful for the poor of the parish as soon as possible. Starting with this family. She eyed the children’s shoes and surreptitiously measured their height, even as she felt a draft snake across her face and neck.

  No child should be cold or hungry in this prosperous village. It wasn’t Mrs. Stone’s fault they were in this situation. It was simply fate. But she could do something about that, at least while she was still in Harper’s Grove. The trick with Mrs. Stone would be getting her to accept help.

  The reverend, it seemed, had found a way around the lady’s pride.

  As unobtrusively as possible, she observed him in his ministrations. Though he’d come specifically to provide aid and succor, he appeared otherwise oblivious to his parishioners’ plight, giving no sign that he’d even noticed the sad state of their dwelling. Indeed, he appeared solely focused on being good company and bringing cheer. They might have been sitting in a duchess’s salon instead of a drafty hovel.

  The incongruity of it struck her, and it suddenly registered that their hostess’s comportment and speech were indicative of good breeding, and that her manners were not at all those of a simple farmer’s widow, but every bit as refined as Mary’s own. Curiosity burned, but she would never be so rude as to inquire concerning the lady’s origins. If what she suspected was true, however, then it was odd that, rather than being ashamed of her poverty, Mrs. Stone seemed nothing less than delighted to receive company.

  Like raindrops gathering, her thoughts pooled and coalesced into clarity as she and the vicar later clambered back aboard the cart.

  “You’ve given me a great deal to contemplate today,” she said softly as they lurched into motion.

  His deep blue gaze flicked over her face. “Oh?”

  “Indeed. You brought those poor people aid today, but your manner with them was that of an honored guest rather than someone handing out largesse. I confess that at first I did not understand it.”

  He tossed her a wry look. “And you do now?”

  “I believe so. As well, I believe I know why you bade me do no work while we were at Mrs. Stone’s.”

  One dark brow arched. “Oh, indeed?” he drawled. “Do tell.”

  Her cheeks heated, and she fought to maintain composure. “You did it because Mrs. Stone was once a lady of rank,” she explained. “Having to accept charity is likely a sore blow to her pride. You preserved her dignity. In fact, you did more than that. You made her feel like a gracious hostess again. You did that with all of them.”

  For the barest instant, surprise flashed in his eyes. Then, clearing his throat, he looked away and said, “Yes, well… The Lord looks on the poor of His flock no differently than He does the rich. I but strive to emulate His good example.”

  “Papa says true kindness neither desires gratitude nor expects a show of humility from its recipient,” she murmured, earning another startled look. “I never really understood what that meant until now, either. I’m ashamed for ever having fancied myself above the people we visited today. Being poor does not mean one is less worthy of respect.”

  His expression softened, and for a long moment it looked as if he were struggling to find words. Eventually, he replied, his voice oddly gentle, “I’m glad you gained a new perspective, Miss Tomblin. Indeed, in the sight of the Lord, we are all equal.”

  With new eyes, she observed the vicar. No, she was not in love with him. But she genuinely liked him. Enough to want to spend more time in his company, to know more about him. And there was something else, too. Every time his eyes met hers, every time he smiled or drew near, something happened inside her. Something intriguingly physical—an empty sort of feeling just beneath her navel.

  His presence elicited other reactions, too. Hot, tingly ones. She supposed it must be a lingering effect of her earlier infatuation, but despite having dismissed such foolishness, the disturbing sensation
s still persisted.

  Desire didn’t require love to exist, but she’d thought only women of loose morals experienced it outside the bonds of marriage—or for the man they intended to wed. She had fully intended to marry the vicar. She still did, provided things worked out satisfactorily between them. Perhaps it was merely the carryover of that intent?

  Whatever the reason, it was a terrible distraction.

  With effort, she pushed away all such thoughts and instead tried to think about the people she’d visited today and all she’d discovered about Harper’s Grove. She’d been part of this community for some time now, but had never even known they lived here.

  She liked them. Well, most of them. Mr. Messingham could use a bit of polishing up, but other than him, they were generally quite friendly. Even feisty old Mrs. Small who, in truth, she rather liked best.

  Harper’s Grove was a good, wholesome place, and its people were genuine. She regretted not having made more of an effort to know those beyond her parents’ limited social sphere, here. Perhaps if she had, Reverend Wayward might have taken notice of her, and things might be different now.

  Still, there was time. Not a lot, but perhaps enough.

  She vowed to get the most possible from it. Every moment spent together was a chance to learn about him as well as show him her quality. As they resumed chatting amiably, she couldn’t help noticing that he seemed awfully curious for a man who’d not so long ago rebuffed her.

  Chapter Six

  Devlin knew he ought not to have done it. He should have ended the conversation as soon as she’d mentioned “the incident,” but he’d been caught off guard by her forthright approach. The explanation she’d given for her behavior toward Daniel hadn’t been at all what he’d expected.

  What sort of woman was this Miss Tomblin? Certainly, she was unlike any other female he’d known. Most—all the ones he knew personally—would rather swallow a live hedgehog than examine their own motives after making a fool of themselves. Especially over a man. Yet she’d done just that, and then she’d taken full ownership of her error.

  The way she’d handled herself today throughout their visits had been admirable, too. Grouchy Mrs. Small had practically adopted her. Even that old misogynist, Messingham, had admired her fortitude, albeit grudgingly. And she’d been unerringly kind to everyone. Well, everyone who’d allowed it.

  He’d intended to have her emptying chamber pots and such, but he’d never had an opportunity to put her to work—she’d done that on her own without waiting to be asked. And she’d worked hard, too, without protest, right through to the end. Even now she offered no complaint, though the weary slant of her shoulders told him she was tired.

  Arriving at the vicarage, he had her set the baskets just inside the door and then turned back to bid her farewell. The sight of her standing there struck him like a blow to the gut, and he suddenly thought her the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  It wasn’t her outward appearance. At the moment she looked utterly bedraggled, a real fright with her soot-smudged face and disheveled hair escaping its pins on all sides. It wasn’t that she was “good,” either. Lots of women were “good,” yet possessed not the least bit of appeal in his opinion. It was that she’d been willing to acknowledge her own imperfections and try to overcome them rather than hiding behind a facade as so many chose to do. That took courage.

  Just as it had taken courage to face down the possibility of another rejection from him. You mean from Daniel… Warning bells clamored in his mind. You’re here for one reason, Dev. Don’t get distracted. Even so, he couldn’t just leave her standing there. “Come, I cannot allow you to walk back alone in this weather. I’ll drive you home.”

  Together they trudged back to the cart through the now inch-deep snow in companionable silence. That silence stretched as they boarded and began their journey. The longer it lasted, the worse Devlin felt. Finally, he could stand it no more. “I know today was difficult for you, Miss Tomblin. You don’t have to accompany me again, if you don’t wish it.”

  All at once, he realized his mistake. Fool! You could have simply relieved her of further obligation without leaving room for a refusal. But he hadn’t. He’d left it open. The question of why he’d done it was something he refused to explore. Dread built in the pit of his stomach as he waited for her reply. No. Say no…

  “Of course I’ll come again,” she said, denying his silent plea. “I promised Mrs. Small I would bring her some yarn, and Mrs. Mickelby that I would visit her again. I would love to do something for Mrs. Stone and her grandchildren, too.”

  Damn. Bad enough he had to do this once a week in his brother’s stead, but to have to do it while fighting attraction was almost too much to ask. Have a spine, man. You’ve denied yourself before.

  The irony of his predicament nearly made him laugh aloud. Of course he’d be intrigued by the one woman in all of Christendom who was strictly off-limits! Had they met under any other circumstances, he’d likely have done his best to persuade her down the primrose path. And that knowledge, too, gave him pause.

  She’d been wounded before by a man just like him—a rogue. Her words came back to haunt him. You are everything he was not…

  But she’d been speaking of Daniel. Devlin knew that even had he met her as himself, the moment Miss Tomblin learned the truth about the sort of man he was, she’d have run as fast as her legs could carry her and never looked back. He’d have had to lie to win her heart, and she deserved better than to be deceived.

  She deserved better than him.

  As Miss Tomblin continued expounding on her plans to help the less fortunate of Harper’s Grove, he wondered how Daniel was faring with Miss St. Peters. Hopefully, his brother was more successful in repelling her affections than he’d been with Miss Tomblin today. For both their sakes.

  He regretted having proposed they switch places. Guilt, remorse, shame—they gnawed at him. At least he hadn’t had to deal with such inconvenient feelings with Miss St. Peters.

  He believed Miss Tomblin had meant it when she’d denied being in love with him—or, rather, Daniel. Her logic had been perfectly sound. But that didn’t mean the danger was over. Now he could see she wanted to be “friends,” and a woman who wanted to be “friends” with a man was but one step away from wanting to take on his surname.

  As much as he hated it, there had to be a way to make her dislike him. Without ruining his brother’s reputation.

  “Mrs. Stone needs to have someone in to seal the cracks around her door, or possibly even replace it,” his companion was saying. “It looked riddled with rot, and I felt a terrible draft. I worry for their health with the cold able to get in so easily. Who in Harper’s Grove would best be able to do such a thing?”

  Quite deliberately, he frowned and sharpened his tone. “You simply cannot resist the impulse to meddle, can you? Did you not just laud my efforts to preserve that lady’s dignity?”

  Her rain-gray eyes, so expressive and open, went from bewildered hurt to defiant ire in a flash. “Indeed, but that does not mean she should not receive help if there is any way to give it without injuring her pride. Surely you can find some means of persuading her. After all, if it comes from you—from the church—then she won’t feel beholden to any one person.”

  Anger brought color into her cheeks, which only further brightened her lovely eyes. Her breath came unevenly, her lips parted and trembling as she drew herself up to deliver another salvo should he answer wrongly. He could not take his eyes off her. In her passion she was, quite simply, glorious.

  Swallowing hard, he felt the starched white collar scrape against his Adam’s apple. The reminder was a timely one. You’re Saint Daniel, not devilish Devlin. Start behaving like a priest and not a rascal. Mastering himself, he again softened his tone to one of humility. “You’re right, of course. Perhaps I can convince her for the children’s sakes. I’ll have a look
at the poor box tonight and see what can be done.”

  Mollified, she let her chin down, but she wasn’t quite done yet. “Very well. I shall make a donation next Sunday, then—and hope it is enough to satisfy the need for which I was moved to make it.”

  Dread overtook his momentary flare of desire. Miss Tomblin might be sweet-spirited and generous, but she also had a stubborn streak as broad as the bloody Thames.

  Now he could see precisely why his brother had panicked. The force of that determination focused on matrimony was worthy of healthy respect. It was time to get a little “holier than thou” and see if he couldn’t take some of the wind out of her sails.

  “Any gift is welcome, of course, as long as it is made to please the Lord and not intended to force the fulfilment of one’s own will,” he said, conjuring a beatific smile sure to get under her skin and incite wrath. He ought to know. Daniel had used it on him plenty of times to such effect. “I can assure you it will be put to good use. Whether for Mrs. Stone or someone else, someone you might not have met today, remains to be determined. There are other needs in this parish of which you have no knowledge, and I will not be influenced to ignore them in favor of another, lesser need, simply because the donor desires it.”

  Oh, he’d definitely tweaked her nose. If her fierce glare and the return of the red flags in her cheeks were any indication, an explosion was imminent.

  But instead, she merely pressed her lips together and looked down. “You’re right,” she said thickly. “I, who have been here less than a year, should not presume to know the needs of this community better than you. Please accept my apology. I will, of course, still make the donation, in full awareness that how it is used is out of my hands the moment it leaves them. I must trust in the Lord to see that it reaches those who need it most.”

  Had Devlin’s chin been less firmly connected to the rest of his face, he’d have had to retrieve it from the floorboards. As it was, he had to consciously close his mouth. Given the exhibition of iron self-discipline he’d just witnessed, he could only reason that Miss Tomblin’s “slip” that day in the sanctuary must have been born of an incredibly powerful emotion. One far too potent to be extinguished so quickly.