by Liana Lefey
Had I let it go on, her wounds would be far worse. This was for her own good. Daniel does not love her, and if she knew the truth about what we’ve done, she’d hate us both.
She’d called him “ungrateful,” having no idea how true it was. What reason had he to be grateful for a woman’s love? The ladies had always favored him. As a child, they’d doted on him even when he’d been a terror. As a young man, the village girls had looked at him with calf eyes. A fair few had invited him into their beds once he’d gotten old enough for that sort of thing, and he’d gladly accepted. But he’d known it wasn’t love. How could it be love when they’d hardly spoken save for a few words here and there during their clandestine couplings?
But Mary…Mary hadn’t been pretending. Oh, at first she’d been like all the rest, taking him—or Daniel, rather—at face value. She’d confessed to seeing a man in a vicar’s garb, to making assumptions about his character based on it, and to being enamored of the image he presented. And then she’d insisted on making things right and getting to know the real man beneath the collar.
Unfortunately, the man she’d gotten acquainted with was the wrong man.
And yet…she was fond of my company. Good sense ruthlessly snuffed out the errant thought. Don’t lie to yourself. She’s fond of the man you were pretending to be.
He’d grown fond of her, too. Too fond, confound it! This really is for the best. It wouldn’t do to dwell on his liking for a woman whose heart he couldn’t hope to win as himself. She’d called him “undeserving” and it, too, was true. He’d never be worthy of someone like her. Not if he spent a lifetime trying to make amends for the path he’d trodden.
Chapter Eleven
That evening, he missed her face during the service. When he inquired, he was told by her mother that she’d come in from their outing complaining of the bitter cold and a headache. She was at home, indisposed.
That night, he tried to put nib to paper and relate to Daniel all that had transpired, his frustrations, guilt, and dissatisfaction with his management of the matter. The crumpled-up page was in the fire before the ink had dried on the last sentence. Half a dozen sheets of parchment later, he realized it was hopeless. In the end, he wrote only that he was making fine progress, and inquired as to Daniel’s luck with the deal and Miss St. Peters. Sealing the note, he laid it aside to post in the morning.
I’ll give it a couple of weeks before declaring the matter closed. Just to make certain. After all, Miss Tomblin was a particularly stubborn specimen, and women were known to change their minds. He had to be sure. For Daniel’s sake.
Despite Devlin’s weariness, sleep evaded him. And not just because of the giant new bruise on his leg where the gate had hit him. For a long while he lay in the dark, reliving the last conversation he’d had with Mary, picking it apart. What might have happened had he spoken differently? Their almost-kiss haunted him and made him restless.
He awakened to a cheerless gray morning that did nothing to improve his mood. Taking his letter to the inn, he was pleased to receive one in return from Daniel. He skimmed over the grousing about his excessive lifestyle and the questionable company he kept, his only real concern being that no one suspected anything was amiss, and was informed that his brother had succeeded in fooling his London acquaintances.
There was no mention of Miss St. Peters, and Devlin couldn’t help wondering if his brother had done the same as he and simply neglected to mention any female-related complications. It was an uncharitable thought, and he dismissed it at once. Unlike himself, Daniel had always been the sort to want to talk about it whenever things went pear-shaped. It’s what made him an excellent vicar and a complete disaster at cards.
The days following managed only to further sink his spirits. Time maintained a steady march at a snail’s pace, and though he tried to busy himself, nothing he did made it go by any faster. With every outing, he found himself hoping to catch a glimpse of Mary in passing.
At the mercantile, he searched every nook for her familiar profile. Nothing.
Remembering what she’d said about scheduling visits to her newfound friends during the week, he paid call on Mrs. Stone that Wednesday to check on the progress of the repairs, thinking Mary might be there. She wasn’t.
He visited the patisserie, the village’s tiny bookstore, even the milliner. But Mary Tomblin was nowhere to be found.
On the fourth day of his fruitless efforts to “accidentally” encounter her, he spied her friend, Miss Augusta Benfield, coming out of the apothecary. Putting on his best “vicar face,” Devlin hobbled his way over. “Miss Benfield, what a pleasure to see you.”
There was no wariness in the girl’s eyes as she smiled and made her curtsy. “Likewise, Reverend.”
He inquired after her family’s health, received the expected reply, and then carefully broached the subject of Mary. “Miss Tomblin was not at the Sunday evening service with her family, and her mother said she’d taken a headache. I do hope she is not still ill?”
Miss Benfield’s smile broadened knowingly. “She is quite well, I assure you—although I believe she’s feeling the effects of the inclement weather most keenly. Mary likes the outdoors, as you must already know, but her mother insists that she remain inside while it’s so cold for fear she’ll come down with worse than a headache.”
“Well, I suppose the lady must know what’s best for her daughter.” Damn. He’d sounded as petulant as a child after being forbidden a visit to the sweet shop. Embarrassment warmed the tips of his ears as the girl’s eyes softened with sympathy.
“I’m sure she would not mind a visit,” volunteered Miss Benfield. “I know her mother was disappointed when you failed to visit on Sunday after your calls. I believe she intended to invite you to dinner this week.”
So Mary had been telling the truth. “Ah, yes, well…”
“I’m on my way there now, if you’d like to accompany me.” She eyed his crutches with some doubt. “That is, if you can manage?”
Good sense told him to decline as she awaited his answer, but his lips ignored the command to be still in favor of responding with: “I would be delighted to escort you, Miss Benfield, though I fear I won’t be able to stay long. And we need not walk—my trap is just around the corner.”
…
“I cannot believe it,” Mary whispered, her fingers tightening on the window sash. She’d been reading on her bed when she’d heard Augie’s voice outside her bedroom window, and had wondered who on earth she might be talking to. Now she knew. Lo and behold, there he was, struggling up the front walk on his crutches beside her best friend, bold as broad daylight, as if she’d never told him to stay away.
What does he mean, coming here now after the conversation we had? And on foot, in his condition! Anger surged through her as his laughter drifted up from below. Hot on its heels, another, darker emotion assaulted her as she heard Augie respond in kind.
Stop it. She’s in love with Mr. May. Even so, it was impossible to ignore the spike of envy that pierced her at the lack of wariness in his face as he regarded her friend. It was plain to see their rapport was one of comfortable amity, free of any strain or distrust. They appeared for all the world like bosom companions.
And he looked like no other vicar she’d ever known. His was the face of a gentleman at leisure with not a care in the world—not that of a concerned shepherd burdened with the cares of his flock.
It occurred to her then that he’d changed significantly since they’d first met. She hadn’t noticed until after having distanced herself from him, but his bearing was different—and it had nothing to do with his broken leg. There was nothing of his former humility in the way he now held himself. He looked like a man accustomed to command rather than one called to be a servant.
Not only was his bearing altered, but his speech had become more direct, and ever since Christmas he’d begun to look her in the eye
s when they spoke. Just as he was now doing with Augie. Again, she felt jealousy’s sharp sting as he threw back his head and laughed again just before the pair disappeared beneath the eaves.
Fury mounted in her breast. That he should laugh so with Augie, of all people, elicited a strange pain in her chest and put her in a black mood. Below, she heard the front door close with a solid thump. Whirling from the window, she darted to the mirror to check her appearance. Any second now she’d receive a summons to come and greet their guests.
One question rose to the fore, pushing aside all others: Why had he come? What could he possibly have to say to her that was so important it couldn’t wait until Sunday? Her parents would surely make the wrong assumption, even if—perhaps especially because—he’d arrived with her best friend.
She patted a stray wisp of hair back into place and straightened her fichu where it had gone askew as she’d lain reading. The color in her cheeks was high, but there was nothing to be done about it.
I ought to have confided in Augie and told her everything. Then she might have known better than to drag him along. For surely that must be what happened. He’d never willingly come here. Augie, no doubt still thinking her in love with him, must have coerced him into this unexpected visit. He must know how his presence would mortify her!
The anticipated knock on her bedroom door told her it was time to face him and find out what he wanted. For the last several days, she’d thought of little else but what had passed between them, and she’d concluded that her own behavior to date had been full of error.
Never again would she make such a fool of herself as to hang at a man’s heels, waiting for him to toss her any scrap of affection. He was right. She’d never be satisfied with only a piece of her husband’s heart.
With all the dignity she could muster, Mary slowly descended the stairs and made her way to the salon where waited her mother and their callers. Damned if I’ll hurry just because he’s here!
When she entered, it was Augie to whom she first paid her respects. Only after learning her friend was in perfect health and happiness did she deign to address her escort. “Reverend Wayward, how good of you to come. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” It was as polite a greeting as could be, but there was no welcome in it.
And he knew it. His eyes narrowed a fraction, but his smile remained fixed. “I was concerned for you, Miss Tomblin. Miss Benfield told me you’d been confined after having come home with a headache after our last outing. I was so sorry to hear it, and afraid you might not want to accompany me again this Sunday.”
The hint was as broad as the Atlantic, and the remorse in his eyes was her undoing. Her hardened heart softened like tallow. “Your worry is needless, Reverend. I’m fine, as you can see. My mother,” she glanced at Mama, who was looking on with wondering eyes, “has insisted on my staying in, but my constitution is hearty. Surely, I’m cured of any ailment that might have threatened. Is that not so, Mama?”
Her mother’s eyebrows inched higher still. “Indeed,” she agreed, her gaze flicking between them, assessing. “I believe she may venture out again, provided the weather is not too bitter and she is appropriately attired—though I should still not like her exposed to the cold for very long.”
Wayward, who’d stood awkwardly to greet Mary, didn’t take his eyes off her as he answered his hostess. “I shall certainly err on the side of caution when determining whether or not to allow it, madam. I would never willingly cause harm to your daughter.”
What does that mean? Has he changed his mind? There was no time to decide whether the apology implicit in his tone was for her fictitious malady or his having injured her heart, for her mother again began to speak.
“I’m so glad you came by today,” she was saying. “I thought to see you when you brought Mary home on Sunday, but she said you were all in a rush and had not the time for a visit, and with your leg…well. Do sit, Reverend,” she adjured. “I was sorely disappointed—I had intended to invite you to take supper with us one evening this week. We would be honored to have you as our guest this Friday—if you are feeling up to it, that is.”
Mary’s heart all but seized. Oh, sweet Lord above, help me!
“I would be delighted,” answered the vicar, easing himself down into the nearest chair to perch on its edge as if poised for flight. “And most grateful. I grow weary of my own culinary skills—or lack thereof,” he added with a chagrined laugh.
All the longing Mary had thought to suppress thrilled to life at the sound. Lust, too, rekindled in a blaze as the fine lines at the corners of his dark eyes deepened. While her mother nattered on, she reflected on her strange predicament. Was this visit a show of true interest, or merely the result of guilt, a sop for his conscience? Clearly, he felt bad about how things had ended between them, but it couldn’t be his only reason for showing up at her house and effectively negating their previous accord.
Could it? She had to know. “I cannot help but wonder at your change of heart,” she ventured, earning a startled look from her mother. “When last we spoke, you led me to believe you would not consider allowing me to accompany you again until spring. You were quite adamant. What changed your mind?”
In the silence that followed her statement, she heard the clock’s tick and the rustle of her mother’s skirts as she nervously smoothed them.
“I thought about our…disagreement for a long time afterward,” he said at last, his blue gaze piercing. “In retrospect, the vehemence of my reaction was perhaps unwarranted. I can attribute it only to fear.” He flicked a tense glance at her mother. “It was my responsibility to keep you safe, and I felt I’d failed. We should not have ventured outside the village proper with it so cold, and I was wroth with myself for not having used better judgment with regard to your health. I humbly ask your forgiveness for both my poor guardianship and undeserved severity.”
Inside, Mary felt all wobbly and lightheaded, as if she’d forgone several meals. “Of course I forgive you,” she managed, fighting back an urge to crow in triumph. He does like me! So much that he hadn’t been able to stay away, despite his fears. Why, the man was actually blushing! She realized she was staring and quickly looked down. “I cannot find fault with you for having my best interests at heart.”
The set of his shoulders eased, and she knew then that he’d been genuinely worried over how she’d react to his apology. How dear was his awkwardness, how charming his humility in coming here to make amends!
Be calm, Mary. Don’t bungle it. “I’ll admit I was saddened by the thought of not seeing everyone until the weather warmed,” she said. “Your visit today has made me most happy.” Finally, she allowed herself to smile. “I shall be able to return Mr. Messingham’s book myself and see how Mrs. Small has enjoyed my gift, among other things.”
Clearing his throat, Wayward nodded. “Indeed. Seeing a friend’s joy firsthand is always best, but I hope you won’t mind if I relate a friend’s good news on their behalf?”
“Not at all. Good news is always welcome.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to know the repairs to Mrs. Stone’s house are complete.”
“How pleased I am indeed!” she exclaimed softly, meaning every word. “Thank you for bringing me such news in person. I shall be glad to visit her this Sunday and see her and the children warm and cozy.”
Movement to his left caught her attention, and she marked Augie’s smug look. Mary owed her a debt of gratitude for having facilitated this encounter. An idea formed, one that would repay Augie’s kindness—and serve another purpose. “Dear Augie, won’t you also join us for dinner this Friday?” She ignored her mother’s incredulous look and Wayward’s perplexed frown. “Together, we’ll make a most cheerful party. Oh, do say yes!” She gave the tiniest nod of encouragement.
Augie, stunned, stammered acceptance. “I would love to join you. Of course I’ll come.”
“Ex
cellent! I’ll be sure to have the card table laid for us—I owe you a good trouncing. Perhaps you’ll join us, Reverend, if it does not offend your morals to play for sweets?” She watched his expression change as it occurred to him what she’d just done. By removing any opportunity for privacy between them, there could no longer be any expectation on her parents’ part. She’d effectively conceded the field.
Now it was up to him to make the first move. His behavior would inform hers. If it was meant to be, then it was only a matter of time before he declared himself. She would wait until he was “ready”—or until her parents made her board a London-bound carriage. “What say you, Reverend?” she prompted before the silence could grow awkward.
A cat-that-ate-the-cream smile stole over his lips. “I have no objection to a friendly game—as long as you have no objection to losing your stakes. Not many people know it, but I have a great liking for sweets.”
Chapter Twelve
Bloody hell. In his cocksure pride, he’d momentarily forgotten himself, and from the look on her face, Devlin knew she’d mistaken his words for a flirtation. Was it not? Silencing his conscience, he decided the best thing he could do now was play innocent. “Marzipan is my Achilles’ heel. What is yours?”
“I…ah, Turkish Delight,” she replied, visibly flustered. “Papa sometimes brings me a box from London—a rare treat. Which I suppose must be good, or I would eat little else.” Her laugh sounded strained. “I fear I’m a terrible glutton when it comes to sweets.”
Feeling awkward was not something Devlin experienced often, and he didn’t much care for it. Unfortunately, he’d felt it more often than not of late. Focus. “I think it not a sin to occasionally indulge one’s sweet tooth. As such, I shall feel no guilt whatsoever in enjoying my winnings.”
