by Liana Lefey
“Good thinking.” Devlin pasted the expected grin on his face. “And nice attempt to change the subject. Got your hands dirty, did you? Come on. Out with it.”
Daniel’s face fairly flamed as he scowled. “The more I tried to show her that I—you—were not the sort of man she wanted, the more determined she seemed to have me—you. It was most vexing.” His irritation melted into a look of abject remorse. “I’m afraid I resorted to deliberately provoking her into a public show of temper. Her father was most displeased with the outburst and sent her to stay with his sister in Leeds. Indefinitely. He blamed his leniency for her conduct and apologized for her behavior.”
Devlin blinked in surprise. It must have been a truly spectacular outburst to warrant being sent from her doting father’s side. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Well, well. I commend you on your fortitude and resourcefulness.” He raised his glass—vowing it would be his last for the evening—and toasted their mutual success.
His twin’s face remained flushed, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable as he drained his glass in an uncharacteristic gulp.
“Clear your conscience, brother mine,” Devlin told him, wishing he could do so himself. “I knew you were equal to the task. Whereas you’ve the strong morals necessary to resist temptation, I’m far too weak-willed to withstand carnal enticements.”
Why in the seven hells did I say that? Putting down his glass, he vowed not to imbibe another drop until he was safely away from his brother.
Daniel shot him a probing look, but then shook his head and set his own glass down. “So, that’s that, and there’s an end to our respective troubles. I’ll go back to Harper’s Grove with a temporary limp, and you’ll go back to London with what, a sprained ankle?”
“Something like that,” Devlin grumbled just as there was a knock at their door. “It will be good to get back to proper civilization.”
For the first time in days, his stomach rumbled with hunger as his brother admitted two servants bearing trays laden with food. He ignored the flirty-eyed redhead’s inviting smile as she hovered overlong while placing his repast before him. After the table had been set and the servants dismissed, he lifted the cover on the nearest plate and inhaled deeply of the mouthwatering scent released with the rising steam.
The real vicar of Harper’s Grove cleared his throat.
Rolling his eyes, Devlin replaced the cover and bowed his head. As he listened to his brother’s blessing, he felt more normal than he had since this whole disaster had begun. Being with Danny was a soothing, if temporary balm, despite the fact that he couldn’t tell him anything.
The next morning as he made his way to London, Devlin tried to ignore the empty feeling that had returned so quickly after parting ways with his twin.
He missed Mary. Her voice, her smile, her smell. For the rest of his life, the pain of her absence would be his penance. He’d never love another.
Chapter Fifteen
Mary lay soaking in her bath, letting the warm water soothe away her secret aches from the night before, wondering if she hadn’t made a terrible mistake in refusing his offer.
Devlin. The man who’d betrayed her before she came to Harper’s Grove had never made her feel anything comparable to what she’d experienced with him. Even now, the memory of it rekindled unwanted fire in her flesh.
A head-cracking yawn made her lean back and close her eyes. She was still tired. The way he’d looked—his body, his strength, his tenderness, all of it—was imprinted on her mind’s eye and carved into her heart. As long as she lived, she’d never forget it, no matter how much she wanted to.
“Miss?” a maid softly called from the doorway. “Your mother wishes to know if you want breakfast sent up. What shall I tell her?”
Opening her eyes, Mary refrained from letting out an irritated sigh. “Tell her I would like tea and toast only. My stomach is still too delicate to take aught else.”
“Yes, Miss.”
She’d cited the sudden onset of a stomach malady last night as the excuse for her late return. Poor Augie’s cook would take the blame, but it was better than the truth: that she’d foolishly given herself to a man before saying her wedding vows.
Is he thinking of me now? Stop it.
Rising from the now-tepid water, she dried herself and padded over to the mirror. Impossibly, her reflection revealed nothing of the change that had been wrought within her. But she knew she’d been forever altered.
At breakfast, she could do no more than nibble at the contents of her plate. This worked in her favor, as it elicited her mother’s continued sympathy. She was allowed to once more return upstairs to rest in peace.
The clock’s hands had never moved more slowly. Never had her doubts been stronger. She was still rightfully wroth over the deception, but had she done the right thing in refusing his offer so quickly? She’d been so hurt, so angry and embarrassed, that she hadn’t wanted to hear anything he had to say. And she’d been afraid.
Neither had been in a calm or rational state of mind when they’d parted, but she’d had time to think now, at least a little. And such thoughts brought no comfort.
He’d accepted the blame for it all, and she wanted to let him shoulder it, but her conscience wouldn’t allow it. She’d knowingly gone with an inebriated man unchaperoned into his residence. And then when she’d thrown herself at him, despite his questionable sobriety he’d still tried to stop her. Yet she’d persisted. He’d only succumbed to a temptation deliberately put forth.
I am just as culpable as he is for what happened.
Confidence in her handling of the situation waned further. He’d truly seemed remorseful for his conduct and sincere in his declaration of sentiment. Had it all been an act? Or had he truly begun to genuinely care for her?
Her stomach clenched. Have I made a grave error?
Lunch came and went. Her appetite gone with worry, she remained in her chamber with a plate of dry toast she didn’t touch.
Night fell but sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position.
The only woman I want. And the only one I cannot have…
I’ve seen your heart.
Her own heart quailed as his words came back to haunt her.
Did I do the right thing?
Dawn.
She took pains dressing, deciding to go by the church and perhaps see if she’d run into him. “Mama, I think I shall go and visit Augie today,” she told her mother at breakfast. Yesterday’s self-imposed famine had put an edge on her hunger and she’d eaten well.
Mama cast her a dubious glance. “I don’t think so, my dear. You gave us quite a bit of concern yesterday.”
“It was just a bit of stomach upset,” Mary protested, keeping her tone light. “I feel perfectly fine now.”
“Hmm. Well…”
Mary held her breath as her mother hesitated. Please! I must find him.
“I’ll agree you look much better today,” said Mama. “Very well—but I don’t want you eating anything there until after I speak to Mrs. Benfield and she has had a word with her cook.”
Determined not to show remorse for her fib and give anything away, Mary concentrated on her bacon. “Yes, of course, Mama,” she agreed meekly.
She was forced to endure almost an hour of fussing and commentary before at last being allowed out the front door. The urge to take off running down the path toward the church was strong, but she managed to withstand it and restrain herself to a brisk walk.
The church was locked. Careful to check first that no one was about, she slipped around the side to the vicarage. The curtains were drawn. No smoke rose from the chimney. All the same, she knocked. No answer. Cheeks burning, she tried peeking through a narrow crack in the curtains and saw nothing but darkness.
A feeling of dread swept over her as she observed the only footprin
ts in the yard were her own. No one else had disturbed the snow since it had fallen yesterday. Either he was not answering, or he wasn’t there. Part of her wanted to pound on the door and shout for him to come.
Don’t be a fool. There is likely a very good reason for this.
The north wind kicked up a dusting of snow, making her shiver. Turning away, she hurried on to Augie’s. Her friend received her with great enthusiasm. Far more than Mary would have expected, considering they’d seen each other the day before yesterday. “You seem to be in very good cheer today,” she remarked, wishing she felt the same.
“Oh, Mary,” said her friend, smiling to rival the sun. “Mr. May returned yesterday—and he proposed.” She held out her hand, upon which now rested a thin gold band bearing a small, but very pretty, sapphire. “We are to be married late this summer!”
It was hard to appear as excited as she knew she was expected to be, but Mary put all her effort into it. She truly wanted to share in her friend’s joy, but her heart just wasn’t in it. All her thoughts were bent on Devlin Wayward.
Where was he? What was he doing?
She so wanted to confide in her friend. But she couldn’t. Not only would it overshadow Augie’s happiness, but it would be terribly imprudent. He will return, and then I’ll speak with him and learn the truth. This time, I’ll listen.
But the niggling worm of doubt that had burrowed into her heart simply wouldn’t leave her be. When she walked past the church on her way home after her visit, she paused at the corner to check the vicarage one last time and marked that there was still no smoke rising from the chimney. He hadn’t come home. He must be at Winterbourne. It was the only logical explanation.
“Good afternoon, Miss Tomblin. Are you looking for Reverend Wayward?”
Starting, Mary turned around to see Mrs. Stone crossing the street to meet her. “Oh, I…I was just going to speak to him about”—Think, Mary!—“about the spring charity bazaar. I had some ideas.” Could you really think of nothing better than that? It was weak, but it was better than the truth.
Mrs. Stone’s careworn brow furrowed into a sympathetic frown. “He left town, dear—but according to Mr. Siskin he’ll be back for Sunday services.”
A queer sort of numbing sensation spread from the top of Mary’s head to the soles of her feet. “He’s to come back?”
“Mmm. Mr. Siskin said the Reverend left a letter to be delivered to London yesterday morning—as he often does—and then mentioned he’d be away. Some urgent family business, as I understand it. Must have been serious business indeed for him to leave in such a rush.” A smile returned to her lips. “But don’t worry, child. You can tell him your ideas Sunday after the service. After all, the bazaar is still many weeks away.”
He’d left town. A dull pain pulled at her chest from the inside. She could hardly breathe for it. Her eyelids prickled, and she blinked to hold back tears. Pasting on a bright smile, she thanked Mrs. Stone and hastened on her way.
He sent someone a letter. Someone in London. Daniel. It had to be his twin. And then he’d left. Which could only mean one thing: when the “reverend” returned, it would actually be Daniel, not Devlin, at the pulpit. Whether for his own sake or for hers, Devlin had moved immediately to honor her wish that their paths might never cross again.
Tears she could no longer hold back left hot tracks down her frigid cheeks as she trudged homeward. More than ever, she feared she’d made a terrible mistake.
…
Sunday, four weeks later
Every time Mary saw Reverend Wayward, it hurt.
She’d done all she could to avoid running into him, of course, but it had occasionally proven unavoidable. Augie had finally inquired about her sudden lack of enthusiasm for his company, and had been full of shock as Mary had lied and told her they’d had an irreconcilable difference of opinion that had resulted in a falling out. She’d said nothing terribly damning, of course, but it was enough to make Augie glare like a basilisk every time she saw him.
Mary could barely stand the sight of the man, herself. Although he hadn’t been the one to actually commit the act, seeing his face about the village felt like being trapped inside a bad dream. And she simply could not find it within herself to forgive him for telling Devlin about her foolish confession.
Entering the apothecary, she tried to put it out of her mind. Mrs. Small had complained of aching joints, and Mary wanted to pick up some liniment for her before today’s visit. As the clerk behind the counter made change and packaged the liniment, her stomach roiled. She didn’t know if it was the conflicting odors of all the herbs and tonics in here or her own upset causing it, but she needed air. Snatching the liniment out of the clerk’s hand, she called out her thanks as she hastened to the door.
She burst out into the cold air and stopped to draw in a deep breath. It was bracing and did much to ease her discomfort. It was, however, the wrong moment to have emerged. Looking up, she saw Reverend Wayward not three paces off, staring at her with wary eyes, poised as if on the verge of flight.
Oh God. There was no hiding now. Slowly, she straightened, pulling the shreds of her dignity about her like a cloak, and adopted a withering look of contempt. She waited, daring him to address her, wishing she had something other than a reed basket of yarn and Mrs. Small’s liniment to pitch at his head as a reward for his part in her downfall.
“Miss Tomblin…how pleasant to see you,” he said hesitantly. “I do hope your day…is, ah…” Outrage must have written itself on her face in bold strokes, because he stopped, eyes widening, and very wisely took a step back.
Gritting her teeth, Mary turned on her heel and marched off in the opposite direction, head high. Tears burned her eyes. Again. She was so tired of crying.
The close encounter had confirmed her assumption that Devlin had failed to tell him anything about what had transpired between them. His face was guileless, and she knew in her heart that he was truly unaware of what his ass of a brother had done.
It should’ve made her feel better. But it didn’t. It did, however, somewhat alter her feelings toward their village’s shepherd. Bitterness took the place of hatred. She’d never forgive his role in the charade that had broken her heart, but she couldn’t hate him for the rest of it if he didn’t even know. As she turned the corner and made to go the long way to Mrs. Small’s house, she aimed a vicious kick at a snowbank. Indeed, the reverend was the same blithe, oblivious fellow she’d met her first Sunday in Harper’s Grove. He’d not changed at all. Looking back, she was chagrined at how she’d failed to recognize the difference between the two men.
Instinct had led her astray twice, but it would never do so again.
She refrained from kicking Mrs. Small’s gate as she passed. Pasting a smile on a face that felt nothing like arranging itself into any sort of pleasant expression, she knocked on the door.
An hour into the visit, she began feeling ill again. The fire had been stoked to a full blaze, and it was too hot in here. Sweat trickled down between her breasts, and her palms felt clammy. Her stomach churned, and she took another sip of tea to try to calm it.
Bad idea.
Rising abruptly, Mary gave her startled hostess a failing smile. “Please excuse me, Mrs. Small, but I’m afraid I must step outside.” Without further ado, she bolted for the door.
She made it out just in time before the offering of tea and biscuits she’d accepted only minutes ago made a violent reappearance. Sagging with relief, she stayed bent over with her hands on her knees and her head down, gulping the frigid air. Her stomach slowly calmed, and she straightened, leaning on the doorframe for support as a wave of dizziness rolled over her.
Running into him this morning had upset her more than she’d imagined possible. After weeks of wrestling down her pain, anger, and disappointment, she’d thought herself in better control of her emotions. Bending, she scooped up a palmful o
f snow and used it to rinse out her mouth. With the edge of her boot, she scraped fresh snow over the ousted contents of her stomach.
Thank the Lord Mrs. Small did not bear witness to my weakness. Bracing herself, she went back into the house.
“Are ye unwell, child?” asked Mrs. Small, her seamed face puckered with concern as she hobbled over and laid a dry, wrinkled hand on Mary’s forehead. “I feel no fever.”
Mary smiled halfheartedly. “I think I must have eaten something off at breakfast. I should probably go home.” Now that she was back inside where it was so warm, her stomach was threatening to rebel again, despite the fact that there was nothing in it to eject.
But Mrs. Small didn’t stand aside to let her pass. Her rheumy eyes narrowed as she peered up into Mary’s flushed face. “Child, when did ye last have a show of blood?”
That this dear, sweet old lady should ask her something so very intimate shocked Mary to the soles of her feet. Indignant, she drew herself up to squawk an appropriate objection, but then the import of the question struck her, preventing any reproach from forming on her lips as she thought back.
My last menses were in February, of course…no, wait… She hadn’t had them since January, when she’d been worried about the new bedsheets and had slept on a folded drying sheet to prevent any stains. She remembered praying they’d pass quickly and not prevent her from her outing with…
The world abruptly shrank, and she experienced a long, horrible moment of self-awareness so acute it was painful. She couldn’t tell her hostess the truth. Swallowing her terror, she tried to smile reassuringly, even as a queer buzzing began in her ears. “Oh, no, Mrs. Small. I assure you it’s not that. I truly think it’s something I ate.”
