A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  Tricky. He had no answer to offer.

  The cigar forgotten between his middle and forefinger, Percy fidgeted with his waistcoat buttons, twirling one way then the other, awarding them a hard flick of his thumbnail. The silence stretched. Mr. Walsley remained patient, wearing a placid, friendly smile, the only interrogative aspect about him being his eyes.

  Those eyes seemed to read every thought and memory in Percy’s head. And why in this moment did he suddenly recall every sin he had committed? He recalled with clarity the time he kissed his sister’s governess in the garden, the time he broke his brother’s nose, his employment of his first mistress, the gambles he lost that wasted his father’s monthly allowance, the lustful thoughts he had entertained of Miss Abigail Walsley on more than a dozen occasions. More sins sifted through his brain, revealing themselves to the vicar in a bright bubble above Percy’s head. Or so it felt.

  Giving his cravat a tug, he took two long puffs of the cigar and confessed.

  “Mr. Walsley, sir. Leland. There’s something about this betrothal you should know.”

  One more puff to calm his nerves. He hated the smell and flavor of cigar smoke, but he could not deny the calming effect of sharing such a vice with a man of God.

  “I’m in love with your daughter.”

  There. He had said it. He had admitted it aloud. He leaned back in the seat to better observe the vicar’s reaction.

  “Yes,” Mr. Walsley drawled. “I had assumed as much, seeing as how you’re engaged to her.”

  “That’s not the whole of it. You see, I’m in love with your daughter, but I don’t believe she’s in love with me. At best, she may be fond of me. If I’m that fortunate.”

  The vicar furrowed his brows but remained silent.

  “She’s content as she is. There’s no reason for her to marry me. Why choose a life with me when she’s perfectly happy as she is? I’ve an inkling she’s under the impression that I’m some sort of London rake, which I’m not, just to be clear, but how do I dissuade her of such notions without her thinking me insincere? How do I convince her life with me offers more than her current happiness? I don’t want to scare her or send her running. And while I’m being honest here, I fear she’s going to cry off. Wouldn’t you, if you were engaged to someone you didn’t love? You’d cry off, wouldn’t you? For now, she’s trapped in this betrothal with me, but what will she do when she realizes she doesn’t have to be? What’s going to make her give me a chance?”

  His ramblings filled the study, accompanied only by the crackling of the fire and the faint whistle of wind through stone.

  Head bowed in attentive concentration, his companion made no rush to respond. “Has my daughter given you reason to believe she’s unhappy with the betrothal?”

  Percival thought for a moment, rubbing his temple. “Only at first. She was…” He circled his hand in search of a way to phrase this. “…reluctant to enter the betrothal in the beginning. It was impulsive. Since then, she’s not seemed unhappy. Lately, she’s enjoyed my company, I believe. She smiles more. Talks more. Laughs more.”

  “Then I rather think you have the answer, son.”

  “But is it enough? Smiling and laughing doesn’t equate to love. Love doesn’t even equate to trust. How’s she to believe I’m sincere and won’t bolt to London?”

  Mr. Walsley took a deep breath and rubbed his chin. “I heard you’ve visited Leigh Hall a few times this week.” At the perplexed look Percy gave him, he shrugged and said, “It’s a small village. People talk.”

  Letting the cigar burn out, Percival set it on the corner of the ashtray and folded his hands at his waist. “I’ve done more than visit. I’ve written to my father. I proposed that in lieu of the next two years’ worth of allowance, he front me the funds for the estate. I want it, Mr. Walsley. I’ve never wanted anything this badly. I want it, and I want to be an influencer at the wool mill, although to find the investment funds, I’ll need to work the estate for a few years. And—and I want to marry your daughter.”

  The vicar nodded, snuffing out his own cigar. “You’re a good man, Percival. I’m proud of you.”

  Tears stung Percy’s eyes at the words. They were the words he had always wanted to hear from his own father, but when he had finally seen them in writing, they had been in reference to something he could not take credit for doing.

  “I believe you’ve found your path, and I’ve no doubt Abigail will realize it. Give her the benefit of the doubt.” Mr. Walsley stood, gave a squeeze to Percival’s shoulder, and opened the study door. “Shall we see if she’s ready?”

  Abbie skipped downstairs, unable to contain her enthusiasm. Both her father and Percival were waiting in the vestibule. What else could she do but beam at both of them with a smile that defied the dark clouds outside? There was no reason in particular for her good mood. Life, she supposed. The progress of her novel. The joy of a new friend. The promise of spending the morning rounds with her hero.

  As soon as they stepped outside, the wind blew right through her, chilling her to the bone. She could smell the coming rain. Tucking her hand under Percival’s arm, she sidled closer, smelling more than just moisture in the air.

  “Eew. You smell like a cigar,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “That’s the greeting I get for being your noble escort today? You need lessons on how to treat a knight in shining armor. I expect compliments, simpering, forelock tugging, knee scraping.”

  “Aren’t knights supposed to be humble?”

  He scoffed. “Not when told they smell bad. I even added a little something special today for my lady fair. Here, sniff.”

  Percival leaned in and pointed to his neck. Bashful but too curious to resist, Abbie angled her face to the exposed skin between his cravat and his ear. She gave it a little sniff.

  Although the cigar smoke hung on his clothes, she could not deny the seductive aroma of rose water. When he did not immediately move away, she lingered, inhaling the combination of scents, the subtle hint of man, roses, and cigars, a heady mix that had her closing her eyes and leaning against him until her nose brushed his ear.

  He straightened, his fingertips to her lower back to steady her. “Well?” he asked, his voice deepening. “Does that absolve me of the sins of the tobacco leaf?”

  “I’ll think about it.” She giggled. “But only if you remind me of your good deeds. To make amends, tell me about the dragon you slew.”

  She tugged him in the direction of their first stop. Mrs. Cleo Tuxton, a widow with four young children, lived with her sister-in-law, Mrs. Ayda Tuxton, who cared for her stepdaughter and elderly brother. They were partial to Cook’s Cornish stargazy pie, so Abbie always packed it in the basket especially for them.

  “The dragon was grossly misunderstood, I tell you. I arrived on the scene, sword brandished, and called out, ‘Ho! Dragon! I challenge you at the behest of the villagers whose relatives you unceremoniously roasted.’ To which the dragon stepped out of his cave, gave a mighty roar, and declared he was framed!” Percival pointed to the child’s face peeking out at them from the cottage window.

  “Framed?” Abbie laughed, waving at the face in the window, which ducked down at being spotted, the curtains swaying in response. “I don’t believe a word of this. Knights slay dragons. Dragons are not framed.”

  “Who’s telling this story, you or me? In my version, the dragon was framed, or at least that’s the story he gave me. And you know what? I believed him! Still do, as a matter of fact.”

  She knocked on the cottage door. “Then who roasted the villagers if not the dragon?”

  “The blemmyae, of course.” He winked at her as the cottage door opened to the trills and howls of five unruly children.

  They had little time to talk on her rounds since each visit was one door down or three doors down or one cottage away. But every time they stepped out of a house,
Percival picked up where he left off without missing a beat. By the time they reached their last stop, they had cobbled together a fantastical story that interweaved not only her role as his squire—a lady in disguise as a boy so she could save her family from the wicked clutches of Prince Dungheap—but also her role as the clandestine betrothed of Sir Bartholomew, who had just been gifted by the Crown a home at Glee Abbey.

  The two were in hysterics over their tales, drawing the curious eyes of the villagers scurrying to and from their homes, hopeful to escape the coming rainfall. The sky was ominous, and the wind had picked up its pace, tossing her cloak about her legs.

  As far as she was concerned, Lord Dunley needed never to marry. He could instead pursue her with more gusto so she could continue this betrothal charade longer. She was not ready for this fantasy to end. She did not want Percy to return to London. Eventually, he would leave. He was a man of City and Society. Should he stay much longer, he would bore of her, and if not of her, then of the country.

  Now, however, was divinity.

  They approached the vicarage door, but she was unprepared for the morning to end.

  Selfishly, desirous of more time with him, she kept her hand tucked in the crook of his arm and asked, “Would you consider reading another chapter before leaving? We’ve only two remaining before we’re caught up to where I am in writing. I believe, and I’ll value your opinion on this, that I’ve only a few more chapters to write until finished.”

  He tucked a finger beneath her chin and looked at her with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “It would be my honor, darling.”

  Before she lost her nerve, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

  The door opened as she rocked back onto her heels, startling her into a little jump backwards.

  The footman greeted her with, “Ah, Miss Walsley. I thought I heard your voice. You’ve a guest in the parlor.”

  As much as she dreaded Percy leaving, with a caller waiting, it was for the best. Out of her peripheral, she watched him walk away, not wanting to appear too lovesick with her longing gaze.

  Removed of her cloak, gloves, and bonnet—something she would not leave home without again after last time, when she had declined to wear it in fear it would muss silly ringlets—she headed for the parlor. Martin had apprised her of the identity of the caller. The knowledge afforded no explanation for the reason of the visit. Normally, it would not be unusual, but seeing as how Abbie had not seen or heard from Hetty in over a week, the unexpected visit piqued her curiosity. If aught had gone wrong, a sick relation, for instance, word would have spread through the village, and yet Abbie had heard nothing of the sort.

  Her first thought upon seeing a puffy-eyed Hetty was that rumor had failed. A relation had died. Abbie was positive of it. Hetty never cried.

  She launched herself at her friend, hugging her as Hetty burst into fresh tears. “Oh, Hetty. All is well. You’re with me now. Have a seat, and I’ll fetch fresh kerchiefs and ring for tea.”

  Hetty dabbed at her eyes and sat down, waving off Abbie’s attention. “I won’t stay long enough for tea. After I’ve had my say, you won’t want to take tea with me.”

  “What nonsense! We’ve been friends forever. Nothing you say could upset me.”

  The sobbing renewed. “I’ve done a terrible thing. This is the happiest day of my life but also the worst. I almost didn’t have the courage to face you, but I’d rather you heard it from me.”

  Abbie clasped Hetty’s hand and refused to let go, despite a brief tug of war.

  “I—I—I’m engaged!” Hetty screeched, flailing her handkerchief.

  When she volunteered no further information, Abbie gave the hand a squeeze.

  Another sob. “To Lord Dunley.”

  Releasing her friend’s hand, Abbie covered her mouth in shock. Hetty was engaged to Lord Dunley? Impossible! They had never even met.

  “You’re angry. I knew you would be. This is the end of our friendship, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, I’m angry!” Abbie exclaimed, her hands coming to rest over her heart. “I’m furious. How could you do such a thing?”

  Hetty blanched. “I’m a terrible friend. I’m selfish and took advantage. It was all a ruse to steal him for myself. I knew you would be angry, and you’ve every right to be.”

  Abbie shook her head and reached for her friend’s hand again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m furious because you’ve allied yourself with someone who could never make you happy. How could this be what you want?”

  Her friend’s sobs turned to hiccups. “Wait. You’re not angry that I’ve gone behind your back?”

  “Not at all. I’m only worried you’ve made a mistake.”

  Hetty’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I don’t believe I have.” She balled the kerchief in her fist. “As soon as I knew Lady Dunley wanted a full-time companion, I took up your post of calling on her daily. At first, she didn’t take to me. All she could talk of was you. But she warmed to me sooner than I expected. She loves my book, Abbie. She wants me to write more, says writing books of manners is a perfect pastime for a young lady. I did as you had, knowing what she was after, and refused to be a full-time companion, but I continued to visit, staying all day on several occasions. Today, at last, Lord Dunley proposed. I’m the happiest of women. I am. I only worried you would be angry.”

  “But you’ll be more companion than wife. Don’t you see that? He’ll spend all his time in London. You won’t be happy.”

  “That is the happy part. He won’t be there. And I love spending time with Lady Dunley. She likes for me to read to her from my book and has sage advice on how to improve it and what to add. She’s even promised to see it published. Lord Dunley is a kind man, I believe, even if he has no interest in marriage.” With a laugh, she added, “Not everyone wants a Sir Bartholomew to sweep them off their feet.”

  Abbie mustered a little smile, wrapping her arms around her friend’s shoulders. “I do want a hero. I never expected a heroine would come to my rescue, though.”

  Not long did Hetty stay, worried of the coming storm. After Abbie saw her friend to the door, she closed it, resting her head on the wood.

  No, no, no. She was not ready. This was too soon.

  With Lord Dunley engaged, she was free to call off the engagement. Percival would expect her to. It was the moment they had both been waiting for, and yet now that it had arrived, she was uncertain she could bring herself to follow through. But she could not trap him. She could not force him to love her. Whatever flatteries he had uttered recently were just that, flatteries. A rake making the best of a bad situation by doing what a rake does best: flirting with the maidens. If he knew she had fallen in love, she would be beyond humiliated.

  She needed to end this with all the dignity she could muster.

  This was the end, of course. All she could do was let him go.

  Chapter 15

  By the time she knocked on her father’s study door that afternoon, the storm raged outside. Gusts of wind vibrated the window frames. Sheets of rain pelted the glass.

  Half hidden, she peered around the door. “Are you busy? May I have a word?”

  Leland waved her in, removing his spectacles and setting them to one side of his notes.

  “I have a confession,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

  Her father stood and indicated the chairs by the fire. “Is this official, or have you spilled ink or tea onto the rug?”

  “It’s official, Papa.”

  “Ah.” He sat across from her, lacing his hands over his chest.

  Abbie blew air out of her cheeks. This may very well be the most difficult conversation of her life, and she had not prepared for it.

  “I’m in love with Percival.”

  There. She had said it. She had admitted it aloud.

  Her father rem
ained silent, watching her with compassion and encouragement.

  “The trouble is, he could never love me in return. Ours is an impossible situation.” Her eyes averted, unable to meet his gaze, she waited for a response.

  It was a long time in coming, the rain peppering the glass in waves.

  Leland spoke in subdued tones, the even and steady tones of a vicar. “It’s the greatest gift any of us can bestow, love. The giving of love is simultaneously the most selfless and the most selfish of acts, for while it fulfills us to offer, we do so freely, without reservation, without expectation, for the sole purpose of loving. Love asks for nothing in return.”

  She nodded, her mind warring against the words. What was the point of loving him if he did not return the love? That wasn’t fulfillment. That was heartbreak. She heard her father’s words but did not understand them.

  Her affection had deepened the more Percy invested himself in the village, in her interests, the more he made steps to better himself, such as his interest in the mill. But such affection was unrequited. His was all a farce, an over-the-top farce. He was accustomed to charming others and so had used that charm to convince everyone of the betrothal and build his reputation as a consummate gentleman not to appear a blackguard when they broke off the engagement. He might have expressed a passing interest in the hall and the mill and life in Sidvale, even in her, but it was just that, passing. The best she could do was let him go.

  “Have you told him?” her father asked.

  “Goodness, no.” She scoffed. “He would laugh.”

  Leland propped an elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his forefinger against his temple. “What gives you the impression he doesn’t feel the same way?”

  She worried her bottom lip, eyes still averted. “Lord Dunley has proposed to Miss Clint. She has accepted.”

  Her eyes flicked to her father to gauge his reaction. He remained attentive, unmoved by her announcement.

  “The betrothal wasn’t real,” she blurted.