She dropped the basket and rushed forward to brace him with one hand on his broad—very broad—shoulder and the other on his solid chest. Being a prudent miss, she dismissed the electric jolt sluicing up both arms. This was not the time for missish shyness or false pretenses of demureness.
Imagine the scandal if his grace were found insensate, reeking of whisky, atop his father’s grave? This was not the homecoming she’d imagined for him over the years.
“Do have a care, sir, or you will crack your skull.” Supporting his great weight, for his form wasn’t that of simpering dandy, but a man accustomed to physical exertion, she slanted him a sideways glance. “I believe you’ve over-indulged.”
A great deal, truth to tell.
“How ever will you manage your way home to Ridgewood Court?”
“The same way I came to be here in this dreary place.” Giving her a boyish sideways grin, he waggled his fingers in the general direction of the lane. “I shall walk, fair maiden.”
“I think not. ’Tis a good mile, and you’re in no condition to make the hike.”
“Do you fret for me, Thea?” His rich voice had gone all low and raspy.
He lowered his head and pressed his nose into her neck as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her flush with his body.
Shouldn’t she be offended or afraid?
Yet she wasn’t either.
“Mmm, you smell good. Like sunshine and honeysuckle.”
He smelled of strong spirits, horse, and sandalwood. And something else she couldn’t quite identify. She couldn’t very well lean in and sniff to determine what the scent was, as he’d boldly ventured to do.
His grace inhaled a deep breath, another unnerving sound she couldn’t identify reverberating in his throat. “Intoxicating,” he rumbled against her neck, his lips tickling the sensitive flesh.
Trying—unsuccessfully—to ignore the heady pleasure of being near him, Theadosia tilted her head away whilst bracing her hands against the wall that was his chest.
“You are the one who’s intoxicated and don’t know what you’re saying.”
Why must she sound breathless?
The exertion of holding him upright. That must be it.
“Your Grace.” She gave that unyielding wall a shove. “You must release me before someone sees us.”
Not much chance of that with evening’s mantle descending, but it was foolish to tempt Providence.
“I’m not so foxed that I don’t know what to do with a beautiful woman in my arms.”
There was the rogue Papa had warned her and Jessica about.
The sharp retort meant to remind him of his place was replaced by a sigh as his lips brushed hers.
Once.
Twice.
And again, with more urgency.
Did she resist as a proper, moral cleric’s daughter ought to? Summon outrage or indignation? Even the merest bit?
Lord help her, no.
Was she as wanton as Althea?
Did such wickedness run in families?
She stood there, ensconced in his arms, and let him kiss her. She may have even kissed him back, but her mind was such a muddle of delicious sensations, akin to floating on a fluffy cloud, she couldn’t be certain.
His soft yet firm lips tasted of whisky and something more.
Passion, perhaps?
“And here, Mr. Leadford, are the church burial grounds.”
“We have graves dating over two hundred years ago, prior to the erection of All Saint Church’s current buildings.”
Her father’s voice, drifting to her from several rows away, succeeded in yanking Theodosia back to earth and apparently sobered his grace as well. At once she disengaged herself from his embrace.
She risked much if she were caught. Everything, in fact. Papa had expressly prohibited his remaining daughters to be unchaperoned in the company of males over the age of twelve.
“I’m confident you’ll feel as blessed as I do as you assist in the shepherding of my flock.” Pride resonated in Papa’s deep voice, quite useful for his booming Sunday morning sermons. “I confess, I’ve been a trifle lax in my paperwork the past few months. The last curate was a Godsend when it came to organization, record keeping, and correspondences. Such matters are not amongst my strengths.”
“Fret not, for those are my fortes as well, Mr. Brentwood,” a pleasant but unfamiliar voice replied.”
“I’m well please to hear it,” her father replied.
Another new curate?
That made four in as many years. A quartet of unattached males seeking a modest woman of respectable birth to take to wife. Thus far, she and her younger sister, Jessica, had been spared.
Fortunately, each of the former curates had selected a docile—ambitious—parishioner from the congregation to wed before moving on to their own parish.
Unfortunately, All Saint’s Church had few unassuming, unattached misses of marriageable age left.
“Thea . . .?”
The duke reached for her again.
“Shh!”
She pressed her gloved fingers against his lips, and he promptly gripped her hand and pressed a kiss to her wrist.
“Stop that,” she whispered, tugging her hand away whilst silently ordering the fluttering in her tummy to cease.
“My father’s near. I cannot be found in a compromising position with you. He’ll be livid. Please. Let go, sir.”
She’d be disowned on the spot. Cast out and shunned. Her name never uttered by her family again. She’d never see them again either. Ever.
Imagining Papa’s infuriated reaction sent a tremor down her spine.
Even in his stupor, the duke must’ve sensed her fright and urgency, for he released her at once and put a respectable distance between them.
“I’d prefer you call me Sutcliffe or Victor.”
What did she owe that honor to?
Sutcliffe she might consider, but she could not use his given name, except in her mind. Only the closest of relatives and friends might address him by anything other than his title.
As Theadosia stepped even farther away and righted her bonnet, her foot struck the whisky bottle. Her gaze fell on the forgotten basket outside the fence. Bother and rot. She could only pray her father’s tour didn’t include this portion of the grounds.
An exclamation, followed by a flurry of whispers, made her whirl toward the lane paralleling the churchyard.
The elderly Nabity sisters, bony arms entwined and heads bent near, stood on the pathway.
What had they seen?
Theadosia closed her eyes.
Pray God, only her conversing with the duke, a respectable distance between them, and nothing more.
His grace turned to where she peered so intently. Wearing a silly, boyish grin, he bowed once more, this time with more control, though he swayed on his feet in imitation of a sapling battered by a winter tempest.
“Good afternoon, dear ladies. I do hope I’ll have the pleasure of speaking with you after services Sunday. I’ve missed your keen wit and your delicious seed cake these many years.”
In unison, their sagging chins dropped nearly to their flat-as-a-washboard chests, before they bobbed their heads in affirmation and, tittering in the irksome manner of green schoolgirls, toddled off. Probably to make their famed confection.
“I think you said that just so they’d make you seed cake.” The rascal.
“You’ve found me out.”
An unabashed grin quirked his mouth, and she pressed her lips together, remembering the heady sensation of his mouth on hers.
“Theadosia? What the devil goes on here?”
Papa.
Stifling the unladylike oath she wasn’t even supposed to know, let alone think or say, Theadosia shot the duke a now-look-what-you’ve-done glance. Papa would be horrified to know what naughtiness she’d learned from her closest friends over the years.
Where they came by the knowledge she had no idea, nor did she want to
know.
His grace had the good sense to arrange his face into a solemn mien, though she swore mischief danced in his half-closed eyes. Hard to tell with the fading light, however.
Affecting nonchalance despite her runaway pulse and the fear of discovery tightening her tummy, she summoned a sunny smile and edged forward until her gown covered the forgotten bottle of “devil’s drink”, as her father called whisky.
“Papa. Look who’s returned to Colchester.”
She swept her hand toward the duke.
Papa’s expression remained severe as he took the duke’s measure.
Not good.
Perchance if she distracted her father by mentioning his latest fundraising venture to improve All Saints, he wouldn’t become angry at what he was sure to deem her most indecorous behavior.
“His grace was telling me how eager he is to hear you preach this Sunday, and he said he’d be honored to contribute the balance needed for the new chamber organ. You’ll be able to order it now. Isn’t that marvelous? Imagine how lovely the music echoing in the sanctuary will be every Sunday and at Christmastide.”
One of Papa’s stern brows twitched in interest.
Perfect. He’d taken the bait.
Now to gently reel him in.
Contriving her most grateful smile, she caught the duke’s eye.
Distinct amusement and a mite of ‘what-are-you-about-now?’ danced along the edges of his face.
“And his grace suggested it only fitting that the choir have new cassocks and surplices. He insists upon covering their cost as well. Isn’t it a blessing?”
Would God judge her for fibbing?
He well should.
Even if the lies were well intended?
Or contrived out of dread?
More on point and of greater worry now, would the duke deny her declarations?
The chamber organ’s cost was most dear. For over two years the congregation had fund-raised, but Papa said they still hadn’t collected half the necessary monies. To volunteer the duke’s purse was beyond the pale, but she truly must divert Papa from jumping to the wrong—actually accurate—conclusion.
Why had she been so impulsive?
She should’ve alerted her father that someone was in distress in the cemetery, and not taken it upon herself to intervene.
But then she wouldn’t have been kissed until she forgot she was a reverend’s daughter.
“Naturally, if there is to be a new organ, the choir is deserving of new robes,” the Duke of Sutcliffe murmured in a droll tone.
Was that a wink, the brazen bounder?
Had Papa seen?
Her father’s speculative gaze flicked between her and the duke, then the ostentatious marker behind his grace before his features relaxed, and he offered his version of a sanctimonious smile: mouth closed, lips tilted up a fraction, his expression benign.
Placing his palms together in a prayer-like pose, he dipped his gray-streaked head the merest bit.
“Your benevolence is much appreciated, Your Grace. I’m sure our Lord is as delighted as I that you’ve chosen to follow your parents’ practices of regular church attendance and generous patronage to the parish.”
“As you say, Mr. Brentwood.”
His grace inclined his head, all traces of his earlier boyishness and inebriation now concealed. Either the duke was practiced at artifice or he was a superb actor. Or mayhap he hadn’t been as tippled as she believed.
Thank goodness he hadn’t disputed her grand declaration about his generous donation.
Later she’d have to apologize and beg his forgiveness for her duplicity.
“Permit me to introduce our newest curate, Your Grace.” Papa indicated the amiable clergyman who hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d rounded the tombstone. “Mr. Leadford, this is His Grace, Victor, Duke of Sutcliffe, and my daughter, Theadosia. Sir, Theadosia, this is Mr. Hector Leadford.”
Possessing piercing blue eyes in an unremarkable, but kind face, Mr. Leadford bowed.
Something about him raised her nape hairs, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.
“Your Grace. Miss Brentwood. It is a pleasure to make both of your acquaintances.”
His gaze lingered a mite longer than entirely professional, or necessary, on Theadosia, and distinct appreciation glinted in his striking eyes.
Mayhap his interest is what she’s sensed.
“I hope you enjoy our township, Mr. Leadford, and that you’ll feel at home here very soon.”
Theadosia returned his smile, mindful to keep hers polite but slightly distant lest she encourage his regard. Exactly as she and Jessica had been taught to do. In Papa’s view, encouraging male attention was akin to running naked through Colchester banging on a drum.
The only man’s esteem she desired—had ever desired—stood but a few feet from her. A man far beyond her reach, she knew full well. A man she measured all others against, which was truly unfair, for it was impossible for anyone else to compete with the duke. In her mind, at least.
A man whose elevated station required Papa’s deference, but also a man of whom her father would never approve. The Duke of Sutcliffe was precisely the kind of man Papa disdained—one who lived for pleasure alone, or so her father claimed. Honestly, she didn’t think he admired anyone other than clergymen, and none other would do for his daughters.
The wind whistled between the tombstones, and the duke leaned down to retrieve his coat and hat. Dusk was fully upon them now, and the candlelight shining from the windows of the parsonage lent a welcoming glow to the graveyard.
Theadosia sent him a short, speaking glance before lowering her attention to her feet in what Papa would assume was diffident behavior, but was, in fact, the only hint she could give the Duke of Sutcliffe.
She couldn’t move lest the bottle be revealed.
If Papa discovered his grace had been imbibing hard spirits whilst on Church grounds, he’d have an apoplexy. It wouldn’t do for her father to ban the most powerful man in the county from All Saints Church. Nor would it do for Papa to offend the newly returned duke. And it most assuredly would not do for her to be caught hiding the bottle.
Papa’s wrath, though rare, was terrifying.
Sutcliffe draped his coat over his forearm and, holding his beaver hat between his forefinger and thumb, pondered his father’s grave.
“I beg your indulgence, though the hour grows late. I would appreciate a few more moments’ privacy.”
Papa pressed his lips together in sympathetic understanding and nodded.
“Yes, of course. Mr. Leadford, let’s enjoy a glass of port in the salon before supper, shall we? I do believe I smelled chicken fricassee and cherry pie earlier.” He waved the other clergyman before him and paused to glance over his shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you and your mother Sunday morning.”
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Leadford repeated as he bent to retrieve the discarded basket. He’d clearly discerned who it belonged to, and it appeared he intended to be the gallant.
Beaming his approval, Papa didn’t even ask why she’d abandoned the basket.
Praise the Almighty for small favors.
As soon as her father faced away, Mr. Leadford’s attention sank to her bosoms, then lower still, and her stomach clenched.
Now her nape hairs stood straight up and wiggled about, and she resisted the urge to retreat from his frank perusal.
Pray to God Mr. Leadford wasn’t Papa’s choice of a husband for her.
At twenty, Theadosia couldn’t hope to continue to claim she was too young to wed, and that Papa intended to select a man of his own ilk for his younger two daughters became more apparent every day.
It was her own fault she wanted more than spiritual companionship.
No, her friend, Nicolette, was partially to blame for sneaking Theadosia romance novels to read. They lay tucked beneath a floorboard under the bed she and Jessica shared. Nicolette had promised to lend her latest b
ooks when Theadosia saw her next.
God help her if Papa ever learned of them. He wasn’t a harsh or unreasonable man; he simply had a very strict moral code he vehemently enforced. More so since Althea had eloped.
Sutcliffe inclined his head before turning his attention to Theadosia and bidding her farewell with a nod and a penetrating look.
“Miss Brentwood.”
“Your Grace.” She curtsied but didn’t move.
Papa was too close.
Without a doubt, though evening was upon them, he’d see the bright green bottle.
“Theadosia, why are you standing there?” Giving her the gimlet eye, her father pressed his mouth into a stern line. “His grace requested privacy. Hurry inside. Your mother and sister need your assistance with supper. Come along now.”
Speaking low to Mr. Leadford, Papa angled in the direction of the Church, and the duke seized the opportunity to drop his hat—right at her feet.
“I beg your pardon.”
His mouth twitched with concealed amusement.
She neatly stepped aside as he squatted and retrieved the hat whilst tucking the bottle beneath the folds of his coat with his other hand.
“Oh, well done, you,” she whispered, quite enjoying their colluding.
“Thank you for saving me much embarrassment.” His confidential tone heated her to her toes. “And for telling me about my father’s illness.”
“Theadosia Josephine Clarice!” More than impatience tinged Papa’s voice. “Stop dawdling.”
Had he discerned her interest in the duke?
“I’m coming, Papa.”
“Mr. Brentwood?”
His grace stared past her head.
Papa turned, one grizzled brow cocked in inquiry.
“Yes?”
“I can see that my father’s grave has been well tended, and I thank you.”
Theadosia had taken on the duty, though she’d be hard put to give an excuse as to why. She’d convinced herself it was for the Duchess of Sutcliffe’s sake. Still grieving, the woman visited her husband’s grave for an hour every Sunday after services. When the weather permitted, she took lunch there too, her servants setting a table as fine as if she were dining at Windsor Castle with the king.
Poor lady.
Only a Duke Would Dare Page 2
