Lady Willa’s Divinely Wicked Vicar: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 4

by DeLand, Cerise

  “Fine. Good to know. That’s what I want at the least. Pleasure.”

  “Very well. So if I cannot assure you that pleasure is a natural byproduct of attraction no matter the first discomfort then…what, Esme, is your real problem?”

  “Money.”

  “Ha!” He slapped his knee. A rich girl with a money problem. What rich girl did not have that problem! “I need another drink on that. You too?”

  She thrust her glass toward him.

  He poured. “How much money might you need?”

  “Do you ever lose your sense of humor?”

  “You know I did. Left it in the dust and blood at Salamanca.” That sobered him, but he shook it off. “I’m eager to learn what kills your good humor on the eve of your wedding.”

  “Brentford has not signed the agreement.”

  “I thought that was all settled?”

  “Papa has signed. The agreements between him and Northington are done. But the duke holds out. For money.”

  “Ah, well. An old dog does not change his habits.”

  “If I marry without Brentford’s agreement, he may not recognize me as Northington’s rightful wife.”

  “The Church will. So will Parliament.” Everyone in swaddling clothes above the rank of knight learned the rules of primogeniture.

  “He is the duke’s only son. So the duke cannot deprive Northington of the estate, can he?”

  “My dear, Brentford has recognized Northington as his lawful son by his lawful wife, his deceased Duchess, since his birth. Nigh to impossible to reneg on that after thirty years.”

  “So. Good. There is no changing that.” She sipped her wine, gloom clouding her pretty eyes. “I needed to be certain of it.”

  “I am confused, Esme. What is your concern about money?”

  “Papa’s settlement on me has been more than the norm.”

  “Well, of that I am not surprised. The man has made a fortune in wool, cotton and trade. Why would he not give some of it to you?”

  “I worry that what Papa has worked for all these years may go to line the pockets of a derelict. Bankers can be bought. Settlements manipulated by those who hold the pursestrings.”

  “I will not disagree. Corruption can occur.”

  “That is not just, Charlie.”

  “True.”

  “Much of this marriage business is not just. Not for me or Giles or you and Wills.”

  The stillness in the little cottage was deafening.

  She grew furious, her lovely face red and stern.

  He was enraged for her, for himself and Wills too. All of them were hostages to a social system that robbed people of their rights to love and marry whom they wished.

  Esme stirred. “I am a woman and we have few rights.”

  He was silent in the face of that truth.

  “I cannot fight it,” she argued, “is that what your reticence declares?”

  “Time can cure much of this. The man will die one day.”

  “God forgive me, Charlie, if I say…” She stood and put down her wine glass. “Not soon enough.”

  He shot to his feet and went to her with open arms. She allowed him but one hug and then she fled, the heavy wooden door banging as loudly closed behind her as when she’d shoved it open.

  * * *

  Stark moments later, Wills emerged from his bedroom. Deflated, her mouth turned down in a frown, she stopped before the hearth to stare at the far door. “She’ll not marry him.”

  “This will work itself out,” he said, his usual optimism halved by Esme’s quandary.

  “No. She’ll not have her father work all these years to give his hard-earned wealth to a man who’ll squander it. She’ll not have the man she loves kowtow to a father for the sake of recognizing her as his lawful wife.” Wills faced him, her eyes fierce with pain and tears. “I once asked you what you would do for love.”

  That was the first conversation they’d shared. He had tried to answer responsibly. But he hadn’t hit the mark, had he? If he had, he would not be standing here, wanting her as his wife, yet proclaim himself unable to have her. “We give up much for love. And Esme loves him. She’ll marry him tomorrow because without him—”

  “With him,” Wills cut him off, “she’ll live without honor. Dishonoring both her father and her fiancé, she’ll live ashamed of their sacrifice and her own weakness. I know her. She’s changed as she’s grown older. Wiser now, she won’t allow those she loves to be hurt by her own self-interest.”

  “Esme’s problem can be solved.” He went to her and tried to embrace her.

  With a step toward the door, she eluded him.

  “No. Much as I’d like to believe that, I cannot.” She bent to snatch up her hat, her little purse and pelisse. “Sometimes, even love cannot solve the challenges we face.”

  Chapter 10

  Why was she not here?

  He scanned the ballroom once more and found Wills nowhere. Her negativity earlier this afternoon alarmed him. Cynicism was so unlike her. Except for that silliness about killing those to whom she was engaged.

  Still. She loved a party. Thrilled to dancing.

  Was she ill? Sick of him, most likely. He couldn’t blame her. He was sick of his own failings. Little success with luring George Billoughby from his drink. Failure to collect enough tithes to pay for a new roof for his own cottage. To say nothing of his ability to persuade his bishop to recommend a curate to help him. Or his failure to make a good enough argument to Viscount Courtland to increase wages in his factories again. And his other self? Reverend Peoples lived in the shadows. Praise for that good man of God in Parliament was one thing. But reform of the church and society took time. They even made headlines, but they did not bring income to support a wife.

  He had to talk to her. Ease her sadness if he couldn’t soothe his own.

  “Oh, good sir!” One of the Courtlands’ guests—Lady Pindell, was it?—peered up at him. “How wonderful to see you here. I am eager to hear your message tomorrow morning at the wedding.”

  “Kind of you, Ma’am.” She was so short, he could surreptitiously peruse the room over her giant purple turban.

  “You served a hearty meal to us in your sermon last year.”

  “Did I? I’m pleased you remember.” He did not. A flash of sapphire appeared on the balcony above. He blinked as his heart filled with the vision of Willa in all her finery.

  “Indeed, I told my son you raised good arguments against putting children to work in the mines. My husband had numerous investments in Welsh copper mines, God rest his soul. I always said putting boys down those holes was bad for their health.”

  “And did he stop the practice? Your husband?”

  “No. He called it a waste not to use them. So economical, however.”

  Charlie frowned down at the wealth of her gems and silks afforded by that ‘waste’. “I believe it is the duty of a man of God to present his parishioners less opium and more gruel.”

  She tittered, her little eyes fluttering in confusion. “I… Sir? Well, yes, yes.” Then she recovered and pressed the points of her ivory fan to his evening coat. “I understand you and the bride are friends. How charming.”

  “We are indeed, Ma’am.” The vision in brilliant sapphire turned away from the balustrade. Was Wills headed down here?

  “A wonder you are not the groom then, Vicar. My oldest daughter once had her hopes on the local curate. Sweet girl. We would have allowed her her infatuation, but another gentleman presented himself at just the right moment.”

  He set his teeth. He could bet that the fortunate man had more money than the curate. “How fortuitous.”

  Willa appeared at the far door, glancing about the crowded room.

  “Men of the cloth are so godlike,” the lady dithered on.

  “Are they?” He’d taken his own cloth, so to speak, because he’d been told at any early age it was the profession open to him. Serving the Church had brought him pleasure when he disrupted others
’ stoicism, but it had given him little satisfaction emotionally or financially.

  “Do look at yourself!” She examined him up and down as if she were a girl flirting with him. “A handsome specimen of manhood. A hero, too.”

  “No, no.” He offered the lady before him a tight smile.

  “Dear sir, modesty becomes you. But you did rescue a few men when they were in need.”

  Charlie winced. The memory of one man turning his stomach. He’d found his boyhood friend, Lord Farnsworth, on the battlefield of Salamanca, his leg a pulp, mangled below the knee. “I could not allow him to bleed to death.”

  “Never! My son-in-law, Lord Emley. You know him, I’m sure. He told me he saw you lift one man after another in your arms and carry them forth to the surgeon. Amid fire and brimstone. Miraculous.”

  “Hellish, actually, Madam. War is hell. The miracle occurs when sufficient numbers of men are ruined on each side that the fools who started the fight, see fit to call it quits.” He shot his cuffs. “Excuse me, will you, please?”

  The woman stood aside, fanning herself in confusion at his temper.

  But he was all for the lady in blue.

  * * *

  Wills hurried off through the throng to lose herself in the masses. She knew any number of the guests and each one, it seemed, wished to stop her, talk and purr at her about her gown, their health, news of the ton. But Charlie was on her trail and she’d come tonight to show him up. Dance with other men. Flirt with other men. That was wrong, childish, punishing him for being the good man he was.

  “You avoid me,” he said as he appeared next to her, two glasses of champagne in hand.

  “We’ve nothing more to say to each other.”

  He thrust the goblet into her hand. “I have much to say.”

  “Get on with it, then. I’ve much to enjoy here tonight.”

  His eyes lit in anger. Or was it jealousy? “I’ve tried to improve my lot. This past year, I’ve written treatises…”

  Two of Charlie’s parishioners approached the banquet table and Charlie of necessity lowered his voice.

  Wills gave a harsh laugh. “And your novels. By Reverend Peoples no less!”

  The lady next to Wills had overheard and leaned close to her. “Oh, my goodness, that man is provocative, is he not?”

  “Assuredly, Lady Barnsly.” Wills smiled at the woman and her husband. “He does make revolutionary statements.”

  “I hope,” said Lord Barnsly, “he is not supported by our great church. What a travesty that would be, what, what?”

  Charlie’s face turned bright red. “Do you not think, my lord, that the church must speak for all its children? They are His Creatures and—”

  “And the poor must raise themselves up,” the man said with conviction. “Hard work. Good character. Earn their way. That’s the rub.”

  Charlie grit his teeth.

  Would he argue with the Barnslys? She’d heard him debate others on the topic. So had she. Last year here talking with others and Charlie present, too, she’d railed against child labor in the mines and factories of the north. Not just here in Britain but the world over.

  She faced the two others fully, eager to state her case and to help Charlie make his. “A child has a need for sunshine, air, companionship and fun. I doubt there is much of any of that one hundred feet beneath the green grass.”

  “True,” offered the lady with a tone that told she was soon to counter Wills’s position.

  Charlie took Wills’s elbow. “Excuse us, please, my lady, my lord.”

  “Deft, that,” she said when they were far from the two Barnslys. “Applause to you.”

  “I believe what I said to them.”

  “I’m know you do.” She downed the remainder of her champagne. “What you believe is so commendable. I support you in it. Your right to say it, believe it, fight for it. I think you honorable. More than any man I’ve ever known. And I wish it were possible for us to… But it isn’t.”

  And then she left him. She strode away, wandering amid the magnificently attired crowd of titled ladies and gentlemen. They were the titled and well-to-do of the countryside assembled here to celebrate the wedding tomorrow of the only daughter of a viscount to the son of a duke. She was one of them—and she was imprisoned by the rules they lived by.

  He caught up to her. “Dance the next set with me.”

  She swallowed hard. Desire warred with despair.

  “You love the music,” he whispered, so near, his emerald gaze searing her.

  She gave him her hand. “Once. Then we part.”

  He led her to the group forming on the chalked floor. His demeanor was that perfect, kind. His tempo, accurate. His steps, precise. He’d been taught well, but then he was the son of a duke. He’d had all the privileges of his patrimony, the courtesies, the education, the affiliations. But none of the freedoms his father enjoyed. None of the financial benefits his elder brother Oliver inherited—and took great license to fritter away.

  She let the music carry her. Years of training in the necessary appearances for one of her rank had her focusing on him and matching his steps with her own attention to rhythm. They met in two steps forward, retreated in three. They’d done the same in life. Meeting and finding comfort in each other quickly, but just as quickly parting when her father would give no blessing to such a match.

  The set continued with a roundelay that took her toward other men, other matches. Yet those too were brief pairings, blithe and immaterial, with partners who were as cool as the society that controlled them.

  The final portion of the dance was the progression down the line. If she could survive society’s censure, she would have skipped down the line and have done with this farce. But she couldn’t. She was that much of a creature of her class that she did not wish to be ridiculed. And so what I do, I do in secrecy. To save my pride first. And only secondly to save my soul.

  The music ended. Charlie and she remained a hand’s-width apart. Fear narrowed his features. Sorrow kept her mute.

  Against all rules of propriety, he grasped her hand. Beneath the supple leather of her glove, she imbibed the heat of his flesh. Amid the sorrow swimming in his large green eyes, she recognized how deeply she had hurt him. “I must talk to you in private, Wills. Meet me in the folly when supper is served.”

  “There is nothing more to say, Charlie. Each of us wants what we cannot have. Society decreed our roles before we met. Long before we knew that who we wanted was an impossible choice.”

  “I work to be worthy of you. I have plans. And I question so much of my life. What wilI I do for love? What will I do for self-regard? You ask me. I search for answers. You must give me time.”

  She arched a brow, skepticism hard in her mind. Temptation a soft lure in her belly.

  A footman appeared before them and extended his tray for her empty glass.

  She gave it to him, then turned aside with a swish of her skirts. “We are out of time, Charlie. The world has turned and it is against us.”

  Chapter 11

  He took stock of the reflection in the old cracked mirror. Haggard as one of his father’s hounds, he could carry rocks in the bags under his eyes. No, he’d not slept well. Fixing his white chasuble over his threadbare black robe, he thrust his nose closer to the tarnished mirror. A ghost of himself, he was, looking worse than if he still walked the Spanish plains. Good thing all eyes would be on the bride this morning. If Esme appeared.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  But his doubts echoed Wills’s. After over-hearing what Esme’d said yesterday, Wills didn’t think Esme would marry this morning. But Esme, like all of them, was a creature of her upbringing. She did as she was bid, trained to do, follow the rules. She’d come. She’d stand and take her vows. Then she’d wait for her new father-in-law, the duke of Brentford to do the right thing and sign the papers that would make their contract legal and recognized as his son’s wife. The old roue was being a bugger because he wanted a bigger finan
cial settlement from the well-to-do bride’s father. Money!

  Money or politics or family honor! To hell with them all. None were reasons to marry!

  “Sir!” A ragged voice hailed him from outside.

  Charlie whirled.

  “Surrr!” Whoever it was, took to pounding on his door. The rattle shook the rafters.

  Charlie lunged toward the door, swung it open and there stood…or rather, weaved George Billoughby.

  “Vicar! Me wife! You tell ‘er.” The man wagged a finger at him and stumbled inside.

  The waft of alcohol that shrouded Charlie made his eyes water. “Billoughby—” Charlie caught him as he fell against him.

  “Com-ton. Me wife’s thrown ‘er pot a’ me.” He burbled, licking his lips, rubbing one ear.

  “Your head?” Charlie tipped the man’s head this way and that. No blood there. But head wounds were the worst. The bleeding would be copious and the effects could be life-threatening.

  Billoughby grabbed Charlie’s stole. “She’za witch. Mus’ shtop ‘er.”

  “Come lie down, George.” He led him to the settee. But the man sprawled over it on one elbow like a lady enticing her lover. He’d most likely been up all night. “You’ve got to rest.”

  “Can’t. Na here. Got to go home, ya see. Witch’z shpeakin’ agan’ me.”

  “I understand why.”

  George rose up again, yanking on Charlie’s stole as leverage. His face in Charlie’s, he spluttered about his wife talking against him to his children.

  “Come, George. You’ve got to stop this. Stop the drinking. Rest now. Rest.” He pushed him down. He hated to go, but he couldn’t do much for him until he was sober. “I’ve got a wedding to perform.”

  “Corrland’z girl. Good girl. Mad, ya know.”

  Yes, well. Aren’t we all? “Rest. I’ll return later, George. That’s good. Put this over you.” Charlie swiped a knitted blanket from the back of a chair and threw it over him. It’d smell like a brewery tomorrow. So would his house. But what could he care until tonight?