by Allison Lane
* * * *
Tony spent half the night cursing himself. It was natural to embrace a colleague after finding something as spectacular as that mosaic. But the exuberance of the moment was no excuse for kissing her. Never mind that she had responded. She was too innocent to know what she was doing.
But he was far from innocent.
There were so many things wrong with the way he’d devoured her, that he hardly knew where to start. She was an unwed lady closely related to the woman he must wed. She was a colleague for whom he had the deepest respect. How could he have treated her like a light-skirt?
Dinner had been the most uncomfortable meal of his life. He’d tried to find the words to apologize and put their partnership back together. But they wouldn’t come. Everything sounded hopelessly stilted or fatuously frivolous or downright insincere.
No surprise there. How could he sound contrite when he wasn’t the least sorry? That had been the most exciting encounter of his life. But their partnership was hopelessly compromised. Like the fallen Humpty Dumpty, nothing could put it together again.
He finally fell asleep, not waking until nearly eleven. But that was good. Miss Merideth would be at the villa, so he needn’t fear seeing her. Instead, he would seek out Miss Vale, confess his other sins, and place a betrothal between him and temptation before he must face her again.
Girding himself for this new confrontation, he headed for the breakfast room. Jon and Miss Vale were already there.
“Feeling better?” he asked Jon. He’d been too agitated last night to check his cousin’s condition.
“Much,” said Jon. Yet his breakfast consisted solely of porridge.
“Merideth is in Stroud today,” said Miss Vale in response to his greeting. “She urges you to continue the work without her.”
“Why did you not accompany her? Winter will soon be here. You won’t have many more opportunities before spring.”
“I never go to town,” she objected, blushing.
“Why? Carriage travel is quite easy.”
She shrugged. “Sir W—Father forbids it. Flaunting my deformity before a world I can never enter is rude and pointless.”
Jon gasped.
A burning sensation settled in Tony’s stomach. “Forgive me for insulting your father, but he lied. You belong in society. His only reason for denying you entrance is a selfish disdain for anyone’s needs but his own.”
She stared, but shook her head. “He was thinking of me. Enduring stares and whispers is never enjoyable.”
“Nonsense!” Jon’s objection was so unexpectedly loud, the footman dropped a dish. “Your limp is no worse than Byron’s, and he was welcomed into every drawing room in London until his behavior forced him to flee the country.”
Her eyes widened. She carefully set her cup aside.
“Do the tenants and villagers stare and whisper?” asked Tony softly. Jon rarely spoke strongly about anything, and his willingness to use a man he loathed as an example was nothing short of astonishing. But Miss Vale’s isolation had given him an idea that should carry his plans to fruition.
“N-no, but they would hardly be rude to their betters.”
“Class has nothing to do with it. They are accustomed to you, seeing only your character, not your foot. Just as society saw Byron.”
She stared.
“Murch tells me the hill near Painswick offers a spectacular view. Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“Then let us spend the day there. It promises to be warm, unseasonably so, possibly the last warm day until spring. We can picnic in the sunshine.”
Her eyes gleamed, then faded. “Mr. Linden is not recovered enough for an outing, and you would surely prefer to work on this last warm day of autumn.”
“An outing would be just the thing,” claimed Jon, understanding Tony’s purpose.
“And I cannot work in Miss Merideth’s absence. She would be disappointed if I found anything interesting. Shall we leave in an hour?”
Her eyes moved from him to Jon. As she nodded, her face filled with joy and awe. And hope.
Tony swallowed renewed fury, wishing Sir Winton were at hand. The man deserved a thrashing.
* * * *
Sarah paused on the carriage step to survey the hilltop, hardly noticing that it was Torwell who steadied her hand rather than the expected Linden. She’d never seen anything so lovely.
Her heart had been hammering ever since Linden’s outburst at breakfast. Was it true that well-born people might not consider her an object of pity to be scorned or avoided? His shock had been real. As had Torwell’s, but one expected tolerance from vicars.
She had accepted Linden’s compliments as the pretense they so obviously were. He had no choice but to pursue the lady he thought controlled his birthright. Ambivalence about actually wedding her had caused so many blunders that first night, that Torwell had stepped in to bolster his courtship, dumping the butter boat over her head in an effort to soften Linden’s reputation. But he was no more sincere than Linden. Once Alex confessed – she again cursed her cousin’s vacillation – both men would ignore her. So their genuine shock over her lifelong incarceration was all the more exciting.
She had not traveled farther than the village since arriving at Vale House eight years ago. Her uncle had reluctantly taken her in after her father died, but he had made his conditions clear. She was to remain out of sight whenever he was at home, and she was never to flaunt her deformity before callers, particularly those of breeding. She had expected that reaction, for her father had demanded the same discretion. Her one trip into the world had been from Somerset to Vale House immediately after his burial, but she had been too grief-stricken to notice the scenery.
Now she trembled with excitement. For the first time in her life, she had allowed temptation to supersede duty. Hopefully her moment of selfishness would not lead to trouble. She owed Alex so much. Sir Winton would have ignored her existence without his daughter’s pleas. And Alex had paid a steep price for her insistence. Sir Winton had yet to forgive her for overcoming his objections.
Now she stared in awe at the valley spread below.
“Leave the cane,” said Torwell, tucking her arm firmly through his own. His long legs slowed to match her limping gait across the uneven ground. It was a courtesy even Alex sometimes forgot.
“Behold the Severn Vale,” he said, sweeping his free hand toward the west.
“It is beautiful.” He must be accustomed to such views, but she made no effort to hide her pleasure. She might never see it again. “I did not realize how much color there is this time of year.”
“It is difficult to appreciate the variety from the valley floor. But from here, we see the fields and forests as the birds do. Strips of yellow where grain was harvested. Patches of green marking pastures. The glorious trees of autumn. Oaks turn to rust, others to gold. And look at that estate.” He pointed to their left.
“Beautiful!” The word was inadequate to describe the rich tapestry laid out below.
“Like many landowners, he has scattered specimen trees across his park. The flaming orange is probably a maple from North America. Nothing else produces quite that color. And see that pale yellow? It exactly matches your hair. The blood red is equally spectacular. I wonder what it is.”
“You could ask Mr. Hodges,” suggested Linden. “The groundskeeper at Linden Park,” he explained when she frowned at the unfamiliar name. “Quite knowledgeable.”
A breeze rustled through the grass. Though it was the gentle zephyr of summer rather than the nipping chill of the fast-approaching winter, she shivered.
Linden stepped closer to her side. This time the shiver was trepidation. For the first time since his arrival, Bessie was not with her. She had assumed that Torwell’s presence would protect her, only now remembering that he might have as much at stake as Linden.
“This is a perfect day for an outing,” she told him before turning back to Torwell. She must divide her attenti
on between them, keeping the conversation light and impersonal. And they must keep the outing short. Linden was not as recovered as he claimed.
Why had Alex bolted this morning instead of confessing as she’d promised? It wasn’t like her to run from duty, especially when it left a friend in the awkward position of staving off Linden’s proposal for yet another day.
“Everything looks so tiny from this height,” she said, smiling at Torwell. “And so clean. Look at that barge. I’ve never seen one ride so high.”
“Because it is empty,” said Linden. “That particular river is very shallow. It will doubtless stop in a mile or two to take on cargo. The Severn is another story. See the barge approaching Gloucester?” He turned her toward the north, then leaned over her shoulder to point into the distance.
“Goodness! Is that Gloucester? I hadn’t even noticed it.”
“You can see the cathedral tower quite clearly, with its four spires – beautiful example of perpendicular construction, and the east window is superb. We explored it while in town. Edward II is buried there. If you look past it, you’ll see the barge I mentioned.”
She followed his finger, hardly aware that she had released Torwell’s arm. “Yes. Quite heavily laden.”
“The one headed upstream is lighter. I wonder what it carries.”
“At a guess, laces, silks, and French brandy, now that the war is over.”
“Perhaps. Or Cornish tin.”
“That would surely weigh it down. What is in the downstream barge? Grain?”
“Or shoes. Or maybe cheeses – Gloucestershire cheeses occasionally turn up Lincoln,” he said, smiling. “And very good ones, too.”
She laughed. “Perhaps it is loaded with pins, so ladies’ dresses don’t fall off. There is a manufactory of pins somewhere near here.”
“In that case, let us sink that barge without further ado.”
The moment the words were out, he gasped, reddening as if embarrassed. Only then did she realize that he had suppressed his banter in recent days, managing a relaxed friendliness unlike any of his early manifestations. She liked him better that way, and despite Alex’s warnings, she remained unconvinced that it was all an act. His core was good.
Torwell had slipped away.
Changing the subject to something less suggestive, she cursed herself for inattention. Linden’s charm was catching her in a snare she must avoid. Just as she must avoid giving him an opportunity to propose.
“Do you suppose Cook included lemonade in that basket?” she asked when enough time had passed in innocuous conversation that she would not seem to be fleeing. “Your coachman has finished unpacking. And I suspect you need to sit for a few minutes.”
He flushed again – definitely embarrassment this time. She should not have reminded him of yesterday. Gentlemen rarely accepted illness gracefully.
* * * *
Tony smiled at Miss Vale’s enjoyment – like a child celebrating Christmas for the first time.
Unfortunately, he reacted to her as if she really were a child. She could not be more than five feet tall. He had to stoop even to offer his arm. It didn’t help that she was also delicate. Would he crush her trying to make love?
He stifled the image of the glorious Miss Merideth, who fit his arms as if made for them, and who had been as wild as he during yesterday’s encounter. Why hadn’t fate given Miss Vale even a little of her cousin’s feisty wit or explosive passion? Instead, she was colorless.
A raven screeched, distracting him. He studied the bird and the rise upon which it sat, then circled slowly as he fought down excitement. It was more mound than rise. And not natural. In fact, it showed all the characteristics of buried stonework. Was this another Roman site, or an ancient tomb? The earliest tombs had been covered with earth.
Perhaps it was a Druid shrine, like the one beneath Miss Merideth’s temple, or an ancient hill fort. This promontory would have offered security and the sort of view that could warn of approaching danger. What would Miss Merideth think? She knew more about the earliest people of this region than he did.
“Are you joining us?” called Jon, breaking into his thoughts. He blinked, startled to realize that at least an hour had passed. He’d completely forgotten Miss Vale.
“I beg your pardon,” he said when he joined them. “I allowed my mind to wander. That mound is intriguing, but ignoring you was quite rude.”
He concentrated on making conversation during their meal, trying to regain lost ground. And she responded, directing most of her comments toward him. But despite his best efforts, he could see no sign that she truly cared. As she had from the beginning, she turned to him from politeness. The perfect hostess, determined to entertain all her guests.
Cursing himself for digging his hole even deeper by demonstrating that a mound of earth was more interesting than she, he gave up. His father was right. He was a selfish fool, allowing his passions to divert him from duty. He might as well confess and get it over with. Nothing would improve his situation at this point.
He deliberately called up the image of his mother, wretched as she sobbed out her fears against his shoulder. Even her jointure was gone. His father’s will provided for her, of course, but since her quarterly stipend was supposed to come from estate revenues, the provision was worthless.
So it was up to him.
“Shall we see what Painswick has to offer?” he asked, helping her to her feet as the coachman packed away the remains of their meal.
Interest battled uncertainty on her face. “Is Mr. Linden up to extending the day?”
“Quite,” said Jon curtly. He glanced across the top of her head with a look that clearly ordered him to get on with business.
Tony grimaced. Jon was right. He’d procrastinated through breakfast. He’d eagerly trailed after a diversion just now. He was out of time.
Helping her into the carriage, he stared out the window, searching for inspiration. He needed to get rid of Jon for a few minutes.
You need a backbone.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth, then sighed in relief when Painswick appeared. “What a remarkable church. Let’s stop.” It was as good a place as any.
Jon must have agreed. “I will remain here.”
“You are tired,” said Miss Vale. “I knew we should have returned.”
“Nonsense. God might suffer an apoplexy if I turned up in two of His houses in one week.” His eyes warned Tony that it was the last lie.
“Come, Miss Vale,” he said, helping her down before she could turn stubborn. “We will leave him to his rest.”
“Very well.” But the worried glance she cast back at the coach had him gritting his teeth.
Like most of the nearby buildings, the church was constructed of local stone, but it appeared quite large for so small a village. Instead of entering, he led her toward the churchyard, which bristled with elaborate gravestones and chest tombs, some exhibiting superb carving.
“I should not be surprised that you are more interested in graves than architecture,” she said.
“Actually—” His voice froze. He had done it again. Tell her you’re a fraud! He opened his mouth, but he could not force the words past his lips. Deciding to work up to the confession, he seized on her assumption. “I am interested in both. But I usually start a church tour with the yard.”
“Why?” She glanced along the row of yews leading back to the road.
“I enjoy looking at gravestones,” he admitted in a moment of candor. “Many of the sentiments are moving. Devoted wife and mother,” he read from a brass plate. “Not unusual, though I must wonder how true it might be. In my experience, a woman may be good at one duty, like my own mother, but rarely at both. And many abjure either role.”
“In the upper classes that may be true,” she agreed. “But you must know that churchyards rarely serve the great families. In the working classes, such devotion is common.”
“An astute comment,” he said, wandering among the stones. “P
articularly from one who has spent her life in seclusion.”
“Not entirely. I often visit tenants and villagers.”
“When Sir Winton is away?”
She nodded, then paled.
“I would never criticize you for speaking the truth. Nor do I consider it undutiful to your family.” He smiled into her eyes, struck again by how small and fragile she appeared. “You are a lovely girl, who should visit people more often. Of all classes. Perhaps—”
Again his voice froze as his gaze shifted beyond her to the village stocks, unexpectedly mounted just outside the church wall. Shackles. Bonds that tied a man down. That cut him off from his desires. That could turn him bitter if he accepted the wrong ones…
Some of his father’s lectures had stuck, despite his youthful rebellion against everything Linden advocated. One was a deep-seated hatred of infidelity. Choosing a marriage of convenience would not negate that. So marrying Miss Vale would restrict him to bedding only her – forever.
Dropping her arm, he ran his hand over a marvelous chest tomb, the weeping cherub on its end panel so lifelike he expected tears to flow from its stone eyes.
“Do not believe that I never get out,” she replied, wandering to the far side of the tomb to face him across its width. At least she showed no sign that she recognized his turmoil. “Several neighbors call regularly, though I have hesitated to encourage visits in the last fortnight. You will surely understand, since you cited propriety when you went to Gloucester the other day. I’ve ignored the strictest interpretation of proper manners because Al-Merideth is so pleased to have your company.”
Not anymore. The realization sent a sharp pain stabbing through his heart.
Enough! His conscience sounded exactly like Jon. Stop thinking and do it!
Drawing himself erect, which only made her seem smaller, he focused on the shrub behind her head. “Miss Vale, I must correct the mis—”
“Heavens!” she exclaimed, her eyes looking past him.
He turned, seeing only another chest tomb.
“Look at that carving.” She giggled as she limped over for a closer look.
