by Burke, Darcy
“Do you enjoy the others?” he asked with rapt interest.
She loved talking to him. He listened with such curiosity and warmth—she’d never realized having someone listen could be so enlivening. “I like to paint and embroider. I suppose I like to ride.”
“You suppose?”
“I’m never allowed to go very fast, so it’s not as fun as I think it could be. Do you ride?”
“Not often anymore now that I live here.”
“You’re too busy,” she said. “What do you do for amusement? Or do you not have any time for that?”
“Most of my amusement comes from spending time with my parishioners. Sometimes we have card parties at the church. My primary enjoyment comes from when I visit people in their homes. They invite me for dinner, or I join them for a special event.”
“Like a wedding breakfast? I presume you perform many marriages.”
“I do,” he said, smiling. “I admit it’s one of the best parts of the job. No one is so happy as on their wedding day.”
An image of Penelope’s wedding day burst into her mind. Her skin grew cold and clammy, and her muscles clenched. That day was on the horizon. Or it would have been if she hadn’t arranged to disappear.
His expression darkened. “What’s wrong?”
He’d learned to read her too well. She reached to take a drink of brandy, but her glass was empty. “Nothing.” She flattened her hand on the table.
“I don’t believe you, but I won’t press you either. Clearly, it has something to do with a wedding.” He paused for a moment, studying her. “Are you thinking of the man to whom you were to be betrothed?”
Her insides somersaulted and twisted, and she feared she might toss up the brandy, bread, and cheese. That wedding day image returned, and the leering, wrinkled face of the Earl of Findon grew in her mind until she closed her eyes in an effort to blot him out.
“Yes.” The whispered word slipped from her lips unbidden. And yet saying it eased the burden. Findon’s face disappeared.
Warmth encompassed her hand as his palm covered the back of hers. She opened her eyes, not to look at him, but to look at their hands touching. She couldn’t even see hers beneath his. Once again, his protection comforted her, and she reveled in it.
“You don’t have to tell me about him. It’s clear you don’t want to marry him and that the thought of doing so causes you great distress.” Now, she moved her gaze to his. The empathy in their depths nearly undid her. “I’m sorry.”
She should withdraw her hand but couldn’t bring herself to do so. “Thank you. I won’t have to marry him. Not after this.”
“He’ll cry off?”
She expected him to. Findon had made it clear he wanted a young, untouched bride. Spending a night lost in St. Giles would surely deter him.
The heat of the rector’s hand seeped into hers, giving her strength. And perhaps courage. “I believe so, yes. He won’t want a soiled bride.”
Mr. Tarleton’s brows practically leapt from his forehead. He shifted and pressed his hand slightly against hers. “You plan to tell him you’ve been…compromised?”
“If I must. The implication is there already, however. That’s the entire purpose of this scheme.” She glanced at their hands, still together, but not in a truly satisfying way. She wanted to turn her hand over so they were palm to palm, but the courage she’d dredged up to talk about Findon was apparently all she had at present. “I was betrothed before—more than a year ago—but he died. This was my first Season, and I was to find a husband. When I failed, they arranged for me to marry.”
Mr. Tarleton frowned. “I am no expert, but it seems to me that plenty of people don’t marry during their first Season.”
She stiffened her spine against the back of the chair and adopted her haughtiest tone to mimic her mother. “But I am not plenty of people.” Relaxing her shoulders, she moved her fingers. Maybe she could find the courage to turn her hand.
But her movement prompted him to finally take his hand away. Cool air rushed over her knuckles. She wanted to reach over and clasp him. She didn’t.
Shouts from outside drew them both to turn toward the window. Mr. Tarleton half stood to peer down at the street. “There’s a fight.” He leaned even farther over until his head nearly connected with the windowpane.
Penelope stood and tried to see what was happening. “Where did they go?”
His mouth straightened into a grim line as he rose to his full height. “I think they’re downstairs.”
A crashing sound from below made her jump. “Will they stay downstairs?”
“Let’s hope so.” He went to the door and checked the latch, then turned to face her. “Don’t go near the window.”
Alarm spread through her. She retreated to the fireplace. “Why?”
“Just to be safe. Sometimes people get unruly.”
She wasn’t entirely sure what that could mean, but she imagined someone throwing things and possibly breaking the window. She’d seen for herself how dangerous St. Giles could be. Another crashing sound made her flinch. “I must admit I’m glad you insisted on staying in here with me.”
He crossed the room and joined her at the hearth. “I am too. I promise you’ll be safe.” He reached out, and she was sure he meant to take her hand again. The rate of her pulse, already rapid, increased as she anticipated his touch…
Then someone pounded on the door.
Mr. Tarleton spun about and rushed back across the room.
“Tarleton, open up.”
Penelope didn’t recognize the voice, and given the turbulent sounds coming from downstairs, she didn’t think it would be wise to do as the man asked. Yet, the rector opened the door.
Mr. Tarleton exchanged words, barely above a whisper, with whoever was in the corridor then quickly closed the door and reset the lock. He turned to Penelope. “There’s a fight downstairs.”
“I see.” She hoped it stayed downstairs.
“We should be fine if we stay here. Hopefully it will pass without incident.”
Should be fine? Hopefully? Penelope’s concern progressed to apprehension. “It sounds as if it’s already an incident.” A loud crash punctuated her statement.
Mr. Tarleton glanced toward the door with an uneasy expression, his discomfort etched in the lines around his mouth and in the deep grooves burrowing across his forehead. “It does indeed.”
“I must say I don’t care for words such as ‘hopefully’ and ‘should,’” Penelope said.
“I don’t either. But Con—that’s who was at the door—is right. Fights break out and resolve themselves all the time. If we stay here, we likely will be fine.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “There you go using likely.”
Mr. Tarleton moved to stand before her in a trice. Now he did take her hand. His warmth and strength were instantly comforting. “Even if the fight did make its way upstairs, I would protect you. Nothing is going to happen to you here.” He stroked his thumb across her skin.
She was aware of his touch in a way she’d never been aware of a man’s touch before. It went beyond comfort, affecting her insides the way he’d been doing all day. The rigidity she almost constantly maintained loosened again. She clasped his hand more securely.
“You’re wrong,” she said softly.
His mouth turned down. “You don’t believe I can protect you?”
She looked up at him. “I absolutely believe that. As I’ve never believed anything before. You’re wrong that nothing is going to happen. Something has already happened.”
The connection between them that had sparked earlier and had only grown over the hours they’d spent together intensified. “What?” His question, low and dark, echoed inside her.
“You.”
* * *
Desire rushed over Hugh. The heat emanating from their clasped hands barreled through him, and it took genuine effort not to pull her closer.
She was right—something had hap
pened. And it was still happening.
The night lay before them full of anticipation and discovery. A night of temptation.
He thought of all she’d told him, of her plan to be ruined, to mislead her family into thinking she’d actually been ruined. He could make that happen if she wanted it. He wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t.
She’d been the one to arouse this hunger inside him, to call attention to whatever had been brewing between them the past several hours. He could’ve consigned their connection to two people meeting under stressful circumstances and trapped together in a small environment.
Only he didn’t feel trapped. There was nowhere he’d rather be than at her side.
He lifted his free hand and lightly touched the edge of her jaw. Her skin was soft and smooth. Warm. Her lips parted, and his desire intensified, pooling in his groin. She was exquisitely beautiful, her sparkling amber eyes fringed with lashes the color of night.
Words utterly failed him. How could he respond to what she’d said? By kissing her…
A knock on the door halted his thoughts and the slow descent of his head. He hadn’t even realized he’d been about to put his lips on hers. But given the way she now tore her gaze from his mouth, she had.
Regret and irritation tore through him as he stepped away from her and dropped her hand. He stalked to the door and nearly growled at the intruder.
“Who is it?” Lady Penelope asked, jarring him from his annoyance.
He’d almost opened the door without thinking. It was then that he realized the ruckus downstairs had quieted. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“I’ve yer dinner,” came the feminine response.
Cautious, Hugh unlatched the door and gently eased it open a bare inch. Standing in the corridor was the maid who’d served them downstairs earlier.
He opened it wider. “Come in.”
She sent him a quick smile, then went to the table where she set a lantern along with the covered plates from her tray. Next, she deposited a bottle of wine. “I didn’t bring new glasses.” Her gaze settled on the glasses they’d used for their brandy earlier.
“That’s fine,” Hugh said.
The young woman lit the candles in the room then picked up the basket from the floor, where Hugh had set it when they’d played cards. She looked from him to Lady Penelope and back again. “Is there anything else I can get ye?”
Hugh turned toward the door. “No. Thank you for dinner. When you come to fetch the dishes, would you bring another blanket, please?”
“Happy to, Mr. Tarleton.” She flashed him an inviting smile and swept her gaze over him. “Though if it’s for ye, I can think of other ways to keep ye warm,” she whispered. With a low laugh, she exited the room.
Hugh locked the door behind her and turned back toward Lady Penelope, who was frowning at him.
“Did she just try to seduce you?”
That was too elegant a description. “Seduction is probably not accurate.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“A proposition.” He’d no doubt she would have expected payment.
Lady Penelope made a sound low in her throat before looking toward the table. There’d been an edge to her questions. Almost as if she were…jealous. Something tripped inside him.
“Shall we eat?” he asked, thinking it best if they steered the conversation in another direction.
He moved to hold her chair. Their gazes connected briefly before she sat. He pushed her toward the table, then went around to take his seat.
She removed the cover on her plate and inhaled. “It smells delicious.”
“Con’s food is even better than his ale,” Hugh said. “I come in for dinner sometimes. He makes an excellent roast beef.” Which was what they had before them—immersed in an aromatic sauce made with madeira.
She picked up her utensils and forked a small slice of carrot. “Does he cook it himself?”
Hugh cut into his beef. “Not anymore, but he used to. Or so he told me. He came to work here years ago as a lad, and the owner adopted Con as his son. He didn’t have children of his own and sought to find someone who would carry on his legacy of good ale and food.”
“It seems as though Con’s done that,” she said. “Even if there’s violence along with it.”
Picking up the bottle of wine, Hugh filled each of their glasses. “Believe it or not, this is better than many places in the neighborhood. Con is well liked, and they respect his business.”
“He seemed to take the disturbance in stride,” she said. “As did the woman who brought our dinner. I assumed the tussle was a regular occurrence. Are you saying it’s not?” She cut a piece of beef.
“Depends on what you mean by regular.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes before she said, “You seem undaunted by the dangers of living in St. Giles.”
He lifted a shoulder before taking a sip of wine. “I’m used to it now, though I’ll admit to being uneasy at first. Bravado is exceptionally useful in the rookery.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” She picked up her wineglass. “Do you still employ bravado, or are you as confident as you appear to be?”
“I don’t know how I appear.”
Her gaze swept over him, and his body responded with a sharp surge of awareness. “Confident. Very, very confident.”
There was an admiration in her tone that made his chest want to expand. “In what way?”
“You are adamant that you’ll protect me—not that you’ll try. That you will.” She took another sip of wine, then set her glass back down. “Have you failed at anything?”
He nearly barked with laughter. “I’ve failed at plenty. Mathematics was the absolute bane of my Oxford career. Thankfully I was good at all the other subjects, especially divinity.”
She smiled, and heat bloomed within him anew. He realized he was forever going to have a visceral reaction to her. “Naturally.”
Forever? He shook the word away from his brain.
“What else have you failed to accomplish?” she asked.
When he thought of the word failure, one specific event vaulted to the forefront of his mind. He universally ignored it, as he’d just done when he’d mentioned mathematics. But the memory persisted until it tumbled from his thoughts and out his mouth. “I couldn’t save my mother.”
She’d been about to eat a potato, but she paused, her forehead creasing. “You were eight. How can you possibly think you could?”
“My father sent me to fetch the physician.” A shudder rippled across his shoulders. “I was distracted by a whimpering dog. I stopped to pick it up, and when I got to the physician’s house, his wife said he’d just left to visit a neighboring town.” He couldn’t meet Lady Penelope’s eyes any longer and dropped his gaze to his plate. The food blurred. “I was too late. If I hadn’t gone after the dog…” He left the rest unsaid and blinked until his plate came back into focus. He didn’t need to voice the extent of his failure, not when it was plainly, and painfully, evident.
“Mr. Tarleton,” she said softly. “Hugh.”
The sound of his name on her lips, and not as a joke, drew him to look at her once more. Her gaze was warm and steady. “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t think that it was. You’ve no idea if the physician could even have helped her.”
He knew that. The physician had said she would likely die. But an eight-year-old boy doesn’t want to believe that can happen to his beloved mother. “I was desperate to save her, and I couldn’t. That is my greatest failure.”
She reached across the table and put her hand over his. It was precisely what he’d done to her earlier, but she could in no way cover his as he’d done with hers. Her flesh was pale and soft against his, and the need to protect and care for her nearly overwhelmed him.
“You shouldn’t carry this burden. Surely you’ve learned the importance of forgiveness?”
Of course he had. He preached it daily—forgiveness was for the forgiver, which mad
e it especially important to forgive oneself most of all. And yet, he struggled to do it himself.
“I have. And I try. It’s not as if my family blames me,” he said. They also didn’t know the extent to which he blamed himself. No one had until tonight. “They don’t know that I feel guilty.” His voice was quiet. “I never told them.”
“But you told me.” Her voice was gentle, reverent. “Why wouldn’t you tell them? Your family sounds so close. Closer than mine, anyway.”
“I felt alone. My younger sister was barely out of swaddling clothes, and my older sister and brothers simply carried on. My father was sad, but no one revealed the depths of their emotions. That’s just how we are.”
“I’m not sure you’re that way,” she said, eyeing him.
“I am, actually.”
“You’ve revealed plenty to me in the brevity of our acquaintance.”
He realized he had. “That’s…strange. You must be special.” When he uttered the word, he knew it was true.
“My family does not display the depths of their emotions either. No, that’s not accurate. They show plenty of disgust and disapproval and anger.” She sawed angrily at her beef.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms and take away the pain they clearly caused her. Why else would she have risked herself in this mad scheme? They’d arranged a life for her that she didn’t want, that she couldn’t abide. How could someone do that to their child? As much as his father had wanted him to pursue another livelihood, he’d never denigrated Hugh’s choice.
“I wish I could protect you from them,” he said.
She looked up at him. “Thank you. I am hopeful this endeavor”—she waved her utensils—“will accomplish that. Perhaps I’ll be shipped off to Lancashire.”
He thought again how far away Lancashire was.
Mayfair may as well be just as far, you dolt.
Their connection wasn’t permanent. It was a temporary situation born of necessity. He tried not to think past the present, and when he did, his insides felt hollow.
This was absurd. He’d just met her. She would go back to her life tomorrow, and in time he would have forgotten about this entire night.
