Spoiled

by Barker, Ann

  The Revd Michael Buckleigh had come away from the bishop’s palace in no good mood. He had been summoned thither to explain himself, and was now obliged to kick his heels until sent for.

  It had all started so well. The parish to which he had gone as curate two years before had been one to which he had been recommended by his stepfather, The Revd Paul Buckleigh. The vicar under whom he was serving had been pleasant enough, but he never seemed to be available when advice was needed. Michael could certainly have done with some help with regard to young women in the parish, who were rather prone to take a fancy to the striking young curate.

  The local squire’s daughter was already engaged, but, without the slightest encouragement, she had conceived a passion for the new clergyman. This had resulted in her fiancé picking a fight with him, undoubtedly expecting that he would enjoy an easy victory over his rival. Had that happened, perhaps he would have let the matter rest. Buckleigh, however, was proficient in boxing, for he had been coached by a fellow student at Oxford in return for help in learning Greek. The young lady’s fiancé, therefore, had been laid out unconscious on the grass, his father had complained, and Michael had been removed by his bishop.

  The second curacy had seemed to be going so much better. He had now learned how to be friendly whilst at the same time keeping a careful distance, and he had thought that his troubles were over. As time had gone by, Michael had become aware yet again that women, particularly the younger ones, were choosing to see him, the curate, rather than to see the vicar. At first, he had thought that this was simply a recurrence of what had happened before and he redoubled his efforts to be courteous, if a little distant. It was not until one of the young men had confided in him that the vicar, a married man with a family, had become over-familiar with his sweetheart, that he realized, with a sinking heart, that there was a serious problem. With considerable trepidation, Michael had attempted to approach the matter tactfully with his vicar, but had met with a cold response. Eventually, he had found the older clergyman forcing his attentions on a young woman, and he had lost his temper, going so far as to bend the vicar over his own desk, and tan his backside with a yard rule.

  The consequence was almost inevitable. The bishop had sent for him and given him a good dressing-down. ‘It is not for you to take the law into your own hands, Buckleigh,’ the bishop had said, swelling with indignation. ‘This is not proper behaviour for a clergyman. You have been very much at fault in this matter! Very much at fault! Now, it falls to me to consider what to do with you. Who will have you now, do you suppose? Very few vicars will relish the prospect of having a curate who may lay violent hands upon them. Remember that this is not the first time that you have blotted your copybook through violence. I shall have to weigh this matter very carefully. Very carefully. As for you, you had better wait at your lodgings so that I may consult with my chaplain and others. Whilst you are waiting for me to send for you, I suggest you pray that I do not have you unfrocked!’

  It was with some difficulty that Michael had swallowed the hasty words that were on the tip of his tongue. Protesting his innocence would not have done anything other than make the bishop even more incensed with him. Had it just been himself in the case he would have been sorely tempted to tell his superior to go hang, but he had his stepfather and his little sister to consider.

  He had never known his natural father who, he had heard somewhere, he could not remember when, was a nobleman who had deserted his mother before he was born. In order to hide her disgrace, his mother’s family had sent her to distant relatives who had treated her as a servant. It had been The Revd Paul Buckleigh who had noticed the quiet, dainty, angelically fair young woman and, acting in an impulsive way that was very unlike him, had persuaded her to become his wife. He was the only father that Michael had ever known.

  The Revd Paul Buckleigh had not found it easy to be a family man. Thirty years older than his bride, he had not expected to marry. He had never encouraged Michael to call him father, although he had given him his name, and his manner towards his stepson had always been that of a firm but kindly schoolmaster. There had only been one child born from the union, a girl whose birth had taken her mother’s life when Michael was ten.

  After her death, the bereaved husband had retreated into his study, leaving the upbringing of the children, and particularly of the new baby, to the servants. As time went by, he had gradually emerged from his isolation and had continued to tutor Michael in Greek, Latin, and mathematics, before sending him to Charterhouse to continue his education. This had been funded by money forwarded from Michael’s father’s family through a firm of solicitors.

  Michael had always been informed that he owed his place at Charterhouse to a scholarship, which had indeed helped considerably with the cost. Having no interest in the man who had fathered him, he had not thought to ask any questions about where the money for his remaining needs had come from. When eventually he did make enquiries, he was furious to think that his education should have been partly paid for by a man for whom he had no respect. By then, however, the deed had been done, and he was realistic enough to acknowledge that a good education was essential if he was to make his own way in the world.

  At Charterhouse, his good humour and generous nature had gained him some good friends, several of whom went on with him to Oxford. His stepfather had continued to coach him in the holidays. He had also encouraged him to read very widely. The texts that Michael enjoyed the most were those that were to do with foreign countries. He could not imagine how he would ever be able to afford to travel himself, unless he were to gain a position as bear-leader to some scion of a noble house. That did not stop him from reading all kinds of travel writings, and studying maps and drawings of various artefacts. The pictures of ancient ruins, statues and all kinds of pottery were the things that captured his imagination the most. This interest had been nurtured by a most unlikely friendship.

  As a boy of fourteen, he had been sent to a secluded mansion with a message from his stepfather for a reclusive neighbour named James Warrener. He had been told to wait in a room that was full of statuary. When Warrener had come into the room, he had found Michael gently stroking the stone drapery which the artist had carved as a dressing for the statue of a Roman goddess.

  ‘You like it, boy?’ the man had asked gently. His heavily lined face made him seem ancient to the boy, but he could not have been much more than sixty.

  ‘It’s beautiful, sir,’ Michael had replied. ‘I can hardly believe that it’s really stone. It has so much movement in it.’ He blushed, fearing that he had said something foolish.

  There were those who might have told the lad to keep his hands to himself. Warrener, however, having the wisdom to see that here was a fellow enthusiast, had shown Michael all round his collection. Henceforward, he had taught him all that he knew about pottery; had shown him how to handle it correctly and with knowledge. He had also encouraged the boy not to feel sorry for himself because of his circumstances. ‘You don’t know how fortunate you are,’ Warrener had said on one occasion when Michael had been inclined to bemoan his fate. ‘Some of the fellows you attend school with are constrained by their position, and will one day be obliged to rule over estates whether they care to do so or not. You are free from such obligations.’

  Yes, he had not been subject to those constraints; but there had been others. It had been partly to please his stepfather that he had decided to take orders, for example, and he had gone to Oxford to study for his degree. There he had kicked over the traces a little, spent some time with a wild set and frightened himself by losing a large sum of money in gaming. The following night, he had managed to recoup his losses and had resolved never to gamble again, a resolve to which he had adhered without ever having been tempted to do otherwise.

  While at university, he had also discovered that he was attractive to women. He was not personally vain, but he could interpret what he saw in the mirror and had begun to realize from his late adolescence that a
sh-blond hair combined dramatically with black, well-arched brows, chiselled features and a fine physique together produced a package that was appealing to women. He might think his looks rather peculiar, but this did not seem to deter them; quite the contrary. For a time, as part of his rebellion after leaving home, he had made the most of his sexual appeal. Then he had discovered that the indulgence of this particular appetite broke hearts. At much the same time, he realized that to be a womanizer was not fitting behaviour for a clergyman. Thereafter he had taken great care to be moderate and discreet in satisfying his physical needs.

  He had finally managed to gain a more than respectable degree and had taken up his curacy with the air of a man shouldering an unpleasant duty. To his surprise, he had found much satisfaction in visiting people, listening to their problems and having them refer to him in time of need. He had even found that the creative part of his mind gained pleasure from writing sermons! Then, not once but twice, and not entirely through his own fault, everything had come crashing down upon his head. He had no idea what he would do if the bishop declared that he must be unfrocked. His stepfather would be horrified and he himself would be denied the means of earning a livelihood which would support his sister in time to come.

  Needing to shake off the constraint of behaving like a clergyman, he returned to the modest inn where he was staying and pulled off the high stock that he was wearing. Then, with the neck of his shirt raffishly open, he sauntered out into the street. Everywhere he looked he seemed to see carefree faces. Did anyone have the threat of disgrace hanging over them as did he?

  Suddenly, on this dull day amid the drab stonework and serviceable walking clothes, he saw a flash of pink. An entrancingly beautiful young woman in a most unsuitable gown was walking down the street accompanied by her maid. She had lustrous fair hair and he would have been prepared to bet that her eyes were blue. Her gown and pelisse fitted her admirably, bringing out the sculptured perfection of her figure. The vivid shade of what she was wearing contrasted strongly with her surroundings. It was as if an artist, having executed a pen and ink sketch, suddenly decided to add a perfect rose in oils.

  Who was she? Briefly, he wondered whether she could possibly be a street-walker. He dismissed this idea almost as soon as it came into his mind. Her maid was with her for one thing. For another, her carriage was elegant and graceful rather than bold, and her gown expensive rather than tawdry. Her very loveliness made him want to smile. Then she turned and saw him. He bowed, fixing her with a mischievous grin. What would she do? A street-walker would approach him. A well-brought-up young lady would ignore him. She did neither; but instead, directed a saucy smile at him before looking away. She was wilful, then, and probably eager for a flirtation.

  This was only his third brief visit to Sheffield and he was not likely to be recognized. Thankfully forgetting about the bishop and looming disgrace, if only for the time being, he crossed the road and approached her, preparing to enjoy himself. ‘A fine day, Miss…?’

  ‘I do not know whether I should tell you, sir,’ Evangeline replied coyly. ‘We have not been introduced.’

  ‘Then allow me to do the honours,’ he said. ‘Michael Leigh at your service, ma’am.’

  ‘Miss Evan—’ put in Elsie, horrified, but breaking off with a shriek as her mistress stamped on her toe.

  ‘Miss Evans,’ said Evangeline, taking advantage of Elsie’s slip. ‘Jessica Evans.’

  ‘A charming name,’ said Michael. ‘May I have the honour of escorting you anywhere? Do you intend to purchase a bonnet today? I am happy to offer advice, although I cannot believe that it will be possible to find one that would become you better than that charming confection that you are wearing now.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ Evangeline replied, glancing up at him through her lashes. She liked tall men. ‘I am simply looking in the windows today. To tell you the truth …’ She paused.

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’ he prompted her.

  ‘To tell you the truth, today has been perfectly horrid so far and I am anxious for it to improve.’

  He laughed. ‘Why, so it has been for me as well. What has been your particular misfortune?’

  She thought for a moment. It was very unlikely that she would meet him again, but she had no wish to disclose anything that might mean that he could identify her. Even mentioning a wedding could do that, for how many weddings would have taken place in Sheffield today? ‘I have been blamed for something that was not my fault, and given no chance to explain myself.’

  He thought about his experience with the philandering vicar and grinned ruefully. ‘You might be describing my own case,’ he answered. ‘But let us forget about that. I little thought when the day began that it would be brightened by an encounter with a beautiful woman.’

  She laughed. ‘I am sure you did not, sir; for my part I could never have imagined that your day would be brightened in such a way either.’

  He laughed out loud, took hold of her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. ‘Let us stroll about a little and forget our cares. Then I’ll take you somewhere to have a drink.’ Elsie uttered a squawk of dismay, but could only follow in their wake as they walked together, talking and laughing.

  Eventually, they came to a small inn, hidden away behind some of the shops. ‘Come inside and have some wine with me,’ he said, his tone one of bold invitation.

  ‘Oh, no, miss,’ said Elsie. ‘Think of what your aunt would say.’

  Until that moment, Evangeline had been undecided as to what to do. Conscience told her that she had already gone her length, and that to go into an inn with this young man would destroy her reputation if anyone ever found out. The mention of her aunt effectively killed the voice of conscience.

  ‘You can wait in the hall, Elsie,’ said Evangeline. ‘Come in and find me if … if … well, you know.’

  ‘A private parlour, if you please,’ Michael said to the landlord, ‘and bring us a bottle of claret.’ The landlord showed them to a small room at the side of the inn, furnished with a table, four dining chairs, and two comfortable chairs with arms, set either side of the fireplace in which burned a cheery blaze, welcome on a March day that was not of the sunniest.

  Evangeline was pleased that he had assumed she would drink wine. She was very tired of people like her aunt insisting that she must have lemonade or tea. She was nearly twenty-one, after all!

  When the wine arrived, Michael poured them a glass each, and said, ‘To the future. May those who misjudge us see the error of their ways.’ They clinked glasses, drank, smiled at each other and drank again. Then Michael took Evangeline’s glass from her, set it down on the table along with his own, and, not really to her surprise, pulled her into his arms. She gave a little gasp. He was very strong. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, slanting his head, and bending towards her, his eyes on her lips.

  ‘No,’ she replied, adding daringly, ‘I should mind if you didn’t.’ Then he kissed her, briefly and tantalizingly at first, before covering her mouth with his, and ravishing her senses with a long, passionate kiss.

  Evangeline was no stranger to flirtation and this was not the first time that she had been kissed. Never had any caress been as demanding or powerful as this, however. His tongue running gently across her lips coaxed her into opening her mouth, and then he deepened his kiss, the seductive nature of his caress impelling her to wrap her arms around his neck and return his embrace. When eventually he released her they were both a little breathless.

  Evangeline, realizing the enormity of her behaviour, coloured and turned her head away. He released her, then gave her back her glass, from which she took a deep gulp. He eyed her ruefully. He was aroused enough to feel a strong desire to take her upstairs to bed, but that blush, together with other aspects of their conversation, had convinced him that she was not sexually experienced. She was a young lady – perhaps rather badly behaved, and probably somewhat spoiled but a lady none the less – who was out on an adventure. He could not take advantage of her, much th
ough he might desire to do so.

  He took a sip of his wine, then waited until she was looking at him. ‘Delicious,’ he said, touching his lip with his tongue.

  She laughed self-consciously. ‘Likewise,’ she replied.

  She had only one more glass, leaving him the rest, and while they drank they talked idly of this and that, both of them carefully avoiding personal subjects. Eventually, she said, ‘I think I must leave you, sir. Elsie will be having a fit by now and I may have been missed.’

  ‘I will certainly miss you,’ he replied. He took a step closer to her. ‘One more?’ he suggested. She slid into his arms, and they kissed, not passionately, but tenderly and almost with affection. ‘You have made my day brighter,’ he said. ‘I will not forget you, Miss Evans.’

  ‘Nor will I you, Mr Leigh,’ Evangeline replied, before donning her bonnet and leaving the room.

  Chapter Two

  Michael Buckleigh stood looking out of the rain-splattered window of the taproom and silently thanked divine providence that he had reached the inn in the dry. It was a cold wet evening in March. It seemed as though the weather, conscious that winter was now over, wanted to give of its very worst one last time, as if to warn travellers that they could never hope to win. He himself was particularly vulnerable at present, since his old horse had recently expired and his income did not yet permit him to purchase another.

  His encounter with the ravishingly pretty blonde had lifted his spirits, encouraging him to believe that good things could be just around the corner. He had therefore returned to the bishop’s palace the following day in a spirit of optimism, on this occasion with his high stock in place, and his hair caught tidily behind his head with a black ribbon.

  As he had sat waiting in an anteroom, the bishop’s chaplain had walked through the room and he had sprung to his feet. The chaplain, a tall, thin, fair man – although not as fair as he was himself – had paused next to him and looked curiously into his face. Slightly resenting his scrutiny, although not knowing why, Michael had raised his brows and lifted his chin a little. An arrested expression had crossed the other clergyman’s face before he had disappeared into the bishop’s study.