Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1)

by Lara Archer

  John grinned and pulled her hard against him, kissing the curve of her throat. “But you do look beautiful. As for the respectable part, perhaps I can arrange to knock down a few of the lanterns on the Green, if you like. Dim all the lights.”

  Despite her worries, she laughed. “Unless you knock every last lantern over, people are going to notice the state of my hair. I’d best circle around to the vicarage before I go back to the Green, and find my hairbrush. You go play lord of the manor. Let people see you without me. For the time being, anyway.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “You are wise, as always.” And he tipped up her chin with his palm and kissed her soundly.

  They walked for a time with their arms around each other, until they were close enough to the Green that it seemed wiser to take separate paths out of the woods.

  Parting was almost physically painful, but at least it was only for a little while.

  Chapter Thirteen

  John scarcely needed his feet to carry him back to the Green—he was all but flying, buoyed by sheer joy. Mary was his. Mary was his forever. She’d promised it, at long last.

  He hadn’t wanted to let her walk away from him to go back to the vicarage, but he understood her concern about preserving respectability. The vicar’s sister could hardly appear on the Green with her hair flying wild about her head, and her cheeks flushed, and her gown rumpled in such a way that it would be perfectly clear to everyone that she’d just been tumbled quite thoroughly in the woods.

  People would surely get the wrong idea.

  But tomorrow, he would take care of that problem. He would go to Thomas Wilkins formally and ask for her hand, and beg him to say the banns as soon as possible.

  Mary would not want a formal wedding. They could be married right here in the village church, at the first possible opportunity, with all the local people, all her friends, and the children she taught in the school, present as witnesses. And they could hold their wedding breakfast outdoors on the Green. It would be full spring soon, and they could fill the tables with wildflowers he and Mary would pick themselves. Any excuse to be out in the woods with her again....

  He felt joyous laughter rise up through him. No, he didn’t like being separated from her, even for a moment, but he still felt the warmth of her presence as surely as if she were still beside him. The pleasure of laying with her still glowed within him, making him feel drunk on starlight.

  It was if he hadn’t even realized that something within him was torn and empty, and now it was whole, and radiant, and full of happiness. Soon Mary would be his wife, his viscountess, and he would find a way to make her happy in the role.

  As he emerged from the cover of the woods, he heard shouts and laughter coming from the Green—happy sounds this time, sounds of celebration. He craned his neck to try to see what the occasion was.

  The first person he saw was Annabel Lawton, who stood with her back to the crowd, scanning the line of the woods as though searching them. She caught sight of him, and a look of sudden alarm crossed her face, her eyes going wide, her posture stiffening.

  He stopped short for a moment. No doubt he looked a bit rumpled himself, though he’d been careful when he took off his trousers, and his hair was short enough that it would be hard for anyone to tell the difference from Mary’s fingers tangling in it. He felt the slightest twinge of guilt—Annabel would no doubt still be expecting his proposal. But the great expanding joyous light inside of him left no room for remorse. And he had no real reason to be sorry for her. Annabel was free to find her own true love now, and be as happy as he was.

  “Lord Parkhurst,” she called out to him in a tremulous voice. “There you are! I have been looking for you.”

  He had no choice but to address her. “Forgive me, I—” He broke off, not quite sure what to tell her. “I went walking.”

  She gave him an uncertain smile. “Indeed.”

  Should he speak with her now? Tell her honestly what he had told her father? Surely she could understand. She was young herself, she must have a heart somewhere within her. And she most certainly was not the least bit genuinely in love with him.

  “Miss Lawton,” he began.

  She drew in a sharp breath, and her eyes grew wary—that intelligence he’d seen in them yesterday morning glinted there again. Tinged with something like fear this time. “Yes?” she asked.

  “Miss Lawton,” he said again, trying to gentle his voice. “There is something I must...something you and I must...discuss....”

  And then he saw her do what she had done yesterday: compose herself. Just as if she’d drawn a silken veil across her face, the glint in her eye faded, the tautness in her expression relaxed. She was complacent again, confident, with a look of dreamy expectation on her pretty features. “Yes, Lord Parkhurst?”

  The change was quite unnerving. How exactly was she able to do that? Perhaps he and Mary had missed some crucial schoolroom lesson in their youth while roaming in the woods. But he had no choice but to forge ahead. “Long ago,” he began, “when we were children—when you were indeed but an infant—our fathers...came to a certain agreement.”

  She managed a pretty blush, or at least the sort of demure expression that usually accompanied one. “I am aware, my lord.”

  “But, Miss Lawton, we...are grown now. With hearts and minds of our own.”

  “Yes.” Surely she had some idea of where his argument was heading, but she looked not discomposed in the least.

  “And surely, it is love, and not the agreement of fathers, that must be the essential ingredient of a happy marriage. Do you not agree?”

  “Indeed. No one could wish a marriage that was not grounded in deep affection.” Far from seeming discouraged at his words, she seemed to take confidence from them. Her smile became even more generous, her eyes even more bright. “I could not bear to be without affection in my own life.”

  For pity’s sake. Was she honestly expecting him to make a declaration of undying love? They scarcely knew each other.

  It was if she thought they were acting a scene in a play.

  What would he have to say to break through that smooth, porcelain composure? For Mary’s sake, he couldn’t very well blurt out that he’d just come from making love to another woman in the great outdoors. He was reaching about in his brain for something a least a bit less cruel than I cannot imagine ever developing the slightest romantic feeling towards you.... when a great shout went up on the Green.

  “Great heavens,” he said. “What is going on over there?”

  “Oh,” said Miss Lawton, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the crowd. “It’s Mrs. Trumbull and Mr. Bassett. Apparently, they are engaged to be married. They came running in a few minutes ago to make the announcement.” Her words held a faint edge of impatience, and she fluttered her lashes at him, just as though he were an incompetent actor who’d forgotten his lines.

  To John’s great relief, the necessity of speaking again was deferred by the sudden appearance of Thomas Wilkins, who came hurrying towards them, calling, “Lord Parkhurst! If I may beg a moment of your time.”

  Mr. Wilkins’ cheek were flushed and his eyes were twinkling with his usual good humor. “My lord, Mr. Bassett and Mrs. Trumbull…well, the happy couple wish to go to Gretna Green tonight!” He came a bit closer, and his voice dropped to an amused whisper. “And as a clergyman, it is my professional opinion that the two of them really ought to be bound in holy matrimony as soon as humanly possible. Before Bassett changes his mind.”

  John chuckled. “You suspect he is not firm in his purpose?”

  The vicar leaned closer still so Miss Lawton could not hear him. “And I suspect...another happy event may be in the offing for the two of them. Which would leave the lady in some distress, were she not speedily married.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Wilkins nodded. “Might they be permitted to borrow one of your carriages, my lord, to get them at least to the first coaching inn?”

  John
laughed now. No—all the world was not as polished and false as Annabel Lawton. Wilkins was as frank and open-hearted as his sister. “They may take my carriage as far as Scotland, if they like,” said John. “What sort of village would this be if we had a heartbroken woman running our foremost public house?”

  The vicar grinned. “Thank you, sir. I know it will be much appreciated. And I intend to accompany them myself to, ah—act as chaperone on the way.”

  “And provide good counsel to the gentleman, no doubt,” said John.

  “Every mile of the way, if need be.”

  In his friendly manner, Wilkins clasped John’s arm and led him over to the crowd, where Mrs. Trumbull and Mr. Bassett were standing hand in hand, encircled by their friends. Miss Lawton followed placidly behind.

  “Mr. Bassett,” called John as they drew near. “I hear you are to be congratulated, good sir.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Mr. Bassett answered, looking rather stunned by his own news. “Yes, I am. Mrs. Trumbull has...she has....” He gulped rather loudly. “She has agreed to make me the happiest of men.”

  Beside him, Mrs. Trumbull beamed. Bassett’s expression as he looked at her suggested he might be considering fainting, but then he grinned and gave her a smacking kiss on the mouth, and everyone cheered again.

  The vicar clapped his hands together and raised them for attention. “Lord Parkhurst,” he announced, “has granted the happy couple the use of a carriage, to speed them to their nuptial bliss.”

  Another cheer went up, and John could not help feeling carried along on the tide of happiness. Surely no one in Birchford would have thought the matronly innkeeper and the handsome young sexton would have made a match, yet here they were, embarking on a future together, and making all their neighbors quite merry. How then could anyone be shocked by his own choice of Mary—who was nearly of an age with him, and so very good of heart, and so worthy to be a beloved wife.

  “And that’s not all,” John declared spontaneously. “I shall give these two good friends of ours a purse of a hundred guineas as a wedding present!” He nodded at his steward, who raised his mug of ale in acknowledgment of the command. “And I shall host a wedding breakfast for them upon their return to Birchford, so that they may begin their life together in the happy spirit they deserve.”

  The cheering swelled again, and this time, the townspeople—quite well lubricated at this point, he suspected, by the hard cider and punch and whatever more potent beverages had been smuggled onto the Green—moved as if in one body to lift up the newly-engaged pair and dance them around on their shoulders, at least until the vicar and the Parkhurst steward pulled the two of them down to usher them off as quickly as possible to their waiting carriage.

  The departure of the happy couple made no dent in the jollity of the gathering. The rest of the crowd continued dancing as the fiddlers launched into a tune popular in alehouses, which had several bawdy verses about a nymph and a shepherd and what they did with his crook and his pipe while the lambs all ran away. If the villagers remembered the words, no one seemed offended in the least.

  Throughout the revelry, Miss Lawton had her confident mask firmly in place, and smiled beatifically around at the merry-making as though John’s act of beneficence came from her as well. She was practicing to be the local viscountess, perhaps, as she no doubt assumed she soon would be.

  His stomach went queasy again. He was going to disabuse her of that notion, and he was going to do it tonight. She would not return to Lawton Grange still anticipating a proposal.

  But before he could draw her away from the crowd again to finish their conversation, Lord Lawton himself suddenly emerged from the crowd and clapped him on the shoulder.

  A smile was on the man’s face, but his voice as he leaned close and whispered in John’s ear was full of sarcasm: “Well, there’s a fine union for young Mr. Bassett—a lusty widow twice his age, who’ll no doubt make him a cuckold three times over before the year is out. You see what comes of letting people chose on the basis of their desires.”

  Anger instantly began to heat in John’s chest. “Sir! I hardly think—”

  “But no hard feelings, boy,” said Lawton, cutting him off. “No hard feelings between us. Let me prove it to you.”

  Lawton reached across to one of the tables and hoisted a copper pitcher and big spoon, which he clanged together to get the crowd’s attention. “My friends,” he boomed in a commanding voice. “I have something I wish to share with all of you as well.”

  The dancing slowed quickly to a halt, and all faces turned to him.

  “Good people of Birchford,” Lord Lawton pronounced, “you know how greatly I esteemed the late Lord Parkhurst, this young lord’s father.”

  A cheer went up for the memory of John’s father—a genuine cheer, for they had all quite liked the man.

  Lord Lawton craned his neck about like an eagle surveying the landscape from the top of a tree. “And you know how much my friend’s son resembles him. The very best aspects of him. And I know that this young viscount cares for all his tenants as much as his father did.”

  The crowd cheered louder.

  “You all know that the good vicar’s sister has been raising money to build a hospital for the people of surrounding villages,” said Lawton. “I wish to mark this day by offering to provide half the land needed for that hospital to be built.”

  Was it John’s imagination, or did the man’s hand tighten on his shoulder when he made reference to Mary?

  Lord Lawton held up his hand to quiet the cheers that were still rising. “I will offer a piece of the unentailed land that currently attaches Lawton Grange, the land that runs alongside the Parkhurst estates. Provided, of course, that Lord Parkhurst is willing to offer a comparable piece of land from his side of the boundary.”

  John stiffened, listening for the catch, for something treacherous beneath Lawton’s kindly words—was this a trick to expose his relationship to Mary? Had Lawton seen them going into the woods together? But the man’s voice sounded sincere and cheerful. And he had truly loved John’s father. Perhaps he was genuinely trying to make peace.

  Mary’s project ought to be completed, after all. What better wedding present could he give her? So he raised his own voice to the crowd. “By all means, Lord Lawton. I will gladly match your gift, and provide a cottage and a salary for a new doctor as well. For the sake of the good people of Birchford, and the villages around us.”

  Lawton leaned in privately again, and said low and kindly, “We shall name it in memory of your father.”

  The thought took John’s breath away. A sudden longing to see his father rolled through him, tugging at his heart. “I would be grateful for that, sir.”

  Lord Lawton raised his voice for the crowd again. “And the hospital will stand as a permanent reminder of the unshakeable bond between our two families, between the Lawtons and the Parkhursts, a bond the former viscount and I always hoped to solidify well into the future.”

  Lawton put an arm around John’s shoulder, and John found himself awash in emotion. Losing his best friend must have been hard for Lord Lawton. Pompous as the man could be, he clearly had a heart.

  For a moment, it was almost as if John could feel his father’s presence close by them, placing a hand of benediction on each of their shoulders. Telling them all would be well between their families, after all.

  So lost was he in that sensation, he did not fully attend to Lord Lawton’s next words to the crowd. Not until it was too late.

  “It gladdens my heart,” boomed out Lawton, “to know we shall build this institution together, in the memory of my dearest friend. And it gladdens my heart further still to know that it happens as another dream is brought to fruition as well, with our families are joined in the union of his son and my eldest child.”

  The words were said so quickly, so smoothly, John at first did not even catch their meaning. Not until he felt Lawton’s head bend towards his once more and heard a hoarse whisper: “You
must have known I’d never let you shame your father, boy. You’ll thank me for this later.”

  And by then, the crowd was whooping so loudly, no one would have heard him had he shouted at the top of his lungs that Lawton was lying, that he had no intention of marrying Annabel.

  The world seemed to pitch, entirely unreal, a nightmare version of itself—and a dozen hands were hoisting him into the air, tossing him up onto the shoulders of two strong farmers, and he saw Annabel being lifted up as well.

  She was laughing joyously, and the crowd began to spin the two of them round and round, with the fiddlers sawing away madly at some new raucous tune, and a drummer pounding as loudly as if the crowd were heading into battle.

  And all he could think was Mary.

  As best he could with the townspeople whirling him about, he scanned the edges of the crowd. Sweet heaven, let her be at the vicarage now, brushing the tangles out her hair, hearing none of this madness. Let her know nothing until he had time to stop the nightmare and bring out the truth.

  Everything was reeling.

  And then—dear God, he did see her.

  Mary.

  She was there, at the edge of the crowd. Her mouth gaping, her eyes wide in astonishment. And horror.

  She must have heard everything Lord Lawton said.

  He called out her name, trying to make her stop where she was and stay and listen to him, but she could not possibly hear him over the communal shouting. He reached a hand out toward her, stretching as far as his arm could go, willing her towards him, but the people on whose shoulders he was carried spun once more, and then his outstretched hand was pointing towards Annabel Lawton instead, who clasped it eagerly in her own.

  He turned his head back, trying to catch sight of Mary again, trying to meet her gaze with his so she would know this was all madness, this was all lies, just an enormous mistake that had no bearing whatever on what was truly going to happen between them.