Courting the Vicar's Daughter: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  While she said people wondered such a thing, he could hear the question in her voice. She wondered, too, if he was as miserly and selfish as the late Mr. Devon.

  Miss Ames’s conjecture irked him. Hadn’t he been invited to meet any number of gentlemen in their homes?

  Of course, there had been some interesting lines of conversation in those instances. Especially in regards to his desire to settle at Whitewood. Harry had assumed people were merely curious, looking for gossip to share with friends. But—no. Thinking on it now, there had been at least two instances when the men he spoke to encouraged him to go back to London. One had said, London is a fine place for bachelor’s such as yourself. Harry had laughed and agreed, though he abhorred the town, in an attempt to be polite.

  Furthermore, he certainly hadn’t been invited to anyone’s dinner table since his arrival, with the exception of the vicar. The young ladies he had met at the church had seemed eager enough to reacquaint themselves with him. Their parents, less so.

  Having done everything in his power to avoid being like his father, the thought smarted. A whole village of people silently questioned his character.

  Brighton would be lovely. No one knows the Devon name there. I think.

  Working against the reputation of a dead man, to earn the esteem of neighbors he barely knew, didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. His father’s history loomed over him, casting a long shadow indeed, and overcoming it would take more time and energy than he wished to give.

  He’d never particularly wanted to come back for that very reason.

  Harry’s steps slowed as he approached his family’s estate, the thought taking hold of him.

  I never wished to confront all that my father left behind.

  Miss Ames’s words came back to him. “You could be an example of kindness, of gentility, to this neighborhood.”

  His thoughts spun and his heart ached. All he wanted was to find some purpose, find his place in the world.

  Why did it have to be here?

  Chapter Seven

  Daisy’s Father leaned on his walking stick in the doorway, watching for Mr. Haskett and the Gooches. Mr. and Mrs. Gooch had a little farm and were near neighbors to the Ameses, so when they offered to give the vicar and Daisy a ride to the assembly ball, Daisy had thought nothing of accepting their kind invitation. After she said yes, Mrs. Gooch informed her they were to bring the curate as well. Five people in a carriage, for such a short ride, would normally be no inconvenience. Knowing Mr. Haskett would be one of the party, however, caused Daisy to feel terribly crowded even before the conveyance arrived.

  “Being tardy to a ball is hardly a matter to worry over,” her father said, misinterpreting the way she fidgeted with her gloves.

  Daisy peered out the doorway again. “Yes, Father. I know.”

  “Are you anxious about something else?” he asked, studying her with his thick brows furrowed. A tall, thin man, he’d never exactly been an imposing figure. Perhaps that was why he took great pains to speak slowly and in such a forward manner. Daisy had often privately thought so.

  “Not at all.” She managed a tight-lipped smile. “Merely looking forward to dancing.”

  He nodded sagely and opened his mouth to say something—when the sound of hooves and wheels on gravel came to their ears. The carriage had come, and in another moment they were finding their seats inside.

  Thankfully, Daisy was given a seat between Mr. and Mrs. Gooch while her father and the curate sat across from her on the forward-facing seat. The Gooches were terribly respectful to clergy.

  “My dear Miss Ames, you look quite pretty this evening,” Mrs. Gooch said. “Isn’t it wonderful to be on our way to a ball? Mr. Gooch so enjoys dancing.”

  Mr. Gooch chuckled and bent toward Daisy. “It is very true, Miss Ames. If possible, I will dance every set this evening. Some say it is not seemly for one of my age, but the young ladies never seem to mind.”

  “Especially if there is a lack of unmarried men to ask them.” Mrs. Gooch tutted. “Of course, with Mr. Haskett added to our numbers, and now Mr. Devon as well, we will see many of our girls cheerfully engaged in dancing this evening.”

  Heat rose in Daisy’s cheeks. She’d been trying, and failing, not to think about the possibility of Mr. Devon attending the ball. After their last meeting she’d known they parted in less than favorable circumstances. Something about their conversation had put him out of humor with her, which she regretted terribly. He had behaved so kindly toward the girls, and to her. His handkerchief, cleaned and pressed, sat on her dressing table reminding her every day of his gallantry.

  “Will he be in attendance?” Mr. Haskett asked. “I do look forward to making his acquaintance. We have not yet been introduced, and I have not had the opportunity of paying my respects to him.”

  Daisy raised her eyebrows without thought. He has been here more than two weeks. I thought everyone had called upon him.

  “Several young misses have taken the opportunity to be certain of his attendance,” Mrs. Gooch said, a knowing sort of humor in her words. “I believe quite a few new gowns will be seen tonight.”

  Daisy’s eyes lowered to her lap. The carriage was too dark to make out the simple lines of her best evening gown. It was hardly more elegant than the dresses she wore to church, with few frills and a less-than-daring neckline. She’d worn the gown several times in the past year, but had nothing more appropriate for the evening. Her very best dress she kept back for special occasions, such as the earl’s Christmas ball.

  I should not wish to wear it tonight, she thought for the tenth time at least. People would notice and certainly think it had something to do with either Mr. Devon’s arrival or the curate’s incidental escort.

  Father took up another line of conversation with Mr. Gooch, as they were of a similar age. Mrs. Gooch took the opportunity to lean in closer to whisper to Daisy.

  “He really is a fine young man, Mr. Devon. He came to the house last week and spoke to my husband for some time. What do you guess it was about?” she asked, sounding delighted.

  Daisy swallowed and kept her eyes down upon her lap. Heat filled her cheeks, which was ridiculous. Thankfully, no one could see her in the dark to guess at the reason behind her embarrassment.

  “I cannot imagine,” she said, trying to sound polite without sounding interested.

  “Tenant rents.”

  Daisy’s head came up and she tried to make out Mrs. Gooch’s expression through the shadows. Surely, she hadn’t heard the woman correctly. “Rents? That is an odd topic of conversation, I suppose.” She clamped her lips shut. She would not participate in gossip or conjecture. It was unbecoming of a vicar’s daughter to do so.

  Mrs. Gooch didn’t require further encouragement, however. “Indeed. He said he had been asking several of the gentlemen about in order to determine the fairness of what his tenants are paying. My husband says that the late Mr. Devon was too hard on his tenants. He says—”

  The curate’s voice interrupted Mrs. Gooch’s whispering. “Mrs. Gooch, I understand you are one of the women who assists in the organization of the fall harvest celebration held in the village. Will you have need of any assistance from me, madam?”

  Daisy realized the men likely had stumbled onto that subject in their own conversation. Mrs. Gooch didn’t seem to mind being interrupted in the least.

  “I would be most happy, Mr. Haskett, to have your help. We make something of a fair out of it. There are pie tastings, and weighing of the pigs and such. Perhaps you could be one of our judges.” She started speaking with great animation, describing the past harvest celebrations with delight.

  Daisy didn’t pay much attention. She was rather busy puzzling over Mr. Devon’s sudden concern for the local cost of rent. Though he’d told her of his time spent with the steward, she hadn’t realized he had extended his education to other landowners. She admitted, if only to herself, the knowledge impressed her.

  It is only right a man take such
an interest in his responsibilities. I shouldn’t be surprised. Mr. Devon is doing what he ought to have done all along.

  His charming smile appeared before her mind’s eye, his hat full of blackberries teasing at her memory. Nothing about him, so far as she could tell, was selfish or unkind. Her thoughts remained on Mr. Devon for the duration of the carriage ride, much to her annoyance. A man who had no relation to her daily activities ought not to hold such a place in her mind. Turning her thoughts more resolutely to the evening ahead didn’t take him far enough away. She wondered who he would dance with, considering several of her peers would likely attempt to secure a set with him. Certainly, the whole neighborhood would be watching Mr. Devon with interest.

  Well. She wouldn’t. She’d keep her attention where it belonged. On her friends, her neighbors, and her dance partners.

  The carriage rolled to a stop before the village’s largest building, the Sword and Shield Inn. The lower rooms on the ground floor would be set apart for gentlemen to play cards, while the larger room on the first floor would be given over wholly to dancing.

  Daisy accepted Mr. Gooch’s hand out of the carriage, then took her father’s arm to enter the building. She could already hear music coming from the windows. The public ball occurred the first full moon before harvest, every year. She smiled freely, happily anticipating the hours before her.

  “Miss Ames,” the curate’s voice called before she and her father had made it many steps.

  Father paused and turned, releasing her arm as he did so. His expression was solemn in the torchlight.

  Daisy bit back a sigh and gave Mr. Haskett her attention. “Yes, Mr. Haskett?”

  “Might I have the pleasure of requesting your first dance this evening?” he asked, bowing.

  She could give only one answer, as was expected of her. “Of course, Mr. Haskett.”

  Her father took her arm again and swept her away. He bent slightly, once they were inside the inn, and murmured in her ear, “He is a good man, Augusta.”

  She nodded her agreement, but her heart clenched. Her father hadn’t shown any interest in marrying her off to anyone. He hadn’t done much to encourage his elder daughters to wed, either, though he approved of both of their husbands. She hoped, most fervently, he wasn’t about to start matchmaking.

  Daisy wasn’t ready to wed. One and twenty wasn’t quite the age for her to worry over such things. Not when she was still a help to her father.

  I needn’t think about marriage. Not yet. I have other plans, after all. She entered the upper rooms, music swelling as the current dance came to an end. And Mr. Haskett certainly doesn’t fit into any of those plans.

  §

  Harry spent the first quarter of an hour going about the hall introducing himself to the people he had not yet met. Gentlemen he’d politely presented their wives, daughters, and sisters, but rarely with enthusiasm. He bowed from one end of the room to the other, paying compliments as sincerely and efficiently as possible.

  He finally found himself back at his sister’s side, where she remained on the arm of her husband.

  “Hello again, Harry,” she said, smirking up at him. “Why aren’t you dancing yet? I think every young lady in the room is waiting for you to take the floor.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if wagers had been laid,” Thomas said, earning an amused glance from his wife.

  “I find the whole thing terrifying,” Harry said at last, his voice lowered and his eyes sweeping the room. Several women were looking in his direction, but the one he searched for had yet to appear. “I cannot dance with anyone without giving insult to everyone else.”

  “Only when it comes to the first.” Thomas remained cheerful as ever, pointing out the obvious. “And do not dance with anyone more than a set.”

  “Christine, will you dance with me?” Harry asked, at a loss for what else to do. “No one can dislike me for dancing with my sister.”

  She chuckled. “You wish to be universally liked? I never thought you cared much for popularity.”

  He scowled. “I didn’t. But that was before it mattered so much.” And it did matter. When he’d been in London, in Bath visiting Julia, and in Italy, no one cared who he danced with because he wasn’t a permanent fixture. He came and went as he liked. But here, if he remained at Whitewood, he needed the good opinion of his neighbors. Giving offense with so simple a thing as standing up with the wrong girl wouldn’t be wise.

  Of course, he hadn’t exactly decided to stay yet. But the option, and thus the concern, remained before him.

  “Very well,” Christine said at last, releasing her husband’s arm to take her brother’s. “I will dance with you. But that will not entirely solve your problem.”

  “Thank you.” He escorted her to the floor where the second dance in the set was forming. They stepped into position and Harry looked down the line, searching for a particular blonde head.

  The music started and Harry entered into the steps with ease. Christine followed the figures well, and spoke more often to the other ladies near her than to him. Because he needn’t give his sister his full attention, Harry’s mind wandered.

  Miss Ames wasn’t in attendance this evening. Not yet, anyway. Augusta Ames confused him. The day before, he’d bandaged her wound, guarded her reputation, seen her laugh, and then felt the sting of her censure. The only thing more confounding than her complexities was his inability to banish her from his thoughts.

  The music concluded, and the next dance was called, another that required more energy than thought. Christine gave Harry a firm shake of the head, dashing his hopes she would continue with him for another moment. He took her hand and turned to escort her from the floor—

  Miss Ames approached on the arm of the curate, drifting over the floor with ease in a gown of periwinkle blue. Harry nearly stopped to speak to her, but Christine gave his arm a fierce tug, pulling him out of the way.

  The vicar’s daughter didn’t meet his gaze, but the way her lips tightened when she passed let him know she’d seen him. And chose not to look at him.

  “You cannot ask her to dance when she is already on her way to the floor,” Christine whispered. “Where are your manners, Harry?”

  Harry scoffed, albeit quietly. “I had no intention of asking her.” Not at the moment, anyway. But now that she had turned up, somehow prettier than she had been the day before, and obviously upset with him, he reconsidered.

  Christine cut him a look of supreme skepticism, complete with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “Did you plan to simply bar her way?”

  “No.” Harry sped up their walk around the edges of the room in an attempt to outrun the tips of his ears turning red. Since they were attached to him, he failed. But at least Christine hadn’t seemed to notice. “I barely know Miss Ames. Why would I wish to dance with her?”

  “I haven’t any idea.” Christine stopped, making it necessary for him to do the same. “Have we a goal with our quick-march, General, or is this merely a drill?” She adjusted her gloves as she spoke.

  “I apologize, Chrissy.” Harry tucked his hands behind his back. In as nonchalant a manner as he could manage, he turned his head to look out over the room to the couples dancing. It took him a moment to find Miss Ames’s blonde coiffure, as she wasn’t of a great height. He found the tall, thin curate first and deduced her position from his.

  “At least you have managed to skip this dance. Entering it now would be ridiculous.” She stood on her toes. “Do you see Thomas?”

  Harry shook his head, still observing the progress of Miss Ames down the line of the dance. “I am certain he will find you. He always does.”

  “Yes. Isn’t it marvelous?” she asked, happiness coloring her words.

  Harry didn’t miss her tone, and when he glanced at her expression he saw softness rest upon her features. His vivacious and outspoken sister wore the mantel of wife and mother quite well. Gratitude eased his heart, not for the first time, in knowing that she’d found Thomas. Somehow
, all three of his sisters had obtained happiness, despite his late father’s determination to put finances above family and lucre before love.

  Christine caught him staring from the corner of her eye and raised her eyebrows. “What is it? Have I grown an extra nose?”

  He started to laugh but covered the sound with a cough, raising his fist to his lips. “No. Merely observing that you have grown short, Chrissy.”

  “Short? You know that it is you who has grown abominably tall, you terrible boy.” She took his arm. “Come. Several matrons are glaring in our direction. We must do our duty and at least introduce you to their daughters.”

  It took a great deal of will to avoid groaning, but Harry managed. He cast one last look over his shoulder to find Miss Ames halfway through the required steps of the dance.

  “You may ask her in a moment, Harry, but attend to me in the interim.” Christine’s words were accompanied by a knowing grin.

  He tried to protest. “I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you most certainly were.” Christine lowered her voice as they approached a woman dreadfully surrounded by young ladies. “Miss Ames will be here all evening, Harry.”

  Harry fixed his most charming smile in place, bowed to the woman and her four daughters, and tried to remember their names. They were a family newly come to the neighborhood through an inheritance, which made it more difficult to remember them. But he gave it every effort.

  While Christine facilitated conversation, Harry kept one ear on the musicians. Somehow, with a few sly questions on the part of the mother, Harry found himself engaged to dance with one of her daughters for the very next dance. Only Christine’s gentle squeeze of his arm kept him from running away.

  He went to the floor as the young lady’s escort, and realized soon after that Miss Ames wasn’t dancing. There were more ladies than gentlemen present, but it surprised him someone wouldn’t have asked her. Harry tried to concentrate on his partner, returning her smiles and putting some energy into the steps.