‘Good evening, Davey.’ He managed a smile for Davey Fletcher. Prayed the blacksmith hadn’t seen which cottage he’d come out of.
‘That Miss Woodrowe’s a right pretty lass,’ said Fletcher cheerfully, patting Bonny as she nudged up to him.
Yes, well. Not all prayers were answered quite as one might like. He knew that.
Fletcher continued. ‘My boy, Caleb, reckons she’s real nice too, the way she manages all them young ’uns. Teaching them their ABCs an’ all.’ He nodded. ‘Good thing for this village, an’ don’t you think we’re not grateful to you and his lordship for doing it.’ He doffed his cap and went on his way, whistling.
Of course, Fletcher probably thought he’d just been discussing the children’s progress with Polly. As he should have been.
Instead, he’d been kissing her. And there was only one possible remedy for that. At least, there was only one remedy for him in this situation.
He’d somehow always expected the decision to marry—and the choice of a bride—to be a rational, logical process, just like everything else he’d done in his life. Naturally his wife would be a woman he liked and esteemed, someone he could be comfortable with. But tumbling head over heels in love?
Oh, he knew people fell in love. He’d watched it happen to Dominic and Pippa. It had not looked logical at all. Although perhaps that was just their confusion. The actual result had been perfectly logical. He’d seen that before they had. But still, he’d never thought that it would happen to him. Not like that. But it had. Like a thunderbolt. He dragged in a breath, steadied his thinking, reaching for the calm inner peace he relied on. Just because he’d fallen in love didn’t mean it wasn’t necessary to at least behave as though he was thinking rationally. More importantly, he needed to behave with honour.
He groaned. Kissing Polly Woodrowe out of her wits was not the action of an honourable man. Not when she had no one to protect her, to guard her reputation, or to advise her.
Of course it would be different if they were betrothed.
Very different.
Kissing her would be quite unexceptionable. As long as he made sure it stopped at kissing. What worried him was that ensuring that it did stop at kissing looked like being a problem. He was a clergyman, for heaven’s sake!
Apparently he was a man before he was a clergyman. A man who wanted a woman. A woman he liked, cared for and respected. Logically, and thank God he was actually being logical again, that could mean only one thing: marriage.
* * *
The next day it was all Polly could do to keep her mind on her pupils and off Alex Martindale. No letter dismissing her had arrived during breakfast, the children all came to school on time and, apart from an awkward moment over Jemmy Willet’s arithmetic, the day passed uneventfully.
Until Alex arrived as the children were leaving.
They filed out, greeting him cheerfully as they passed. Polly listened as he greeted them by name, asking after parents, relatives, little brothers and sisters. He knew these people, she realised. Knew them and cared about them. They were indeed his flock.
And he was probably quite horrified to think that he had placed a wanton hussy in charge of the lambs.
She shut the door behind the children and faced him. ‘Mr Martindale, about last night, I’m—’
‘Yes. Last night. Miss Woodrowe—Polly—will you do me the honour of marrying me?’
Marriage. In the darkness last night, sleepless in her bed, she had allowed her dreams free rein. And had banished them in the chill light of morning. Alex Martindale could not marry a penniless schoolmistress, whose family did not want to know her.
Surely he knew that?
Apparently he didn’t.
* * *
He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but the mere thought of last night had scattered his carefully prepared speech.
‘Marry you?’ She stared at him as if he’d sprouted an extra head, or possibly horns and a tail.
He cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes. I’d like you to marry me.’ Rather understating the case, but—
‘Why?’
Dash it all! Wasn’t it obvious? ‘You can ask that? After yesterday?’
She stared. ‘This is because you kissed me? You feel honour-bound to offer marriage because you kissed me?’
‘No,’ he said at once. ‘I’m asking you to marry me because I want to be able to kiss you and know I don’t have to stop.’ Her jaw dropped and he followed up his advantage at once. ‘And because I want to kiss you again. Right now.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Right now?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re...not.’
‘No. Because I wouldn’t want to stop. And...’ he dragged in a breath, cast discretion, not to mention delicacy, to perdition ‘...because I might not stop.’ Oh, God! Now she knew, knew the truth. And she’d think him depraved.
‘But, sir—’
‘Alex.’ He didn’t want her calling him sir, or Mr Martindale, or anything else but Alex.
She flushed. ‘Alex, then. Don’t you see? I’m no sort of wife for you. I’ve no money. No connections. I would bring you nothing.’
She was biting her lip in a way that made him want to soothe it, kiss away the worry and then bite it himself. Even as the idea of her feeling unworthy infuriated him. ‘I’m perfectly well off and my own connections are more than adequate,’ he pointed out.
‘That’s just it!’ she said. ‘It...it would be most unequal.’
Ah. Here was the rub, then. ‘And would that bother you if our positions were reversed?’ he asked quietly.
‘Not now,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve learnt better. But before? When I was wealthy?’ Her cheeks flamed. ‘Probably, yes.’
Her bone-deep honesty and humility seared him. ‘Your aunt would have set the dogs on me, anyway,’ he said.
She managed a smile. ‘Yes. Warned me that you only wanted my money.’
He snorted. ‘Like your cousin?’
She flushed and guilt lashed him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have reminded you.’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not now.’
‘Then do I have your permission to court you?’ he asked.
She blinked. ‘My permission to court me?’
He smiled. ‘Who else should I ask?’
Courting was something a gentleman did to a lady. After asking her father or guardian’s permission. Only her father was dead and she didn’t have a guardian any longer. She had her independence and he had asked her permission.
‘You want to court me?’
‘Yes.’ Alex felt that he was on fairly firm ground here. ‘It’s what a man does when he wants a woman as his wife.’ He’d watched any number of courting couples over the years. Then married them. Rather often the christening was significantly less than nine months later in the village and farming community. He slammed a lid back on that pot of thought at once.
‘What does courting entail?’
Polly’s question had him mentally scrambling. ‘Ah, well, I call on you,’ he said. ‘At respectable hours,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I can bring you small gifts. Flowers in season.’ Please God, by spring they’d be beyond courting.
‘That’s all?’
He blanked out the image of leaving flowers on her pillow. ‘We can walk together.’ That should be safe enough for her. It was far too cold for tumbling maidens in the woods.
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going to kiss me?’
Polly shut her eyes. She definitely hadn’t meant to say that. Well, if anything were needed to change his mind about her suitability as his wife, the realisation that she was indeed a shameless hussy should take the trick.
Dragging in a breath, she opened her eyes to face him.
He was staring at her, wonder in his eyes. ‘You don’t mind?’
She blushed, shook her head.
‘What if—’ He broke off. ‘You trust me?’
Her turn to stare. ‘Trust you? Well, of course I trust you!’
‘You shouldn’t,’ he whispered, reaching for her. ‘Because I’m not sure that I trust myself.’
His arms closed about her, drew her in to the warmth and safety. For a moment they stood like that and it was enough. The cottage was enough, if it could hold such wonder. Everything in her whole world had contracted to their two bodies. His hard, powerful; the strength in his arms should have terrified her, yet he held her so gently. She looked up, meaning to speak, there were things she must tell him before this went any further. Things that might make him change his mind.
‘Alex—’ But his mouth covered hers and his kiss silenced her, stole her wits and breath, and ravished her senses.
By the time he broke the kiss and stepped back, his breathing was ragged and her wits were spinning. Those normally gentle grey eyes were ablaze and his hands gripped her shoulders hard.
‘Polly, we have to stop this or you won’t have a choice about marriage,’ he said harshly. ‘I shouldn’t see you alone like this again.’ His hands slid down her arms, so that every nerve danced, and grasped her hands, bringing them to his lips, feathering a kiss over her knuckles. Then he released her and was gone, leaving her dazed and trembling.
Chapter Six
For the next few days Alex stayed away from the schoolhouse unless the children were still there. If he couldn’t see Polly alone without kissing her and not wanting to stop, then he had to stay away. For her sake. The last thing he wanted was for someone to catch them and for her to feel shamed into accepting him, or, even worse, for his control to break and his own actions force her to marriage.
So he greeted her in the street after school when she walked down to the Filberts’ shop, spoke with her in public after church about the children’s progress, walked with her as a small girl, full of delight and chatter, swung on her hand the length of the village street. Polly, he realised in bemusement, was precisely the wife for the rector of a country parish. And, more importantly, she was precisely the right wife for Alex Martindale—the woman he dreamed of and woke up aching for.
The woman he had fallen head over heels in love with.
* * *
He finally broke the day before Christmas Eve. Surely he could see her alone for five minutes before she went to her cousins, perhaps even exchange a gentle kiss, without being overwhelmed by lust!
Alex stopped in at the school on his way home from his parish rounds. It was nearly the end of the school day. He could invite Polly to the rectory for a cup of tea. She might even stay for supper. Mrs Judd would be about. They wouldn’t be entirely unchaperoned. That would be safer than being with her in the schoolhouse and he could be with her for a little longer. And he wanted to see her in his home. Where she belonged.
He opened the door quietly. Polly was bent over one of the children, explaining something, but she looked up at once, beckoned him in and turned back to the child.
Polly’s heart hammered as she explained where the sum had gone wrong, took Sally through it again, setting her a similar sum, and finally patting the girl on the shoulder with a ‘Well done’ as the difficulty was mastered.
Straightening, she said, ‘Time to pack up, class.’ There was a scurry for hats, mufflers and coats, the older children helping the younger ones. She didn’t look at Alex—Mr Martindale—but watched the children. He had held to his resolve not to be alone with her, walking with her in the street and chatting about the children after church last Sunday.
Once they were sitting quietly again, the children, at a small nod from her, rose as one. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Polly!’ they chorused, ‘And a Merry Christmas to you!’
She smiled. ‘And a Merry Christmas to you, class. Line up at the door.’
They scrambled for the door, lining up from youngest to oldest, straight and tall. Still smiling, she walked to the door and reached into her pocket, bringing out a small bag of toffees. ‘One each,’ she said. ‘And enjoy the holiday.’
Grinning and wishing her a Merry Christmas again, the children filed out, taking a toffee each.
As she closed the door behind the last child, Alex said simply, ‘I missed you.’
Whatever she had expected him to say, that wasn’t it, and her heart leapt. ‘Missed me? You’ve seen me every single day.’
He nodded. ‘I know. But it’s not the same, courting you in public.’
Not the same as what?
He drew her into his arms. ‘Not the same as kissing you,’ he murmured, as if she’d asked the question aloud. His lips settled on hers in a gentle kiss that banished every doubt, every fear, and with a soft sigh she surrendered her mouth to him. His arms tightened as the kiss deepened, and she tasted him, warm and dark in her mouth. Shyly she touched her tongue to his, felt his groan of response, the answering leap of desire in her own blood as his mouth possessed hers. Slow, deep kisses, and his hands gentle on her body, reverent as he cupped one breast and her breathing shattered on a sob at the shaft of sensation.
Alex felt, tasted, the soft cry and somehow broke the kiss, shaking, burning, almost beyond stopping. Breathing hard, he rested his forehead on hers. If she didn’t accept and marry him soon, he was going to end up stark, raving mad.
‘Polly, have you—?’
‘Good God!’
The slam of the door and disgusted exclamation had roughly the same effect as a bucket of cold, dirty water. He released Polly at once.
Lady Eliot was staring at them in disbelief. ‘If it would not be too much trouble, Rector—’ her icy tones suggested that he might possibly have forgotten the dignity due to his calling ‘—I should like to speak to my niece. Privately.’
Somehow he steadied his breathing, squashed the urge to recommend that Lady Eliot hie herself to a much warmer address and stepped away from Polly.
He hauled in a breath, one that still tasted of Polly, and said, ‘Lady Eliot, I assure you that—’
A small, distressed sound from Polly stopped him. Every instinct bade him tell her aunt that he had made her an honourable offer, that he loved her, wanted to marry her. But—
But she had not accepted him yet. And if he told Lady Eliot, then the pressure on Polly to accept would be immense. If she were unsure of her affections, perhaps still loved her cousin Tom—an unsuspected green-hued beast inside him growled savagely at the mere thought—then she needed time. Time to be sure of the direction of her heart. No matter that his own heart had found its true north, Polly had forged her independence and he wasn’t going to rip it away from her. Polly was more than capable of dealing with her aunt.
So he said, for her ears only, ‘As you wish, sweetheart.’
He walked past Lady Eliot with a polite, ‘Good day, ma’am’, and left.
* * *
Polly turned to face her aunt, her cheeks burning. ‘Good day, Aunt. How do you go on?’
Lady Eliot ignored this greeting. ‘I suppose I am not surprised to find you in such a disgraceful situation, Hippolyta, but I confess I had thought better of Mr Martindale!’
Polly drew a deep breath. ‘It...it isn’t what you think, Aunt! There was nothing—’
‘Nothing?’ demanded Lady Eliot. ‘Hippolyta, you were in his arms and I believe he had been kissing you!’ She snorted. ‘I am very sure that is nothing to a bold piece such as yourself, but—’
‘We did nothing wrong!’ burst Polly. ‘He—’ She stopped. She couldn’t tell Aunt Eliot that Alex had offered for her. Not unless she meant to accept him. If it became known that he had offered and been refused, it would exp
ose him to ridicule. And she couldn’t accept him before she was quite sure he meant it. That his offer did not stem from chivalry alone. She certainly couldn’t accept him before he knew the truth about her dismissal from the Frisinghams’ employ. If he didn’t believe her...something inside her shrivelled at the thought that he might not. After all, she had kissed him first. He might think she was running true to form....
‘We did nothing wrong,’ she repeated. ‘And it is none of your business, Aunt.’
Lady Eliot snorted. ‘Well, I dare say, since you no longer reside under Sir Nathan’s roof, that you think it none of my business, but I will remind you that your previous effort at entrapping a gentleman ended in scandal and dismissal!’ The cold eyes raked Polly from head to foot. ‘I assure you that if you bring shame on your family here, there will cease to be any welcome for you in your uncle’s house! Which brings me to what I wished to say. Perhaps we may go through to your quarters.’
Polly opened the door and gestured her aunt through, relieved that she had got up early enough that morning to sweep, dust and clear away breakfast. Even so, she could practically feel the disdain rippling through her aunt as she slowly surveyed the little room, then walked across it, her skirts held high. Humiliated, she saw the room through her aunt’s eyes, the single wooden settle by the fire, the pot hanging over the fire, steaming with her supper, the curtained-off alcove that held her bed—the mattress and bedding from the rectory including an old counterpane with the kitten curled up asleep in the middle, the shelf holding cups, plate and bowl, the flitch of bacon hanging from the rafter, and the jars of preserves that her pupils had brought her.
Lady Eliot turned to her slowly. ‘You have chosen this over a home with your family, Hippolyta? Over a place with Lady Littleworth?’
Not exactly. ‘I have chosen to earn my own living, rather than being a burden on my relatives.’ And being treated as an unpaid governess-companion-chaperon. Here in this village she was respected, even if her family no longer saw her as respectable.
Lady Eliot cleared her throat. ‘I have some news. Family news. Tom arrived home the other day.’
A Sprinkling of Christmas Magic Page 7
