“About getting me with child,” she answered, undoing an unseen row of buttons that fastened the skirt below her breasts. He would never have found them, had he been looking. Her eyes met his, their blue starker and more brilliant than ever. “I am, thankfully, quite barren.”
Thankfully? For her or for him? Either way, he didn’t like the implication. “How can you be certain?”
She pulled her arms free from her sleeves and began to wriggle free of the entire ensemble. The effect of this movement on her breasts was…salutary.
“You know I gave birth to a stillborn son when I was sixteen, I suppose?”
He hadn’t known the child had been male, but he nodded.
She sighed. “I suspected as much. There are few secrets in Grange-Over-Sands.”
The blue serge of her gown slid toward the floor. With the soft afternoon light streaming through the lightweight curtains behind her, he could make out every curve of her figure in silhouette through her chemise. He sucked in a calming breath. Her beauty was almost intimidating. Stepping out of the circle of fabric, she bent to pick it up, affording him a spectacular view of her well-formed arse. Was she trying to kill him?
After draping the dress over the back of a chair, she came back to the bed, setting one knee on the edge of the mattress. “One of the few secrets I have is that I had a terrible case of childbed fever. Afterward, the doctor told me there was little chance of my ever conceiving again.” She looked down at him, her expression void of emotion. “Under the circumstances, I think it is safe to say he was correct, don’t you?”
Walter rolled onto his side and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Her sleek chignon had been utterly destroyed by their fierce encounter. “Maybe. Or maybe the fault lay with Stratton and Montrose.”
She shook her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Given they were both quite swift to produce offspring after they married, I rather doubt it.” She swung herself fully onto the bed and stretched out alongside him.
Not knowing quite how to respond to this revelation, he settled for, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I could never have come back here to live after my father fell ill if I had had a child. And now…well, the fact that I am barren means we needn’t concern ourselves with that particular pitfall of attempting to carry on an illicit affair. That is,” she added after a brief pause, “if you do mean to carry on.”
Illicit affair. Yes, he supposed that was what they had begun, and he certainly had no intention of ending it. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Still, he couldn’t help thinking it sounded cheap and furtive. As if he were ashamed of her. As if he were biding time with her until someone more “worthy” of his affections came along.
And though he’d known her less than a day, Walter was already quite certain he would never meet a woman more worthy of his affections than Artemisia Finch.
7
Perhaps, Artemisia thought, she had made a rather grave miscalculation in asking his intentions. She would not be able to blame him if he thought her the sort of woman who took lovers with the same regularity that others took tea. After all, that was what the people of Grange-Over-Sands thought of her. Why should he be any different, despite his pretty words to the contrary?
Besides, men were notorious for not wishing to be pinned down. Lord knew, she’d become acquainted with enough of them to know a lady never pressed her advantage; she let the gentleman do all the pressing and gauged his interest accordingly. How much did he want her? How much would he be willing to shell out for the privilege of having her?
But she hadn’t been able to stop herself, because, heaven help her, she was nervous. She knew how to navigate a business transaction with a man. That was easy. She had no idea how to navigate a purely pleasurable one.
And it had been very, very pleasurable indeed.
Her stomach knotted with anxiety. Desperate to fill the silence that stretched between them, she began, “It’s all right if—“
Before she could finish the thought, however, he rolled onto his side and bent his head to kiss her. It was no more than a brush of his lips against hers. “Shhh,” he murmured. “I mean to go as we began, for as long as we both like. Is that acceptable to you, Miss Finch?”
Relief flooded her, and with it came a heady rush of desire. “Yes, Mr. Langston, I believe it is.”
“Good,” he said, flashing that dangerous grin that melted her insides and made her quite incapable of rational thought, “because I believe I still owe you that slow, meaningful tumble I promised earlier.”
She laughed, her heart swelling with an emotion she recognized as joy but decided to pretend was only gratitude.
“You shouldn’t ride back to Finch House with me,” Artemisia said after they had both mounted their horses in front of the cottage. “Take the main road straight back into town instead.”
“That anxious to get rid of me?” he teased.
In truth, she wished she were more anxious to get rid of him. If she had her way, she would drag him back upstairs and spend the rest of the day in bed with him. But that was most assuredly out of the question. She had given her caretaker the day off, but she could not expect him to remain away until nightfall.
“I am anxious to ensure we aren’t seen together. Although our route was reasonably safe earlier in the day, at this time, we might easily encounter one of my father’s tenants or one of Sandhurst’s. That’s a risk you should not take.”
Walter—she liked thinking of him as Walter—frowned as if he disliked the observation intensely but said, “I suppose not.”
“We shouldn’t leave together at all, really. Anyone could come down the main road before I take the fork toward Finch House. You should leave before I do.”
“Yes.” He made no move, however, to turn his horse toward the road.
“Won’t you be missed at the vicarage soon?”
“Likely, I already have been,” he admitted. “But at the moment, I don’t particularly care. I just want to stay here with you a little longer.”
Her heart, already sensitized with an excess of emotion and physical pleasure, grew sorer still. “I would like nothing better, but my caretaker will return from his day off soon, and, as he attends church in Grange-Over-Sands, it would be unwise for you to be here when he returns.”
With a shrug of resignation, Walter nodded. “When can I see you again?”
“Next week. Meet me here at ten of the clock.”
Disappointment skittered across his features. “No sooner?”
Artemisia shook her head. “I can’t ask my caretaker to leave the cottage for the entire day more than once a week. He does live here, after all.”
“And there is no place else we can meet?”
“None I can think of.”
He sighed. “Probably just as well. I expect I will find a long line of parishioners demanding to know why I was not at home for pastoral visits this afternoon.”
“What will you tell them?”
“That an urgent matter requiring my attention took me out of town for the day.” He pulled his horse closer to her, his mouth arcing into that ridiculously charming smile that had induced her to let him into Finch House when she’d known better. “It won’t be a lie.”
Her cheeks heated. Oh yes, it had definitely been urgent. And much, much more. “And what will you say next week?”
“The same,” he murmured. “Until then.” Standing in his stirrups, he leaned across the space that separated them and gave her a long, slow, languorous kiss full of both promise and regret. Then he turned his horse and headed up the hill toward the main road.
The wind whistled through the tall grasses on its way up from the bay, and a lone gull circled overhead.
A week from today seemed like an eternity.
Walter spent the better part of Wednesday taking care of church business he ought to have accomplished the day before. He answered correspondence, set the agenda for the next meeting of the parish council,
met with a young couple whose banns he would commence reading on Sunday, and contemplated possible topics for the week’s sermon. Given his current preoccupation with Artemisia Finch, he was having a hard time settling on anything that did not have to do with the concepts of sin, repentance and forgiveness, and yet he knew if he spoke on any of them, he would give himself away with the fierceness of his sentiment. He jotted down and scratched out at least a dozen possible chapters and verses before a whiff of something cabbage-y and not entirely pleasant wafting from the kitchen reminded him that he had agreed to have dinner at the Thursbys this evening.
Damn and blast! The last thing he wanted was to spend the evening in the company of parents who must be expecting an offer for their daughter’s hand was likely, if not imminent. In truth, what he wanted was to ride to Finch House and coax Artemisia into a late-night tryst…somewhere. Except, of course, there was nowhere. And he could not snub the Thursbys in any case. He had agreed to the invitation, after all, and as the smell of cabbage grew stronger, the prospect of eating anywhere but the vicarage grew more appealing.
And so, after having informed—and apologized profusely to—a disappointed Mrs. Graham that he would be dining elsewhere, Walter arrived at the Thursbys’ modest but comfortable Tudor-era home with enough time to spare before the dinner hour that he did not have to apologize for his tardiness. As he expected, he was seated to Miss Thursby’s left with Mr. Thursby at the head of the table to his left and Mrs. Thursby directly across. The dinner party was rounded out by the addition of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Barrington, who, unfortunately, also had a marriageable daughter whom Walter noted was conspicuously absent from the gathering. The Thursbys might be friendly with the Barringtons, but that did not mean they intended to encourage any competition.
The meal progressed smoothly enough despite the Thursbys’ patent designs upon Walter’s person, with the roast duck and French beans every bit as delicious as he remembered. The Barringtons seemed content to wait until he was at their dinner table to foist their daughter upon him, although Mrs. Barrington did make a point of informing him of Miss Barrington’s exceptional familiarity with the Scripture. Mrs. Thursby countered that her daughter was equally devout and played the pianoforte, which wasn’t far off from the organ, after all, should the church ever be in need of an organist.
Walter might have been more amused by their friendly attempts to outdo one another if it had been less plain to him that Miss Thursby was both embarrassed by her mother’s extravagant praise and miserable at the prospect of being courted by him. With each and every mention of her estimable talents, the young lady shrank and paled just a bit more, as though she were doing her very best to become invisible.
Despite the fact that he more or less shared her sentiments on the subject of their pairing, Walter could not help but wonder exactly why she found him so objectionable. He was hardly ogre-ish in either appearance or character, so he doubted the cause of her distaste was personal animus. Whatever the reason, however, he felt obligated to discover it, if not as her supposed suitor then as her pastor. The girl was clearly suffering from some distress, and worse, her parents were oblivious to it.
When the last course was being cleared and the ladies were about to excuse themselves to the withdrawing room, Walter broke with tradition. “If you have no objections, Mr. and Mrs. Thursby, I should like to escort Miss Thursby on a walk through the garden. It’s such a lovely, warm evening, it seems a shame to waste it by remaining indoors.”
Mrs. Thursby all but crowed with triumph at the suggestion. Obviously, she believed her success in marrying off her daughter was imminent. “Oh, yes, by all means, Mr. Langston, what a capital idea! We shall all go for a turn about the garden. The fresh air will do us good, I’m sure.”
And so, a few minutes later, the dinner party had gathered itself into three pairs. Walter took the lead with a wilted Miss Thursby on his arm, while her parents and the Barringtons followed at a respectful distance, allowing the opportunity to converse in private. Which was precisely what Walter had intended.
“I am under the distinct impression, Miss Thursby,” he began, “that you are not as eager for me to ask for your hand as your parents are. Is that so?” When she shot him a wary glance from under her eyelashes, he added, “I assure you, I shan’t take offense at your answer.”
After looking over her shoulder to ensure her parents were too far behind them to overhear their conversation, her posture relaxed palpably. “It is naught to do with you, Mr. Langston. You are an excellent vicar and quite handsome and I like you very much but…you see,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “I am in love with someone else.”
The fog of confusion he’d been slogging through ever since he’d noted her lack of enthusiasm for this dinner party at the church on Sunday lifted. “And does the young man return your affections?”
Her dark ringlets bobbed as she nodded in answer. “Oh yes. He’s already asked me to marry him.”
“If that’s the case, why do your parents believe you’d be open to a proposal from me?” At her drooping shoulders, he intuited the answer. “They don’t know about him. And, I suspect, you think they wouldn’t approve.”
She sighed, her shoulders sagging with defeat. “They will never approve of him. He’s not a gentleman, you know, but a tradesman, and Mama and Papa will never agree for me to marry him. We shall have to run off to Gretna Green if we’re ever to be together.”
Walter thought that would be ill-advised, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he considered how he might use his position to help Miss Thursby get what she wanted and, in the process, get what he wanted—one less potential bride.
“Who is the lucky young man who has captured your heart, Miss Thursby? Perhaps there is some way I can assist you, assuming I determine his intentions are honorable.”
“Oh, I assure you, his intentions are completely honorable. And please,” she added, turning her face, which had brightened considerably, up toward his, “call me Alice. All my friends do.”
“Are we friends now, then?”
“Yes.” She smiled broadly. “Yes, I think we are.”
Walter imagined that Mrs. Thursby, walking a short distance behind them and thus eavesdropping upon their facial expressions if not their conversation, must be beside herself with joy. The ultimate outcome of this evening’s festivities was going to be difficult to explain.
“Well, then, Alice, perhaps you’d better tell me his name.”
Her already soft brown eyes went positively dewy. “Tom Forster.”
Being relatively new to Grange-Over-Sands, Walter required several seconds to put the name with the person in question. “Mr. Nicholson’s apprentice?” Mr. Nicholson was the town’s master carpenter.
“Just so. He was here with Mr. Nicholson, you see, to replace the railings in the bannister that had rotted. We wound up talking one morning, and then the next time he came, and oh, Mr. Langston, he’s so kind and clever and when I look at him, I get the most peculiar, giddy sensation like you do when you miss a stair, you know.”
“Yes,” he said. It was the feeling he got when he looked at Artemisia Finch.
“So you see why we must elope. There’s no other way.”
Any other way would certainly be difficult. But then, any way would be difficult. Walter doubted Alice had any real idea of how different the life of a tradesman’s wife was from the life she led now. Although Forster’s prospects were better than most given his skills, his income would still be a far cry from that of a gentleman farmer like Mr. Thursby, and his wife’s expectations would need to be wholly different. Dinner parties, turns in the garden, and frivolous frocks like the pretty bit of pink fluffery she wore tonight would be a thing of the past. In truth, Walter would be hard pressed to make a convincing argument for why her parents ought to allow the marriage. Love ought to conquer all, but it rarely did.
“Besides,” she added before he could point out the very real drawbacks to such a match, “I’ve ha
d knowledge of him, Mr. Langston. Biblical knowledge.”
Right, then. The other way would be difficult, but it was now the only way.
He patted her hand. “Never fear, Miss Thursby. I shall see to everything.”
“Truly?” She looked up at him, her face blazing with joy. A far cry from the pale, pitiful creature who’d inhabited the chair beside him at the dinner table, she lived up to her mother’s every accolade. It was suddenly easy to see how Tom Forster had become smitten with her.
“You have my word. The banns will be read commencing the Sunday after next or my name isn’t Walter Langston.”
If he didn’t manage it, his name would be dirt.
8
Mrs. Sutton, the Finch’s housekeeper, met Artemisia in the stairwell as she was on her way downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning, Miss Finch. I hate to trouble you with this, but Hodgson had news last night that his mother is ill, and of course, I had to let him go home to visit her.”
Did Mrs. Sutton think Artemisia would object to the footman being given unplanned time off? “You did the right thing,” she assured the housekeeper. “We can manage without him for a few days, I’m sure.”
“Aye, we can, but you see, ‘tis Thursday.” The housekeeper stressed the last word, as though she expected it to mean something to Artemisia.
At present, all it meant to her was that she must wait five more days to meet Walter at the cottage again. Five long, restless days. Ever since she’d told him unequivocally that they could not meet more often than once a week, she had in fact been equivocating on her position. Perhaps Mr. Chalker, her caretaker, could be induced to take leave of the cottage from sun-up until teatime more frequently than once a week. He had a daughter and grandchildren just up the road in Meathop, after all. Perhaps he would even like the opportunity to spend more time with them. A lot more time.
But each time she considered the idea, she dismissed it, sometimes within seconds, others within hours. Keeping their encounters to once per week was sensible. Safe. If they met any more often, one or both of them might start imagining the affair could go beyond the purely physical. They might burn out their passions and actually spend time talking and enjoying one another’s company. They might become friends—or worse.
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