His smile was fierce. “To the assembly,” he clarified, changing the angle of his hips so that the head of his cock brushed over her swollen clitoris. “Or I’ll stop.”
With her hands still pinned, all she could do was whimper with a mixture of frustration and irritation. “It will be a disaster.”
“Or a triumph,” he countered. “Or something in between. But either way, how can things be worse than they already are?”
“You could lose your position.”
“I won’t.”
He was so confident, it would almost serve him right if she did as he asked and he lost his position as a result. She didn’t want that, of course. Walter Langston was, without a doubt, the most passionately kind person she had ever met, and that made him priceless to the people of this town. They needed him. It would be utterly selfish of her to take him away because she wanted him, too.
But in the end, she was selfish, because she found herself reasoning that, if she went to the assembly and the worst happened, Robert’s threat would no longer hold any sting. After all, one could not destroy what was already ruined.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll be there.”
“Good,” he murmured as he shifted his hips and drove home. “You won’t regret it.”
And she wouldn’t, because whatever happened, she had been spared the necessity of saying good-bye to him this afternoon, which meant she could give herself over to the sheer joy of making love to him.
For that, she realized, was exactly what they were doing. Making love. For good or ill, that die had already been cast.
14
“Are you quite all right, Mr. Langston?” Miss Abigail Casson asked solicitously when Walter missed a dance step for the third or fourth time since they’d been on the floor together. “We can stop if you are feeling unwell.”
“I’m fine, Miss Casson,” he assured her with a smile. “I’m afraid I’m just a bit out of practice. Makes me feel as though I’ve got two left feet.”
It wasn’t precisely a lie; he was out of practice. He’d not engaged in a proper dance since before his enlistment in the army. But that wasn’t the reason he was tripping over himself.
The assembly had been in a full swing for more than hour, and Artemisia had not yet arrived. As he turned about the dance floor—he could not, after all, decline to dance with the ladies in attendance without appearing discourteous—Walter’s eyes drifted toward the doors to Grange-Over-Sands’ small but elegantly appointed Assembly Room at every opportunity.
Where the devil was she? She had promised she would come, damn it, and he had done his part by letting the organizers of the event know that he had invited her because, as the daughter of Horace Finch, who was a member in good standing of St. Mary’s congregation, she had every right to be there. They’d balked, of course, but came around to his point of view because…well, because deep down, they knew they could not deny his request without appearing churlish and mean-spirited.
“Oh, I see,” Miss Casson said sagely, but he suspected she was well aware of his preoccupation and simply too well-bred to say so. He resolved to pay more attention to their dance from this point forward. Staring at the doors would not cause Artemisia to materialize, and it was inexcusably rude besides.
This was why, instead of merely tripping over his feet, Walter nearly toppled over when the booming voice of the master of ceremonies announced, “Mr. Horace Finch and Miss Artemisia Finch.”
An immediate hush descended as all conversation ground to a halt and all eyes turned to inspect the newcomers. Only the music continued unabated, the dancers twirling around the floor even as they craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the latest arrivals. This phenomenon would, of course, have occurred no matter what names the master of ceremony had called out. Curiosity was the natural state of affairs at such events. Everyone needed to assess the quality of the competition, after all. There could be no doubt, however, that this particular silence was longer and more pronounced than usual.
Walter was already figuratively holding his breath—this could all go spectacularly, horribly wrong in the next few seconds and, although he’d done everything in his power to ensure otherwise, he honestly did not know whether his efforts would succeed—when he caught sight of her, and then, he wasn’t so much holding his breath as it felt literally trapped, as though a door between his upper airways and his lungs had been slammed shut.
She wore a gown made of plain ivory silk, trimmed with a broad gold ribbon along the scooped but demure neckline and beneath the bosom. This simple, elegant dress would have been the height of fashion in London three years ago; here in Grange-Over-Sands in 1803, it was still ahead of its time.
It wasn’t the gown that held his breath captive, but rather the woman inside it. Her white-gloved hand resting on her father’s black coat sleeve, she might have been a debutante attending her first ball, her life laid out before her like the gentlemen who would prostrate themselves at her feet to have her to wife. Walter felt as though he was looking back into the past—a past that had never been, but should have. Artemisia Finch should have been the belle of this ball ten years ago. She should have married well and lived happily all that time with a husband who worshipped the ground on which she walked.
Instead, she stood in the doorway, wary of her reception, as the well-heeled population of her own town decided her fate. Whether she was worthy of acceptance or continued contempt.
And in the midst of it all, Walter felt like a hypocrite because, as much as he wished she’d had the life she ought, he was selfishly glad she hadn’t. Because in that life, she would never have been his. In this one, she might yet.
“Oh, my, but isn’t she beautiful?” Miss Casson breathed. “How is it I’ve never met her before?”
Walter looked down into his dance partner’s youthful face and came to a somewhat stunning realization. To wit, fully half the people were too young to remember Artemisia Finch’s fall from grace, and they were unlikely to have heard anything but a highly sanitized version of the story from their parents, if they’d heard anything at all.
Suddenly, achieving the impossible began to seem merely improbable. Oh, Walter would still have to change hearts and minds. Of that, he had no doubt. But he had far fewer to change than he’d initially imagined.
“She has only recently returned home to live with her father,” Walter told Miss Casson. “You are acquainted with Mr. Finch, I am sure.”
Miss Casson nodded. There was still an unnatural silence in the air, and Walter waited for what would come next as both the dance and the music came to a halt.
Artemisia saw him then, and their eyes met across the crowded room.
This is a mistake, hers said.
His heart ached with the need to rush to her side, to stand with her and be her champion. But he had already done all the championing he could. For the time being.
Have faith.
As if in answer to his unspoken prayer, Sir Peter Casson—by coincidence both Abigail’s father and St. Mary’s current churchwarden—stepped forward and extended his hand toward Horace Finch.
“It is good to see you here tonight, Finch,” Sir Peter said, loudly enough that his booming voice could be heard throughout the room. “It’s been a while since you’ve graced us with your presence at one of these events.” After the two men shook hands, the churchwarden turned to Artemisia. “You look lovely this evening, Miss Finch. I trust you will enjoy yourself after so long an absence.”
Artemisia dipped a very deep, very proper curtsy. “Thank you, Sir Peter. I am sure I shall have a capital time.”
Walter took his first steady breath in many minutes. The signal had been given; Artemisia Finch was to be treated with courtesy, if not complete acceptance. It was a start.
Walter looked heavenward. Perhaps he’d gotten just a pinch of divine intervention when he’d needed it most. In which case, he was exceedingly grateful.
Although Artemisia found it imposs
ible to credit, the evening was not an unqualified disaster. No one asked her to dance, of course, and while most of the respectable matrons and their daughters gave her a wide berth, no one decried her as a whore or tried to have her forcibly removed from the premises. A few brave and kindhearted souls had even spoken to her, including Lady Casson and her daughter, who peppered Artemisia with questions about London, where Miss Casson announced she would soon be heading for her first Season. Even more surprising, there was not the slightest indication that anyone suspected there might be anything the least bit untoward going on between her and their beloved vicar.
And Walter Langston was beloved. There could be no doubt about that. Not just by the ladies, which would have been natural under the circumstances—young, handsome vicars were scarcely the rule—but by the gentlemen as well. From her vantage on the party’s sidelines, Artemisia watched him as surreptitiously as possible. He moved with perfect ease from one group of people to another, taking an interest in each and every person, without regard for social rank or gender or age. In short, he treated them all as if they were close, personal friends, and they responded in kind and beyond. They did not merely respect Walter; they deferred to him, perhaps even revered him. Somehow, despite the fact that he was an offcomer—not only not from the immediate area, but not from Cumbria at all—Walter Langston had become the functional heart of Grange-Over-Sands. A heart no one had ever known was missing.
Her eyes clouded with tears, because her duty was clearer now than it ever had been. Tonight, Walter had immeasurably improved her life. Because he had asked it, from this point on, she could expect to be treated with courtesy and even, perhaps, a bit of kindness. Or she could until someone found out she and Walter were lovers. When that happened—and there was no doubt in her mind that it would if they continued on their current course—he would be the one to be ruined.
“You don’t seem nearly as pleased tonight as I imagined you would.”
Artemisia startled at the sound of Walter’s voice at her right ear. She’d lost sight of him as she contemplated their non-existent future, enabling him to sneak up on her. Her heart twisted with a mixture of desire and regret as she met his gaze. Heaven help her, she did love him. More than she had ever dreamed it was possible to love a man.
But then, she’d never dreamed a man like Walter Langston could even exist.
“I’m more astounded than anything else. I did not believe this possible.” She smiled at him, though she knew the smile was tinged with sadness. “Do you walk on water, as well?”
“I’ve never thought to try,” he said with a chuckle. “But I think you give me too much credit. A lot of time has passed. People forget. And even if they don’t, they cannot hold grudges indefinitely.”
She shook her head. “No one has forgotten or forgiven. It’s definitely you. And I am grateful.” Nodding her head in the direction of her father, who was surrounded by several ladies and gentlemen his own age with whom he’d likely not spoken in years, she added, “You’ve given my father his friends back.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Walter demurred. “I just made it possible for them to do the right thing.”
His repeated denials of responsibility made her laugh in spite of herself. “A lady can only bear so much false modesty, Mr. Langston. You are a miracle-worker, and you know it.”
He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a growly whisper. “If I’m a miracle-worker as you say, then I should be able to find a way to make love to you tonight.”
His suggestion was wicked and impossible. Dangerous and foolish beyond anything they’d done so far. She would be mad even to entertain the idea. Her body, however, was doing more than merely entertaining the possibility. The hot ash of desire that was always with her in Walter’s presence kindled to a low but undeniable flame. They had so little time left. And she was beginning to believe he truly could accomplish anything he wanted.
“How?” The word formed on her lips though no sound escaped.
“Meet me at the church in fifteen minutes.”
She almost choked. “The church?”
“It’s close, and no one will be there at this time of night.”
“But—“ she began.
“It’s the best place for miracles, don’t you think?” He raised her gloved hand to his lips and kissed the air over it in a gesture of gallantry for the benefit of their audience. Then he strolled off in the direction of the door, stopping to say something to the master of ceremonies before disappearing into the foyer.
She oughtn’t go to meet him. What he suggested was scandalous. Sacrilegious, even. Which, perhaps, was precisely why she couldn’t resist.
15
Artemisia pushed open the door between the vestibule and the church. It creaked on its hinges, echoing loudly in the empty, vaulted space. Candlelight from wall sconces and candelabra danced off the walls into the niches and up into the arched ceiling above, creating patterns of light at once beautiful and eerie.
Walter had been right about one thing; the place was deserted. Not a soul was in sight. Including him.
“Up here.”
Thanks to the acoustic quality of the space, the whisper carried from somewhere near the altar to Artemisia’s position behind the last row of pews. She squinted as he stepped out from the shadows and beckoned to her. When she reached him, he slid his hand into hers and tugged her gently away from the altar toward the door that led into the sacristy.
She raised her eyebrows. “In there?”
“Unless you want me to bend you over the altar or the pews.”
The image that flitted through her mind at his words was nothing short of heretical. And very arousing.
“Maybe not tonight,” she said, more than a little breathless.
Opening the door, he led her into the small room. He’d lit candles here, too, in preparation for her arrival, and she could make out several built-in wardrobes lining the walls as well as the horizontal vestry casement that occupied the center of the room. He shut the door behind them and pulled her into his arms.
They exchanged no more words. Words were superfluous and inadequate. She wound her arms around his neck as their mouths met in sweet, brutal kisses. Tears welled in her eyes at the fierceness of her emotions. Everything she felt for him was in these kisses. Love, longing, loss. Here in this small room where the profane became sacred and the sacred profane, she laid herself bare to him for what must certainly be the last time. A willing sacrifice to the greater cause.
With a groan, he lifted her onto the vestry casement. Between them, never breaking their kiss, they gathered her skirts up to her waist, aided in the effort by the gown’s lightweight construction, which required neither a petticoat nor an underskirt. At this height, their hips were perfectly aligned. She spread her legs to accommodate him, but instead of undoing his fly to release his cock, he broke the kiss and dropped to his knees. His fingers found the slit in her drawers and slid along her slick, needy flesh, sending a shiver of arousal up her spine. Without warning, she heard a ripping sound and realized it was her drawers being rent asunder. And then, his tongue was on her and his fingers were in her, except that they were not in her quite where she would have expected them to be. She should have been shocked, even horrified, at what he was doing, but the sensation was as exquisite as it was astonishing, and before she could even consider the implications of this, she came, hands flat on the casement, bracing herself to keep from toppling over while wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.
She was panting, nearly insensate, when he stood up and kissed her again, sharing the scent and flavor of her desire with her. Together, they undid the buttons of his fall and, fingers trembling, she freed him from his drawers. When he sank into her, she sighed at the goodness of it. The rightness of it.
He held her hips steady at the very edge of the casement, his long, steady strokes bringing her to another climax before he surrendered to his own.
She was still gasping for breath
when he murmured against her sweaty brow, “I love you, Artemisia Finch. Marry me.”
“Oh, Walter,” she whispered brokenly, caressing his cheek with her knuckles. “I love you, too. And that’s precisely why I can’t marry you. You’ll lose everything.”
Walter captured her hand and brought those knuckles to his lips. “The only thing I can’t live without is you. Do you really think being the vicar here means more to me than you do?”
“Not just here. Anywhere. You know I can’t leave my father. And I wouldn’t lie about my past even if I could.”
“And I wouldn’t ask you to do either. Surely you think more of the man you fell in love with than that.”
She sighed. “Perhaps I think too much of you. If you marry me, you’ll be a pariah in this community, just as I am.” She gave him a wistful smile, her dark eyes glassy with unshed tears. “And don’t say you won’t mind, because eventually, you will. Sooner or later, you’ll realize what you gave up for me, and you’ll come to hate me for it. I couldn’t bear that.”
“I could never hate you. I would follow you to hell if that’s where loving you took me. But I don’t believe it will come to that or even to my losing my position.” He tucked a curl that had come loose from her carefully arranged coiffure behind her ear. “You said I was a miracle-worker, but that’s not true. I just don’t give the devil’s arse about the rules. I don’t care about the rule that says a carpenter’s apprentice can’t marry a gentleman’s daughter, or the one that says a suicide can’t be buried in consecrated ground, or the one that says you’re ‘ruined’ and irredeemable. They’re all hogwash and if my parishioners haven’t come to understand my position on such matters by now, they haven’t been paying attention. But I think they have been paying attention, and I’m willing to take the risk. Let me take it. If they won’t have me as their vicar because I want to marry you, then I was never the right one for them in the first place.”
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