Nicholas squatted to trace a finger over the dates carved into the granite. "October 14, 1768-February 2, 1815," he read, then frowned up at her. "The things in my room, they belonged to her, didn't they—the sewing box? The Bible? The hairbrush?" He seemed about to say something else, but stopped, his lips pressed tightly together.
Laura touched a hand to his shoulder. "I hope you're not superstitious. I put you in her bedchamber because I wanted you to have the most comfortable accommodations for your recovery. You shouldn't have to worry about any wailing and rattling of chains in the middle of the night. Lady Eleanor wouldn't have been able to bear the thought of disturbing your sleep, much less your peace of mind."
"I don't believe in ghosts," he said, glancing at the weathered stone that would have been a twin to Lady Eleanor's had the grave it marked not been untended and choked with weeds. There was no sign of any flowers having been left on it, either recently or in the past.
"Lady Eleanor's husband," Laura said dryly, answering his unspoken question. "She always said he should have been buried in unconsecrated ground."
"He was a suicide?"
"Of a sort. He drank himself to death. But not before breaking his wife's heart," Laura added softly.
Nicholas's frown deepened. "Did I know her?"
Laura took her time rearranging the flowers—tucking delicate sprigs of sweet william among the hardy marigolds and chrysanthemums. As Cookie had reminded her, one of Lady Eleanor's fondest dreams had been to see Laura wed to a kind and handsome gentleman. She stole a look at the rugged purity of Nicholas's profile. Despite her resolution to lie no more than was necessary, there didn't seem to be any harm in elaborating on what might have been.
"Of course you knew her," she told him firmly. "She doted upon you and took great delight in your visits. She often said that you were like a son to her."
To her dismay, Nicholas's countenance failed to brighten. "The stone reads 'Beloved Mother,'" he pointed out. "What of her own children? Why aren't they here leaving flowers on her grave?"
Laura felt her smile curdle. Fearing that she would reveal more than she meant to, she knelt beside him and began to fan the flowers around the foot of the stone, her motions brisk. "She only had one son, I'm afraid—a repugnant toad of a man who cares nothing for anyone but himself."
His sharp look shifted to her face. "Why, Miss Fairleigh, you're rather passionate in your dislike of him, are you not?"
Her fingers tightened, snapping a bloom right off its stem. "On the contrary. I don't dislike him. I loathe him."
Nicholas rescued a handful of the delicate lilies from her murderous grip before she could behead them all. "So tell me—what has this unfortunate fellow done to earn the enmity of such a gentle soul? Kicked a kitten? Made a regular habit of missing Sunday services? Threatened to give Lottie the spanking she so richly deserves?"
"Oh, we've never met. Which is just as well. Because if we did, I just might give him a tongue-lashing he'd never forget."
"Heaven help him," Nicholas murmured, his gaze lingering on her mouth.
She was too incensed to notice. "It's not just his debauched habits I detest but his colossal indifference toward the woman who gave him life. Lady Eleanor wrote him faithfully every week for years and never once did he bother to send her so much as a perfunctory note. She had to read about his exploits in the scandal sheets, just as we did." Laura yanked up a fat gobbet of weeds and hurled it aside. "As far as I'm concerned, he's a heartless, vile, petty, vindictive wretch."
"Does this mean you won't be inviting him to our wedding?"
"I should say not! Why, I'd just as soon invite Beelzebub himself!"
At the sight of the dimple in his cheek, the tension melted from her shoulders. "You shouldn't tease so, sir," she chided with a half-smile of her own. "It's most unkind."
He gave a mock shudder. "I certainly wouldn't want to incur your wrath. I'm beginning to think this fellow deserves my pity more than my scorn. Surely being cast from your good graces is punishment enough for any man."
As he reached to tuck a feathery strand of hair behind her ear, Laura could no longer tell if he was teasing. She couldn't even quite remember how they'd ended up on the ground, on their knees, so near that if he wanted to kiss her he had only to slip his head beneath the brim of her bonnet and touch those exquisitely skilled lips of his to hers.
Dropping the last of the blooms, she scrambled to her feet. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Radcliffe, I need to speak with Reverend Tilsbury about a matter of great importance. Please inform Cookie that I'll be back in time for tea." She gathered up her gloves and started for the gate.
"If you don't believe in ghosts," he called after her, rising to his feet, "then what are you so afraid of?"
You.
Half-afraid she had spoken the damning word aloud, Laura hastened from the churchyard, leaving Nicholas standing among the crumbling gravestones, his only companion the alabaster angel who kept vigil over Eleanor Harlow's grave.
When the bells began to toll their melodious invitation on Sunday morning, Nicholas didn't waste time burying his head beneath the pillow. He simply rolled out of bed, ignoring the disgruntled chirp of the small yellow cat who had made a nest of his pillow, and splashed a bracing dash of cold water in his face.
As he ushered George and Laura into the family pew of St. Michael's a short while later and slid in after them, followed by Lottie, he felt nothing more than a sense of mild resignation. He had high hopes of dozing his way through both the sermon and the second reading of the banns, since there weren't to be any surprises to jar him from his nap this week. As the rector mounted the steps to the mahogany pulpit, he settled himself more comfortably into the pew.
"Today," the white-haired man intoned, adjusting his spectacles, "we will examine the wise words of King Solomon in Proverbs Nineteen—'Tis better to be poor than a liar.'"
George's foot lashed out, kicking Laura soundly in the shin.
She let out a sharp yelp, quickly muffled into her glove, but not before several of the parishioners had turned to glare disapprovingly at them. Frowning, Nicholas shook his head at George, wondering what spirit of mischief had possessed the lad.
Before he could ask Laura if she was all right, Lottie's reticule lurched into his lap and began to gnaw at the edges of his prayer book.
"Sorry," she murmured, retrieving the silk purse with an angelic smile.
Nicholas stretched out his legs and propped his cheek on his open palm, feeling his eyelids growing heavier with each of the rector's droning words. While the sun streaming through the mullioned windows warmed the musty nave, the little man went on and on with some nonsense about liars falling into the devil's clutches.
Nicholas was drifting in and out of a misty dream where he was kissing each freckle on Laura's creamy skin when he heard the man say, "As soon as your new rector is ordained, I will be leaving you."
Good, Nicholas thought uncharitably without bothering to open his eyes. It was a pity he couldn't leave immediately.
"As all of you know, I have been dividing my time between three parishes since Reverend Fairleigh was called home to heaven seven years ago. Although I have grown quite fond of Arden and all of you during this time, I must confess it will be something of a relief to hand over my duties and responsibilities a few months hence. I pray you will join me in welcoming the man who will soon be your new rector to our parish—Mr. Nicholas Radcliffe!"
Nicholas jerked awake, wondering if he was still dreaming. But the only constant between his delicious fantasy and this nightmare was the presence of the woman sitting beside him.
She was staring straight ahead, her profile as brittle as a piece of fine porcelain. Were it not for the uneven rise and fall of her bosom, he would have sworn she wasn't even breathing.
He glared at her until she had no choice but to turn and meet his smoldering gaze.
As she slid her gloved hand into his, a tremulous smile curved her lips. "Welcome to
our parish, Mr. Radcliffe."
* * *
Chapter 11
« ^ »
I adore the little ones, but it is
the oldest girl who has stolen my heart…
"They're havin' their first quarrel, they are. Why, it's enough to break an old woman's heart!" Cookie whispered, dabbing at her eyes with her apron.
"If he makes her cry, perhaps she'll break the engagement," Lottie said hopefully.
"If he makes her cry, I'll break his neck," George snarled.
Dower scowled. "If they're quarrelin', 'ow come I don't 'ear no shoutin' or cussin'? It ain't a proper quarrel without a bit o' pottery bein' flung."
It was fortunate that their varying heights and Lottie's lack of concern about wearing out the knees of her Sunday stockings made it possible for all four of them to press their ears to the drawing room door at the same time.
"Try the keyhole," Dower suggested.
Wiggling between George's legs, Lottie squinted through the brass opening. "All I can see is the key. I do believe he's taken her prisoner."
Dower began to roll up his sleeves. "That's it, then. Break down the door, George, while I fetch me pitchfork."
"Don't be a ninny, old man," Cookie chided, punching him on the arm. "Young lovers must be left to make up their own quarrels. You might not remember that nasty row we had over that Fleet Street doxy when you was courtin' me, but I bet you ain't ever forgot the cuddle we had afterward."
"Of course I ain't. Why do you think I'm goin' to fetch me pitchfork?"
"Shhhhh," Lottie hissed, flattening her ear against the door. "I think I hear something."
Lottie was mistaken, for inside the drawing room Laura sat on the ottoman in absolute silence, thinking that she'd never actually seen a man too furious to speak. Her father had been a mild-mannered soul who considered displays of temper vulgar and unseemly. She'd once seen him drop an enormous Bible on his foot, breaking two toes, only to roll his eyes heavenward and beg the good Lord's pardon for being so clumsy. She'd never once known him to lift his voice to her mother or any of his children, much less his hand.
Laura watched Nicholas prowl back and forth across the drawing room with wary fascination, the way one might eye a hungry lion pacing its cage in the Royal Zoo. Except at the Royal Zoo, she would have been safely outside the iron bars instead of inside the cage with the lion. The yellow kitten perched on the hearth studied his movements with equal absorption, as if trying to determine which one of them he would gobble up first.
He'd shed his church clothes for the pagan comforts of his lawn shirt and buckskin trousers. Every few steps he would wheel around to glare at her, open his mouth as if to say something, then clamp it shut again, and resume his pacing. After repeating this ritual several times, he was reduced to shaking his head and running a hand through his hair until he looked every bit as wild and dangerous as Dower still believed him to be.
He finally stopped with his back to her, rested his balled fist against the mantel, and said, very softly, "I don't suppose I'm given to swearing, am I?"
Laura shook her head. "Only under extreme duress."
He swung around to face her. "And just what would you consider extreme duress? Would it be waking up naked in a strange bed with no memory of who you were? Would it be suddenly discovering that you're about to become the husband of a woman who swears you've never even had the good sense to kiss her? Or would it be learning, along with the rest of the good folk of Arden, that you're to be the village's new rector?" His voice rose. "Don't you think you might have discussed that little snippet of information with me before sharing it with the town crier?"
"I told you I had to speak to Reverend Tilsbury on a matter of great importance. And what could be more important than our future together?" Laura folded her hands primly in her lap. "I thought you'd be pleased to learn that I'd arranged a living for you. Arden is a small parish, but when you combine the income you'll be receiving from the parishioners with the money the manor earns from its flocks, we should be able to manage quite nicely. We won't be wealthy, but we won't be destitute either."
Nicholas sighed. "I appreciate your practicality, but what if I don't wish to become a clergyman? Did that thought never occur to you?"
"And why wouldn't you? There's really nothing to it—just marrying, burying, and the occasional baptism. My father studied at home for months, but when he went to take his orders, he was most disappointed in the ease of the examination. The bishop simply asked him if he was the same Edmund Fairleigh who was the son of old Aurelius Fairleigh of Flamstead, then clapped him on the shoulder and took him to see a bawdy play."
"At least I'll have something to look forward to," Nicholas muttered, raking a hand through his hair again.
"I can help you study, you know," Laura told him earnestly. "I'm fluent in both Hebrew and Greek."
"How inspiring. Perhaps you should be Arden's new rector."
His jaw taut, he flung open the doors of the secretaire and began to shove aside cracked leather ledgers and scraps of yellowing stationery. A cut-glass decanter Laura had never seen before emerged from the shadows.
As he withdrew the decanter from its hiding place, Laura sat up straighter, thinking it peculiar that he'd known exactly where to find it. Judging from the layer of dust furring the glass, the brandy within must be very well aged indeed.
As he carried the decanter over to the tea cart and found a clean glass, Laura cleared her throat in what she hoped was a delicate manner.
Nicholas jerked the stopper from the mouth of the decanter.
"I hesitate to mention it…" she began tentatively.
He splashed a stream of liquor into the glass.
"Especially at such an inopportune moment…"
He lifted the glass to his lips, the fierce light in his eyes daring her to continue.
"… but you never indulge in spirits."
"Bloody hell and damnation!" Nicholas slammed the glass down on the cart, sloshing half the brandy over its beveled rim.
His curse hung in the air between them like a warning roll of thunder. Laura wasn't sure whether to duck or make a run for the door. But then a slow smile began to spread across his features. A smile so sensual it made Laura's toes curl within the pinching confines of her shoes.
"That felt marvelous," he proclaimed. "Bloody marvelous!"
Her eyes widened as he raised the glass and tossed back what was left of the brandy. His tongue circled his lips, capturing every stray drop as if it were the sweetest of nectars, while his eyes drifted shut in an expression of pure bliss. When he opened them again, they were glittering with determination. He refilled the glass, then lifted it in a defiant toast before polishing off its contents.
Then he filled the glass a third time and crossed the room to put it into her hands. "Here. You might have need of this."
"But I've never—"
He arched an eyebrow in warning. She subsided and took an obedient sip. The stuff burned a tingling path down her throat that was unnerving, but not unpleasant.
Nicholas retrieved another glass and poured himself more brandy. He draped one arm along the length of the mantel, the glass dangling from his long, elegant fingers. "It has come to my attention, Miss Fairleigh, that every time I've turned around in the past week, you've been telling me what I do and don't fancy. 'Have another one of Cookie's crumpets, Mr. Radcliffe,'" he mimicked. "'You've always loved Cookie's crumpets.' 'Do listen to this poem Lottie wrote. You've never failed to find her sonnets amusing.' 'Why don't you and George play another hand of loo, darling? He does so enjoy your company.'"
His voice rose with each word. "This may come as a shock to your delicate sensibilities, my dear, but your brother can barely stand to be in the same room with me, Lottie is a spoiled brat who couldn't write a decent couplet if Will Shakespeare himself came crawling out of his grave to help her, and Cookie's crumpets are dry enough to choke a camel!"
Laura's horrified gasp was nearly drowne
d out by a trio of echoing gasps from outside the drawing room door.
Leaving the glass on the mantel, Nicholas strode across the drawing room and flung open the door. The foyer was deserted, but the sound of scampering feet echoed through the manor. Shooting Laura an accusing look, he shut the door with deliberate care and twisted the key in the lock.
She took another sip of the brandy, this one much larger than the last.
He leaned against the door and crossed his arms, continuing as if they'd never been interrupted. "I hate to spoil the sainted image of me you've obviously been cherishing in your heart for the past two years, but spending my afternoons painting watercolors with Lottie bores me to tears and I can't abide those silly card games George seems to be so fond of."
Laura opened her mouth, hoping to stop him before he confessed that he couldn't abide her either.
He held up a hand to stay her. "Now, being a reasonable fellow, I can concur that a man's soul might benefit from some spiritual instruction on a Sunday morning." His expression softening, he glanced at the hearth, where the kitten sat grooming her whiskers with sylphlike grace. "I might even be convinced that certain members of the feline species, however much of a nuisance, can possess charms that are difficult to resist."
He moved to kneel beside the ottoman, putting him at eye level with her. "But I cannot and will not be persuaded that I'm not the sort of man who would compromise his fiancée's virtue. Because I can assure you that I've thought of little else since the first moment I laid eyes on you."
Dazed, Laura gulped down the rest of the brandy. Nicholas gently removed the glass from her hand and rested it on the carpet.
"But you always—" she began.
He laid two fingers against the softness of her lips, effectively stilling them. "You've spent the past week telling me what I'm supposed to want. Now it's my turn to show you what I do want."
As he framed her face in his big, strong hands, she expected him to kiss her mouth. She did not expect him to kiss her eyelids, her temples, the freckled bridge of her nose. His breath fanned her face, as warm and intoxicating as the forbidden sweetness of the port. But as he lowered his lips to hers, the fever that went curling through her veins had nothing to do with the brandy and everything to do with the liquid heat of his tongue tenderly laving her mouth.