The Vicar's Daughter

by Deborah Simmons

  Maximilian did not allow his eyes to follow her from the room, but turned his attention to the vicar. “You have seven children, Mr. Trowbridge?”

  “Eight,” the vicar corrected. “Please sit down. I fear we have become a little lax in our manners here, my lord.” Mindful of the pets underneath the sofa and the unsteady look of it, Maximilian took a well-mended armchair. The vicar sat opposite him and beamed proudly. “You cannot have met Sarah, the eldest. She married this past winter and lives in the village now. But you saw the others?”

  “Here and there,” Maximilian answered dryly.

  The vicar chuckled. “They are a hoydenish lot, as well I know, with a tendency to run wild. They miss Lettie’s firm but gentle hand,” he said, his smile drooping. “Their mother died giving birth to little Jenny.”

  “I am sorry,” Maximilian said.

  “So am I, my lord. So am I,” the vicar said sadly.

  John Trowbridge was a kind man, and if Maximilian was any judge, a good parson who genuinely served his flock, which was not always the case these days. Maximilian tried to keep these points in mind when the man began to exasperate him, for it soon became apparent that Mr. Trowbridge had a deal more heart than sense. He had no head for books, no grasp of the vicarage finances and very little interest in worldly matters of any type. He was just the sort with whom Maximilian had no patience whatsoever.

  “Perhaps one of the children could help you with these matters,” Maximilian suggested in desperation.

  The vicar sighed. “Sarah managed things for years, bless her, but she has her husband’s business to concern her now. I cannot expect her to mind my affairs, as well.”

  “And Charlotte?” Maximilian asked. A pleasant name, but far too plain for the dazzler with the amazing hair.

  Trowbridge shook his head with a smile. “Alas, Charlotte has little talent for such things.” Maximilian felt his estimation of the girl drop a notch, and yet, he could have sworn that those lovely green eyes brimmed with intelligence. “She is the beauty of the family, our Charlotte,” Trowbridge said, as if that was all anyone expected of her. “And she will not be with us long, either.”

  Maximilian felt his blood rush to his head. Was the girl ill?

  “She is to have a season, you know,” Trowbridge announced, giving away with his sly grin the first hint of worldly pleasure.

  Maximilian’s life fluids dropped back into place, leaving him a bit dizzy. Of course, the chit was not going to die. She was simply going to be married off. A season? “A London season?” Maximilian asked with some disbelief.

  “Yes,” Trowbridge answered, grinning even more widely. “A London season. She has so much of her mother’s beauty and more,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “She deserves it.”

  Maximilian found himself both surprised and annoyed by the news—and surprised at his annoyance. Of course, every young thing aspired to a London season, the epitome of the social whirl, even drab country girls. But Charlotte was not drab, and somehow he did not care for the idea of her loose upon the town scene. He was forcibly reminded of tossing a bone to a pack of eager, hungry dogs—hungry male dogs.

  “Who will sponsor her?” Maximilian asked, a little more testily than he intended.

  “A cousin of mine, Miss Augusta Thurgoode.”

  Maximilian had never heard of the woman. He cocked his head, considering the vicar intently. “Charlotte will need clothes and money for fal-lals and tickets to sundry entertainments. Are you certain you can afford it all?” he asked bluntly.

  Trowbridge smiled gently, apparently undaunted by the personal line of questioning. “Yes. I have a nest egg put by for this.”

  Maximilian knew, cynically, that the money the vicar had put by was probably his life savings and that it was not going to be tossed away simply to please his daughter. Oh, no, it was an investment. Charlotte was going to London to find herself a suitable husband with income enough not only to support her, but to aid her family.

  Why did that rankle? Maximilian knew that even though it resembled procurement, that was the way advantageous matches were obtained. He could tell from the glow of affection in Trowbridge’s eye that the vicar would not marry Charlotte off to someone she did not want, but could either the girl or her father be counted on to choose someone suitable?

  Maximilian’s mind flew to all the eligible bachelors he knew, and the review did nothing to ease his misgivings. He would not consider a one of them for this girl, but then, of course, Charlotte would not be aiming for his circle. She had no chance of gaining a title. A comfortable merchant or military man or a third or fourth son was the best she could hope to gain, despite her beauty.

  Of course, Maximilian told himself, he was not familiar with everyone. There had to be plenty of kind, decent, reasonably wealthy young men out there. “You must be sure to give me the direction of your cousin,” Maximilian said sharply. “I shall deem it my duty to have a look in on your daughter.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Trowbridge said, beaming. “How good of you! Of course, from all that we heard about you, we knew that the fortunes of our small corner of the world were going to improve. I cannot tell you how it heartens me to know that you have taken her under your wing.”

  Maximilian was hard-pressed to keep from guffawing over that one. As if he had any wings under which to take anything, let alone a succulent morsel like Charlotte Trowbridge. The vicar, it seemed, was even more blind to worldliness than Maximilian had thought.

  The object of their discussion appeared in the doorway, and Maximilian allowed himself a careless glance at her, which turned into something more lingering. She had tried to restrain her hair by pinning it up, but it was untamable. Already tiny daffodil curls were escaping, and he was certain it was only a matter of time before it all fell, billowing around her like frothy yellow cream.

  If she cut it extremely short, curled it about her face and wore hats or caps she probably would be able to get by in London, but Maximilian was horrified at the thought of taking scissors to that amazing mass of hair. He wondered how it would feel in his hands. It looked soft and fuzzy as the kittens’ fur. He crossed his legs uncomfortably. He was becoming a doddering idiot.

  The vicar stood. “Charlotte! Imagine your luck. His lordship says he will keep an eye on you in London. You have relieved my mind no end, my lord. Although my cousin is a dear woman, one worries, especially about one’s precious daughter....”

  Charlotte, Maximilian judged, looked anything but relieved by the news. She looked rather alarmed. He smiled at her, trying his best to look reassuring and not seductive. She appeared flustered, but then did an admirable job of straightening and smiling back at him.

  “You will stay for dinner, won’t you, my lord?” the vicar asked.

  Maximilian pulled out his watch and glanced at the time, surprised to find that the half hour allotted for his visit had come and gone unnoticed. However, it was not late enough to eat. The vicarage, it appeared, gave new meaning to the term “country hours.” Maximilian held his smile at that and prepared to give his apologies.

  When in the country, he dined every night exactly at seven o’clock. He had approved the week’s menus after consultation with the cook at Casterleigh and knew that tonight he would have filet of beef in wine and fresh trout among his courses. He could hardly imagine the poor vicar offering him anything quite as tempting. Considering the state and size of the household, Maximilian pictured watery soup and brown bread.

  He decided later that his mistake was in looking at the girl. She was waiting upon his answer with an air of excited expectancy that one simply did not see on the faces of the women in town, and it did something to him. “Yes,” Maximilian said. “I would be delighted to join you.” Outwardly he smiled; inwardly he cringed. Was someone else using his voice? He never accepted last-minute invitations. His schedule was always planned days in advance and down to the tiniest detail....

  Accompanying the vicar into the dining room with as m
uch equanimity as he could muster, Maximilian told himself that the change would do him good. His acquaintances were always complaining that he was too set in his ways, to the point of being obsessed with his own clock. An unplanned evening was just what he needed, Maximilian decided as his gaze followed the back of a blond head, where tendrils of hair were escaping their pins. It would be stimulating to dine with the vicar’s family, he thought with a smile. Definitely stimulating.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stimulating, hell. It was bedlam.

  Unaccustomed to children, Maximilian found the sound of so many eating and talking at once to be nearly unbearable. In his set, anyone underage was relegated to the nursery or public school; they were rarely seen and never heard.

  Not so here. The family was all in attendance, and the vicar did little to quiet them. Presiding over the din with a vague smile, John Trowbridge seemed perfectly content to listen to the smallest boy play his spoon against his cup incessantly while the two youths argued in increasingly louder voices.

  Maximilian had never seen such disorder. Expecting Charlotte to act like the children’s mother, he was a bit surprised that she did not—until he remembered there was an older girl who was married now. Perhaps she had been the one to rein in the family’s high spirits. Charlotte, much to his disappointment, did not. Either she was still too much of a girl herself or simply too fun-loving to discipline the group. And when Kit banged on the table and sent his fork flying into the air, she muffled a giggle instead of reprimanding him.

  Shocking, Maximilian told himself. Then why did he envy the secret smile she shared with the boy? Charlotte seemed to be avoiding his gaze, and Maximilian found he did not care for it at all. To make matters worse, they had seated him at the opposite end of the table from the vicar, effectively preventing any civilized conversation. And Charlotte, rather than being by his side, where he wanted her, was situated far too distant for his taste.

  This, Maximilian decided, was what he got for succumbing to the charms of a pretty young girl. He was surrounded by small children whom he did not even know by name until sometime during the first course when the vicar remembered to introduce them all. Sorting them out by age in his mind, Maximilian tallied them from eldest to youngest as Jane, James, Thomas, Carrie, Kit and Jenny. He put them all to memory, although they seemed to have a hard time addressing him correctly.

  “This is Lord Wycliffe,” the vicar said. “He owns the Great House now.”

  “Do you?” Thomas asked, intrigued. Thin and brown-haired, he looked much like his papa.

  “You must call him my lord,” James, an older version of Thomas, corrected with a superior air.

  “I will not!” Thomas protested. He obviously had no intention of doing anything his brother told him to do.

  “Dicky says you are richer than a nabob and are going to make the place into a palace!” Kit said.

  “Kit!” Jane, who was seated beside the boy, scolded him. Although several years younger than Charlotte, she looked far more serious, perhaps because of her spectacles and the dull-colored locks that were pulled back neatly from her face. “It is not polite to repeat gossip. And you must call him my lord,” she hissed under her breath.

  “My lord,” Kit repeated, eying daggers at his sister.

  “My lord,” said Jenny.

  “He is not your lord,” Kit argued. “He’s a lord, an earl.”

  “My lord,” Jenny repeated stubbornly.

  Although not prone to megrims, Maximilian felt a headache coming on. “My lord,” Jenny said, pushing her plate his way. He looked at her blankly.

  “She wants you to cut up her meat for her,” Kit explained, grinning toothlessly. After Maximilian dutifully carved up small pieces for the child, he eyed his blond beauty. Although he tried not to frown at her, silently he blamed her for this torture.

  When he caught her watching him, however, his mood lifted as if by magic. The odd combination of shyness and openness in her green gaze affected him in a way he did not recognize. How long had it been since he had seen that?

  Maximilian shook himself mentally and reminded himself that he saw young girls like her all the time. Marriage-minded mamas were always thrusting them at him, for, despite his orderly ways, or perhaps because of them, he was considered quite a catch. Maximilian dutifully danced once with all of them, be they pretty, plain or ugly, and never gave them another glance. Why should he feel any differently about this one?

  Perhaps it was the surroundings. He was not at Almack’s, where the fashionable met to dance and arrange marriages, but in a cramped room in the rabbit warren of the vicarage. The freshness of the girl’s background added to her charm, Maximilian decided. His interest in her was a passing thing that he likened to viewing the local architecture or studying the flora and fauna. It would disappear soon enough when he was in London.

  Meanwhile, dinner was an ordeal to be gotten through. The vicarage did boast at least one servant, Maximilian was relieved to see. Although she appeared hardly old enough to do the job, the rather plain, plump girl smiled happily as if pleased to be part of this menagerie. The food was simple country fare and not too bad, at that, thankfully.

  Maximilian was trying to follow a lengthy story about the dog, Patches, as told by Kit, when the littlest one, Jenny, announced she was finished. “All gone,” she said. Then she slipped from her chair, came over to him and proceeded to climb onto his lap. As the two older boys were engaged in another argument, moderated by Charlotte, no one even noticed. No one, that is, except Maximilian.

  He could not remember ever holding a child, and it was decidedly odd. He gave up all efforts to eat, and sat back in his seat so that she could rest her head comfortably against his chest. What little hair she possessed wafted about her cheeks in soft, blond ringlets, and Maximilian wondered if it would grow to imitate her sister’s wild mane.

  Although he hesitated to imagine what filth was transferring itself from the rag in her hand to his impeccable clothing, he allowed her to drape it all over his front. She gazed at him with wide, trusting blue eyes, stuck her thumb in her mouth and promptly fell asleep with one little hand gripping both the offending blanket and the edge of his waistcoat. She smelled warm and sweet, like tarts and kittens, and Maximilian put an arm around her, just to make certain she would not fall.

  When he glanced up, Charlotte’s eyes were upon him, glowing with a new intensity that thoroughly distracted him. She had the oddest expression upon her face, as if she were seeing him for the very first time, but when he met her gaze, she blushed and looked away. He wondered what she had been thinking.

  Charlotte was thinking about him.

  Although she was seemingly engrossed in the dispute between James and Thomas, Charlotte’s attention never strayed too far from their guest, and when she saw Jenny approach him, she cringed. Fully expecting a man of the earl’s stature to discourage the little girl, Charlotte blinked in astonishment when he cradled Jenny against his chest.

  She stared, and at that instant, Charlotte’s heart melted into her body, spreading warmth and sweetness to every part of her. A simple, inevitable knowledge seeped through her. Here was the man she wanted to marry.

  Was this how it happened? One suddenly just knew? This morning had been like any other, and yet now she was certain she had found her husband, the supposedly cold and calculating Lord Wycliffe, the same man who was gently holding her three-year-old sister on his lap.

  Elated as she was, Charlotte felt dumbfounded. How was she to bring this marriage about? No one had ever really told her. They all expected her to win a proposal because of her face, but she knew there had to be more to it than sitting around looking pretty. She had imagined that during her season she would learn just how it was done, and yet she was not to leave for town until... He planned to look in on her in London. That remembered piece of information made Charlotte giddy.

  She was well aware of her father’s tendency to exaggerate or misinterpret things to reflect his ow
n hopes and desires, yet Wycliffe had not denied his intention to visit her in town. The time that Charlotte had looked forward to all her life immediately took on all sorts of additional possibilities. A season in London...with Wycliffe. It was the stuff of dreams.

  Stealing another glance at him, Charlotte marveled at his handsome features. Her eyes traveled along the smooth, clean lines of his hair. If only she could have hair like that, Charlotte thought enviously, instead of her own flyaway mop. It was pulled back from his face, distinctly showing a hairline that was boldly defined, unlike her father’s receding one.

  She wondered how those dark strands would look released from their thong. She had seen some of the laborers with dirty locks hanging to their shoulders, but Wycliffe’s were clean, shining and altogether different. She pictured them flowing about his face and down his back, smooth to the touch...

  The warmth that had trickled through her now started heating up her insides, just like a pot put on to boil. Charlotte made a strangled sound, covered it with a cough and dared not look at Wycliffe any more. Were such contemplations sinful? She had never been tempted by the pleasures of the body, as her father referred to them, although she had always been very curious as to what they involved.

  When she was younger, she had even sought out kisses from the local boys in an effort to discover what all the fuss was about. She had begun early by once paying her brother James to kiss her, and then had moved on to just about every boy in the neighborhood until Sarah caught her and called her behavior most unseemly. Sarah swore that if she did not stop immediately she would surely come to a bad end like that slattern Lizzy Beaton, who lived in a hovel at the end of the village and suffered from the pox. One look at Lizzy’s haggard face had put an end to Charlotte’s experimentation right then.