The Vicar's Daughter

by Deborah Simmons

  And, in truth, she had never really found out what was so appealing about kissing. She had been on the receiving end of wet, slobbery ones, nervous ones, hard ones and quick pecks. The only one she had even liked was given to her by an older youth traveling with a fair, and he had ruined it by sticking his tongue out in the midst of it.

  That memory receded to be replaced by a vision of kissing Wycliffe, which Charlotte imagined would be quite different than all her previous encounters. She thought of those generous lips upon hers, of his tongue touching her, and she was not repulsed but thrilled by the notion. Abruptly, she picked up her napkin and fanned herself.

  Maximilian sat back in his chair, oddly relaxed considering the din around him. How the child on his chest could sleep was beyond him, but she was probably quite used to it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his beauty fan herself with her napkin. Hot, was she? Then he watched her pink tongue dart out and wet her lips, and his groin immediately leapt to life. Mindful of the child on his lap, he immediately looked away and tried to concentrate on what James and Thomas were fighting about. But deuced if his thoughts didn’t keep returning to their older sister.

  A banging sounded in the hallway, and he soon heard a female voice calling out, “Hello! Are we interrupting dinner?”

  “Sarah!” The middle girls erupted from their seats without another word, and far from scolding them, the vicar smiled indulgently as they raced off, apparently to greet the clan’s eldest member.

  “We have a guest! Wait until you see him,” the younger girl said breathlessly from somewhere behind Maximilian.

  “Hush! He’ll hear you,” she was admonished by Jane. Maximilian could not help it. His lips twitching, he glanced at Charlotte and caught her attention. He was pleased to see that her green eyes seemed to have lost their wariness. They sparkled with amusement, while her mouth, that luscious pink mouth, slowly curved into the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. And it was all for him.

  For one long moment, Maximilian basked in the glow of that grin before Charlotte turned away, claimed by one of her siblings. He found it strangely affecting, as if he had been granted an intimacy Charlotte allowed only to her relatives, but he definitely did not feel brotherly.

  A whispering and bustling announced that Sarah was entering the room, and Maximilian watched as she moved over to her father and kissed his cheek. A large man, presumably her husband, followed close behind her with an armful of parcels and stared curiously at Maximilian.

  “Ah, Sarah and Alf,” the vicar said, beaming proudly. “What a nice surprise.”

  “I hope we are not intruding,” Sarah said. She did not look at all like Charlotte, but resembled Jane, with her mousy hair, rather plain features and heavy, dark brows.

  “Not at all,” Trowbridge protested. “Pull up some chairs and join us for dessert. I believe Molly has some wonderful pastries prepared. Oh, and you must meet our guest, Lord Wycliffe, the new owner of the Great House.”

  Maximilian did not feel slighted by the vicar’s afterthought introduction. Oddly enough, it made him seem a part of this big, unruly family. “I would stand, but...” he said, motioning with his free hand toward the bundle on his chest.

  “Oh! Let me put her to bed,” Sarah said with a startled frown. Maximilian knew a moment’s disappointment when she reached toward the sleeping child. He was not sure if he liked the eldest member of the dynasty. He suspected she was a deal too serious, then caught himself. Since when did he find anyone too serious?

  Something about Sussex made him as queer as Dick’s hatband, Maximilian noted as he gave up his charge to the authoritative Sarah. The child hardly stirred as Sarah lifted her into capable arms, and Maximilian sat up straighter, in a position more befitting his dignity.

  Sarah’s husband, a strapping young man with a plain but friendly countenance, pulled up a chair near him, and Maximilian was thankful for the presence of another adult. Conversation, at least, he thought with relief. It was short-lived.

  “This is Alf Smith, Sarah’s husband,” Charlotte said.

  “Pleased to meet you, my lord,” Alf said.

  These were the only words he spoke.

  Alf Smith nodded at his wife when she returned and then plunged into the pastry set before him as though it demanded his complete attention. Sarah sat by Charlotte, and Maximilian heard the older one complain affectionately, “Look at him. You would never know that he just put away several meat pies and a loaf of bread. The man takes in food like a furnace needs firing,” she said proudly.

  Maximilian gathered that Alf’s appalling gluttony was looked upon with favor in this part of the country, or perhaps only by Sarah, for Charlotte, though smiling, did not look impressed. He hoped he need not display unmannerly eating habits to win his beauty, for the sight of Alf was repugnant to his sensibilities.

  Win her? Now he was going around the bend. Perhaps it was the pathetic excuse for claret that Trowbridge was serving him. It made him light-headed, Maximilian decided. The girl was a vicar’s daughter, nothing more, nothing less, and good for an evening’s mild diversion. To prove it to himself, he sent a calculating glance her way, but it settled upon the curve of her pink lips as she gifted one of the boys with her warm smile. Delicious, he thought before dropping his gaze for the briefest of moments to where her bodice stretched tightly across breasts straining to be released. Oh, to release them...

  “My lord!” James’s insistent voice brought him from the contemplation of Charlotte, and he was drawn into a discussion of horseflesh with the youngster, precipitating many an argument with the boy’s brother Thomas.

  After eating three portions of pastry, Alf seemed momentarily sated, and Maximilian felt able to stand up beside him without fear of losing a digit to the fellow’s wolfish appetite. They all moved into the parlor then, and in the process, Maximilian was able to maneuver himself beside the object of his attentions.

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “It is not the same!”

  “Yes, it is!”

  The voices of James and Thomas preceded them as they made their way across the hallway. “Do they ever agree upon anything?” Maximilian asked, leaning close.

  Charlotte smiled. Oh, what a smile. Full, smooth lips over straight white teeth... She, in turn, leaned toward him, and Maximilian was emboldened to bend nearer. “Papa has forbidden any fisticuffs and ordered them to work out their disagreements with civilized discussion,” she whispered. Her green eyes glittered with laughter, and he could tell she did not share her father’s opinion in this matter.

  “An all-out brawl might be preferable to this incessant squabbling,” Maximilian said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” she answered, her mouth twitching at the corner. Again, that shared bit of humor made him feel a bond with her that was pleasing, unique and rather unsettling.

  When they reached the parlor, the youngest ones were sprawled upon the floor, already playing at checkers. Sarah and her husband had taken the settee, and the older children the chairs, leaving Maximilian and his beauty the sofa. Although the arrangement suited him well enough, he eyed the ancient piece critically, wondered if it would support his weight and hoped that the felines were no longer underneath it.

  Maximilian eased himself down slowly. It felt sturdy. He let out a breath and answered Sarah’s polite questions about the Great House. Her husband, obviously having filled his stomach, abandoned all sense of obligation and promptly fell asleep, his arm on the settee behind her and his head back. As everyone appeared to ignore it, Maximilian assumed that this was normal behavior for Alf. He suppressed any desire to laugh at the absurd but charming household.

  Despite the proximity of his beauty, Maximilian found himself able to speak little to her, and for a time he simply watched the tableau unfold about him while Sarah talked about her day at the shop. Looking out over the parlor filled with children, Maximilian felt an odd sense of unity, and for the first time in his life he actually thought about
his own children.

  Naturally, he was expected to marry and produce an heir. It was his duty, but Maximilian felt in no hurry about the matter. He had scheduled it, as he did all the things in his life. Marriage sometime in his thirtieth year, he had planned, which meant he did not even have to begin searching for his bride for another year. At eight and twenty, he was content to let the subject lie, and he certainly had not contemplated his issue.

  And yet... As he watched the faces of the Trowbridge youngsters, the interchanges between these diverse personalities intrigued him. There were arguments, but there were also loyalty and respect and great affection here. Maximilian suddenly thought of producing children, plural.

  Although large families were the norm, in his there had been only himself. His mother, having done her duty, swore that she would carry no more infants. Pregnancy made her ill and fat and unable to entertain. After all, she had her priorities...

  Maximilian stifled the surprising surge of bitterness that welled up inside him. Instead, he tried to imagine the family apartments at Wycliffe filled with laughing, mischievous youths. It was a very interesting image, not the least because in his mind, the girls all had flyaway blond curls.

  “Oh, Charlotte, I have a book for you from Mr. Lynchworth. He stopped in today and wanted me to lend it to you,” Sarah said, drawing Maximilian’s attention. Digging into her parcels, she produced a slim volume for her sister.

  “What is it?” Maximilian asked. To his surprise, Charlotte refused to look at him. Evidencing an obvious reluctance to show it to him, she laid the book beside her skirt, so that it was hidden from his view.

  “Mr. Lynchworth often shares one of his finds with me,” Charlotte explained in a strained tone.

  “Ah,” Maximilian said, smiling. “The newest Gothic perhaps? Is it The Mysterious Abbey or The Travails of Trevlyne?”

  Apparently provoked by his teasing, Charlotte sent him a thoroughly disgusted scowl, which upon her lovely features was quite endearing. Maximilian was truly puzzled. He knew many a female who read novels, but few who took such umbrage at being discovered. What was she hiding?

  Although he could easily have reached across her lap and retrieved the mysterious item, courtesy demanded that he not, so he only leaned back with a questioning gaze. Charlotte responded with a frown that projected both annoyance and dread. Then, emitting a sigh that was nothing short of exasperated, she handed him the volume.

  Maximilian glanced at the title and felt a start of surprise. “The Plays of Sophocles?” he asked in wonder. For a moment, he suspected that she knew of his regard for classical literature, but what could she hope to gain by pretending interest in such things?

  He opened the book and, to his utter astonishment, found it written in the original Greek. A jolt of excitement leapt through him. He cocked his head to one side and trained his gaze on the lovely face beside him. “You read Greek?” he asked, a little more firmly than he intended.

  Charlotte lifted her chin as if she were defending a secret vice. “Yes, I do,” she answered, returning his gaze with her clear one. “Papa tutors all his children well, I will have you know, whether they are sons or daughters.” Her green eyes blazed with challenge, as if she expected him to argue her right to the knowledge.

  “And you are interested in the work of Sophocles?” Maximilian asked. Although he kept his features schooled, he suspected that his taut voice betrayed his emotion. Was there truly a woman alive who cared about the intricacies of his study?

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, unflinching. “I recently read Euripides on the death of Menoeceus, which fueled my interest in Antigone.” She appeared to be quite angry now, her pale cheeks flushing most becomingly.

  Maximilian felt like grabbing her by the arms and kissing her soundly on the mouth. But for their audience, he might have. Instead, he grinned. “I am considered something of a scholar myself,” he said. “I have an extensive library at Wycliffe Place, my family seat, and would be happy to lend you any works that you are seeking.”

  Charlotte blinked at him, blond lashes fluttering over her spring eyes as if she had scarcely heard him aright. He realized that she was utterly astonished by his reaction. Did she think he would frown upon her for being a bluestocking? He was not a fashionable idiot who held contempt for anyone intelligent. He loved learning and found smart women appealing.

  “Oh, no,” groaned Carrie. “Not another one! We shall hear nothing but babbling about ancient legends all evening. Papa, you simply must not allow it.”

  “Carrie!” Sarah admonished.

  “But he sounds just like Charlotte—wild about all those old stories,” Carrie protested. She put her hands over her ears dramatically. “I shall not listen!”

  “I fear it is my fault,” the vicar said, grinning happily. “I did enjoy my classic history, and I tried to pass it on to the children. So far, Charlotte seems to be the only one to share my interest.”

  Maximilian looked at his beauty with new eyes. And he had thought her dim because she had no head for accounts! She was anything but dim. She was everything... Maximilian shook himself mentally. He was letting himself be carried away. So, the chit read Greek and shared his particular affection for mythology. She was still a simple vicar’s daughter, a country girl barely out of the schoolroom, no matter how intense her instruction. Still...

  “Papa, it is too late to talk about studies,” James complained.

  “Yes,” Thomas agreed. Maximilian was so stunned to find the two youths in accord that he stared at them, and they took immediate advantage of his attention. “Tell us about London, my lord. Have you ever seen a boxing match?”

  “Are you a member of the Four in Hand Club?” James cut in.

  “I expect that your horses are the finest, are they not?” asked Thomas.

  “Yes, yes and yes,” Maximilian answered with a smile. Swallowing a bit of regret at not being able to talk solely with his beauty, he sat back and entertained the boys with such tales of town life as were suitable to the vicarage parlor.

  Although he tried to keep his gaze upon the youths, every so often he became aware of green eyes tracing his features. Stretching out a booted foot, Maximilian glanced at the hands Charlotte held together in her lap. He remembered them as pale and slim, but they were not particularly dainty. Capable hands, he thought, capable of... He stopped his mind from going further. Then he caught a whiff of her, a lilac scent...

  Maximilian focused firmly upon James and Thomas, and before he knew it, Sarah was rounding the children up for bedtime. He pulled out his watch and glanced at the time in surprise. He often allotted himself a half hour for a visit only to watch it tick by slowly, but tonight hours had flown by without his notice. It was highly unusual, as the entire evening had been. He stood. “Thank you for a delightful dinner and lively conversation,” he said to the vicar.

  “It is we who must thank you,” Trowbridge said with a smile. “You have given the boys something to talk about for weeks. We have all enjoyed your company.”

  “And I yours,” Maximilian said politely, his gaze taking in all of them. Could he help it if his eyes lingered a bit longer on Charlotte than upon any of the others?

  “You must feel free to stop in at any time, my lord,” the vicar said, patting him familiarly on the arm. Maximilian looked at the hand, thin but firm, that rested upon him, and wondered if the vicar had any idea how unique his gesture was. People did not often reach out to the Earl of Wycliffe. It was oddly comforting to know that in some places, he was as warmly received as...Alf.

  Sarah was trying to rouse her large husband, who sat up suddenly and grunted, “Good night, my lord.” Restraining his amusement, Maximilian responded with a goodbye and a nod to the married couple.

  He wanted to kiss Charlotte’s hand, but thought it inappropriate in this informal setting, so he simply looked at her. Her earlier wariness had disappeared, and she returned his gaze with sparkling eyes. “Charlotte,” he said. “It has been a...pleasure.
”

  She blushed, perhaps with the memory of their meeting, but she had the boldness to smile at him anyway. It was nearly his undoing. He felt an odd, sharp stab of regret that they had not discussed their mutual interest, but there was no place in his life for the fresh-faced beauty.

  Maximilian took one long, last admiring look at her. Charlotte was a remarkable combination of loveliness, innocence and intelligence, and he had enjoyed their encounter. Very rarely did a woman catch his attention so markedly, and when she did, Maximilian usually arranged to make her his mistress. In this case, unfortunately, such a possibility was not open to him. However he might wish otherwise, it was simply unthinkable.

  She was, after all, the vicar’s daughter.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Charlotte stood staring after Wycliffe, immobilized by the elegant ease with which he moved. He possessed a particularly masculine grace that she had never seen in anyone before, and she found her gaze traveling from his broad shoulders down to the muscular legs she had wiped clean of tarts.

  When he had disappeared around a bend in the hallway, Charlotte returned to the parlor, plopped down on the sofa and lifted her palms to her heated cheeks. Glancing at Sarah, who still stood in the doorway, she asked, a little breathlessly, “Is he not splendid?”

  Sarah eyed her sister keenly. She had seen that look on Charlotte’s face many times before. Specifically, she remembered when little Charlotte had jumped off the roof of the shed with her papa’s umbrella, certain that she would float down; when Papa told Charlotte there was little more he could teach her about the classics; and when Charlotte had declared her curiosity about kissing. The last recollection dragged Sarah forcibly to the present.

  Shooing Alf from the room, she instructed him to see that the boys washed up properly before bed. “Tell the girls I will be up to tuck them in a few minutes,” she added. Then she turned to her sister. “Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Lord Wycliffe is quite splendid.”