“Oh, Sarah,” Charlotte said. Leaning back against the worn sofa, she raised her hands above her head in an expressive gesture. “He is beyond anything!”
“Of course he is,” Sarah said, taking a chair near her sister. “He is an earl, and handsome and wealthy, as well. That would certainly qualify him on all counts as beyond our experience.”
Charlotte suddenly sat up straight, as if seized by a thought, and Sarah felt a surge of trepidation. She schooled her face to calm, however, and leaned toward her sister.
“Oh, Sarah,” Charlotte whispered, her lovely features aglow. “All my life I have looked forward to this spring. Even when I was little, I remember being told that if Cousin Augusta remained alive and willing, I would have a London season. You know how much I’ve longed for it. But Sarah,” Charlotte added, her voice hushed, “I think I would even give up my season...if I could only have him.”
Sarah hid her stab of panic well. She smiled at her sister gently. “A lovely dream, Charlotte, but a dream, all the same,” she said. “Men like Lord Wycliffe do not marry the daughters of impoverished vicars.”
Charlotte appeared to be stunned by that information, and Sarah knew a bit of envy for her sister’s self-assurance. In truth, Charlotte had never viewed anything as impossible, but charged on ahead, supremely confident of her plans, even if she ended up with naught but a broken umbrella and a sprained ankle. “But you and Papa have always said I must find a husband to provide a handsome living for us all,” Charlotte protested.
“My dear,” Sarah said, “there is quite a difference between a handsome living and the boundless wealth of Lord Wycliffe.” Sarah paused to choose her words carefully, for she did not wish to present Charlotte with even a hint of a challenge. She had learned a painful lesson about her sister over the years. If you told Charlotte that she could not, she was sure to try to prove you wrong.
Sarah had no intention of telling Charlotte that she would be unable to catch Wycliffe’s interest, for Charlotte would be certain to get that determined look in her eye. And all her sister’s beauty and resolve and intelligence would serve her little in such a hopeless endeavor.
Papa and Charlotte might thrive upon dreams and legends, but Sarah was the practical member of the family. She knew that the Lord Wycliffes of the world did not marry fortuneless nobodies straight from the schoolroom, no matter how lovely and nice they might be. “You can be sure that he will marry only a rich lady with an impressive lineage,” Sarah said. “And that is as it should be.”
Charlotte appeared to be mulling over Sarah’s advice, and Sarah pressed her advantage. “Forget about our handsome visitor,” she urged her sister. “You will find plenty of other fellows to suit your fancy in London. They may not have titles, but they will be good, solid, dependable men, more than willing to provide for you and your family.”
Charlotte looked up at her sister and stopped herself from pulling a face just in time. Solid. Dependable. The terms held no allure for her, for they described Sarah’s dull husband Alf and not the elegant, stimulating and oh-so-attractive Lord Wycliffe. Just the thought of him made her heart dance merrily in her chest.
What did Sarah know? Sarah had always been wary of anything beyond her experience, and she had acquired an unreasoning distrust of the nobility, probably from some of Alf’s more discontented relatives.
Although Charlotte normally trusted Sarah’s judgment, she did not want to believe that Wycliffe was not meant for her. She remembered kneeling between his thighs, overcome by shivers of excitement when she touched him. She had watched him hold her littlest sister with unexpected gentleness, and she had seen his handsome features grow taut with the thrill of their shared interest. He was the only man besides her father and dear, doddering Mr. Lynchworth who did not frown upon her studies!
To her mind, the entire encounter smacked of fate, but she knew better than to say as much to practical Sarah.
“Girls, are you still in the parlor?” The sound of their father’s voice brought their heads up.
“I am sorry, Charlotte,” Sarah said, leaning close to pat her hand, “but you had better set your sights a bit lower. Lord Wycliffe moves in circles far beyond the reach of the rest of us.”
Charlotte frowned at her sister’s choice of words. They made him seem so...unattainable. “Like one of the gods,” she whispered.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Sarah said. “Like one of the gods in the stories you like so well.” She smiled, dismissing the subject of Lord Wycliffe easily as she greeted Papa.
Charlotte smiled, too, but it was a small, secret one that she hugged to herself, for she knew that even the gods were known, on occasion, to take mortal wives.
* * *
Maximilian looked at his schedule. He was to leave on the morrow, and he had accomplished all that he had intended within the allotted period of time. He had installed one of his own people to oversee the property with the help of some of the former staff. In a few months, the house would be up to his strict requirements, and the estate would be running like a well-oiled gear.
This afternoon was set aside for whatever extraneous details might need his attention, but he could think of nothing his steward could not handle. That left him with free time upon his hands, which he could use to catch up on his correspondence...or go out.
Abruptly, Maximilian imagined making a return visit to the vicarage. He scowled, drumming his fingers on the desk as he considered the notion. Although he had tried to dismiss Charlotte from his mind, she kept returning to his thoughts. It was ridiculous! He had wasted enough time admiring her last night while suffering through that interminable meal with all those children making so much noise. There was no earthly reason he should go back...other than to say his farewells.
The well-worn path to the vicarage door was familiar now, but Patches did not rush at him, and the yard was strangely quiet. He knocked, suddenly hoping that Charlotte would be in. He had never considered that she would not be there, and now he was struck with the possibility of spending a dull afternoon with the vicar. He pulled out his watch and checked the time. One half hour, he told himself. Then he would leave.
He did not have to worry. The door was opened by his beauty herself. Dressed in a simple sprigged muslin gown and carrying a basket, she looked fresh as morning dew. When she lighted up like a ray of sunshine at the sight of him, Maximilian felt a rush of pure pleasure. “My lord, how delightful to see you again,” she said, smiling brightly.
“The pleasure is mine...Charlotte,” he said, savoring her name like a bit of fine wine. She blushed rosily, but held his gaze, both of them very aware of the intimacy granted him by the use of her given name. Then the hall erupted around her.
“I’m ready!” called Kit, racing toward them and nearly plowing into Charlotte’s skirts. Carrie followed a bit more sedately.
“We were just on our way to the village,” Charlotte explained.
“Let me drive you,” Maximilian offered, gazing into clear eyes the color of spring buds.
“That would be lovely,” she said, returning his regard. The children seemed to fade into the distance, leaving just his beauty with her green eyes and luscious lips. Her hair was tucked up under a beribboned straw hat, but Maximilian’s twinge of disappointment was tempered by the sensual knowledge that the blond glory so hidden could be released with just a flick of the brim.
“Are you lame?” Carrie burst out abruptly. Startled, Maximilian looked down to see her staring at his elaborately carved, silver-headed walking stick.
“Don’t be a noddycock!” said Kit. “That’s an af-fect-tation.”
Before Maximilian could respond to the apparently unintentional slight, James’s voice boomed out from down the hallway. “If his lordship is driving you, I want to come, too,” he shouted.
“Me, too!” echoed Thomas.
“Me, too!” Carrie said, more softly.
Charlotte shook her head and turned around. “It is time for your studies, James, Th
omas and Carrie,” she said firmly, herding them along the hall like so many goats. “Go on now and tell Papa that his lordship is driving us to the village. Come along, Kit.” Just then Jenny toddled out of a room toward them.
“My lord,” she chanted. “My lord.” Halting at Maximilian’s knees, she raised her arms upward, her blue eyes wide.
“She wants you to pick her up,” Kit explained.
Setting aside the walking stick with a grimace, Maximilian reached down and lifted Jenny, settling her into the curve of his arm where she snuggled very nicely to him. He registered her warmth and her smell and the feel of her small arms snaking around his neck. Then he glanced at Charlotte to gauge her reaction.
Somehow, Maximilian thought his odd delight in the child was noticeable—and laughable—but Charlotte was not amused. She was blinking at him in surprise. He grinned. She smiled, and that shared moment sustained him through the effort of getting everyone situated in the curricle.
Charlotte sat up beside him, resting the basket upon her lap, while Jenny nestled between them. To Kit’s utter delight, he was elevated to the position of tiger and rode at the back of the vehicle.
Charlotte found herself wishing that the village was not so close, so that she could be near Maximilian and watch him handle the reins forever. The hat shaded her eyes a little, so she found herself able to leisurely peruse his wide shoulders, his broad chest and his muscular thighs without seeming too bold. He was not a big man, like Alf, but tall and perfectly proportioned, Charlotte decided, her heart leaping like an acrobat.
All too quickly, Wycliffe maneuvered the curricle in front of Alf and Sarah’s shop. He removed his driving gloves and jumped down easily, displaying the grace that Charlotte so admired. Then he lifted his arms to help her down.
For a moment, Charlotte could do naught but stare at his outstretched hands, strong and lean, with long, slender fingers. They dazzled her. When she finally remembered to stand, Charlotte completely forgot about the basket in her lap until it tipped forward, drawing her attention. She squeaked out a warning even as she watched the entire container of fresh eggs head toward Wycliffe. He grabbed for it and caught it in his competent hands, but not before an egg launched itself at his shoulder and broke along the seam of his chest.
Arrogant disdain oozing from every pore, the Earl of Wycliffe glared at the pieces of shell while yellow yoke dripped down his well-cut coat of blue superfine.
“Oh!” Scrambling down, Charlotte pulled the napkin from the basket and wiped at the mess on Wycliffe’s shoulder. He was so tall that she had to lift her hand high to reach his broad shoulder. It was well-muscled, for no telltale lumps of padding bunched beneath the taut material under her fingers. Leaning closer, she absently rested her other hand upon his chest to steady herself. She was unaware of the gesture until a change in his breathing made her glance at his face.
“Thank you, Charlotte. That is quite enough,” Wycliffe said, releasing a slow smile that somehow spoke volumes to her body. Every fiber in her being jumped to attention, as if being called into service, and she stepped back hurriedly, lifting her fingers from his embroidered waistcoat. Deliberately, she looked away from his features to the stain on his shoulder. It did not seem too noticeable, but the smell soon would not be pleasant.
“We shall see if Sarah can wash it out for you at the shop,” Charlotte said.
“No, Charlotte. We most assuredly will not,” Wycliffe said, the ghost of that smile lingering to wreak havoc among her senses.
“But, my lord, I fear that as the day wears on, you will...ripen,” Charlotte protested. She peeked up at him and caught the startled look on his face before he laughed, a sound deep and rich and pleasing to the ear.
“Then you will be forced to endure my malodorous company as your punishment for pelting me with eggs,” Wycliffe said, his eyes and mouth teasing. “Are you naturally clumsy, Charlotte, or is it only me you have targeted?”
“It is only you,” she said carelessly, reaching up to help Jenny. As she set the child down, Charlotte caught herself. “I mean, it is just that you seem to have a particular...an affect... You discompose me, my lord. We are not used to such elegant gentlemen here in Upper Bidwell,” Charlotte explained, not daring to even turn toward him.
“Do I have to get off now?” Kit called, and Charlotte loosed a low sigh of relief at being saved from further embarrassment by his complaint.
“Yes! Be careful, and stay with us, please,” she said as her brother darted past.
Maximilian cocked his head, eyeing Charlotte as she spoke to Kit. Deuced if she was not the most interesting creature. Of course, his question had not been fair or proper, but he had never expected her to answer him truthfully. He was accustomed to simpering, flirting females who used the language of subterfuge, not Charlotte’s fresh openness. He discomposed her, did he? The notion pleased him immensely.
Flushed a delightful pink, she sent him a swift smile and headed toward the shop owned by her sister’s husband. They stepped inside the dim, crowded building, which appeared to contain nearly everything a villager could want, from a paper of pins to a side of bacon. Coming face-to-face with a cured ham, Maximilian stepped back, neatly sidestepping Charlotte. “Sort of puts one off one’s taste for pork, doesn’t it?” he asked.
“Oh, do not say so,” Charlotte admonished. “This is why we have one of the best laid tables in the village,” she whispered, leaning close. “Papa has often said that Sarah did us all a great service by marrying Alf.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Charlotte blinked at him and then looked away, her brow furrowed, her frown pensive. Before Maximilian had a chance to reflect on her shift in mood, Kit mumbled something and raced off behind the counter, and Sarah came toward them. Although her smile was friendly enough, she eyed him a bit warily. Did she think he would soil her beautiful sister? Stupid chit. It was more the other way around, Wycliffe decided. Charlotte was always dousing him with foodstuffs.
“Hello, Sarah! Wasn’t it good of his lordship to drive us in?” Charlotte asked, smiling in his direction. Sarah nodded, although she obviously was not enthused. The feeling is mutual, Maximilian thought uncharitably, for he was not enthused to be standing in a village shop holding a basket of eggs like some plowboy from his fields.
“Here are the day’s eggs,” Charlotte said, taking the basket from Maximilian. “Minus one. Would you please wash out a spot in his lordship’s coat?”
Maximilian’s fingers twitched imperceptibly. Ignoring Sarah’s questioning look, he took Charlotte’s arm gently but firmly and pulled her aside. He gazed into her upturned face, sweet and dismayed, his features set. “I am not removing my coat.”
Charlotte blinked at him in surprise. “Botheration!” she said. His lordship obviously was stubborn. “A wet cloth then, Sarah, please,” she called to her sister.
When Sarah handed her the towel, Charlotte wiped his shoulder again. “You need not stand upon such strict propriety with me, my lord,” she scolded as she worked at the stain.
Wycliffe’s fingers wrapped around her wrist like steel bands, and so quickly that she had no time to react. She looked up, startled, into his handsome face. His thick, nearly black brows lowered over his eyes as if he were angry. “Yes, I do. And I expect everyone else to do the same,” he said in an oddly threatening tone. His voice was low, his features harsh. “Perhaps you are accustomed to such behavior in Upper Bidwell, but I do not want to hear of anyone in London removing his coat in your presence. Do you understand me?” he asked.
Charlotte stared into his great brown eyes, dark with some nameless emotion, and swallowed. “Yes, my lord,” she answered meekly. She dropped her hand from his shoulder, and he released her wrist. “Is it so very scandalous?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Maybe not here, but in town, yes,” Wycliffe said. “Young girls like yourself must behave within rigid boundaries, or you may find your reputation blackened beyond repair and all your father’s investment gone
to naught,” he said roughly as he stepped back.
Charlotte hid the smile that tugged at her mouth while she ducked her head and turned. Wycliffe’s proprietary air sent a surge of hope trilling through her blood. Perhaps Sarah was wrong, and the deity before her might take a simple mortal such as herself to wife.
“Ah, Mr. Green,” Sarah said. “Nice to see you out and about again. Is your leg still paining you?”
“Yes, but thank you for asking,” said the rotund villager. He turned to smile at Charlotte and Jenny and gazed curiously at Wycliffe. “Now who is that you have with you, Charlotte?” he asked.
“My lord, this is Mr. Green, our haberdasher. Mr. Green, this is Lord Wycliffe, the new owner of the Great House,” Charlotte said.
“My lord!” Green said heartily. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard nothing but good about you, and that is a fact. I have a cousin in London, and as soon as he became aware of the sale, he wrote to me. You could not have yourself a better neighbor, he said, and that is a fact. Lord Wycliffe is a fine young man, a solid, dependable sort, he said.”
With a slow smile, Charlotte looked straight at Sarah, who pursed her lips and frowned a warning. Charlotte ignored it. Her heart was bouncing about the ceiling. If Mr. Green said Wycliffe was solid and dependable, what possible objection could Sarah have to him? That he was too rich? Too aristocratic? Charlotte grinned happily.
“Thank you, Mr. Green. I am sure my association with Upper Bidwell will be a long and profitable one for us both,” Wycliffe said.
“Very good, very good,” Mr. Green said, beaming. “Hope to see you again, my lord. Stop in my business at any time. I will give you a good price on any of my merchandise. See if I don’t!”
Kit chose that moment to emerge at top speed from somewhere in the back of the shop, his mouth full of candy, and they all bid their farewells. Outside in the pale spring sunlight, Charlotte looked at her lord with adoration. “See how happy everyone is to meet you! We should introduce you to the rest of the residents.”
The Vicar's Daughter Page 4