The Vicar's Daughter

by Deborah Simmons

  “Good for him. You tell your cousin that your papa will not allow you to cut it, either,” Maximilian said. He imagined that lovely cloud shorn and twisted into an unrecognizable form, and he felt his stomach clench.

  “Well...” Charlotte appeared hesitant to tell an outright falsehood.

  “Charlotte, promise me you will not cut your hair,” Maximilian ordered firmly.

  One corner of her luscious mouth twitched. “All right, but if Cousin Augusta becomes too much for me, I shall send her to you, my lord, and you may explain to her your reasoning in the matter.”

  “I shall,” Maximilian said, amazed at the relief that swept over him. “But I cannot imagine anyone becoming too much for you.”

  Charlotte laughed again, the husky sound familiar, yet fresh to his ears. It was a pleasure to listen to, he decided. His country beauty was acquiring town polish, but retaining herself. If only that old crone stayed away from her with the shears.

  “Cousin Augusta is a...challenge, shall we say?” Charlotte said. She spoke softly, as if sharing a secret with him, and Maximilian felt again that strange sense of intimacy between them. He grinned.

  “I shall give the woman this, she has good taste in clothing,” he said, his eyes roving over the smooth lines of her dress. Although quite flattering, it covered her as thoroughly as her others, ending in a bit of trimming at her neck that made it look more like a day dress than evening wear. He leaned his head to one side to assess her more closely. “I heartily approve of your new gowns, but they are a little high in the neckline, are they not?”

  Charlotte turned a luscious pink and looked at her fan. “I...well...”

  “I am sorry. That was rude of me. I took your request for honesty too far,” Maximilian said, immediately regretting his words. What had possessed him to speak so boldly?

  “No! Oh, no,” Charlotte said, placing a gloved hand on his arm. Maximilian looked at it, a soft, comforting caress upon the fabric of his coat, and he felt as if she was touching his skin. He lifted his gaze to her face, flushed with embarrassment and concern, and attempted a brotherly smile. Having appointed himself her protector, he did not want any unsuitable stirrings, but her fingers burned into him, and he seemed powerless to alter his response.

  Charlotte leaned close, and Maximilian’s attention drifted to her mouth, soft and ripe, as she whispered to him. “I am too large in the chest,” she confided, her face crimson. “Although Sarah never really said much about it, I know she thought it was a bit...unseemly, especially for a vicar’s daughter.”

  Maximilian’s efforts to maintain a brotherly attitude deserted him abruptly. In fact, he had no idea that a few simple words could affect him so profoundly. Her innocent confession was provocative in the extreme, sending Maximilian’s blood rushing to his extremities. By great strength of will, he prevented himself from glancing at the area in question while he searched his brain for a reply to her confidence.

  “Charlotte,” he finally choked out. “A woman can never be too wide in the chest. My advice is take advantage of your blessings. Wear what the other young ladies are wearing, within reason, of course.”

  He tried not to imagine the results of his suggestions, for the gentle curve of those silken-draped mounds suddenly seemed more stimulating than any other woman’s bare breasts. Maximilian stepped back and told himself that he was her sponsor and, as such, he had better turn his attention to a more innocuous subject.

  “Wycliffe!” Luckily, their tête-à-tête was interrupted by Raleigh, who sauntered toward them, eyeing Charlotte through his quizzing glass. A quick surge of possessiveness made Maximilian sway closer to her.

  “Wycliffe, I thought you were supposed to be doing your duty by the vicar’s daughter, and here I find you thicker than thieves with the most beautiful girl in the room!” Raleigh accused.

  Maximilian’s fingers twitched as he glared daggers at his friend, but Raleigh was oblivious. He was too busy ogling Charlotte. “Raleigh, may I present Miss Trowbridge. Miss Trowbridge, this fool, for some reason, is a friend of mine. Viscount Raleigh.”

  “Wycliffe! She is an angel, a goddess!” Raleigh said dramatically. He bent low over her hand. “How do you do, my dear?”

  “I am fine, although I must admit that I am no angel nor goddess,” Charlotte said. “I am simply the vicar’s daughter.”

  Raleigh halted, clutching her fingers and staring at her in stupefied amazement. As much as Maximilian appreciated the scene, he did not like the way Raleigh lingered over Charlotte’s person. He nudged his friend.

  “A thousand pardons, Miss Trowbridge. A hundred thousand pardons! But this is all Wycliffe’s fault, for he failed to mention that you were the loveliest creature ever to make her London debut!” Raleigh said. He pressed a lengthy kiss to her hand before finally dropping it.

  Maximilian scowled while Charlotte laughed merrily. “Perhaps because my lord Wycliffe does not think me the loveliest creature ever to make her London debut!” she said.

  Raleigh sent Maximilian a horrified glance. “The man is truly a monster, then, but I have known that for some time. He is too busy making his schedule and keeping time to notice the beauty around him.”

  Maximilian restrained an urge to check his watch.

  “Let me take you away from the cruel fellow,” Raleigh urged. “Can I persuade you to dance with me, goddess?”

  Although Maximilian was accustomed to Raleigh’s antics, he felt a twinge of annoyance at his friend’s manner. Charlotte, who he was sure had more sense than to fall for such nonsense, was stifling a giggle.

  “How can I refuse?” she asked.

  Raleigh smiled in triumph, undoubtedly because he so rarely bested his friend. “You will pardon us, Wycliffe?” he asked airily.

  “Which one am I?” Charlotte asked.

  “Which what, goddess?”

  “Which goddess?” Charlotte supplied, laughing.

  “Why, the most beautiful one, of course!” Raleigh replied as he led her away. Maximilian felt his fingers twitch. He knew full well that Raleigh did not know Aphrodite from Agamemnon, and the foolish banter annoyed him. He gritted his teeth, disgusted with his fawning friend and with Charlotte.

  If she thought to snare Raleigh, she would be sorely disappointed, Maximilian thought with grim satisfaction, for he knew the viscount’s father, an earl, would never allow his son to marry a vicar’s daughter. Despite her beauty and charm, Charlotte was strictly mortal.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I saw you with Wycliffe again tonight,” Augusta said, pulling off her gloves and dropping into her favorite chair in the drawing room.

  “Yes,” Charlotte replied, simply because her cousin seemed to expect a response. Tired, she stifled a yawn behind her hand. She wanted nothing more than to seek her rest, but Cousin Augusta always insisted on reviewing the evening while it was still fresh in her mind. Any missteps of Charlotte’s were duly noted, as were her triumphs and Augusta’s suggestions for future behavior.

  “He has put forth quite an effort for you, girl, so we must not disappoint him,” Augusta noted, looking sharply at Charlotte.

  Charlotte said nothing, but eyed her cousin attentively. After only a week, she was growing accustomed to these lectures, although where this one was leading, she was not sure.

  “Neither would we wish to be rude to him, for he has been a most kind benefactor, and he remains in a position to help us throughout the season. However...” Cousin Augusta paused dramatically, as if preparing to make a pronouncement. “We do not want him to take up too much of your time—time that should be spent with legitimate suitors.”

  Charlotte blinked in surprise. Was she to avoid Wycliffe? She would have thought it prudent to cultivate him, considering his wealth and influence. “You do not want me to see him?” she asked in confusion.

  “I did not say that, child,” Augusta answered. “I am simply advising you that you must pick and choose your companions to best further your goal—of marriage.”r />
  Charlotte frowned as Augusta’s words became all too clear. She was to evade Wycliffe in favor of other, less interesting men who were within her reach. Sorry, my lord, but only those considering matrimony are worth my while. Undoubtedly, there was some cryptic way to convey this message through the use of one’s fan or the tilt of one’s head. Whatever the means, Charlotte could just imagine Wycliffe’s reaction to her defection; it would not be pretty.

  “That is not all, dear,” Augusta said. She waved Charlotte to the adjacent chair. Then she made a great show of smoothing her gown over her lap. “Some rumors have been troubling me. Naturally, whenever a man shows marked attention to a girl, some people get the wrong impression.” She eyed Charlotte keenly. “Gossip has it that Wycliffe is taken with you.”

  Charlotte could not contain the snort of disbelief—a pale imitation of the type used by James and Thomas—that erupted, unladylike, from her lips. She had given up any hopes she had once held on that score, for she had too often seen the condescending look in the earl’s eye. It told her that, despite his kindness toward her, he would never consider a lowly miss such as herself to be his proper consort.

  “Yes, well, I am glad you have some good sense, child. I knew you did,” Augusta said, nodding her approval. “The fact of the matter is that titled lords like Wycliffe do not marry country girls straight from the schoolroom. Obviously, you are clever enough to see that, but I wish to make it clear that you are to remain cordial to his lordship—and nothing more. He will not have you, girl, and there is no sense in wasting your precious time upon him when you must cast about for a husband.”

  Charlotte bridled at her cousin’s turn of a phrase. She knew that Wycliffe did not care for her in that way, and she had tried to take pleasure only in his friendship, but Augusta’s blunt words were grating. Charlotte felt her stubborn pride, beaten down by London, rise to the fore. “What of the Gunning sisters?” she asked abruptly.

  Augusta sent her a quelling look. “The Gunning sisters made their conquests decades ago, child. Men today are not so easily gulled by a lovely face.” Augusta frowned, making even more wrinkles appear in her lined face. “I do not know how marriages are arranged in the country, but among the nobility, they are made for money, property and bloodlines. That, my dear child, leaves you out.”

  “You are saying that I cannot possibly have Wycliffe?” Charlotte asked, lifting her chin in challenge.

  “I am indeed,” Augusta confirmed. Apparently unmoved by the determined set of Charlotte’s mouth, she picked up her closed fan and pointed it at her young charge. “And what is more, you had better not fritter away your clever brain power on thoughts of trying to snare him, for it is quite hopeless. Now, off with you. All this activity is making me weary. I vow, you shall be the death of me yet.”

  Charlotte felt a stab of guilt. Reminded of all that the elderly lady was doing for her, she fought back the rebellious urge that had plagued her all her life. None of her siblings seemed burdened with it, especially dear, dutiful Sarah, who always did the right thing. Only Charlotte struggled with the devil’s prompting in moments like this—when she wanted nothing more than to try to prove her cousin wrong.

  Grimly, Charlotte remembered her purpose. Her papa was spending a lot of money, money he could ill afford, upon her season, and she had a responsibility toward her family. She had only a few short months in which to find a spouse who would return that investment.

  Augusta was right, Charlotte told herself. She had no business mooning over his lordship. If only her cousin had not used the word cannot...

  * * *

  Charlotte looked at the three men surrounding her and tried her best to see one of them as her husband. It was not an easy task.

  To her left stood Roddy Black, a smooth-faced boy who seemed even younger than her own seventeen years. According to Augusta, he was a prime candidate because his merchant father had amassed a substantial fortune.

  Roddy was sweet and rather handsome, with his light brown hair and blue eyes, but he seemed so...silly. He was always at her elbow, spouting ridiculous compliments and gazing at her worshipfully. How could she take him seriously? It was all Charlotte could do to contain her laughter when he told her she was the fairest creature ever to walk the earth or that she possessed the grace and poise of a queen.

  Gently deflecting some of his prose, Charlotte turned her attention next to Sir Burgess. Augusta said he owned a small estate in Suffolk, which seemed in good order, and that he had come to London specifically to find a new wife, his first one having passed away last year. Sir Burgess had a rather distinguished air about him, for his black hair was streaked with white, and he was rather appealing-looking in a craggy sort of way, Charlotte reflected. He said little and seemed rather listless, but he made her uncomfortable in an undefinable way.

  Then there was Captain Stollings. He was very handsome, rather dashing, in fact, with his thick blond hair and flashing blue eyes, but Charlotte had the feeling that the captain saw little farther than his own white smile. She knew full well that he paid her court only because of her beauty. She suspected they all did, and that made her feel...unsettled. All her life, she had been told that her face was her fortune, but now that the time had come to bargain, Charlotte found she did not care for the process.

  She sighed softly, hoping that her choice would not come down to these three fellows. She had more suitors, of course. More men evinced interest in her daily, but Augusta approved only of those who were most likely to come up to the scratch. The titled gentlemen would not, Augusta informed her often enough. Others who had no money or few prospects were not to be considered, nor were the dandies and rakes who circled around her simply because she had been proclaimed a toast of the new season.

  Augusta pointed out those with the blackest names, like Lord Worthington, and Charlotte had been astounded to learn that some of the elegantly dressed men who moved in society could not be trusted with a girl’s honor. Although they flirted with Charlotte quite outrageously, she gave them no encouragement. In truth, not one of them caught her fancy, for it had already been seized.

  It was all a far cry from the vicarage and the loving family and neighbors who liked her for what she was inside. They had doted on her beauty, but not to the exclusion of all else. Here she felt increasingly like an ornament to be admired and placed upon a mantelpiece.

  Struggling with a wave of homesickness, Charlotte longed to escape from the stifling company of the men around her. She glanced about for a female acquaintance who might give her comfort, but she knew that many of the girls and their mamas were envious of her success. Still, her eyes raked the crowd before halting abruptly.

  Wycliffe. Charlotte saw him standing near the doorway, looking so very tall and elegant and handsome that she could not understand why every woman in the room did not mob him. Her heart did its customary flip-flops at the sight of him, dressed in raven black. Unlike herself, he looked wholly at ease in this glittering world, and Charlotte was acutely conscious that, despite the celebrity he had thrust upon her, she was only a visitor here.

  She wanted to go to him immediately, although she knew Cousin Augusta would not approve. Remembering her duty and her purpose, Charlotte thought to ignore him, but the pleasure that seeped into her at his presence would not be denied. “Please excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, nodding and smiling. Her suitors protested, especially Roddy and the captain, but Charlotte shook her head firmly and was finally rid of them.

  Having acquired some sense of discretion, she did not go directly to Wycliffe, but walked through the crowd, working toward him gradually. She edged around a large group, only to find herself hemmed in near the wall, behind a couple of very expensively dressed women. About to beg their pardon, Charlotte hesitated when she heard a familiar name on their lips.

  “Ah, there’s Wycliffe,” said one of the ladies, her back to Charlotte. “A fine specimen, that. And rumor has it he has broken with his latest mistress.”

&nbs
p; “Lud, you can have him for all he is devilishly handsome,” said the second one, a dark brunette whose thin gown did nothing to conceal the curves of her figure.

  “And you should know whereof you speak,” the first one said slyly. “But tell me, is he not a wonderful lover?”

  Charlotte caught back a gasp and thrust her fan in front of her reddening face, while the brunette chuckled softly, unaware of an audience. “Well...” She sighed. “He is very skillful. Painstaking, I would say.”

  “I knew he was not the cold fish he is painted,” said the first, a tall and slender lady with a husky voice that dropped even lower with her apparent interest in the topic.

  “No, he is not cold, not by any means. It is just that you feel as though you are allotted a certain amount of time, and despite your attractions, that is all that you will get. Rather like coming on cue,” the brunette said with a laugh.

  “Coming at all would be a change for me, what with that ancient fool I married,” the slender one said. “I would take my cue from Wycliffe any time.”

  The brunette laughed again. “I am afraid that for all your charms, Isabelle, you just would not do for his lordship. He likes his ladies well-endowed. Besides, rumor has it that he has fixed an interest on some country chit. Perhaps he shall marry. Knowing Wycliffe, that will be the end of his dalliances.”

  “La!” the slender lady said, her voice heavy with scorn. “The chit is a poor relation or something. Wycliffe’s only interest is his obligation to the family. I had that straight from Raleigh,” she added.

  Charlotte’s cheeks flamed anew at the realization that the two women were discussing her. “Lucky girl,” the brunette said. “I, for one, will heartily pity the poor creature Wycliffe marries. He will order her life by the minute, a boring, stifling existence that no woman in her right mind would want. I tell you, no one can exist by his clock.”