The Vicar's Daughter

by Deborah Simmons

  “Perhaps,” the slender one admitted with a sniff. “But I have heard no complaints about his prowess in the boudoir, even from you. Oh, look, there is Ophelia with that monstrously handsome cousin of hers. He is looking particularly splendid tonight.”

  With relief, Charlotte decided that the ladies were through talking about her, and she moved off, away from their gossiping tongues. She told herself she ought to be ashamed of eavesdropping; dear Papa would never approve! But he would never have approved of the conversation, either. Some of it Charlotte had not understood, but one thing was clear. The brunette had been Wycliffe’s lover! How Charlotte wished she could have gotten a good look at the lady’s face, but she did not want to lose sight of Wycliffe, who was walking across the reception room.

  Charlotte stepped toward him, her cheeks still warm. Although she had no idea what made a man a wonderful lover, the thought of Wycliffe described in such glowing terms made her insides turn to jelly. She put a hand to her throat and, as her fingers touched the decorative lace of her gown, she remembered something else the ladies had said. Wycliffe, it seemed, liked buxom females.

  With sudden interest, Charlotte glanced down at the bosom that had annoyed her since her youth, when it had blossomed far beyond her expectations. Was it only coincidence that Wycliffe had suggested she wear more revealing clothes? Charlotte tugged at one of her fingers thoughtfully.

  And what of his rough order not to cut her hair? With an intent expression, she pulled at a second finger. And the way he glowered at her admirers, chasing them all away with his scowls? Charlotte flicked at a third digit, her stubborn streak surfacing. If she did not know better, she might think it possible, despite Cousin Augusta’s opinion, to fix Lord Wycliffe’s interest.

  Hope, wicked and delicious, burgeoned in her chest, but then she thought of Sarah’s sensible advice and of Papa, patiently waiting for her to do her duty. And the boys, who would have few prospects if she did not marry soon. And Jane and Carrie and Jenny, who could be launched in seasons of their own, if only she made a successful match.

  Charlotte frowned bitterly, feeling the heavy weight of her responsibility to the family as never before. Abruptly, the gay colors and careless chatter of those around her appeared grim, the sparkle of the chandeliers and the glitter of the room’s fabulous gilt furnishings worthless.

  Standing there, alone amidst the crowd, Charlotte caught a glimpse of herself in one of the huge, elaborately framed mirrors that lined one wall, and the woman who stared back at her appeared a stranger. Tall and elegantly gowned, she was a creature of her surroundings, as empty and hollow as all else in this fancy world.

  For the first time in her life, Charlotte cursed the beauty that had brought her to this impasse. With grim resolution, she turned and walked away from the only man she wanted.

  * * *

  The chit was avoiding him. Maximilian could not believe it, but every time he neared Charlotte, she managed to evade him just as though he were an unwanted interloper. Him! And all the while, she smiled and laughed and fluttered her fan for her motley group of admirers. It made his blood boil. With a fiery determination not in keeping with his usual calm demeanor, Maximilian longed to teach her a lesson, although he was not at all sure what form it should take.

  Rarely inclined toward precipitous behavior—or violence—he nonetheless felt like turning the girl over his knee...or something. Maximilian hesitated to pursue those thoughts too far, but decided to let his rage simmer until he found a way to maneuver himself behind Charlotte.

  When he did, he could not help but notice the smooth-cheeked boy who seemed to be fairly drooling at her feet. Good God, was the infant even weaned yet? And the fellow with the streaks in his black hair had a decidedly menacing air about him. Who was he?

  Maximilian frowned. His eyes next traveled over a rakish blond officer, whom he dismissed as just the sort of character who would appeal to empty-headed females. Was Charlotte so shallow as to find the man appealing? The thought grated on him, as did the suspicion that she preferred the company of these louts to his own.

  “Miss Trowbridge.” Maximilian spoke her name softly. What would she do now, when he was so close, he wondered, knowing that she could hardly escape his presence. He steeled himself for her dismay, and then she whirled, blinking in surprise to see him. Before he could prepare himself for repulsion or duplicity, her beautiful face lighted with delight.

  “My lord,” she said in that husky voice of hers. The greeting was like a caress, low but bold in the expression of her pleasure. Maximilian felt as if she had touched him, and his anger was transformed into a heat of another kind.

  “Excuse us, will you?” he asked of her entourage, his implacable gaze brooking no resistance. Then he turned to Charlotte. “Shall we dance, Miss Trowbridge?” He waited, watching her. Still a bit dazed by her response, he half expected her to refuse, but she did not. In fact, she smiled at him so eagerly that he stared. If he did not know better, he would have thought he had imagined her earlier behavior. She had been avoiding him, had she not?

  “I say, Wycliffe, I resent you spiriting this lovely lady away when I have just arrived.” Raleigh’s voice interrupted his musings, and Maximilian glanced at his friend in annoyance. Didn’t the man have anything better to do?

  “Then you should have arrived earlier,” Maximilian said in a less than gracious tone.

  “While those two squabble, let us dance, Miss Trowbridge,” said a deeper voice. Forming an angry retort, Maximilian shifted his gaze to the newcomer, only to choke back his reply. The man who spoke was not some whey-faced youth, but Lord Wroth, one of Maximilian’s peers.

  Startled to see the famous marquis bending low over Charlotte’s hand, Maximilian hesitated a moment, and that was his downfall, for Charlotte sent him an apologetic glance and walked off with Wroth before he could utter another word. In the blink of an eye, Maximilian saw only her tall, straight back as she moved with easy grace away from him.

  Maximilian was livid. How dare she treat him so shabbily after all he had done for her? Wroth would never have deigned to notice her if it had not been for him! When he realized that he was standing there like a dolt with four of Charlotte’s admirers, he felt like slamming his fist into something.

  “Really, Wycliffe, you must learn to concede graciously if you are to move in Miss Trowbridge’s circle,” Raleigh said, eyeing Maximilian with a comical expression on his face.

  Maximilian’s fingers twitched. The other men moved away, and he turned upon his friend, his unaccustomed rage barely leashed. “I was not aware that she had a circle,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “But of course, man. Where have you been? Miss Trowbridge has been proclaimed a Toast of the new season.” A dazed expression on his face, Raleigh rhapsodized about Charlotte’s charms in the most nauseating manner. “She is a goddess, a nonpareil, as you should well know, since you were acquainted with her.”

  “She is a beauty, yes, but hardly a goddess,” Maximilian said, scoffing, “so spare me your insipid prose. It is the same every year. A group of seemingly intelligent men make cakes out of themselves over a pretty face—until the next one comes along. My God, Raleigh, I thought better of you.”

  Instead of taking offense, Raleigh cocked an eyebrow and looked at his friend intently. “I say, you are smitten,” he marveled.

  “I am not smitten,” Maximilian snapped. “I simply wish to speak with the chit, and I find it extremely inconvenient to have to fight my way through a pack of drooling puppies.”

  Raleigh chuckled, apparently enjoying himself. “I would hardly call Wroth a drooling puppy. I think his mother birthed him full-grown with a pair of dice in one hand and the reins of that huge fortune of his in the other.”

  Maximilian’s eyes narrowed. “He is a rake and an unsuitable companion for Ch—Miss Trowbridge.”

  Raleigh laughed. “I say, Wycliffe, quit humming me! How many times have I heard you say you admired Wroth for having one of t
he few clear heads among the ton?”

  “That may be,” Maximilian acknowledged, “but he has no business hanging about Charlotte.”

  “Lud, man, why do you say that?” Raleigh asked. “He is one of the most sought-after bachelors in London. Only think of it! Your vicar as the papa-in-law to one of the most powerful men in the country!”

  Maximilian cursed softly and pierced Raleigh with his gaze. “Wroth has no intention of offering for her, and you know it. The girl will never gain a title.”

  Raleigh looked at him with bland surprise. “Why ever not?”

  “Because she is a deuced vicar’s daughter,” Maximilian answered sharply.

  “So? Do you think anyone would dare to shun Wroth for marrying beneath him?” Raleigh asked. He paused, as if considering the action, and shuddered. “I suspect that Wroth could marry his kitchen maid and no one would dare gainsay him. Dash it all, Wycliffe, when the lady is as beautiful as Miss Trowbridge, matters of birth are forgotten.”

  “Well, he cannot have her,” Maximilian said firmly.

  “What?” Raleigh turned blue eyes wide with astonishment on his friend.

  “Wroth is a coldhearted devil who would never make her happy,” Maximilian muttered.

  Raleigh looked too stunned to reply for a moment, then shot his friend an assessing glance. “I suppose you would approve of the gallant young captain or the lad barely out of the cradle, as opposed to a wealthy and powerful marquis.”

  Maximilian snorted. “If you are referring to the rabble that surrounded her earlier, I would have to say no. Not one of them is worth a farthing.”

  Raleigh stared at him solemnly. “So, you are saying that those fellows are all unworthy of our goddess, as is, of course, the marquis,” he mused. “Who, then, do you think a fitting husband for Miss Trowbridge?” He lifted his chin to preen wickedly, and Maximilian suddenly knew where this discussion was leading.

  “Not you!” Maximilian answered, sending Raleigh into gales of laughter so uproarious that heads turned to stare at him. “And what is so funny?”

  “Nothing. Not one blessed thing,” Raleigh answered between gulps for air. “I say, Wycliffe, this season promises to be the most entertaining one I have seen in many a year. Tell me this, are you perchance the only man fit to marry our goddess?”

  Maximilian eyed him dispassionately. “Do not be ridiculous.” Then, suddenly, he remembered his schedule. He pulled out his watch and cursed softly, unable to believe that with all his attempts to seek out Charlotte, he had wasted more than an hour at this idiotic function.

  At the sight of the timepiece, Raleigh seemed to be seized with another fit of laughter, and Maximilian glanced at him irritably. “Good God, Raleigh, get yourself under control. You sound like a deuced hyena.” When his glares seemed to do naught but aggravate Raleigh’s condition, Maximilian smiled tersely. “I am leaving. You may tell your goddess that I could not wait upon her leisure.”

  “Tell her yourself,” Raleigh said, with a nod to his right, and suddenly there was Charlotte, beautiful and fashionable, despite the high-necked gown.

  For a moment, all Maximilian could do was stare at her in admiration, though why she insisted on swathing herself in all that material was a mystery to him. Abruptly, Maximilian pictured her throat bare but for a rope of rubies—the Wycliffe rubies—wrapped several times around her pale skin. He shook away the thought, along with the temptation to linger.

  “You will excuse me, Miss Trowbridge, but I must be going,” he said harshly.

  He expected Charlotte to greet this news without reaction, considering the way she had been avoiding him all night. Instead, she surprised him by putting a slim hand on his arm and leaning toward him in a rather intimate gesture. Surely, she would not pretend that she wanted him to stay? Maximilian scowled in disgust, for he was not one of her fawning admirers to be led about by the nose.

  But Charlotte did not urge him to remain. She lifted her green eyes to his in rather anxious entreaty. “Can you come by tomorrow afternoon around three o’clock?” she asked.

  For a moment, Maximilian was at a loss for words. Was something the matter? Her invitation was hardly a normal one. Her clear gaze fixed upon him, waiting for answer. “Certainly,” he said roughly. She gave him a grateful smile while her hand dropped from his sleeve in a gentle movement. It was all he could do not to catch it back, to feel her touch, a warm caress, upon his arm again. Gad, he was going around the bend!

  “Good night,” Maximilian said with a stiff nod. He stalked off, eager to be away. Not only had he disrupted this night’s itinerary and stayed longer than he had intended, but now he had committed himself to visiting Charlotte tomorrow. He swore softly.

  The vicar’s daughter was wreaking havoc with his schedule.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Maximilian stood on the threshold of Augusta Thurgoode’s set of rooms and wondered what had possessed him to agree to come here. His secretary had gaped in amazement when told to reschedule Maximilian’s meeting with the banker. Faced with Wilkes’s astonishment, Maximilian did not have the heart to inform the man of the reason behind the appointment shuffling. Or perhaps he did not want to admit to his own folly. Sorry, but I have an important engagement with the vicar’s daughter...

  Of course, he could have sent round a note to Charlotte, claiming a prior commitment, but he had promised her. And, in truth, he was curious as to the reason for her rather secretive invitation. Was something amiss in Miss Thurgoode’s household or at home? Was the vicar calling her back from London?

  Maximilian tried not to gloat over that notion, with which he heartily concurred. As far as he was concerned, Charlotte had no business being a Toast and should be sent on to Sussex where she belonged. There he certainly would not have to fight through a pack of males to see her. She could retain her sweet innocence, marry one of the locals and depart from his thoughts.

  After waiting for what seemed an interminable length of time, Maximilian was informed by the rather seedy-looking manservant that Miss Thurgoode was out. Good, Maximilian thought, because he did not care to visit the woman. “I am here to see Miss Trowbridge,” he said.

  When the servant had the gall to look him over, Maximilian did his best to glare the fellow into the next county. Apparently, it had some effect, for the gangly gawker swallowed hard and eyed him nervously. “Sorry, my lord, but I have been instructed to turn away all of Miss Trowbridge’s suitors until such time as my mistress returns,” he said.

  Maximilian felt himself go livid, but he kept his voice even. “My good man, although I hardly deem it any of your business what my relationship is to the young lady, suffice to say that I am not a suitor of Miss Trowbridge’s.”

  The servant hesitated, as if wavering, and then shrugged his shoulders and held open the door. Impudent rascal! Maximilian strode into the drawing room, where he began to pace back and forth restlessly. It was bad enough that he had disrupted his routine for this visit, but he was deuced if he would be barred from the door like some tradesman.

  The sound of footsteps made Maximilian turn, and he saw Charlotte on the threshold. The first thing he noticed was that her hair was down. It was swirling about her shoulders like a yellow cloud, beckoning him more powerfully than Circe ever could. It would be fragrant, he knew, smelling of lilacs and fresh country Charlotte...

  “My lord! I am so glad you could come, my lord!” she said, stepping toward him. The movement made Maximilian notice her dress. A far cry from the ill-fitting, childish garments she had worn as a simple vicar’s daughter, it was also different from the fashionable clothing he had seen her wear in London, for this pale green confection did not cover Charlotte up to her neck. It was cut low over her lush bosom, revealing for the first time the swelling curves of her breasts, pale and creamy and so very full....

  “I decided to take your advice about my gowns, my lord,” she said. Was he staring? Maximilian tried to shift his gaze, but he could not. The high waist of her gown pushed
her breasts upward, where they gleamed, flawless and silky, the dark cleft between them a well of secrets.

  Suddenly, Maximilian wanted nothing more than to hold them in his hands, and his groin sprang to life. He tried to form a reply, but his mouth felt dry and unworkable. Was he staring? With an effort, he dragged his gaze to her face, where her cheeks were flushed a lovely, becoming pink. “Very fashionable,” he choked.

  “I knew you would be pleased, my lord,” Charlotte said. The corner of her mouth twitched upward, making him wonder if she were teasing him. But, no. His country goose was far too unsophisticated for such repartee, wasn’t she? She had better be. Maximilian did not care to see her practice the wiles of the jaded London ladies. He sent her an assessing gaze, but she had turned.

  “Now that you have seen my new gown, I would have you judge my new walk, my lord,” she said. Then she proceeded to mince away from him in small steps that were nothing at all like Charlotte’s graceful strides. “How do you like it, my lord?” she asked.

  “I hate it,” Maximilian answered mildly.

  Charlotte whirled and laughed softly. “But I have been working so hard to perfect it, my lord. Cousin Augusta says—”

  “Spare me!” Maximilian said, holding up his hand. He had no intention of listening to whatever drivel the old woman was passing off as gospel. “What in God’s name is she doing to you?”

  “My lord!” Charlotte said. Although she spoke in shocked tones, her admonishment was spoiled by the twinkle in her eye, and this time there was no mistaking the twitch of her lips. She looked exactly as she did when she tried to scold one of her younger siblings. “You should not take the Lord’s name in vain. Papa would be most put out, my lord.”

  “My lord, my lord!” Maximilian snapped. “Enough of the my lords! It is supposed to be a sign of respect, not a litany.”