A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  With a silent crack her foot met his shin beneath the table. Hardly ladylike behavior towards the man who was saving her from Lord Dunley! Hiding his wince behind the wine glass, he reached a foot her direction to return the favor with a none-too-gentle press of his toes onto hers.

  She hid her yelp by saying, “What he means to say, Papa, is he’d rather stay in London, but he knows I’d rather stay here, so it’s a point of contention between us and one of the reasons we kept this a secret.” Flicking her gaze to Percy, she added, “Isn’t that right?”

  “Of course, yes. But I wouldn’t let my preferences come in the way of your happiness. If you love the country so much, I could…adapt.”

  Another nudge to the shin sent him back to the wine glass. This was going to be a long few days, or weeks, or however long he had committed himself to living in hell.

  The meal could not end soon enough. Percival was eager to retire from the barrage of questions. Alas, such a wish was not to be granted. Although Percy and Mr. Walsley were the only men present, the vicar insisted the two should share port and cigars before joining Miss Walsley in the parlor, at which time she would charm them with a piece on the pianoforte.

  He smiled, dying on the inside.

  After lighting both cigars, Mr. Walsley frowned at his guest. “What are your true intentions towards my daughter?”

  Percy coughed a cloud of smoke. “My intentions…” he wheezed, rubbing his chest.

  Today had gone by too quickly. Not for a moment had he found time to himself to mull over how to approach this situation. Nothing had been as he expected, and he most certainly had not intended to be falsely engaged to a vicar’s daughter; yet here he sat playing a charade with a vicar. He needed time to think, time to plan his approach.

  “I’m waiting,” prodded Mr. Walsley.

  “My intentions, sir, should be obvious. Miss Walsley and I are engaged, are we not?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “I beg your pardon.” A soldier interrogated by enemy forces must feel as Percy did now.

  “Had your intentions been pure, you would have made yourself known to my sister, Mrs. Gertrude Diggeby, while publicly courting my daughter in East Hagbourne. You would have then sought me out here in Sidvale to ask permission for her hand. Instead, you have charmed my daughter and secured her silence. Abigail does not keep secrets from me. Your power over her must be influential indeed. Now that I’ve met you, I can see why. It unsettles me, Mr. Randall. I don’t trust you or your intentions.”

  Taken aback, Percy set aside the cigar.

  He could not defend himself without giving away the game. In part, he blamed Miss Walsley for maintaining the lie with a father she was clearly close to, but he did recognize the sticky situation in which she found herself. Had she confessed the lie, her father would not only be upset that she had lied to the viscount, but he may have felt obligated to correct the matter by encouraging the viscount to renew his offer. A man of his position would not wish to anger the local aristocracy. Yes, Percy understood her choice, but that did not mean he approved, least of all when it put him in a position of direct blame for that which he was not guilty.

  With a deep exhale, Percy met Mr. Walsley’s glare and told him the only thing he knew: the truth.

  “I may be a gentleman, but I’d make a sorry husband. I’ve lived the dissipated life expected of a man such as myself. Earlier this year, my father gave me an ultimatum to marry before my thirtieth birthday or lose my allowance and the roof over my head. I’ve courted, casually as it were, a young lady or two, knowing myself a catch only by name and not by profession. I have nothing to show that is not my father’s. These past few weeks, I’ve affected changes in my life, practicing celibacy for a start.” He cringed at the confession. “I want to be a better man and make a decent husband for the woman I marry, but I hardly know where to start. What if I marry only to learn I can’t change my ways? What if I marry and my wife regrets it?”

  “I see.” Without looking away from Percival, Mr. Walsley snuffed out his cigar. “Are you using my daughter to keep the roof over your head and money in your pocket?”

  “No, sir, and that’s the honest truth.”

  Folding his arms behind his head, the vicar stretched out his legs and crossed one ankle over the other. “When had you planned for the reading of the banns?”

  “Not until I know my wife would not regret marrying me.”

  Only then did the vicar move his gaze away from Percy. In silence they sat for a good minute or more.

  “Do you ride?” the vicar finally asked.

  Percy furrowed his brows at the non sequitur. “Not often.”

  “Care to ride with me day after tomorrow? I can show you the farms, take you around to see the Dunley estate, maybe a trip to the mill. What do you say?”

  He nodded in silent agreement. Oh, he was in deep now.

  “Good. I’ll meet you at The Tangled Fleece at nine. Now, we’ve kept Abigail waiting overlong. She’ll be eager to play for you.”

  Percival very much doubted that.

  If Percy had to spend every evening listening to Miss Walsley play pianoforte while her father glared at him, he would go mad.

  His least favorite time to be in London was during the Season. All the pretty faced chits prostrated themselves before the eligible bachelors, displaying their accomplishments like jewels for auction, singing, dancing, playing, conversing, and not all of it well. During the spring months, he avoided balls. His interests were in the routs, a soiree from time to time, and endless hours at White’s. Yet here he was, about to be harassed by the subpar accomplishments of a country miss.

  It was bad enough he had confessed personal matters to her father, all of which were true. In Percy’s defense, there was something about the man. Despite the interrogation, there was something open about him, something that invited honesty. He must be an astonishing vicar. Had the topic not changed, Percy might have found himself admitting to every sin in his life going back to childhood, not that there was much sinning, for he was not a libertine, but he did enjoy a good party as much as any blue-blooded man in his prime.

  Percival sat next to Mr. Walsley as Miss Walsley took her seat at the pianoforte, looking for all the world as though she would rather be anywhere but at the bench. He empathized.

  “Need for me to turn the pages?” he asked.

  Miss Walsley fingered the keys, not looking over at the men. “No. I don’t need pages.”

  Relieved, he leaned into his chair and crossed one leg over the other. Mozart, he guessed. She would play Mozart to showcase her skill and memory. He wagered he could even predict one of five pieces she would play, for they were the favorites among the girls in London. Miss Merriweather had played all five. At every visit. Tedious business.

  At the first chord, he realized he had underestimated her.

  A sweet soprano voice, pure and tender, filled the room, accompanied by adept fingers against seduced keys. Percival uncrossed his legs and sat up.

  Miss Walsley’s eyes closed, and her body swayed gently to the tune, a subtle smile teasing her lips. She played a folk ballad, one part jovial, one part enchanting. The prim and drab vicar’s daughter now shone with a spirit of gaiety and beauty. He could not help but be charmed.

  Until he listened to the lyrics.

  By Jove. She sang of a baffled knight taken in by a girl swimming in a brook. The girl teased him into her father’s house but would not have him. A merry chase ensued, including trickery of a falsified lover to dupe the knight, and yet still the knight pursued, determined to win her love. Percy stole glances at the vicar. Rather than appear nonplussed, the man tapped his foot in time with the music.

  The minx!

  Chapter 7

  “He’s staying?” Hetty asked, aghast.

  “But why? That makes everything worse.�
� Isobel worried her bottom lip. “What was once a private fib is now a public reality. Didn’t you tell him you would resolve this on your own with a forged letter or two to break off the engagement?”

  Abigail shrugged to her friends in the Ladies Literary Society. After critiquing Leila’s poetry, Abbie had recounted the previous day’s events. They would soon hear all about Mr. Randall with or without her confession. The whole village would. Mr. Randall was determined to appear the consummate and faithful betrothed so that when their differences of opinion severed the connection, they could each return to their life unmarred and marriageable. Even now, she could imagine him shouting from the rooftops of his devotion to his bride. What a ridiculous, proud peacock. With the innkeeper’s penchant for gossip, word could be spreading as she sat in the private parlor of The Tangled Fleece.

  “He doesn’t trust me to take care of it,” Abbie said. “I’m so embarrassed about all of this. What I said to Lord Dunley was never supposed to leave the parlor. Papa wasn’t even supposed to find out except the wretched beast blabbed it all as soon as the door opened. It would seem he blabbed it to half of the country.”

  Leila looked from one friend to the next before asking, “Why not keep Mr. Randall?”

  All eyes turned to Leila.

  “He’s not mine to keep.” Abbie opened her satchel, eyes averted from her friends, and rifled through her papers to appear nonchalant. “Circumstances forced him here, and he’s staying only because he wants to avoid scandal. Believe me when I say he would rather be anywhere but here. Besides, I don’t want to keep him. From what I know of him so far, we wouldn’t suit. He’s not exactly the intellectual sort, if you take my meaning. And what would he want with me? I’m hardly an ideal wife for someone like him.”

  Hetty looked to Isobel and Leila. “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”

  Nodding, Leila said, “You do like him.”

  Abbie flipped the satchel cover closed, eyes trained on her lap to hide her blush. “As I said, I don’t know him. Can we please talk about something else? We have rules against gossip—need I remind everyone?”

  As Leila began to respond, the parlor door opened.

  Mr. Randall himself strutted into the room, an ivory walking stick at his side, his London attire the image of perfection yet again, today in garnet. The moment the girls turned to look at him, he smiled broadly enough to reveal dimples. Abbie’s heart flip-flopped.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” He flourished a bow, a single curl falling onto his forehead. “I heard from a little bird that this is a literary society. Is there room for one more?”

  He advanced on the group, sending the girls into a simpering shamble of whispers, glances, and giggles. Abbie grimaced. How dared he invade her private life? He was only in the village because of a misunderstanding and would be gone again within days, weeks at most, never to return. Their arrangement did not include him following her about, making love to her friends and family, or showing her his dimples.

  Sitting up straighter, she said, “It is a lovely afternoon, Mr. Randall; thank you for noticing. As delighted as we would be for you to join, this is a ladies’ group, and you, sir, are not a lady.” Her friends giggled when he waggled his eyebrows at them. Abbie cleared her throat. “Even if that were not the case, we are nearly finished for the day.”

  Unfazed, Mr. Randall took a seat next to Leila, who had had the audacity to wave him over.

  “I’m not applying for membership to this exclusive club—yet—simply curious what a literary society does. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to introduce the members?” Resting his walking stick against the back of the chair, he crossed one leg over the other.

  She was outnumbered. It did not take a genius to see they were all taken with him. Fickle friends. And what did they know of him aside from a handsome face? He was not Sir Bartholomew. He lacked all the graces and morality of her hero. Shallow, vain, pompous—she could define him from the smirk and fit of his coat. That did not stop her cheeks from warming when he turned his gaze on her.

  Waving a hand to each of her friends in turn, she said, “This is Miss Hetty Clint, Miss Isobel Lambeth, and Miss Leila Owen. Everyone, this is Mr. Percival Randall, my, um, betrothed.”

  One by one, he took their fingers between his and kissed the air above their knuckles. The collective sigh drew Abbie’s lips into a grim line.

  Leila was the first to speak. “We’d love for you to join us. We’re only a ladies society because no gentleman has ever offered to join.”

  Abbie mouthed to her friend: traitor.

  With an innocent moue, Leila said, “We’re a writing group, though we do discuss books and news on occasion. Each of us is a writer, you see.”

  “I sit amongst the most brilliant minds in England.” Emphasizing each word with slow precision, he added, “I am humbled.”

  Brilliant minds indeed. All but Abbie tittered. Even Hetty! And Hetty was the most practical-minded woman of her acquaintance.

  Draping an arm over the back of his chair, he looked at Abbie. “I have the greatest of hopes to hear the poetic phrasings of my intended. Will you grant me this wish?”

  “I’m afraid you missed my turn at our previous meeting. Today was Miss Owen’s turn.”

  “And you couldn’t make an exception for your beloved? A short passage?”

  Oh, he was too much. Beloved, hmph! What an irritating man.

  Hetty nodded to the satchel. “Go on, Abbie. Read him a scene.”

  “Read him the part where Sir Bartholomew saves Granny Herd from the bull,” Isobel offered oh-so-helpfully.

  With a huff, Abbie flipped open the satchel to retrieve a page of her manuscript. “One part only.” She scanned the page. “This is where Sir Bartholomew meets Lady Fowler, a temptress, but resists her charms just in time to save Lord Fowler from being poisoned.”

  Mr. Randall’s eyebrows raised. “All of that happens in one page?”

  “Well, no, this is only him meeting Lady Fowler and being tempted, but I thought you ought to know he manages to resist and save a life by doing so.”

  Mr. Randall nodded, his face the image of studious attention.

  She really ought not blame him, she knew. It was her lie that had dragged him into this, and he was doing his best to make the situation work to their mutual advantage. What irritated her was the invasion into her life by a man who would be gone again as fast as he had entered, a man who could never be her knight.

  Clutching the paper until the edges crumpled in her grip, she read Sir Bartholomew’s summons to Lady Fowler’s manor. Every third line, she looked up to Mr. Randall. Rather than derision, she saw in his expression thoughtful curiosity. He appeared to be listening. Or he was a good faker. Abbie continued to read, detailing her ladyship’s beauty. Sir Bartholomew was too keen to be tempted. He saw beyond her beauty to the faithlessness of her heart. This was a new scene she had composed, an attempt to build dimension to the hero based on her friends’ critique of him being flat. She wondered if the new direction worked.

  When she finished, she tucked the page back into the satchel, hoping the pages were not out of order, for she could not concentrate with Mr. Randall staring at her.

  “What’s the moral?” he asked, rubbing a slender finger across his lower lip in thought.

  “Must there be a moral?”

  “No, but it feels as though you’re building to one. I can’t be the only one to sense that.” He turned to the ladies.

  Their normal forthrightness transformed to fidgets and giggles.

  “I wrote the scene to add more depth to Sir Bartholomew. By the time we reach the end, we know a great deal more about his values and why he’s celibate.” She bit her bottom lip at her last word.

  “I don’t know Sir Bartholomew from a farmer in the dale, but I’m willing to bet you don’t need a whole scene to build depth.
You could do more with this, build in a moral. I take it he has many adventures? A traveling knight, as it were? Each adventure could have a moral, and each moral could build to an overarching theme. Yes?”

  He turned to look at the ladies again, then back to Abbie. Unperturbed by the long stretch of silence, he studied her, his lips inching into a smile with each passing second. Confound her traitorous heart! If only it would not pound every time he smiled.

  Leila interrupted the moment. “Would you critique my poetry, Mr. Randall?”

  “Yes, and my story, as well?” Isobel leaned forward to get his attention.

  Hetty was not to be left out. “I can’t imagine you wanting to hear a book of manners, but I would value your input on my newest chapter. My turn to read is at the next meeting. Will you join us?”

  As though he had planned the invitation from the start, Mr. Randall winked at Abbie.

  Percival did not fail to notice Miss Walsley’s hesitation when he offered to walk her home. His intrusion had set her on edge. That had not been his intention. With genuine interest, he had wanted to know how his betrothed spent her time, and he could not deny his curiosity of her writing after the vicar mentioned it at supper. The writing did not disappoint, least of all because his suspicions of her knight had been confirmed. Sir Bartholomew and he shared an uncanny resemblance. This truth gave him insight to her discomfort: she found Percy attractive. The knowledge puffed his chest and squared his shoulders. Even if he was not trying to lure the girl into a romance, there was a sense of pride in knowing he was desired.

  His real courtship with Miss Merriweather had left him feeling less than his best, for she all too clearly had her sights on an heir, not a second son. No doubt she was relieved he had left London. Maybe he should nudge Lord Dunley in her direction if the viscount were so keen on finding a wife. The thought made him snort with humor.