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

by Paullett Golden

  “Has something amused you?” Miss Walsley asked as she stepped out of the inn, hugging her satchel to her chest.

  “I’m tempted to play matchmaker with your viscount and the young lady I was courting in London.”

  “He’s not my—oh, never mind.” She stared at his open palm.

  “Your satchel, Miss Walsley? Allow me to carry it.”

  “Ah.”

  Slipping the strap off her shoulder, she handed it to him. It was heavier than he had expected. Worn leather and a broken buckle marked this a treasured possession. He heaved it over his opposite shoulder, offered an arm to Miss Walsley, then set out for the vicarage in slow time, the walking stick marking the beat.

  “Was it a love match, you and the lady you were courting?” she asked.

  “Hardly. I was a matter of convenience for her. She loathed the thought of a second Season, seeing it as some sort of failure. Her parents wished for an alliance with my family. All tidy, really.”

  “You must have liked something about her if you chose to court her. Surely she was not the only unmarried woman in London.”

  She stared forward as they walked. With her bonnet in the way, he could not see her face.

  Answering to the bonnet, he said, “Fickle reasons. She’s handsome, plays the pianoforte well enough, comes from a good family, that sort of thing. We spoke unobserved no more than two or three times.”

  There was nothing unusual about his courtship but speaking of it aloud to Miss Walsley made him sound shallow. Did this woman dream of a love match of her own? She must if she wrote chivalric romance. Or she was a cynic.

  “I’ve lived in London nearly a decade, and yet I don’t recall ever seeing you. Did you not have a Season?”

  Miss Walsley turned her bonneted face up to look at him and laughed, not a sound of mockery or harshness but a warm laugh of genuine amusement.

  He took the unguarded moment to admire her. When he had first laid eyes on her, he had mistaken her understated simplicity for drabness. There was nothing drab about Miss Walsley.

  She wore the pureness of country living. Her cheeks were sun-kissed with a pretty row of freckles marching across the bridge of a pert nose. Golden-brown eyes full of subdued gaiety reflected the sun. Her petite stature and slender figure made her easily overlooked in a crowd, but they housed a playful, spirited, even flirtatious woman. He had witnessed as much at supper with her behavior and song selection. Today’s choice of reading verified it. However unaware of it she may be, Miss Walsley was a temptress in her own right. The unassuming temptress of Sidvale.

  “Mr. Randall, I’m a vicar’s daughter. How silly to think I, or any of my sisters, would have a Season. That’s for families hoping to make political and social alliances. My sisters all made local matches.”

  Leaning closer, he said with a waggle of his brows, “Love matches?”

  “Oh goodness. I wouldn’t know. They were all fond of their suitors. I should think there is love in each marriage, yes, but I’m not privy to such private aspects of their relationships.”

  “And do you hope for a love match?”

  To his disappointment, she turned her head back to the path, leaving him to continue the conversation with the bonnet.

  “I’m not hoping or searching for a match of any nature. Should a gentleman catch my eye, he would be someone intellectual and spiritual, a kindred spirit to myself. He’ll enjoy reading, church, charity, those sorts of things. I’m certain you find my ideal man droll.”

  “There you’re wrong. You are currently betrothed to just such a man. Are you shocked? Hold on to your bonnet; there’s more. I’ve been invited to participate in the finest literary society in all of Devonshire, and twice this very week I have spent time with a renowned vicar. I might even pen some prose this evening. How’s that for intellectual and spiritual?”

  His teasing had the desired effect. He could feel the hand on his arm tighten and tremble as she fought back laughter.

  “You think I jest, Miss Walsley? I am offended. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

  She could hold back no longer. Her laughter, not unlike the deep resonation of church bells, rang out until she clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Percy veered them to the path towards the church. The vicarage was mere yards away, too close for his liking, for he was enjoying her company. She did not protest at his change in direction.

  With a shy glance at him, just enough for him to catch sight of her cheek, she said, “You needn’t do this, this getting to know each other bit.”

  “Do you not want us to get to know each other? It’s an important element of courtship, you realize, especially seeing as how we’re betrothed.”

  She shook her head. “You needn’t pretend to be kind or interested in me.”

  “If you think I’m pretending, you’re mistaken.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr. Randall. Handsome men are all the same. You said it yourself—you only courted a young lady because she was attractive and accomplished.”

  “So, you confess. You think me handsome.” Percy directed them around the churchyard where their pace crawled to a near stop, one calculated step at a time. “At last I have the leverage I need to pursue this friendship.”

  Her fingers clenched his arm. “Oh, please stop. I don’t want fake friendship. If you’re going to mock me, you needn’t stay here a day longer. There’s no point in your convincing everyone we’re betrothed. It’s already causing a stir and will make the split more difficult. If you insist on staying, we should be seen quarreling so that when I cry off it’s believable.”

  He turned to face her, shielding the sun from her eyes. “If you’ll recall, the plan is that we will not suit, not that we’ve quarreled because I’m a boor, but that we are incompatible. We disagree on the… the…” He circled his hand in the air, searching for a reason for incompatibility.

  “The curtains?”

  “Yes, because of the curtains. We can split as friends, an amicable break.”

  “But we’re not friends,” she protested.

  “And I’m hoping to remedy that. You underestimate your charms, Miss Walsley.”

  Her laugh returned, and he had the joy of receiving the full force of her smile. Such a smile could turn the plainest of canvases into a work of art, but that was the thing—there was nothing plain about this woman.

  “And there’s another point,” he continued. “If we’re to be partners in crime, we should eliminate all this formality. It’s unnatural hearing you call me Mr. Randall. Percival, please, or Percy, as my family calls me.”

  Biting her lip, she looked about her before saying, “We only met yesterday, and you won’t be around long enough to warrant such familiarity.”

  “Please?” It would be absurd for him to bat his eyelashes, so he did the next best thing. He smiled until he knew his dimples winked at her—as good a weapon as eyelashes, if not more potent.

  She sighed, not as unaffected as she would hope to appear, and said, “Abigail. My friends call my Abbie.”

  He jigged a reel until she was laughing again.

  They worked their way through the headstones, pausing at each one as an excuse to lengthen the walk before returning to the vicarage, although Abbie could not imagine Mr. Randall’s true motive for wanting to spend time with her. He was a flirt and no doubt a rake, but why pester her? She could name a few people in Sidvale who would be more apt to fall for his wiles. As discourteous as it would be to name her friend, Leila would be charmed by such a character and charm him in return. Abbie, however, was not such a person.

  “Allow me to point out the uncanny resemblance between your storybook hero and myself,” said Mr. Randall.

  “What nonsense! You are by no means a hero.”

  “I beg to differ, my dearest Abbie.”

  He paused as though to determ
ine with a naked glance if her name on his lips affected her.

  It did.

  “My presence here is heroic, no? I’m saving you from the villainous viscount.”

  The corners of her mouth inched into a smile. “He’s not villainous.”

  “Oh, but he is! The villainous viscount is notorious in London for snaring unsuspecting daughters of vicars and forcing them to the altar, bound and gagged no less!”

  She rolled her eyes, her smirk belying her amusement.

  “And if my heroic deeds go unnoticed here, you cannot deny the heroism of saving you from Hacca’s Brook. Ah, I’ve got you there, haven’t I? I’m Sir Bartholomew made flesh! All I need is a trusty steed. And a sword. Will the walking stick do, do you think?” He gave it a twirl.

  She swatted at his arm, unable to recall when she had laughed so heartily. “Mr. Randall, you are too much! The brook is barely two feet of water. Although…” She tapped a finger to her mouth in exaggerated thought. “I do confess that I’ll always be grateful for your brave actions with the cart.”

  “The cart?” He stared, perplexed. Dawning was slow in coming, but when it did, mischief glinted in his eyes. “That cart! Yes, an out of control cart is not to be taken lightly. I’m only thankful I was there to whisk you out of harm’s way. That was the day after the Hacca’s Brook incident if memory serves. My heart stopped altogether when I saw it careening towards you.”

  They laughed at their fantasy, staring into each other’s eyes until Mr. Randall broke the magic of the moment. He reached a hand to her face and brushed a flyaway strand of hair beneath her bonnet. The touch of his warm fingers against her bare flesh startled her, shocking a warm awareness through her.

  Frowning, she said, “My bag, please.”

  His hand stilled, hovering inches from her cheek.

  “Could you hand me my satchel? I need to return home. I…I just remembered I promised to meet Papa to work on the sermon.”

  Returning her frown with his own, Mr. Randall handed her the bag. With a mumbled thank you, she stumbled across the churchyard home, hoping he did not realize the reason for her flight. It would be so much easier if they could quarrel. If he continued in this way, the end would be not only a broken engagement, but a broken heart.

  Chapter 8

  It had been nearly forty-eight hours since Percy last spoke to Abbie. Not that he had been pining, mind. He had been far too busy to think of the vicar’s daughter. Truly.

  Yesterday, for example, began with an earlier rise than he was accustomed to, for he wanted to bathe, dress, and break his fast before Mr. Walsley arrived at nine for the promised ride about Sidvale. As though testing a city boy’s mettle, the vicar had arrived early. Percy surprised him by having the saddled and warmed gelding waiting outside the inn as he finished the last dregs of his cup.

  Who had time to think of young ladies when spending the morning with a vicar?

  In many ways, Mr. Walsley reminded him of his own father. That similarity did not exclude the occasional cross-examination. Admittedly, he enjoyed the man’s companionship. Together, they toured the farms, paid calls to the viscount’s tenants, rode past the gauche manor of the Dunley ancestry, and stopped by the mill.

  The mill was a source of pride for Sidvale, the first of its kind in all of England, Mr. Walsley had explained. Once an old watermill, it had been converted to a wool mill with hopes of one day becoming a sizable textile business. As an earl’s son, Percy had no experience with industry. The mill fascinated him. It was magnificent to behold and not without an element of country romance in the waterwheel and neighboring river. The owner, a Cornish fellow by the name of Mr. Polkinghorn, took the time to show them around, tantalizing Percy with his talk of fleece, cloth, and rugs.

  Only on the ride back to the inn did the vicar mention Abbie, confessing he was hard-pressed to forgive the secrecy of the betrothal, uncertain if he had lost his daughter’s trust for her to keep such a secret since this summer and unsure how far he could trust a man who had courted his daughter behind his back.

  The deception rubbed Percy’s nerves raw. He liked Mr. Walsley and did not wish to lie to him. This was not, however, his lie to reveal. He doubted the vicar would approve of the continued connection between Percy and Abbie if he knew the truth, even if the two were following this course of action to save each other from scandal. Nonetheless, he took no pleasure in keeping the man in the dark.

  Upon returning to the inn, Percy explored the circulating library then took full advantage of the afternoon coffeehouse, befriending a couple of swells. As much as he loathed early retirement, there was nothing to do in Sidvale after dark.

  Except to lie in bed not thinking of young ladies named Abbie.

  Against his will, his body awoke early again this morning.

  He had spent long morning hours busying himself with a walk from one end of the village to the next, twice, before finally breaking his fast in The Tangled Fleece’s public room. Percival looked at the mantel clock. Barely past ten o’clock. To distract himself, he read the newspaper, eyes darting back to the clock between columns.

  The local newspaper was a curious feature of Sidvale. Mr. Bradley, the innkeeper, had not exaggerated when he said it was superior to a London paper.

  The contents of each edition were a surprise with only a couple of columns appearing in predictable succession, the innkeeper had explained. The column submissions were anonymous, arriving by way of a submission box poised in the private parlor, accessible only by visiting the circulating library, the literary society, or the coffeehouse; thus, the writer must be a paying customer of the inn and active participant in the community. The Bard, a single page publication, was printed three times per week, but only paying customers of the inn could receive a copy, gratis. The most peculiar aspect, which was not so peculiar once Percy discovered the genius of the paper, was that customers did not come for the food or drink but rather for the paper, imbibing to receive their complimentary copy, then staying to imbibe more to gossip about the contents.

  Genius.

  Today’s edition contained political news, a couple of advertisements of local tradespeople, an announcement of available dresses by a novice seamstress, a cheeky riddle of a charade, several review columns for inns and coffeehouses in Sidmouth and Sidbury, an epistolary memoir of a family’s visit to the seaside resort at Sidmouth, a poem, a brief lesson on etiquette when visiting gentry, and a letter to a girl named Lucy from her aunt Mrs. Button. The ads held little value for Percy, but he enjoyed the remaining items enormously.

  It was the letter from Mrs. Button that had him most enthralled.

  My dearest niece, Lucy,

  It was a pleasure to receive your latest correspondence. I was especially piqued by your detailing of the handsome Mr. R. Heed my words. It would not do to reveal your interest. Men such as he could charm the birds from the trees then eat them in soup. Be ever vigilant. Guard yourself. Should there be genuine interest from both parties, remain coy, not disclosing your feelings. A woman can never be too careful when it comes to matters of the heart, and certainly not when men of his station are involved.

  Although there was more to the letter, Percy stopped reading. He set the paper next to his plate and took a drink of his coffee. “Be ever vigilant.” “Guard yourself.” Brief turns of phrases, but he had heard them before not two days prior in the Ladies Literary Society when Miss Abigail Walsley read from her story.

  By Jove.

  He laughed aloud, turning the heads of the other occupants in the room. The vicar’s daughter was Mrs. Button. It had not taken him long to discover the column was a special favorite in the village, a sort of advice column for young ladies, approved of by parents, but never without humor. He wagered no one knew Miss Walsley to be the author. Looking back to the paper, he chuckled again. The minx! Where was the betting book in this establishment? He had wagers to mak
e, and this next wager was that the column was about him, however tongue-in-cheek.

  Only a few more hours, and he would find out the truth, for today would be the next meeting of the Ladies Literary Society.

  Nursing his nth cup of coffee with The Bard, he waited for the clock to tick itself to meeting time. Why the devil he was so eager to sit in a room full of spinsters, he could not readily say, but there was something about Miss Abigail Walsley that had him eager for her undivided attention. With his discovery of Mrs. Button, he would be certain to get that attention.

  His study of the inn’s mantel clock, counting down until the ladies would arrive, did not mark him a lovesick swain, merely a bored Londoner out of his element. Or so he told himself, every five minutes.

  The first person Abbie saw when she stepped into The Tangled Fleece was the last person she wanted to see. There had been the slimmest of chances Mr. Randall would not show. Earlier that morning, she had convinced herself he was teasing about attending, for why would a bachelor such as himself want to talk literature with the likes of them?

  And yet there he sat in the public room, tracing the rim of his cup with a fingertip—the same fingertip that had brushed her hair beneath its bonnet.

  Oh bother.

  The moment her cheeks reddened from the memory, he turned, their eyes meeting. Behind her, the door opened to a boisterous conversation between Hetty and Leila, but she had eyes only for Mr. Randall who stood with a dimpled smile.

  Once in the private parlor with their assortment of tea, biscuits, and sandwiches, they settled in their usual places to begin Hetty’s critique. Mr. Randall pulled over a chair to join them, setting it so close to Abbie’s that the chair arms touched. Before she could say anything, Isobel rushed into the room.