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

by Paullett Golden

  “Have you started? I don’t mean to be late. Mother wouldn’t stop talking. She’s in a state over my cousin’s wedding.”

  Mr. Randall held a chair for her. “We would never begin without you, Miss Lambeth.”

  “You came! We weren’t sure if you would.” Isobel tittered, flustered by his attention.

  “I’m a man of my word. I believe today we’re reading from Miss Clint’s book?”

  Hetty pulled out her fan to help recover her nerves.

  When he took his seat next to Abbie, he leaned her direction, resting his elbow on the chair arm. The scent of his shaving soap teased her, floral rather than musky, reminiscent of the rose water she used to bathe on special occasions. The subtle scent distracted her from the conversation, so much so that she shifted in her chair to lean closer to Mr. Randall.

  Hetty began to read her newest chapter.

  Abbie braved a glance his direction. His chin rested on his palm, his eyes trained on Hetty. He appeared interested in the reading, his expression focused, his brows puckered in thought.

  Inching closer still, she inhaled the aroma and admired the man. In this moment, she was engaged to him. False engagement or not, she was engaged. Even her wildest imagination could not have conjured such a strange turn of events: Abbie the prosaic spinster engaged to the dashing son of an earl. Why not keep him? Her friends’ words echoed in her memory.

  Neither would be happy; that was why. He was a Londoner, a lover of vibrant city life, a man of fashion and frivolity. She imagined his days filled with friends and parties. He would want a woman to match him, someone glamorous, a duke’s daughter with blonde hair and blue eyes, a figure to stop a carriage, a laugh of tinkling chimes. His being here was a matter of inconvenience to him. What charms did Abbie have to attract him? What excitement did Sidvale have to hold him?

  Assuming she had it within her power to keep him, she could not be happy with someone so frivolous. No, she wanted a solid and steady man, someone practical, a curate like her sister Bonnie’s husband, a farmer like her sister Faith’s husband, a doctor like her sister Prudence’s husband. Yes, someone reliable, dull, balding, with a slight pudge at the waistline. That was the man for her.

  Glancing at Mr. Randall again, she gasped to find him staring at her, his eyes smiling as though he heard her thoughts and shared the vision of her perfect man. He flashed her a dimple before turning back to Hetty as she finished reading.

  “Well?” Hetty asked. “What do you all think? Too much sermonizing, or did I add enough humor?”

  Abbie blinked. Good heavens. She had not heard a word of the chapter.

  Mr. Randall shifted in his chair to lean forward. The sound of his silk breeches rubbing as he crossed one leg over the other and the fresh waft of rose had Abbie short of breath. What was wrong with her for goodness’ sake? Her skin felt flush. Perspiration beaded beneath her dress. He was just a man, nothing more, she told herself.

  To busy a trembling hand, she refilled the teacups and took a sandwich from the tray.

  Isobel and Leila were offering suggestions. Abbie chewed. A glance to the gentleman at her right had her gulping the bite. He was staring at her again, that blasted dimple deepening every time he caught her looking his way.

  He would leave soon. Any day. Any week. Soon. The second that Lord Dunley showed interest elsewhere and she knew herself safe from his advancement, Mr. Randall would leave. Life would return to normal. It would be as though he had never come to Sidvale. Only a four-day acquaintance but the thought of him leaving had her gulping another bite too large to swallow.

  Abbie choked.

  Coughed.

  Gasped.

  All eyes turned her direction as she tried to recover without fuss. Reaching for her tea, she took a sip. She choked anew. Her eyes watered as she fought back the threatening coughs. She returned the cup to the saucer, her hand shaking. The cup clattered onto the plate. Tea sloshed over the rim. Oh, surely this was the most humiliating moment of her life! Then a warm hand met her back, circling and patting, strong fingers massaging over the thin fabric of her dress. Whether it was the shock of his touch or the movement itself, she could not say, but the coughs settled, leaving her calm but embarrassed.

  He continued to circle his hand on her back. “Do you need anything?”

  She shook her head, mortified.

  When she brought herself under control and Mr. Randall returned his hand to the arm of his chair, she looked up in apology to her friends, all of whom watched her with concern.

  “Carry on,” Abbie said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. What were you saying about the chapter, Isobel?”

  They were reluctant to continue, but once she assured them all was well, they proceeded with the meeting. Even their guest had a few recommendations. He had been paying attention. The suggestions were nothing short of brilliant, touches of humor to keep the book of manners from sounding too stiff.

  This would not do. He was far too handsome, charming, and helpful. The longer he stayed and the more involved he became, the worse it would be when he left. Even now, her friends were plying him for ideas.

  “Ahem,” Abbie interrupted. “I would like to be the first to thank Mr. Randall for attending today’s literary society. The insight you offered, sir, was illuminating. Since this will be your last day of attendance, I want you to know the visit is appreciated.”

  There. Uninvited in the politest of manners. This involvement in her life needed to stop. He needed to take his rose water and shaving soap far from her.

  Everyone began talking at once.

  “My last day?”

  “Why isn’t he coming back?”

  “But I wanted him to critique my poetry.”

  “He has to come back!”

  Oh dear.

  Abbie strained a smile. “It’s only that to be a member, one must also contribute. Seeing as how Mr. Randall isn’t a writer, he can’t very well be a member of our literary society, now can he?”

  He leaned back in his chair to study her for a moment before reaching into his waistcoat pocket. “As it happens, I’ve been known to pen a word here and there. Luck is on my side for I jotted down this bit of nothing yesterday evening. Seeing as it’s Miss Clint’s day to read, I shan’t intrude, but I am prepared for my turn when it comes around.”

  He unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the table.

  Abbie gawked.

  She was losing ground. He could not keep coming to the meetings. He could not!

  With a wary glance to the creased paper, Abbie said, “Be that as it may, you’re still not a woman, and as aforementioned, this is a ladies’ society.”

  Her friends began to protest, but it was Mr. Randall who spoke the loudest. “I begin to think, my darling, you’re prejudice against my sex. Would it settle better with you if I wrote under an assumed name? I could write this as a Mrs. Stitch, perhaps. A nom de plume is a popular choice, I understand. You’re shaking your head—why? You don’t like Mrs. Stitch? How about…let’s see…Mrs. Button?”

  Her jaw slackened as she gaped at him. He knew. How did he know? No one knew except her friends. Had they told him? The smugness of his smile had her pursing her lips.

  “Right then, Mrs. Stitch,” Abbie said. “Let’s hear what you’ve written.”

  With a wink to the other ladies, he began to read. She was in for another shock. The writing was good. Genuinely good. Wittily good. Abbie could not decide if she wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. He was nothing at all like her ideal man, and yet…

  He was ideal.

  The name on everyone’s lips was Mr. Randall. Abbie could not walk five feet without someone complimenting him or congratulating her on such a fine match. In less than a sennight, he had made love to the entire village. Even her meals at home consisted of her father’s praises of Mr. Randall’s affability. To he
r dismay, the rake had been invited yet again to dine with them on the morrow.

  The final feather was the letter from Prudence.

  Dear Abbie,

  You are an insufferable sister! After all the times you’ve visited me since this summer and all our candid conversations, I’m shocked you would keep such a secret from me—your own sister! And here I am in a delicate condition. Have you no thought for my health or sensibilities? If it were not for Mrs. Brisby who heard from Mrs. Mercer who heard from Mrs. Staples, I would not know the truth of it. I won’t lie by saying I feared you would never find marital happiness—oh, how I worried for you—but now I may set my mind at ease that my baby sister will not live her days as a lonely spinster pining for lost love—I had worried, you know. I’ve written to Aunt Gertrude, Bonnie, and Faith, so fear not, together we will arrange the finest of wedding breakfasts! Have you set a date? When will Papa read the banns? Why the secrecy? You must come and tell me everything! There can be no secrets between sisters, which is precisely what I wrote to Aunt Gertrude, Bonnie, and Faith, and I know they will agree. Shall we plan a betrothal dinner to celebrate? Oh, but I would not be able to attend in my condition—it is such a dreadful thing to be so indisposed, you know, but of course you don’t know, but you will know now that you are to be married! I shall write Papa as soon as I finish this letter and tell him exactly what I think of your secrecy and inquire for all the honest details of the mysterious Mr. Randall—is he really an earl’s son? How ever did you secure a match with an earl’s son? I insist on knowing all immediately! Write to me. Awaiting your response,

  Pru

  Abbie buried her face in her hands.

  This was a disaster. The tiniest of lies to a viscount who could not hold his tongue, and her world had unraveled. How was she to return to a normal life after this? The betrothal needed to come to an end. If Mr. Randall would not quarrel with her to help build the case for why she must cry off, no one would believe much less forgive that there was cause, for why would she break an engagement with a perfectly amiable man—an earl’s son, as Pru so delicately pointed out.

  But how was she to initiate a quarrel with the perfect betrothed?

  Think, Abbie, think. There had to be a way.

  Chapter 9

  “I insist you sit with Abbie during tomorrow’s service.” Mr. Walsley nodded to Percy from the head of the dining table.

  “I’d be honored, sir. Has she helped you with the sermon? She’s mentioned working on it with you.”

  “Oh, yes, she helps every week. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” The vicar smiled at his daughter, but Percy could see the smile was laced with sadness.

  Whoever she married had better be prepared to live in Sidvale. Percy imagined a compliant but melancholy Abbie should she be forced to live away from her father. Aside from her desire to be a published author, another reason she had not yet married and may be reluctant to do so was her father. Percy refused to believe any narrative that claimed she had never had suitors.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of hearing a scene from her novel.”

  “Have you?” Her father raised his eyebrows, looking from his daughter to Percival. “And what did you think?”

  With a teasing glance to Abbie, Percy said to Mr. Walsley, “I think she’s a sly wordsmith. Did you know the hero is based on me?”

  Abbie drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin. Before she could protest, her father spoke again.

  “You’ll not believe it when I say it, but she’s never let me read her work. She tells me it’s not allowed until she’s ready to tie a ribbon around it and send it to the publisher. I’ll live vicariously through your experiences, Mr. Randall.”

  “You’ll be proud of her, sir. She’ll put Burney and Radcliffe and all the rest to shame, especially with me at the helm of the plot.”

  Mr. Walsley laughed and made to speak again but Abbie beat him to it this round.

  “You falsely represent my work. You are not in my tale. Sir Bartholomew is in my tale. He is not you. I admit there is the slightest of similarities, but it is, I assure you, coincidental. I’ve been writing this novel for far longer than I’ve known you.”

  Her volume and rate increased as she spoke, defensive quills rising in transparent threat. In response, Percy’s smile broadened. He liked her all the more when she was riled, his spirited minx.

  “For how long might that be?”

  She glared at him. “Two years.”

  Percy whistled. “No wonder you fell for me at first sight after being in love with a fictional character for two years.”

  “I’m not in love with my own character.” Abbie huffed, her quills showing barbs. “And I most certainly did not fall for you at first sight. You are the most arrogant of men to think I would ever—”

  She stopped with a sharp look to her father who waited for her to continue, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair, plate forgotten.

  Percy savored his wine before saying, “Do go on.”

  The rosiness he was growing accustomed to seeing blossomed over her cheeks. She stared down at her lap and shook her head.

  “My dear Abigail,” he said with the sweetest honey on his lips, “If you’re not as deeply in love with me as I am with you, and are instead after my family name, you should tell me now.”

  He winked at Mr. Walsley who appeared amused by the whole exchange.

  Rather than pout, protest, cry, or whatever other reaction he might have expected, Abbie bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. It was no use. Her lips had already turned up at the corners, and she eyed him from beneath her lashes.

  “You’re incorrigible,” she mumbled, the blush coloring her neck and chest.

  “One of my better qualities, I believe.”

  Of its own accord, his foot inched across the floor until it found hers, nudging the toe of her slippers.

  Without withdrawing his foot or checking her reaction, he turned to the vicar. “Tell me, sir, when did you know the church was your calling?”

  “Leland, please. Call me Leland.” Mr. Walsley folded his napkin and set it aside. “I believe I always knew. The church was a place of peace for me. I found myself there every day, hoping for solitude, wanting to think, looking for a sympathetic ear. I had so many ideas, so many ways I wanted to help the congregation, but I was only a boy. Seeing my potential, our parson took me under his wing. Are you thinking of entering the church, Mr. Randall? It’s never too late to answer the call.”

  “No, I don’t believe the church would suit me.” Percy chuckled at the thought, leaning back in his chair as the footman took his plate. “I’m meeting Mr. Polkinghorn Monday morning, however. Being a gentleman, I’ve never been exposed to the gritty world of textiles. I want to learn more.”

  Abbie gave a laugh of her own, taking in his supper attire with a long look. “I find it difficult to believe there’s something about fashion you don’t know.”

  Her words caressed the silk of his coat, ending with a tickle of flirtation.

  Temptress.

  He looked back to her beneath hooded lids, a sultry gaze that had her flushing anew. “I know the side of fashion with which my tailor and my valet gift me. I know not the industry behind it. Could you picture me rubbing elbows with the likes of Mr. Polkinghorn? Owning my own textile company, perhaps?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  Knowing he was playing with fire but unable to stop himself, he added, glancing between her and her father, “I’ve been thinking more seriously about living in Sidvale rather than London. What do you say to that?”

  He was not, but there was something about Miss Abigail Walsley that had him speaking absurdities. Or was he continuing to prove himself the perfect betrothed? More likely, he was speaking absurdities to himself. He did, after all, have an appointment with Mr. Polkinghorn on Monday. Devil take the country
. Here not yet a week, and it was already warping his brain.

  A sharp kick to his shin brought his attention to his bewitching betrothed. They grinned at each other across the table, she projecting those sharpened quills his direction.

  Long hours later, Percival returned to The Tangled Fleece, satiated and ready for his lumpy bed with an evening serenade à la courting owls. The villagers had other plans.

  The public room was standing room only with what appeared to be every male in and around Sidvale, all into their cups and celebrating the eve of God’s most holy of days. A few of the fellows he had met with the vicar waved him over, hoping to tempt him. And he was tempted. It was not the company he sought but the reminiscence of the life he left behind. The past few days had felt like a lifetime. Miles away from his mates and his club, he had not gotten properly foxed since his arrival.

  Alas, he was too fagged to be tempted. Besides, who was he to deny the tawny owls their fun in keeping him awake?

  Mr. Bradley caught him at the foot of the stairs. “Mail for you, sir.”

  He thrust two letters into Percy’s hand before making his way back to the bar. Percy flipped over each and exhaled.

  One from his father. One from his brother.

  Not until his valet had readied him for slumber did Percival settle into bed with the letters, one ankle crossed over the other, his back propped against the headboard with a pillow. To the accompaniment of raucous laughter from below, he read.

  To the loathsome beast who calls himself my brother,

  Percy chuckled. However much he loved his two younger siblings, no one could replace Freddie.

  You’re a Friday-faced gobble-cock, and I am disowning you as my relation. Since when do you engage yourself to a woman and not tell me? Were you bored, chasing shepherdesses, and snared by the shackle? Why the secrecy? Margaret thinks you’ve cooked a scheme to trick Father out of his ultimatum. I’ve assured her you’re simply in love with a vicar’s daughter. For reasons unbeknownst to me, she doesn’t believe my version. Can’t say why. In all seriousness, are you positive about this vicar’s daughter, Percy? What could such a creature have to tempt you? I hope you know what you’re doing for this smells like a trap. If you’ve found love, I’ll be the first to applaud you, but don’t fall prey to a handsome face out to secure the Randall name.