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

by Paullett Golden

  F.

  Resting his head against the headboard, he closed his eyes. If this were a trap, it was genius.

  Not that Abigail needed to trick a man to the altar. She could capture any man she wanted with a single smile, and if not that then her wit. But this was not a trap. She did not want to be engaged any more than he did. If anything, he had trapped her, however unintentional.

  Blowing air out of his cheeks, he opened the letter from his father.

  Percy,

  By the time this letter reaches you, I’ll have arrived in East Hagbourne to call on Freddie, Margaret, and my grandsons. I plan to invite your betrothed’s relations, Mr. and Mrs. Diggeby, to sup with us if the idea is amenable to Margaret; you know how she can be. Do you know yet if you’ll marry in Sidvale or London? I hope to attend. From the inquiries I’ve made on Miss Walsley and her family, it is my opinion you could not have chosen a wiser match. She may be of humble origins, but she has a heart of gold, my sources tell me. Evie is eager to meet her, and I’ll deny your stepmother nothing. When may I meet the bride? I’m proud of you, son.

  Camforth

  The words stung his eyes with salty tears. He had never displeased his father, but neither had he ever made him proud. The hole before him widened. He was torn between begging Abbie to cry off immediately and asking if she would be disappointed not to cry off at all. But no, that was selfish. If she did not break the engagement, she would be stuck with him, the unhappiest woman in England, and he would be trapped in Sidvale. They could live apart, she here and he in London, he supposed. No, that would be unfair. It was all unfair. They would not suit.

  It was more imperative than ever that he come out of this as the heartbroken one or his family would never believe he had not sabotaged the relationship or broken her heart to force an end to an engagement he was too cowardly to see through. He had to end this as the victor or face the disappointment and possible wrath of his family.

  How easy it would be if he and Abbie suited. But they did not.

  Did they?

  Monday morning, an hour before Percival was to meet Mr. Polkinghorn at the mill, he sat in the public room with an empty plate and a second cup of coffee, The Bard in hand and his mouth agape.

  Lucy,

  Thank you for your latest letter regarding the ignoble Mr. R. I am of the opinion, based on your descriptions of his charm, that he is not a virtuous young man who ought to be courting a young lady such as yourself. Virtuous men are not charming or fashionable. Never trust such a man. They aim to dazzle to hide their true nature.

  Percy scanned the remaining contents of the letter before tossing aside the newspaper. She was blackening his name! No, it was not a direct insult to him, but as much as the villagers looked to the column for advice, they would now be skeptical of charming and well-dressed men, namely him. Even as he sat minding his own business, he could feel squinty eyes at his back, distrust settling into minds. She meant to cause a quarrel, to show reason why she might distrust her betrothed and wish to cry off, but this made him look like a villain, a libertine with base notions. Now more than ever he needed his reputation intact, needed to appear the heartbroken one.

  This meant one thing and one thing only.

  War.

  By Wednesday, Abbie felt pleased with herself. Monday’s column from Mrs. Button had planted a seed of doubt regarding Mr. Randall’s charm. While making her Tuesday morning calls, several people hinted at her needing to be sure he was a virtuous young man. With just a few more columns, there should be enough of a stir to give her reason to cry off without blame, and to be fair, his name would remain untarnished. The columns were not about him, after all. But they provided a perfect excuse in the eyes of the villagers to doubt his sincerity.

  It had to work. It was the closest to a quarrel she could drum up without starting public arguments with him.

  This morning, her second column would have been published, planting another seed of doubt. With that satisfaction on her mind, she walked into the literary society all smiles. Mr. Randall was waiting for her.

  Her tittering friends and his smug expression gave her pause. Should he not be displeased? Should they not be eyeing him with skepticism?

  “It’s a lovely afternoon, my darling. Don’t you agree?” He greeted her with a too-broad smile.

  “Why, yes, I suppose it is, if you’re fond of chilly weather.” She took the empty seat next to him, startled when his arm reached around the back of her chair.

  “I happen to be exceptionally fond of chilly weather.” He leaned closer. “Did you know that it’s a gallant knight’s responsibility to keep his ladylove warm?”

  Looking away from him, she coughed a laugh.

  He leaned closer still. “I saved you a copy of The Bard. I believe you’ll find it more entertaining than usual.”

  Abbie took it from him and folded it into her satchel without a spare glance. He was acting most peculiar. Was he angry? He did not seem upset, not with the fuss her friends were making to serve him tea and biscuits and beg for him to read again, never mind that it was Abbie’s turn.

  Only when she had returned to the vicarage did she pull out the newspaper. Had her column not printed? Everyone at the inn had been obsequious towards Mr. Randall when they should have been leery. The Monday column had resulted in the desired effect, so why had the Wednesday column not? Her eyes roamed over the other articles until she spotted hers. Yes, there it was, just as she had written it. So, what was the problem?

  Her gaze fell on the column below.

  Trembling fingers gripped the page. He had outsmarted her.

  The new column, penned by a Mr. Stitch, contained first a caricature of a coy young lady with long lashes hiding behind a fan, making eyes at a lovesick gentleman holding flowers and on bended knee. Below the caricature was a letter.

  Dear Miss Lucy,

  You’ll recall we met at your aunt’s dinner party. My wife, having heard of your situation with a certain Mr. R., has encouraged me to respond from a male perspective in hopes of being of some assistance. You are wise to be en garde, for there are many an unsavory sort who appear to be trustworthy. My advice is to observe his behavior. Is he seen giving attention to other women, or is he devoted to you? A tell-tale sign of true affection will have him observing you when you’re unaware. There’s nothing to be gained in such observations and so they reveal his true regard for you. And what about his behavior when not with you? Is he oft in his cups? Gambling? Any vices? Or is he befriending fellow villagers, taking in the air with long walks, calling on farmers and tenants? Watch for the signs. If he is living the virtuous life, he is genuine and enamored with you, a devoted suitor. I hope this advice finds you well. Your humble servant,

  Mr. Stitch

  The rat! He had undermined her attempts. He had turned the tide she had so carefully controlled with the Monday column. Blast! How was she to free herself of this situation without appearing a harridan or a half-wit? This sham betrothal could not end fast enough.

  Chapter 10

  Friday morning, Abbie arrived at the inn early, intent on being the first to see a copy of The Bard. Everyone else had the same idea. The public room filled to a squeeze with villagers breaking their fast over the latest edition. Conversation and laughter echoed. A quick glance showed no signs of Mr. Randall. One relief, at least.

  Mr. Bradley caught sight of her and waved her to a private table tucked in an alcove. By the time she shuffled her way past the boisterous crowd, the innkeeper had a cup of tea and newspaper waiting.

  “I wasn’t expecting you until the literary meeting. Will you be making calls this morning?” He rocked from heel to toe, beaming at Abbie.

  “Once I see what the paper has to offer, I’ll make my rounds. Is Mrs. Bradley craving anything particular today?”

  “Now, I’m glad you asked because she’s wanting something sp
ecial.”

  Abbie nodded, knowing just what Mrs. Bradley would like. “I’ll call on her first and surprise her with Cook’s rhubarb pie. She’s earned a treat.”

  Satisfied, the innkeeper headed back to the bar. His wife was in her sixth confinement. There was little Abbie would not do to help the Bradley family, for they were the thread in the Sidvale tapestry.

  Turning her attention to the newspaper, she scanned for the columns.

  Lucy,

  I am grateful to Mr. Stitch for his gentleman’s advice in this matter, but I must disagree. Rogues do not ascribe to a rulebook on behavior. Not all villains live openly with their vices, such as gambling or drinking. Many make their way by charm and looks alone, leeches that prey on vulnerable women. They are nothing but wolves in sheep’s clothing. The more charming, the more suspicious you ought to be. Stay guarded. Longevity is the way of it. Rogues do not linger for long, their attention and interest waning in short time. Insist on time, allowing you to know his true character before declaring your love. Always your favorite aunt,

  Mrs. Button

  Below the column, as with Wednesday’s edition, was a caricature of a young woman with her back turned to a gentleman who lay prostrate on the ground, his eyes drawn of hearts and an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Cupid, hovering in a corner, held a bow. What a cheeky monkey, Abbie scoffed.

  Miss Lucy,

  What confusing times are these when we cannot know a villain from a hero, a rogue from a gentleman? Something for you to consider is that a sheep is most often just a sheep. If your young suitor, the noble Mr. R., has declared his affection for you, there is but one way to ensure his sincerity. Has he made this affection publicly known? Secret vows of affection should not be trusted for long. A gentleman, as with a lady, may at times have reason for keeping love clandestine, but such an understanding should not outlast a season. Keep the lover at arm’s length for a season. As the leaves turn, does he declare his sentiments publicly or maintain concealment? If his intentions are true, he will announce his affections proudly, for what honest man would want to hide you or his love for you? Trust the honest men, for they tell no lies.

  Mr. Stitch

  Abbie harrumphed until naught but tealeaves remained in her cup. Wretched scoundrel.

  A commotion near the stairs caught her attention. Leaning around the alcove, she spotted a figure carrying a chair overhead and making his way to the center of the public room. Curious, she stepped around her table to get a better look. The chair thudded to the floor, creaked and groaned, and then above the heads of the patrons stood Mr. Randall, poised on top of the chair in all his fashionable finery.

  She inched her way back to safety. No one had noticed her hidden in the corner.

  “Honored guests of The Tangled Fleece,” Mr. Randall said, his words enunciated, his voice loud and clear. “I have read the sage advice of Mr. Stitch from Sidvale’s prestigious newspaper, and I have taken his words to heart. Mr. Stitch is a wise man, far wiser than myself.”

  The crowd mumbled, a hushed buzz circling the room. Abbie sank lower into her chair.

  “Although Mr. Stitch’s words were for Miss Lucy, I must heed his advice if I am to prove my affections for a certain young lady who has stolen my heart. I stand before you today, a man struck by Cupid’s arrow. From the moment I first laid eyes on Miss Abigail Walsley, I knew myself affected. There is no cleverer or more enchanting woman of my acquaintance. Would my betrothed please join me?”

  Heads swiveled. Abbie sank until only her eyes peered over the table.

  “Abbie, my darling love?”

  She ducked under the table. Boot heels against wood clopped their way to her, louder as they approached until she could see the black sheen. A hand reached beneath the table, palm up. When the floor did not open and swallow her, she heaved a sigh and took his hand. Hoisted to her feet, her first sight was the dimpled smile and hazel eyes of her counterfeit intended. Her heart flip-flopped.

  Turning her to face the onlookers, he laced their fingers. “My love for the vicar’s daughter runs so deeply that nothing could tear us asunder.” He gazed down at her, his expression full of doe-eyed, false love. “My only hope is that we will share the same taste in curtains, for if anything could fell our affection, it would be pink, lacy curtains.”

  The crowd erupted in laughter, a few of the patrons sighing with contentment.

  Smiling, Abbie clenched the hand holding hers. If it was the last thing she did, she would bury the Honorable Percival Randall in the flower garden.

  He might have overdone it. Abbie had not spoken a word to him since earlier that morning. Even his jeers and leers during the literary society meeting had her casting frosty glances. Subtlety had never been Percy’s style. With a war to win, he needed bold action. All signs pointed to his having won this round. He did not feel victorious, however.

  The ladies of the literary society sat in their reading circle, tea table in the middle, all eyes on Miss Owen while she read her poetry. Percy’s attention on the poetry waned, his focus riveted on Abbie. He angled to see her better. She had an unassuming profile, the window-filtered afternoon light illuminating wisps of chestnut hair struggling to escape the knot at the nape of her neck. Such an understated beauty. Her lips were plumper when she was mad. Rather than purse her lips, she pouted them. An errant thought stole into his mind—what might it be like to release her hair from the knot, sink his fingers into the strands, and kiss those ready lips?

  Devil take it. He had been in the country too long, and celibate far longer. Dragging a hand down his face, he refocused his attention on Miss Owen. There. Now she was a beauty. Bronze skinned and as flirty as an opera singer. She had been making cow eyes at him the entire meeting. But as she continued to read, Percy’s gaze involuntarily returned to Abbie’s profile.

  More than once she caught him staring and huffed. He ought to be the one huffing. Yet another fine afternoon wasted. If he were in London, he could be at the club or the park, maybe walking Tattersall’s. He should leave. What was he doing here? He could make an excuse to return and let her cry off in a letter, just as she had originally planned. But he felt compelled to stay, to see this through, to ensure all went as planned. If he left it to her to resolve…

  The fact that he could not yet bear to part with her company held sway in his decision, even if he was not ready to admit what such a feeling meant.

  His eyes still trained on Abbie, the ladies around him began chattering. Miss Owen must have finished reading. Heaven help him if she asked his opinion. They would not wish him to share his thoughts, such as the thorough examination he had conducted on the shape of Miss Walsley’s right ear, concluding from said examination that the lobe begged to be nibbled. Had she been kissed before? A pimple-faced youth she pulled behind the church one Sunday? An older, dignified widower who took advantage of her charity? The thought of anyone kissing her turned his stomach sour.

  How he escaped providing Miss Owen a critique, he could not say, but he was happy when the meeting ended. He rushed to Abbie’s side and offered his arm.

  “Shall I walk you home?”

  She glared at his arm, taking it only out of politeness.

  Without her satchel to carry, and with his walking stick left in his suite, they walked unencumbered. Neither spoke until they crested the hill. Percy turned them towards the church rather than the vicarage.

  She slipped her arm from his as they entered the churchyard. “You’ve ruined everything. Now I’ll appear a villain for breaking it off. What sort of ninny ends an engagement with the most devoted man in history?”

  “I acted rashly, I’ll admit, but only because you were turning me into the villain. You would have had the entire village believing me a rake who had used you.”

  “They certainly don’t think that now, I can assure you.” She scoffed, walking away from him and down the row of h
eadstones. “If you had simply let it be, I could have taken care of this. I see now this is some sort of game to you, some jest you’re having at my expense. You can tell all your friends how you humiliated that dreadful country mouse. It’ll be good for a laugh.”

  Falling in step with her, Percy said, “That’s not my intention. I want this resolved as much as you. Hang on, how do you know I wasn’t genuine this morning? I could have fallen for you somewhere between supper and Mrs. Button.”

  He laughed at his own joke.

  She did not.

  Abbie turned to him, her face pale. “That’s the trouble with you. I wouldn’t know your truth from your lies.”

  “We’re in this together, Abbie. We’re on the same team. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “You’re so wrapped up in charming everyone, you can’t be honest with yourself. You’ve never had to do anything with your life, just live off your father’s fortune and your personality. Do you even know what you want? Is your only plan to find an heiress so you can live off her fortune and continue to charm your way through life, spending your days and nights at a club with men who don’t care a fig about you?”

  She turned away, crossing her arms over her chest. “I think you should leave Sidvale. Make some excuse. I’ll break it off in a letter. Everything will die down in a week, and before long, no one will remember this happened.”

  Percival was stunned, unable to move or speak. His thoughts jumbled, confused by her questions and insights, wanting to grasp the branch of freedom she offered while also wanting to rail at it. Shaking his head until his thoughts settled, he did the only thing he knew to do in times of drama. He made another joke.