Duke of Sin

by Adele Ashworth

  Vivian sat as daintily as possible in the hot humid air, tucking her skirts in as close to her body as possible to allow more parishioners to squeeze in beside her on the hard wooden pew at St. Mary’s Church. She didn’t particularly want to be here this morning, and it had little to do with the heat. Today’s sermon would no doubt be long and tedious, at least for her, because, annoyingly enough, she found it so incredibly difficult to concentrate on anything but the taste and feel of Will Raleigh’s lips against hers. And there had to be something horridly wrong in thinking of it in church. That didn’t seem to stop her, though. Surely God understood the frailties of human nature. The organist began to play a somber piece she didn’t recognize, and she closed her eyes, pretending to all who noticed that she was simply either deep in prayer, or wallowing in the beauty of the music. Only a glance to her hands now clutched in her lap would lend any indication that she was tense, her thoughts on darker subjects.

  She hadn’t wanted to attend this morning, but forced herself to since she would be meeting with Vicar James and his wife this afternoon regarding flower arrangements for their daughter’s wedding next month. In her position, she couldn’t very well be ill for one and not the other.

  Just as the choir began the final number before the beginning of the service, a murmur or two began around her, growing in resonance with each passing second. Vivian opened her eyes. The music continued at a quicker pace, until a gasp escaped the suddenly dropped mouth of Mrs. Trister, the organist, as she hit a wrong key. The music faded. Immediately everybody, it seemed, twisted their necks to look to the back of the sanctuary, mouths gaping, at which point Vivian realized the Duke of Trent had arrived for early Sunday Mass.

  She didn’t turn around, and no doubt that was a mistake since everybody else in the crowded church did. It also dawned on her, moments later, that he would attempt to sit as near to her as possible. Quickly she took a glance down her pew, four from the front, to notice, thankfully, that it was entirely too full for anyone to squeeze in comfortably beside her, especially a large man. Then again, he was a duke. He could very well sit anywhere he pleased, and it would be expected for him to go to the front. Somehow, though, she knew he wouldn’t do that.

  The rumblings from the crowd increased, and Vivian could no longer contain her curiosity. She had to look at him.

  Straightening her back for confidence, she turned and gazed to the entrance of the church.

  His appearance took her breath away.

  He stood tall and stately at the top of the center aisle, in front of the waiting processional of the vicar and altar boys, his handsome face clean-shaven, hair combed back from his lovely hazel eyes which exuded confidence and an inner—almost defiant—strength. He was dressed entirely in navy, save for a honey-colored shirt, in a suit of expensive silk expertly tailored to fit his large form beautifully.

  Hands clasped behind him, he acknowledged Vicar James with a slight tip of his head, then once more faced the obviously discomfited congregation before he began to make his way down the center aisle to find an appropriate seat.

  Vivian swiftly turned back to the altar, not certain whether she wanted him near her or not. True, she’d been the one to encourage him to attend church, if encourage could be the right word. But then she didn’t exactly want the attention from social acquaintances should he choose to speak to her. How the gossip would spread!

  She could hear his shoes on the wooden floor even over the sound of the organ, which had resumed its play, however irregular and out of place it sounded now. Suddenly, without looking, she realized he stood just behind her. She didn’t move.

  With a sudden rustling of skirts and bodies, she became ever more aware that he would be sitting at her back, though she was undoubtedly the only one who realized he did that on purpose. It was just the sort of spot for him to watch every move she made, and where she couldn’t help but be aware of him.

  He knelt to pray—or perhaps just to tease her with the shocking closeness of his presence—and Vivian caught a quick whiff of his cologne, could absolutely feel his warm breath on the bare skin of her neck, making tiny hairs stand on end with his steady exhalations. Then, through the faintest of whispers at her ear, she heard, “If only I knew what I’d been missing…”

  Vivian wanted to crawl under her pew, because everyone, absolutely everyone, continued to stare at him while pretending not to. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks at once, her palms begin to perspire as she clutched her fan more tightly in her lap, hoping to God nobody had heard him, or noticed just how close he was to her exposed flesh. But she refused to respond to him, or glance over her shoulder just yet.

  The music took on a more somber note as the processional started, the vicar and altar boys slowly making their way down the aisle toward the altar to begin the service. As soon as the vicar passed, the duke sat back in his seat, and she forced herself not to show her relief by letting her shoulders droop and her body sag into her corset.

  The music continued until everyone was seated and the vicar stood at the podium, Mrs. Trister playing in earnest, likely just as shocked as everyone else, hoping in some measure to impress such a high-standing member of the nobility.

  At last Vicar James cleared his throat, and with a tip of his head, acknowledged the acclaimed guest. “Your grace, we welcome you this morning.”

  There were vague murmurs from the congregation, but the duke said nothing in response.

  For three quarters of an hour, Vicar James droned on about sin and redemption, a thoroughly inappropriate topic considering the status of their all-important noble resident, and the vicar well knew it, as he stumbled once or twice and appeared flustered through most of the sermon.

  Vivian did indeed have trouble following it, and the usually decent choir seemed to fare little better with their sense of key. It was simply a profound hour in the recent history of the Penzance community, and everybody knew it.

  At last the final song was played, the final admonition and prayer given, and the congregation allowed to exit. Vivian had no idea what to do.

  Will watched the entire spectacle with some amusement. Of course he knew what the reaction of the townspeople would be once they realized who he was and took note of him. He couldn’t begin to care. His only interest was in shocking Vivian, though he wasn’t at all sure why he wanted to do that either. He just did.

  But reluctantly, he had to admit he was nervous, and had been since he’d awoken this morning with the notion of attending church of all places. Still, it gave him the perfect opportunity to observe the Widow Rael-Lamont in action, so to speak, meaning, he supposed, that he wanted to watch her move in her circles. Or maybe he just wanted to look at her.

  He’d also found it quite amusing that she made herself openly obvious to him when she was the only member of the entire congregation who didn’t turn around to gawk when he appeared. For some unknown reason he gravitated to her. And he only hoped she liked his nearness as much as he liked hers.

  Of course he met with Vicar James on occasion, but always at his home, never here or in town. The fact that the man had so much difficulty in blurting out his message today had to be due largely to Will’s presence in the congregation and to the subject of overcoming one’s sins. Such a common topic seemed to be directed to him this day, quite obvious to everyone. How unfortunate.

  Of course Will had learned to adjust his thoughts regarding how the general public accepted him. He was a murderer in their eyes, and nothing he could do, no acquittal he might win, would ever prove his innocence to them.

  But Vivian had come to him, besting her fear, if she had any at all to begin with, and he had enjoyed her company more than that of any woman in years. He supposed she was the draw this morning, not the vicar, guilt, or repentance, and certainly not the message. He was more or less on display, and he hated it. But he also managed to seat himself behind her so that for nearly an hour he could watch her slight movements, take note of the line of her smooth neck and
shoulders, and even catch the slightest trace of the scent of her—all warmth, perfume, and woman. The thrill of the moment with her right now did nothing short of arouse him. And that, he supposed, was probably a greater sin in church than that which he’d ever done to his wife.

  After what seemed like hours and hours, the choir sang their departing hymn and the congregation rose to leave. After dressing and taking the time to come here today, he refused to allow the moment to go to waste.

  Swiftly, as he stepped from his pew, the surrounding people backed a bit away from him. Whether that was due to his title or their continued revulsion to him, he couldn’t guess, but fortunately it did allow him to take up the space between Vivian and her best exit should she try to escape him.

  At last she turned so that he could see her face. For the first time that morning, he had to hold back a smile of satisfaction.

  His presence here had shocked her, he could plainly see that now. Her cheeks were flushed a dewy pink, her hair pulled up into a loose bun of curls with tendrils plastered across her forehead and neck from the irritating heat. But her eyes held his in the most peculiar way. Bold, intimidating and yet intimidated, they entranced him.

  He could read anger, surprise, and even a touch of gladness in her expression. If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was making Vivian squirm.

  “Madam,” he said softly, raising his arm in her direction.

  One or two of the ladies to his side gasped; Vivian’s eyes simply opened wider as she realized he wanted her to take his arm and exit the church with him. And considering his rank and her position in the community she could hardly refuse. Nor would she.

  Inside a cluster of bodies making their way toward the entrance of the sanctuary, Vivian Rael-Lamont walked beside him, her arm interlocked with his. She was tense, and none too pleased to be more or less forced into this position, and yet she made every effort to smile to those around her as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He had to admire her for that.

  The bright sunlight hit them squarely as they paused on the front steps of the east-facing church. At last he leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Thank you for that.”

  Immediately she jerked her head to the side to glance up to his face, the irritation he read in her eyes dissolving as quickly as it was replaced with sympathy. He didn’t need that, nor had he expected it exactly, but he tried his best to ignore it.

  “Well, Mrs. Rael-Lamont. So good to see you here this lovely Sunday morning.”

  They both turned together at the intrusion. Evelyn Stevens stood in their path, one step below, gazing up to them with interest and a bit of malicious humor in her pale blue eyes.

  Vivian dropped her arm from his as quickly as if she’d been shocked.

  “Mrs. Stevens. How good to see you,” she remarked congenially, as if standing next to one of the most famous accused murderers of their decade were nothing significant whatsoever.

  He just stood there, and after a few long seconds, several other women surrounded them like chickens drawn to tossed grain.

  One by one, they curtsied as they should, all eyeing him with various expressions of amazement, concern, and sheer inquisitiveness. But their curiosity over his obvious friendship with the Widow Rael-Lamont had them fidgeting in their stays.

  Will groaned inwardly, but otherwise said nothing, only nodded to each one who acknowledged him with the appropriate formality.

  Vivian came alive with confidence as a sort of vague conversation began among the women, their husbands standing off to the sides either in deep discussions with each other, or uncomfortable in the moment, hands in pockets as they tried in vain to pull their wives from the scene. Not one, however, chose to speak to him, and Will simply accepted that for what it was.

  “I noticed the roses on the altar this morning were in high bloom. Were they from you, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”

  A rather trivial question, but they all managed to look at Vivian with a measure of intense interest, including him, mostly to see how she would handle such an awkward situation.

  “Yes, indeed they are from my stock, Mrs. Stevens,” she returned with a pleasant smile, “purchased by Mr. and Mrs. Weston for services today. I thought they were most appropriate for a sunny, summer morning.”

  “Of course.” Evelyn Stevens agreed, her lips pulled back into a flat smile. “You obviously have excellent taste.”

  “It is her… means of employment, Evelyn,” piped in a very plump Elizabeth Boseley, who managed to take up two steps with her large frame and full skirts.

  Nobody said anything to that, although it couldn’t help but be known that such a comment about a woman and her occupation was intended to be cutting.

  In a soft tone laced with charm, Vivian countered, “I find working with flowers and plants to be rather exhilarating as well, Mrs. Boseley. It’s refreshing to be outside, work with one’s hands, and have others in the community appreciate one’s effort.”

  Everybody more or less nodded in agreement, mostly, Will surmised, because they would be expected to be gracious, especially just coming from church.

  Grace Tildair fiddled with her parasol, having some trouble opening it, and they all watched her as if thoroughly fascinated, trying their blessed best not to stare at him. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn. The only thing he seemed to be aware of at the moment was the smell of Vivian’s perfume as it drifted toward him in the breezy air. Not being able to appropriately touch her was suddenly killing him.

  Someone cleared a throat. Then, “Your grace, you seem… well.”

  He lifted a brow and looked into the eyes of a woman he didn’t even recognize as someone he had ever met before.

  “Thank you,” he said laconically.

  Murmurs around them began to cease as churchgoers gradually departed the front step, making their way home for Sunday dinner. He, Vivian, and the immediate ladies remained standing where they were, however, as if their curiosity was so thoroughly piqued by his presence they couldn’t move.

  Finally, Mrs. Tildair got that damn parasol up and faced him once again with a full, false smile on her aging lips.

  “Well, then,” she piped in.

  They all looked at her.

  “And how, may I ask, are you acquainted with the Widow Rael-Lamont, your grace?” she asked without reservation.

  Will could feel Vivian tense at his side. He drew in a long breath, clasping his hands behind him. “She supplies the flowers for my estate, naturally.”

  “Oh, naturally,” someone mumbled.

  Mrs. Boseley chuckled. “How very brave you are, Mrs. Rael-Lamont.”

  With that comment lacking any kind of social refinement, someone gasped. The air turned chilly, even with the summer sun beating down on their exposed skin.

  Will didn’t know exactly if the woman had meant her words maliciously or not, though he suspected she had. He had grown weary of such rudeness over the years, but he bloody hell didn’t appreciate it in front of Vivian. If he hadn’t been so intent on seeing her reaction to him in public, conversing regally with her peers, he wouldn’t have shown up in so public a place. He now realized just how colossal a mistake he had made. He should never have come today.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Boseley,” Vivian said in all sincerity, “but I don’t understand. In what manner am I being brave?”

  That rebuttal shocked everybody present, including him. Mrs. Tildair’s parasol fell back and she made a great effort in righting it again; Evelyn Stevens took a step to her side and looked at the ground as if she’d dropped something; the woman he didn’t know coughed, covering her mouth with her hands; someone else’s husband tapped her shoulder and said, “I’m starved, my dear.” She brushed his hand off her shoulder without looking at him, engrossed in the conversation.

  Silence lingered for more than a few seconds as Will glanced down at Vivian, his mind filled with distracting thoughts of her luscious body coupled with a sense of amazement at her ingenuity, taking particular note of her neatly co
mbed, mahogany-colored hair, shiny in the sun, wondering at her thoughts. For everything she said and did, he liked this woman.

  Mrs. Boseley, realizing her gaffe, chuckled with a sudden awkwardness, placing a plump hand covered with expensive rings on her chest defensively.

  “Of course I didn’t mean to be unpleasant,” she stated with forced conviction. “If’s just that I’ve not seen his grace at any social function in perhaps years, and here he is today, escorting you.”

  Vivian fell in line with the woman’s weak explanation. “Oh nonsense, Mrs. Boseley. I’ve met him before as I’ve delivered flowers to his home, and as it happened, he simply sat behind me this morning in a crowded church. That’s all.”

  Will found it absolutely astonishing that they spoke of him as if he wasn’t even there. And he had no intention of interrupting. It was becoming all too amusing in an oddly uncomfortable way.

  “But with all due respect, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” the woman continued, “today’s lesson from the pulpit seemed particularly… appropriate under the circumstances.”

  Vivian pulled back a little and shook her head daintily. “Under what circumstances?”

  Mrs. Boseley had the courtesy to flush with hot color. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you the vicar discussed sin, Mrs. Rael-Lamont. Were you not listening?”

  “We have all sinned,” Vivian returned at once, her voice now dripping with disdain. “Would you dare to cast stones, madam?”

  Mrs. Boseley gasped loudly, her mouth dropping open as she dramatically clutched her neck. The other ladies simply gaped at Vivian, stunned at her boldness and unable to move or speak.

  Will finally decided it was time to interrupt, reminding them all that the sinner stood amongst them.

  He cleared his throat and rubbed his neck of perspiration brought on by the increasing heat.

  “Is it not true, ladies,” he began very slowly, “that if God had not given us the ability to sin freely, we would not recognize it, thereby never learn from that recognition?”

  It was as if he had appeared from a ghostlike state right into the center of the Ladies’ Society for Better Interpretation of Biblical Scripture or some other such well-intended meeting of female minds. They all stared up at him silently with varying degrees of horror.