Lady Willa’s Divinely Wicked Vicar: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 4

by DeLand, Cerise

  A third last kiss, and on a groan, he let her go. Not easily. He didn’t believe in curses. No indeed. Not from God. Curses came from other sources, man destroying man.

  He stepped back, his arms empty. He smiled at her. He had gained the world tonight. What a surprise. What a joy. A woman of his own to love and cherish. A woman of character and moral sense. A beauty, meant for him. Meant for his embrace and his succor, his lifelong devotion. A woman in whom he was proud and delighted.

  He’d not touch her again until he had the means to propose. That word, so hideous to her, so forbidden, would be his reward for his dedication to her.

  Because he believed in a benevolent God. A kind one. Responsive. Even if all under His domain did not prosper financially or benefit equally, Charlie somehow believed happiness was possible, probable even, if one kept faith with principles of love and good cheer.

  And he had been truthful with her. His God was not one to deny someone life on a whim. Nor would His God keep her from him.

  Because improbable as it seemed to care for someone so quickly, so dearly, he loved her.

  And now he had to make ready for her. His benefactor, his bishop and his father all had to know he wished to marry. He would apply himself to the task of acquiring her as his wife. That road would not be short, straight or easy. Nor did he know how to begin. Yet he trusted that God had a plan for that…and he could easily follow that.

  Chapter 4

  May 4, 1815

  De Courcy Manor

  Hampshire

  “A satisfying visit, I imagine?”

  Wills took her chair at the dinner table and smiled at her father. “Indeed.”

  Barkleigh Jerford Sheffield, the Earl de Courcy, a convivial fellow at core, had a dim view of mingling with those one did not know well. Papa had many good qualities. Attentive landlord. Generous employer. Kind family member. But egalitarian? Never.

  Moreover, he took only polite interest in anything the Viscount and Viscountess Courtland did. Politically opposite, the earl and the viscount had argued last winter in the House about a bill pertaining to punishment for poachers. The debate, one of dozens the two had engaged in over the past decade, had left a sour note in her father’s mouth. That he brought it up—and the viscount, her recent host, had not—left an ugly taste in hers.

  “The usual guests?” he asked her as the footmen began to circle round to offer family the soup course.

  “My friends from school. Looking well, thank goodness. A few who are new to the guest list.”

  Her mother met her gaze. Wills had spoken with her minutes after she arrived home earlier this afternoon. Sharing the news of who among her former schoolmates was engaged, who was enceinte, who had not attended this year, Wills had left out any tales about the Courtlands’ new, enthralling vicar.

  “What of the new cleric?” Her father had an uncanny knack for choosing the very topic she wished to avoid.

  “Yes, they have one.” She attended to her spring pea and carrot consommé.

  “And? What?” The man persisted. “Is he all fire and brimstone? Courtland, I understood, had that in his last appointment.”

  She sought a neutral bit to relate. “No, sir. He is a peaceful sort.” And devastatingly handsome. “A new thinker.”

  “Oh, the devil, you say.” His spoon halfway to his lips, her father paused and skewered her with a frown on his broad brow. “Why bring one’s politics into the pews? Not good for the people.”

  “Bark!” Her mother shot her ire toward her husband. “Nor is this subject good for your digestion.”

  He gave his wife a shrug. “I hear he’s young. Wills? Is he?”

  She could envision Charlie in all his glory. His thick dark hair ruffled by the breeze, a curl dripping low over his tanned brow. His flashing green eyes, sparkling with humor, full of compassion—and desire. For her. She shivered and concentrated on her soup.

  “Willa!”

  She jumped. “Sir?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Young? Is he young?” she mused. “Not very. Not very old, either.” How old was he? If he’d served so long with the Army, then he must be in his late twenties. Older than she. Those lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes told the tale of those sights he’d seen. More severe was the despair etched in the tautness of his mouth and the set of his jaw when he spoke of men wounded and dying.

  Her father checked her mother’s expression but came back to focus on Wills. “What’s wrong with you?”

  She dipped her spoon into her soup. “Nothing, sir.” Best to bluff her way out of this or he’d be on this topic for the next hour. “Why do you ask?”

  “You are usually very willing to share every detail of this party.”

  “I could, sir. But the trip home was long. I am tired. Forgive me.”

  He busied himself with his soup, unhappiness furling his brow.

  Wills waited for the assault she knew he prepared to conduct.

  Minutes later, he set it out for her. “I’ve received word yesterday from the Earl of Pendenning.”

  Ah, here was the rest of the story.

  Her father sighed and said, “I’ve invited his son to attend us here for a week.”

  She put aside her soup spoon. Oh, no. “When?”

  “No date set. But soon. His oldest is Gawynn. Lord Gawynn. Viscount Gawynn.”

  She locked her eyes on her father’s and heard the broader message. The viscount was to be received as a possible suitor. “Papa, I met him years ago during my first Season. He was a flirt and a gambler then. I disliked him.”

  “He’s more refined now, I would wager.”

  Her mother sought to smooth Wills’s feathers. “I know his mother and she’s written that her boy is delighted to be invited. We shall make a lovely stay for him. An afternoon reception. A garden party, I think. Dinner and dancing, too. Plus, Gawynn has business with your father, dear.”

  Wills would make them declare their intentions outright. “What kind of business?”

  “Willa,” he said in his soft and pleading tone.

  “No.” She rose from her chair. She’d told Charlie she’d wed no one. And now that she found him the most dashing, endearing creature, she would not kill him nor any other.

  “Please do sit, my dear,” her mother begged.

  “He is a fine fellow,” the earl went on as if she had not spoken. “With five thousand a year from his father. A house in Mayfair. Not large but large enough to accommodate a new wife.”

  Wills threw her serviette to the table. “I don’t care if he’s got five hundred thousand and Carlton House! I will not marry him. You should not encourage him because I will not accept him. And you may not do that for me yourself without my permission.”

  He scowled. “Enough of this, Willa! How will you live if we do not obtain a husband for you?”

  “I will find a way,” she said and turned on her heel.

  Climbing the stairs to her suite, she paused midway to gesture to Whistle and Thyme, her little Spaniels who sat at the foot of the stairs, panting for her every glance. “Come, my boys. You two know a thing or two about affection and respect.”

  They scampered up the steps, yipping in their doggie delight to spend hours with her.

  She’d end this marriage game once and for all. She’d put details to her escape that would secure the future she wanted.

  Chapter 5

  Charlie rose up from the pew and his morning prayers of gratitude. All the Courtlands’ guests, including delicious Lady Willa Sheffield had departed from the house party yesterday morning. He had spent the day distracting himself from his sorrow to see her go. The only thing to take his mind from her leaving was to construct his plan to win her hand in marriage–and do it quickly.

  But before he could fully comprehend the steps of that, he had a new problem to attack. His father’s.

  “Time to go,” he said aloud to the altar and tucked the duke’s letter into the inside pock
et in his waistcoat. His father had been brief in his missive, declaring his need to see him in person. The sooner, the better.

  “‘This is not news, so much, as a hope you and I might discuss the future.’”

  Charlie had a suspicion of the reasons for the man’s request. Indeed, since Charlie had turned seventeen, his father had cause to call him to him for comfort and advice. While he’d served abroad, his sire and he had not communicated but by letter—and they had missed each other sorely. Since Charlie’d come home from the wars, this was the third such summons. He had never refused, for the Duke of Southbourne was unlike many of his ilk. An attentive parent as well as a devoted master of his extensive estates, the eighth duke of his line tended to his duties with relish. Would that Charlie’s older brother Oliver and their father’s heir were as dedicated. In truth, had Oliver shown any indications of his responsibilities as steward of the Southbourne estate, Charlie would not have had cause to visit so often. He stood, as ever, ready to heed the duke’s request.

  “Sir!”

  At a woman’s urgent summons, Charlie spun toward her. “Mrs. Billoughby?”

  “Aye, sir. I need ye, I do.” She stood at the chapel door, her eyes glassy, her old grey gown hanging from her thin shoulders. “My husband, sir. He’s not right. Ye must help me.”

  Inwardly, Charlie sighed. But sent her a consoling smile. “I will do my best, ma’am.”

  What he found when they came upon the man sprawled unconscious beneath an oak tree was no surprise. In his cups again, George Billoughby needed his bed more than he needed any sermon by his vicar.

  Wyndym Abbey

  Dorset

  Four hours later, Charlie dismounted from his horse and handed the reins to his father’s groom. “Thank you, Harman. A big bucket of mash, a brush and a good rest is the ticket.”

  “I’ll do well for ‘im, sir.”

  Wyndym Abbey spread before him on the brow of the hills of Sussex. The red brick and limestone enclave was seven hundred and ten years old, once housing eighty or more Cistercian monks. Over the centuries, it had been altered to a sprawling maze of buildings. The main house was a mansion perched atop the rolling downs, like an eagle hovering over its nest. The windows were tall, thin and dark. The pale stone quoins at the corners marched up three stories. The rooms were high and wide, cavernous really. The front door was a two-foot thick slab of oak that had kept out thieves, marauders and defied armies. In fact, it had stood against many, so said the scrolls unearthed from their hiding place in the medieval chapel’s floorboards.

  The abbey had defied all the world, save the Tudors. Henry the Eighth, to be exact, took the monastery from its monks and gave it to his favored man, Ruark Alred Compton for his services. That man had aided Henry in his quest to impress the French King Francis on the Field of Gold. But it was the greater family legend, oft told, that Ruark was instrumental in securing the affections of many a lady for the sovereign, including the illustrious and ill-fated Boleyn girls.

  Charlie loved the manse. In its endless halls, he’d delighted in playing bowls in the long corridors with his brother. The kitchen with its eight-foot-tall fireplace rivaled that at Hampton Court and the warmth of it could spread along the pantry and the estate offices up the stairs into the formal dining room. Though his mother oft complained of faulty flews and chills of the other rooms, she gave up her criticisms when she grew older. Instead, each afternoon she descended to the old kitchen to take her tea, read or write her correspondence.

  “Welcome, Lord Charles.” The butler inclined his head, using the honorific of his status as the younger son of the family.

  Charlie handed over his hat and pulled off his gloves to give those over as well. “Good afternoon, Clive. How are you?”

  “Well, sir. Thank you for inquiring.”

  “And your wife?” James Clive, now in his forties, had married the lively Irish housekeeper more than ten years ago.

  “In fine health, sir.”

  Charlie shrugged out of his great coat and let the butler take it. “I’m happy to hear it.”

  “Your father works in his library. I can, if you like, show you up?”

  “No need, Clive. I imagine he expects me?”

  “He does, sir. He hoped you would come home straight away.”

  Charlie—it was said by his father—had never disappointed him. The duke was easy to please. It was Oliver who saw it other and lived to prove it. God save him.

  Charlie took the broad wooden stairs at a run. As was his wont, he offered a salute to the severe image of Ruark and his stoic wife hanging like guardians upon the walls. He smiled up at the portrait of Charles Edgar Compton, the seventh duke, his grandfather. The old man and he had played whist and chess from the earliest days that Charlie could remember. As that man lay dying, age seventy-five, he’d confided to his son that it was Charlie who should be heir. But there was nothing for it, as Oliver, wastrel that he was even then at age sixteen, had always seemed in perfect health.

  “Good afternoon, Papa!” Charlie stood at the open doors to his father’s book-filled study. The shelves lined the four walls of the dark mahogany room. A four-foot-tall globe of the earth sat before the carved desk. In front of a map table, stood a matching globe of the heavens. He circled round them to approach his father and hug him.

  The Duke of Southbourne greeted him with tears in his eyes. Sixty-two, the eighth duke of the family Compton, sat in his wheeled chair like a sovereign on his throne. With pristine snowy hair and snapping green eyes, he had the broad shoulders and firm torso of a man who’d remained fit until a horse threw him a year ago. Ruler of his grand domain, he deserved to look regal, for he had saved the family fortune from financial ruin on two occasions. He now faced the third one. He had written to Charlie of rising prices, due to debts of the wars, causing misery for them all.

  “Dear boy,” the duke said, extending his quivering hands to his son. “So good of you to come see me. I long for good company.”

  Indeed, Charlie’s mother had died two years ago while Charlie was fighting in Spain. She’d passed away in her sleep. His father had written to Charlie that she prayed for his survival as often as she appealed to God to reform their oldest son of his drinking and whoring.

  “And Isabelle?” Charlie’s sister, older by two years, visited here often from her home in Yorkshire. But her brood of three was soon to grow to four and she was ill often in this pregnancy.

  “Came for my birthday, of course, three weeks ago. But she is so large with this child, she wanted the comfort of her own bed. Sudbury demanded they go home. They left last Tuesday.” The earl adored his wife and justly so.

  “I don’t blame him. Twins, do you think this time?” Twins occasionally ran in the Compton family.

  “I do. Sit, sit, sit.” His father focused on every detail of his face and form. “Good health, yes?”

  “Indeed.” Charlie took up one of the enormous matching George the Third upholstered chairs before his father’s desk and admired the man’s hearty looks. “I bring you a good chess opponent and a fine reader for your latest passion. Who is it?”

  “A romance!” the old man joked, a twinkle in his eyes.

  Charlie clapped his palms on the armrests. “Marvelous! I’ve not read one lately!”

  “Aren’t you to read the Good Book every night, dear boy?”

  “I know that by heart, sir. I need new material.”

  His father snorted. “Be careful. If the Archbishop hears of it, you will be gone.”

  “I could claim such fiction makes me more empathetic to my charges. But I will tell no one of my new tastes, save you.” Charlie brushed a hand down the material of his breeches. He had many new tastes and pondered if he should reveal them to his sire. The duke did not appear to need any more frustrations than he already had and Charlie doubted his father could aid him in his desire to marry a lady so far beyond his abilities to wed.

  The duke cocked his head. “You’re pensive.”
/>   Not a question. Well, what had he expected? His father knew him so well.

  “Why?”

  Charlie inhaled. Rose. And sought the liquor arrayed on the far console. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Shall I pour for you as well?”

  “Indeed, you can.”

  When Charlie had measured the two of them generous draughts of good tawny port, he returned to hand one crystal tumbler to his father and allowed the man to catch his gaze. “I came home, sir, because you need me. I am not here to bare my problem.”

  “Nonetheless, I will hear it first.”

  Charlie sat, considering his port for longer than he intended.

  “I believe you should drink that and pour another,” his father said.

  He drained his glass, then got up to get another. As the alcohol went to his head, he retook his chair. “I’ve met a woman I wish to marry.”

  “It’s about time.” His father raised his glass in a toast. “Do I detect you have a challenge with that?”

  “A few, yes.”

  “Allow me to help?”

  “Ah, Papa. With this, there is not much you can do.”

  “The name Compton has sway.”

  “I do not doubt it. But in this?” He took another swig. “Not so. The lady will not wed.”

  His father’s winged white brows shot high on his noble forehead. “She does not care for you? Ha! If that is so, she is not worthy of you, my dear sir.”

  “She believes she kills those who propose marriage to her.”

  The duke frowned. “Now she is definitely not worthy of you.”

  He took another drink. “She has received two proposals. Both men died. She didn’t love them. And she thinks she is to blame.”

  “And you told her this is nonsense and…?”

  “She does not listen.”

  “Ha!” His father scoffed. “Who is this girl?”

  “De Courcy’s daughter.”