Julia London

by The Vicars Widow

  “Only my desire to call on you, my lady. My mother speaks so very highly of you, and I had always thought that when I’ve come out, I shall go and pay my respects to Lady Southbridge.”

  Lady Southbridge smiled broadly at that, her cheeks balling up like two lumps of dough. “What a thoughtful dear you are!” she cried. “When who comes out?”

  “When I’ve come out,” Emily said again, but louder.

  “Really, you must practice your enunciation, Miss Forsythe. You’ve an awful habit of mumbling! Oh, I adore callers, and you are the perfect antidote to an otherwise dreary afternoon! I’ll just ring for tea,” she said and picked up the little bell next to her day couch.

  The sun was shining for the first time this week, but Emily smiled nonetheless and put her hands in her lap as Lady Southbridge rang for her butler.

  They chatted over tea, gossiping about all the debutantes, with Emily professing a dislike for most of them. Lady Southbridge was accommodating in that—if Emily professed a dislike for another debutante, her ladyship was quick to offer up a juicy little tidbit about the offending young woman.

  But when Emily had been in her company for three-quarters of an hour, she was growing desperate to plant the next seed to detach Montgomery from the widow. Fortunately, Lady Southbridge gave her the opening she needed.

  The old woman was really something of a remarkable windbag, and she was droning on and on about someone, a friend’s sister by marriage, some such relation, and that she’d done the most awful thing by consorting with a high-ranking official in the House of Commons. “Her reputation is ruined,” Lady Southbridge said with disgust as she examined the biscuits. “She shan’t show her face in London again, mark me. It was all really quite scandalous,” she said with a shake of her head as she selected another biscuit.

  “I should think not as scandalous as consorting with a vicar’s wife,” Emily quickly interjected.

  “Eh? What’s that?” Lady Southbridge asked, her head snapping up so quickly that Emily briefly feared she might choke on the biscuit she’d just shoved in her mouth.

  “I said, I should think not as scandalous as a vicar’s wife!” Emily shouted.

  “For goodness sake, I heard you, dear! What I mean to understand is which vicar’s wife?”

  “Oh,” Emily said and coyly sipped her tea. “I shouldn’t have uttered a word, Lady Southbridge. I’m certain I’m quite wrong, and I should just as soon cut out my tongue as speak ill of anyone—”

  “Yes, yes, but who?” Lady Southbridge insisted.

  Emily put her teacup down. “All right then. But please, you must give me your word you won’t repeat what I’m to say to another living soul.”

  That earned a groan and a roll of Lady Southbridge’s eyes as she fell back against her day couch. “I should be insulted, were I not as old and wise as I am, for I am hardly the sort to wag my tongue!” she exclaimed heatedly.

  “I beg your pardon; I never meant to imply that you were, mu’um. It’s just that . . . it’s so scandalous, that I scarcely believe it, and I should perish away if anyone were to credit me with having suggested anything so morally despicable!”

  Lady Southbridge’s tiny eyes widened, and she sat up, pushed her two dogs off the day couch in one sweeping movement that left them whimpering, shoved her legs off the side, and leaned forward, so that she was almost nose to nose with Emily. “What on earth are you saying? That our vicar’s wife has done something morally despicable?”

  “No, not our vicar’s wife,” Emily quickly assured her, wondering how Lady Southbridge could believe that a woman nearly seventy years of age was doing something despicable. “The former vicar’s wife,” she said, and leaned in to whisper, “The Widow Becket.”

  Lady Southbridge gasped; her mouth formed a tight little bud as her eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Becket!” she cried in disbelief. “That sweet angel! What possibly might she have done?”

  Emily was starting to feel a bit warm beneath her collar. “I, ah . . . I can’t say for certain that she’s done anything, my lady. But one would think a woman of her precarious position would be far more careful in comporting herself than to spend time, unescorted, with a high-ranking lord. But perhaps . . . perhaps that is just the way of the Methodists.”

  Lady Southbridge’s gasp was so audible and forceful that Emily felt pushed back by it. But she held her ground, nodded solemnly as Lady Southbridge’s little eyes got bigger and bigger. “A Methodist?” she squealed.

  “She is indeed,” Emily said apologetically.

  The old woman put her hands to her knees, leaned even closer to Emily. “Which lord is it?”

  Emily glanced over her shoulder, saw nothing but the two dogs wanting out, and leaned close to Lady Southbridge’s ear. “Lord Montgomery,” she whispered.

  Lady Southbridge instantly reared back, and her eyes were crinkling. “Oh dear,” she said, but she looked quite delighted by the news. She daintily picked up her teacup. “Finished with your tea, dear? Oh, I do thank you for calling, Miss Forsythe. I hope you shall call again, and very soon. It’s been so lovely chatting with you.”

  Emily recognized her cue to leave, and carefully stood up, thanked Lady Southbridge profusely for receiving her, and with her back to the grand dame of rumor and innuendo, she smiled. Her mission was complete. Lord Montgomery would soon be forced by untoward talk to rid himself of the pesky widow. And then he’d be one step closer to seeing his way to making an offer for her.

  An hour later, after Lady Southbridge had finished off what was left of the biscuits, she asked her butler to round up her coach, and gave the driver the direction of Lady Marlton, her dear old friend. She knew that Martha would be as interested as she was to learn that the old scoundrel Lord Connery, who happened to be married to Martha’s cousin, had failed once again to keep his trousers securely fastened, and was up to his old tricks in seducing the vicar’s widow.

  Chapter Five

  At his gentlemen’s club a few days later, Darien heard the rumor about Lord Connery—a scoundrel by anyone’s measure—and the Widow Becket from his friend Freddie, who relayed the news to him, having just come from a card table where, he lamented, he had lost forty pounds.

  “Connery’s the cause of it,” he said, his chin on his fist.

  “Connery!” Darien said with a laugh, and chomping down on his cigar, he grinned at Freddie. “Is there nothing to which you will not stoop in blaming your losses?”

  “I swear, it was Connery! I knew him to be a scoundrel . . . but the vicar’s widow?”

  Darien almost choked on the cigar. “Beg your pardon?” he asked, lowering the paper he had been reading.

  “Ah, well then—that has your attention, does it not?” Freddie said. “Even a scoundrel such as you must be nonplussed by it, eh? Quite shocking, really.”

  “What exactly did you hear?” Darien pressed him. “I am acquainted with the vicar’s widow, and I can assure you, she’d not consort with anyone, and particularly not the likes of Connery.”

  “Tell it to Westfall, then, will you? He claims to have it on very good authority that Widow Becket has been seen about town with Connery, and in some locations that are of less than good repute,” Freddie said as he casually looked about the roomful of gentlemen.

  “Westfall is quite certain of it, is he?” Darien pressed.

  Freddie chuckled. “What then, Montgomery? Jealous, are you?”

  Darien frowned lightly at the news.

  “What now?” Freddie exclaimed. “You’re positively sullen!”

  “I wouldn’t want to see a good woman debauched, that’s all.” He instantly wished he hadn’t said it—now Freddie was watching him intently. So he added, “Unless I’m the one to do the debauching.”

  Freddie laughed roundly at that, slapping his hand on the table and drawing the looks of a few.

  He waited on the corner of Park Lane, near the Hyde Park entrance, because he knew she’d come across the park on her way to the church, just as she
did every Wednesday when returning from her rounds. He had in his hand a bouquet of spring flowers, purchased for a tidy little sum on Bond Street.

  He stood back, out of the heavy foot traffic, smiling and nodding politely at the many ladies who promenaded past, winking at those who dared to stare back. He might, had he been more engaged in the art of flirtation, involved one or more of them in light conversation, but he could think of little else but Mrs. Becket.

  When at last she appeared, striding across the park, her feet encased in sturdy boots, her bonnet a bit askew, and the empty basket on her arm swinging in a rhythm only she knew, he thought she was a most desirable woman, far more desirable than any other woman on the street just then.

  She did not see him as she darted across the street, dodging carriages and horsemen and hacks; and she seemed quite caught up in her thoughts as she strode purposefully along, one hand on the top of her bonnet to keep it from sliding any further. It wasn’t until he stepped into her path that she came out of her fog, and her face, rosy from her walk, broke into the wreath of her smile. She was, he noted, quite happy to see him.

  “My Lord Montgomery!” she exclaimed as she came to a halt and peered up at him with her soft green eyes. “You must truly enjoy walking in the park, sir, for rare is the sun-lit day that I do not encounter you here.”

  “Do you honestly believe it is merely the park that brings me here, Mrs. Becket?” he asked, smiling lopsidedly at her coy remark. “Indeed it is not, for I have professed my esteem of you on more than one occasion,” he said and pulled the flowers from behind his back, holding them out to her.

  She gasped with surprise and delight, her face lighting up, and she instantly clapped her hands together at her chest. “What beautiful flowers! They look as if they belong in the king’s garden!”

  “A king’s garden?” He scoffed. “Their exquisite beauty and vivid colors bring to mind a certain widow. They belong with you, Mrs. Becket.”

  She laughed as she stepped forward to inhale their scent. “You are too kind, Lord Montgomery, indeed,” she said, stepping back again. “But you know very well that I cannot accept such a token from you.”

  “And why on earth not?” he demanded.

  “Because, my lord, it is improper.”

  “Ach!” he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “What is proper, I ask you! Shall I bring you flowers when they’ve laid you in your grave? No, madam, I refuse to honor your maidenly notions. If I admire a beautiful woman, I will not be ashamed to let her know that I do,” he said and stepped closer, pressing the flowers toward her.

  With another pleasing laugh, Mrs. Becket took the flowers. Her long fingers brushed lightly against his; she put her face to the flowers and inhaled, then carefully put them in her basket. As a breeze wafted through, she caught her bonnet atop her head and smiled up at him. “I wonder,” she said, her eyes narrowing playfully, “how many bouquets have you delivered this fine day? Surely I am not the first woman to cross such a public path as yours today, sir.”

  “There have been scads of women before you, all worthy of my admiration. But you are the only one to receive my bouquet.”

  “Mmm,” she said skeptically.

  “Shall we walk?” he asked.

  “Oh no, my lord!” she exclaimed, smiling. “You have undoubtedly noted that my father is not in my company this afternoon! It would be imprudent of me.”

  “Now you’re being coy, and well you know it,” he said cheerfully. “You are a widow, madam, not a debutante, and I am a respected lord. We are two adults, free to walk on to the church and chat about the good works of the Lord.” With that, he put his hand to her arm, urging her forward.

  She went along with him, her body brushing against his in the crush. “That’s rather tidy and convenient, isn’t it, using the church to walk about? And here I had been given to understand that you prefer finding places far from the curious eyes of the ton for your seductions.”

  Startled, he glanced at her and instantly noticed the smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Meaning?” he asked.

  “Meaning, sir, that there are those who say you are often seen with less than reputable women in the less than reputable corners of London.”

  Darien was accustomed to the rumors that floated around about him, but nevertheless lifted a brow of shock for Mrs. Becket’s sake. “My good Mrs. Becket! Do you believe me to be less than honorable in my intentions?”

  She laughed gaily. “How could I possibly believe you to be anything but?”

  “Touché, madam,” he said with a grin. “And I suppose your conscience is quite clear, is it? What with all the calls being paid to you by a certain rakish gentleman.”

  “A rakish gentleman?” she asked thoughtfully. “You mean one in addition to you?” she asked, and laughed, pleased with her jest.

  Darien laughed, too. “I was in fact referring to Lord Connery.”

  “Lord Connery!” she cried in surprise, and came to a halt, turning to fully face him. With laughter in her eyes, she peered up at him. “Are you implying that I would allow another man to scandalize me?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Becket, but I do not scandalize you. I merely adore you,” he said, and took her gloved hand in his, bowed over it, and brought it to his lips.

  “Well then, you have my leave,” she said softly as he kissed the back of her hand. “Adore at will.”

  He chuckled low, turned her hand over, and pressed his lips to the smooth skin of her wrist, just above the frilly trim of her glove. He heard her slight intake of breath and smiled as she carefully withdrew her hand.

  “Then what of Connery?” he asked. “Do you intend to break his heart as you will surely break mine?”

  “How odd that you should mention Lord Connery. He did call on me, just this morning, and quite unexpectedly. Frankly, it has been so long since I’ve seen his lordship in church that I wasn’t entirely certain of his identity.”

  Darien laughed.

  “I’m quite serious, truly I am! I asked if I might have known him from Shropshire. He explained that he had met me at church and I recalled, after his lengthy explanation, that I did indeed make his acquaintance before my husband died. I suppose his lordship left in a bit of ill humor, as he had hoped my recall would be perfectly clear.”

  Darien laughed at the image of Connery, his dishonor able hopes quite dashed. “Then you won’t deny it,” he said jovially.

  With a roll of her eyes, she tossed her head pertly. “I will not deny the man has called, but I cannot decipher why he should. And you, sir,” she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “Do you deny that you have escorted disreputable women about?”

  “Ah, that old rumor.”

  “Persistent one, is it?” she asked laughingly as they turned down a side street that led to the back of St. Johns Church. “May I assume it is true? That you would declare your undying esteem of one woman, while escorting another one about town at night?”

  “Escort her? No,” he said shaking his head. “Visit her bed? Well now, that is another matter entirely.”

  The suggestion colored Mrs. Becket’s cheeks, but she looked at him with a bold little smirk.

  “What is it then, Mrs. Becket? Have I offended you? Have you not, in truth, wondered, if only a little, if I had indeed done so?” he asked pleasantly. “If I am not a man, and therefore, in search of certain pleasures?”

  She opened the wrought-iron gate that surrounded the cemetery, banging him in the hip in her haste to do so. “You presume too much, sir. I am not in the habit of wondering about parishioners in the least,” she said and strode through the gate.

  Darien easily kept stride with her. “But I am not just any parishioner,” he pressed nonchalantly. “I am a man who has made it clear that he esteems you. And I should think a woman of your youthful years, having enjoyed the fruits of a marriage bed, then having lost them, might wonder about it from time to time.”

  “Mmm,” she said pertly. “I
t would seem as if you have an inordinate amount of time to sit about speculating on any number of things.” She paused at the first tombstone and took one of the flowers from his expensive bouquet and laid it at the head of the grave, and did the same at the next.

  “I suppose I do,” he agreed, calmly watching her dismantle the flowers he had given her. “For I have also imagined, if only a little, what it might be like were I to visit your bed.”

  Mrs. Becket almost tripped over a crooked grave marker. Darien laughed, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her around a neighboring obelisk that rose over some ancient ancestral grave, and lightly pushed her against it, holding her there with his body, his hands on her waist, his legs braced around her skirts. She tilted her head back with a challenge in her eye.

  “I have wondered what heaven it would be to kiss your breast,” he said low, smiling lopsidedly as his hand glided up to cup the mound of her breast. Mrs. Becket drew a quick breath, and her eyes fluttered closed.

  Darien’s smile deepened. “And I’ve wondered at the heat of our bare skin as we lay together,” he murmured, dipping to kiss her neck. “Or even how my hands might feel on your bare bottom in the throes of lovemaking,” he said against her skin as he squeezed her hips.

  She gave a throaty laugh before she pushed him away. Darien instantly stood back. He grinned at her. Her eyes were sparkling with amusement, and she did not seem the least bit intimidated by his bold gesture.

  “I have certainly not wondered about it,” she said pertly but with a coy smile. “Are you determined to make your point by ravishing me in a church cemetery?”

  “Don’t tempt me, madam.” And he meant it, as he took in her face, her full lips, the way her nose upturned just so, and her eyes, always glittering with something deep within. There were times, like now, that he looked upon her and thought he’d perish if he didn’t have her.