by Lisa Norato
Sallie assumed an expression of innocence and shook her head. Marcella probed her with a you-can’t-fool-me look.
Sallie considered, then as her grin began to grow, she giggled and quipped, “The vicar and the Tart.”
Bertie drove the Saab off Rousham Park’s lot onto Steeple Ashton. He gazed at Sallie through his rearview mirror like she’d gone bonkers.
Darcey turned around to ask, “Sorry, what d’you mean?”
But Marcella understood. Amusing. Real cute.
Sallie finger-combed her silky, dark honey hair off her face then leaned forward to clue in the others. “Back at our offices in New York, we sometimes refer to each other by last names. Marcella’s last name is Tartaglia. She’s ‘Tart,’ for short. She honked out a laugh and flourished a hand, indicating Marcella with open palm. “Pair her with William and we have… .”
“Wicked,” Bertie howled.
Darcey’s heavily glossed, deep rose lips parted in a gasp. “O-oh, sounds rather seductive, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s all quite lovely for Marcella and William. Like a bit of fate, or something. Who knows, perhaps tonight’s the night for a private Vicars and Tarts party of their own, eh?”
“Exactly. And maybe Marcella’ll even get her hair mussed.” Sallie shot Marcella a hedonistic look from her baby blues. “You know, Tart, this occasion might just call for that little silk tunic number of yours.” She winked, hint-hint.
Darcey frowned in confusion.
Sallie explained, “Marcella never travels without her silk tunic. It’s this soft, yummy shade of strawberry with Georgette styling, a deep vee neckline, and long, sheer bell sleeves. Very romantic. In fact, it’s the closest a girl can get to wearing a teddy without actually looking like a tart.”
“Ha, ha. Very clever,” Marcella jeered, even though she was loving Sallie’s brain flash. She imagined a look of insane passion on William’s face when he saw the single briolette bead from her garnet Y-necklace dangling between her breasts. A pair of fitted capris and her Isaac Mizrahi denim slides and she had an outfit for cocktails to rock his world.
“He’s not some bloody shag toy,” Bertie barked, startling Marcella out of her fashion trance.
“Um, excuse me?” she said.
Bertie glared at her in the rearview mirror. “Bloody unfair, it ’tis. We blokes invest quite a rather lot of time and energy into attracting you women. Can’t get anywhere, can you, without some high-ranking job, an expensive car, or the proper chat-up line? William wears a bit of white round his neck and suddenly all you dead-gorgeous women fancy a bonk.”
A ‘bonk’? Marcella winced at Bertie’s crude reaction to their harmless girl talk. “Hey, we’re not talking sex,” she corrected. “Just a little dressing to impress.”
“Right.” He nodded, both his expression and tone sarcastic. “Impress him with your breasts, that is. William’s a weakness for breasts, you know. Rather like St. Paul.”
“St. Paul had a weakness for breasts?” Darcey gave Bertie an incredulous gawk. “Dunno what you’re on about.”
“It’s right there in the Bible, Darcey, isn’t it? St. Paul said he was given a thorn in the flesh to buffet him. Well, women’s breasts are William’s thorn in the flesh.”
Marcella looked to Sallie, who was obviously trying to hold it together. She lasted about a half-second before laughter burst out her firmly pressed lips.
Darcey eyed her boyfriend suspiciously. “You’re the one, always goading William to have a go at the ladies. Are you jealous your brother has a date with Marcella?” Glancing behind, she confessed to Marcella, “Bertie’s been admiring your bosoms all day.”
“Sounds like a genetic predisposition.” Sallie sighed dramatically. “Marcella, give the kid a break and show him your hooters. He was generous enough to give us a ride, after all.”
Bertie’s posture straightened. His swallow could be heard from the back seat of the car.
“As much as I appreciate the ride, Bertie, I’m never going to show you my hooters.”
“Ingrate,” he muttered.
Marcella stuck her tongue out at the back of his head. Then seriously, “Listen, Bertie. In William’s defense, his being a vicar has absolutely nothing to do with his appeal. He wasn’t wearing his clerical collar today. I had no idea he was a vicar. The fact is, William can handle a bike. He can mix a drink, burn up the dance floor, and conduct himself like a gentleman. He’s charming, articulate, and looks great in a tux. Did you ever consider that maybe, despite his being a vicar and not because of it, William is just the sort of man women find attractive?”
Bertie scoffed. “Is that what you believe, then? You fancy him a ladies’ man? Well, you’ve got the wrong bloke if you’re after a bit of casual fun. William’s not looking for a date. He wants to fall in love.”
Fall in love? Wow. Well, why not? William was a mature, sensitive, evolved male. His chosen profession entrusted him with the eternal destiny of an entire parish. It required him to join couples in the sacred, loving union of marriage. Later, he would baptize their babies. He consoled the bereaved and prayed for their dearly departed. Here was a man who did not shy from commitment. He embraced responsibility. Of course he wanted someone to share his life.
It wouldn’t take long before some lucky woman snatched up the Honorable William. So, why couldn’t she be lucky? She’d never felt this level of attraction or experienced the chemistry she shared with William. Maybe the timing wasn’t quite right, but a man like William might never come her way again. Was she going to sit passively and let destiny pass her by? Let some other woman claim this prize catch?
Fifteen minutes later, as they drove through the misty and verdant old English countryside of the Cotswolds, Marcella still didn’t know what she wanted. She hardly noticed Blenheim Palace, birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill, as the car rolled past. Bertie pulled his Saab into the hotel’s drive, slowing to a stop before the ivy-covered facade of The Bear.
Marcella and Sallie thanked Bertie and Darcey for the ride and hopped out. After the couple drove off, Marcella hurried inside to shower and change.
According to a brochure left in the suite she shared with Sallie, The Bear had been the favorite hideaway of Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor during the height of their love affair.
Romance was the one thing sorely missing from Marcella’s life. How many men had Liz been involved with by the time she’d reached Marcella’s age of twenty-eight? Many more than the number of dates Marcella had gone on in the past few years.
The phone rang as she was reapplying her makeup. It was William. Marcella agreed to meet him downstairs.
Twenty minutes later, William entered the lounge still clad in wedding attire. His white winged collar shirt hung out his tux trousers, both somewhat rumpled and baggy. His chestnut hair was wavy and tousled, his face glowing from his bike ride. The effect was irresistibly casual and sexy.
Marcella silently lamented she wasn’t the one making an entrance. She waved him over, and as he approached the table, she stood, not so much to be polite as to leave an impression in her strawberry silk tunic and slim capris, which showcased her bronzed calves, thanks to a salon spray-mist tan.
She was probably trying too hard. Not a good thing, but then, how was a girl to continue attracting a man who managed to look awesome in a wrinkled tux and a hairstyle that had survived several motorcycle jaunts?
“Hello,” he greeted. His eyes shone with his smile, and as he stepped forward to place a kiss on her cheek, Marcella breathed a “Hi” in return.
William pulled away and skimmed his hands over his wrinkled shirt. “Didn’t have time to nip home and change, I’m afraid. Aunt Lynne wanted me at her side to bid farewell to every last guest. Haven’t kept you waiting long, I hope?”
“No, not at all.”
“Great.” He lingered admiringly over her appearance. “You look fabulous, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
She watched William’s Adam’s apple bob
with his swallow. “Right then,” he said, “let’s have a seat, shall we?”
Marcella nodded, excited to get the evening under way.
William helped her resume her seat, then pulled out a curved ladder back chair for himself as he surveyed the lounge’s tavern-style setting. The Bear had originally been built as a coaching inn in the thirteenth century, and although recently refurbished, it maintained its historic appeal. Marcella had chosen a small pedestal table before the open hearth. The shelf above displayed a row of large, antique pewter dishes.
“Rather cozy, isn’t it?” he commented, folding his long, lean self into the seat beside her.
“Absolutely. Comfy and cozy, with lots of character and charm.” And Marcella wasn’t just referring to the atmosphere. She placed her forearms on the table and leaned forward.
William closed a large warm hand over her clasped fingers. “I’m really pleased you’re here. Thank you for agreeing to meet me, privately, away from all the madness of Aunt Lynne’s wedding.” His voice was a warm, intimate baritone.
Marcella gazed into his beautifully intense, clear blue eyes and remembered to breathe. Oh boy, was she ever picking up some good vibrations. She found William pleasantly attentive and demonstrative, more so than she would have expected of a vicar, but then what she didn’t know about vicars, about British men in general, was a real inconvenience.
William cocked a brow inquiringly. “You haven’t brought along that gossiping work journal of yours, I hope?” He made a playful show of searching beneath their table.
She grinned. “If it weren’t for my organizer, I might never have nabbed your phone number.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “Not necessarily.”
Marcella felt a pleasurable quivering in her belly. “Well, in answer to your question, no, I haven’t brought my organizer. If all goes well, I won’t need notes to remember this evening. I’m expecting tonight to be unforgettable.”
Excitement flickered in the depths of William’s aquamarine stare. His expression grew earnest, filling Marcella with anticipation as he opened his mouth to respond.
“Good evening, all. Would either of you care for a drink?”
The unfamiliar voice took Marcella unawares until she realized a waitress had arrived at their table. She glanced at William, who motioned for her to order.
“The house chardonnay for me, please,” she said.
William leaned back in his seat and queried her with a puzzled frown. “Wine?” he mouthed. Then, turning to the waitress, he ordered, “A Guinness for me. And might we see a menu?” Addressing Marcella again, he asked, “D’you fancy a bite to eat? I’m feeling somewhat peckish, myself.”
Since he’d asked for a menu, Marcella interpreted “peckish” as British-speak for hungry. “Oh, sure. That’d be nice. The food here is great.”
William thanked the waitress, who then left to fetch their drinks.
“So?” she asked, “Why the face when I ordered wine?”
William chuckled. “It’s nothing, really. Just surprised to hear you order a proper beverage. No Potion for Passion this evening?”
Any number of witty comebacks would have been warranted, but Marcella played it straight. “Okay, I can take a little ribbing. But you really shouldn’t poke fun until you’ve tried one for yourself.”
“You’re absolutely right, of course. And other than a sip from Sallie’s today, I can’t say I have, actually, tried a Potion for Passion. Which is odd, really, since I fancy myself somewhat of an expert in the field of mixed drinks, given my experience bartending. I have, however, sampled a French Kiss and a Long, Hot Night, but I never found them quite as enjoyable as that old favorite, you know, Sex on the Beach.”
Marcella dropped her jaw in mock horror. The words “wicked clergyman” came to mind, but she held her tongue, snapping her jaw quickly shut. She smiled and burst into flirtatious laughter. William laughed along with her, and Marcella gave his arm a playful shove, capitalizing on an opportunity to check out his bicep. Impressive. Regular Joe, no way, she thought.
William cleared his throat. “I started all this silly business, I’m afraid, and now I find myself embarrassed by it. I should think you’d’ve had your fill of the Stafford family’s awkward sense of humor, motoring with Bertie. Well, best you know my faults straightaway, I suppose, though I don’t fancy you’ve got any of your own. No, you seem quite perfect.”
It wasn’t so much the flattery as his soft-spoken British delivery, combined with his humbleness and humor, that sent Marcella’s libido skyrocketing. Maybe it was the adoration in William’s eyes, but the waitress hadn’t even brought her wine yet and already she felt a buzz. “Bertie tells me women are drawn to the novelty of your clerical collar. I disagree. I definitely think it’s your charm.”
He searched her face, uncertain. “I hope you don’t think me insincere.”
“Oh-no, William. Absolutely not. You ooze sincerity. That’s part of what I find so charming.”
He chuckled, relieved. “Oh, right. Very kind of you. Nothing worse than an insincere vicar, is there?”
Marcella laughed as he went on to explain, “For some odd reason, Bertie’s got this ridiculous notion that since becoming ordained I’ve an advantage attracting the opposite sex. I suppose, if you consider the elderly ladies of my parish who seem to go out of their way to escort their unattached granddaughters and grandnieces to Sunday service an advantage, then yes, women are drawn to me. Although, ‘dragged’ might be a bit more precise.”
Marcella eyed him shrewdly. He was far too modest. “Well, even if they are dragged to church initially, I bet they’re thrilled when they discover the reason why. I bet they return week after week without grandma’s encouragement. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve single-handedly reformed the female population of Bramble Moor by giving them something to look forward to come Sunday morning.”
“Generally, it’s not the women who need reforming.”
His inquisitive stare prompted Marcella to quickly change the subject lest it be discovered she was a woman in need of reforming as far as her own church attendance.
“So, anyone ever catch your eye?” she asked. “There must have been someone special.”
“It’s quite obvious, isn’t it, Marcella? Someone did catch my eye. This morning.”
“Ah, yes. Thank goodness for that, but I think you’re avoiding my question. What I meant was—”
“Yes, of course, I understand perfectly what you meant. The truth is, there was someone, once. We were engaged, but that was quite some years ago. We were both far too young and ambitious to make a go of marriage. But mature enough, fortunately, to call the whole thing off and pursue our separate paths before we made a terrible mistake and ruined a long-standing friendship we’ve maintained to this day. There’s been no one to speak of since, really.”
Meanwhile, Marcella, inside her obsessive and oftentimes insecure psyche, wondered what William was feeling when he unloaded that mouthful so quickly. Was he simply getting an inevitable dating question out of the way or had she touched on a sensitive subject? And why couldn’t she be satisfied with the fact he was unattached and leave it at that? Why did she always have to scratch beneath the surface? It was mentally exhausting.
Before she could scratch further, however, the waitress arrived with their drinks and a menu.
William consulted her on his choice of munchies, and once the waitress had left to fill their order, he turned to her. “It seems this conversation isn’t going quite the way I’d hoped. All this talk about me. Although, I’m sure you’ve got all sorts of curious questions going round your head, as I have. I find I want to know everything about you. Have you a serious boyfriend in the States, Marcella?”
Fair enough, Marcella conceded. Better put his mind to rest on that score right away. “No boyfriend. With my career, I haven’t had much time to devote to a relationship. I’ve been gunning for a promotion at the magazine. Early mornings, late evenings,
sometimes working ten-to twelve-hour days. I frequently go into the office on weekends. You see, I’m hoping to step into your Aunt Lynne’s position as Senior Editor now that she’s resigned.”
“Well, splendid. That’s super for you,” he said, although Marcella thought his expression registered disappointment. He recovered with an encouraging smile. “I wish you the best of luck. You’re certainly well deserving, I’m sure.”
Marcella worried she’d discouraged him, which she really didn’t want to do at this tentative stage, not when she’d decided to turn on her game. Yes, she wanted to pursue a possible relationship, and hopefully, take this attraction to the next level.
She tried to compensate by adding, “I’m hoping things will calm down once I’ve actually been made Senior Editor. I’m looking forward to seriously devoting more time to a personal life.”
He gave her an incredulous smile. “You mean, you expect you’ll have less to do once you’ve been given more responsibility? I don’t think it works that way, Marcella.”
It did sound ridiculous, Marcella agreed, but she was determined to concentrate on the positive. “No problem. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Lynne, it’s the power of delegation.”
“Right,” he allowed with a grin. “Unfortunately, you hardly impress me as the delegating type. You impress me as a perfectionist who’d rather tackle the job herself and see it done correctly than risk it to another’s error. I admire your enthusiasm. So, tell me then, what goes on at your American magazine that has you so inspired?”
He was perceptive. Best she tread carefully, Marcella thought. She didn’t want to bore him with the details of her day-to-day and make herself sound inaccessible by divulging the wide range of responsibilities that kept her creative processes churning well into the night.
Instead, she explained how she sought out and researched ideas for articles that embodied the magazine’s mission, which was to applaud the lives of self-starting, enterprising women and offer readers the most tasteful of creative and romantic ideas on everything from decorating and entertaining to gardening and home comforts. She supervised each of her stories — text, photos, and layout — to bring together a finished piece for Lynne’s approval.