Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  It had all been so very . . . normal. How was it possible that normal could be so enticing? At the back of her mind was the unspoken thought that she’d better not become too accustomed to normal. When would she begin to show? Already she was approaching three months and—

  But she had made the decision to live for now and knew it could not be for too much longer.

  The journey was a delight and, though neither of them spoke of it, there seemed to be an agreement to leave any serious matters behind them and enjoy the last of their wedding holiday.

  They laughed like children during the day and made love at night at the inns they stayed in, even managing to squeeze into a tiny trundle bed when they could only get one small room. It was the most wonderful night so far, in Mel’s opinion, and they’d needed to sleep almost on top of each other.

  But always at the back of her mind was the fact they were drawing ever closer to New Bickford. She had never asked him exactly what Sir Thomas had said about her, and she knew the time would come when they would need to discuss the ugly tangle that was her past—unless she was fortunate and they could avoid the horrid squire altogether before she had to leave Magnus. She knew that was likely a fantasy and it was best to broach the topic now but destroying their newfound happiness was not something she was eager to do.

  Besides, she was married now to a man from a powerful family—or at least Sir Thomas would believe she was legally married, along with everyone else—surely he would think twice about spreading stories about her? She could only imagine Magnus’s response to hearing such rumors.

  She looked at her happy, beautiful husband, who was so excitedly telling her about the horse he would buy her. He was contented and pleased and at peace. She couldn’t bring up the squire just now. They had plenty of time for that discussion when they were back in New Bickford.

  ∞∞∞

  Magnus had written to the vicar to tell him the good news the day they’d married so he wasn’t surprised when their carriage rolled into the village to see his parishioners lined up along the street, some throwing flower petals, some grain, and some merely waving and smiling.

  “Oh, Magnus. This—” She shook her head, red-faced and uncomfortable. “This is a mistake.”

  “Hush, darling, you are one of us now. They just want to make you welcome.”

  She just frowned, and then said, “Oh, look, there is Sarah.”

  Magnus saw her wearing her distinctive red cloak but looking sober. He knew the death of Mrs. Tisdale had struck the girl hard. He’d been happy that the older woman had found such a kindred soul to spend her last days with.

  “I wonder that she is still here,” Melissa said.

  Magnus turned to her. “Mrs. Tisdale left her the cottage, and everything else she had, which apparently is not insubstantial—surely you knew that?”

  Her brow wrinkled and she shook her head. “No, I received no word.”

  Magnus found that surprising but shrugged it off. This was one of the many matters he wanted to discuss after they’d settled in a bit at the curate cottage.

  There were several things he needed to make clear to her—he did not want her thinking he begrudged her friendships, and he was afraid that was the way he’d left things. He also wanted to talk about his demands when it came to her business. As much as he abhorred what The White House stood for, it would not be fair of him to demand she act so hastily if that meant she lost the money she’d worked so hard for. He would insist on the dissolution of the business but give her all the time she needed to find a purchaser for the actual structures. But, again, that discussion could wait.

  He waved as they passed the last of the villagers, his gaze sliding to his wife’s profile, his cock stiffening as he recalled the nights since she’d come to him. He felt a twinge of guilt at how eager he was to get her into his snug bed at home.

  “I hope you’ll not find the cottage too small,” he said, when she continued to stare out the window at nothing.

  She turned to him and smiled, her hand going to his cheek. Magnus loved her touches, absolutely adored that she felt free to express herself physically.

  He leaned into her hand. “I especially hope you won’t find the bed too small.”

  She gave him an arch look along with a quick kiss. “No matter how small it is I know I can find a comfortable position.

  He threw back his head and laughed. Life, he decided, could not possibly become more perfect.

  ***

  Magnus woke up just before first light every day and often worked until dark. Melissa had known he kept busy, but she’d never understood just how much of the vicar’s work he shouldered.

  Mel went with him when it was acceptable—to call on homebound parishioners, to visit the outlying areas that took a gig to get to, and of course she sat beside him in church on Sunday.

  She knew he was taking care to make sure they had enough time together, even though the demands of daily life were always pressing on him. For her part, she was learning quickly how to be a curate’s wife, no matter that it was a position she would not hold for long.

  It had been her intention to bring up the subject of Sir Thomas and how they would manage him, but the news that the squire was off on an extended visit to some hunting box in the north was a reprieve she simply could not ignore. So, for better or worse, they simply kept going on the way they had been: ignoring her past and living in the moment.

  Mel decided she could enjoy another two months of her fairytale existence before she would need to abandon him to raise their child—a child he could never know about.

  Just thinking it made her ill. So, she didn’t think about it. She savored each day to the fullest.

  She discovered that she loved being the mistress of her own house, no matter how modest. The idea of preparing a meal for him, again, no matter how modest, was something that warmed her heart.

  A few days after they moved into their little home—after they’d eaten several meals at the vicarage—she’d told him about her plan to learn to cook.

  “Oh, darling—you needn’t become a drudge,” he said. “If you wish to learn how to cook, that’s your choice. But I can afford to hire help to clean and cook for us.” They were lying in each other’s arms after making love for the second time that evening. “Lord knows I don’t wish to eat at the vicarage every night. What was that desert tonight?”

  Melissa couldn’t help laughing with him. “I think it had tentacles.”

  He snorted. “Poor Mrs. Heeley. I really don’t think there can be a worse cook in all of England.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she’d teased.

  While Magnus had been pleased about her decision to learn to cook, he’d insisted on engaging a full-time domestic.

  It was perhaps two weeks after they’d settled in when Melissa first saw the household accounts. She had always managed her own books at The White House, so it hadn’t been difficult to read his legers and discern that Magnus was wildly wealthy.

  He’d apparently inherited a house with extensive property from a bachelor uncle which he kept leased, as well as the significant inheritance from his Aunt Eudora. He certainly did not need his curate wages and she realized, more than ever, how much he genuinely loved his work.

  Despite his wealth, he lived frugally. The clothing he’d worn in London at his parents’ house had been exquisitely tailored. But his regular clothing, what Mel thought of as his curate uniform, consisted of loose-fitting and not particularly well-made suits which she suspected he wore so as not to flaunt his wealth in front of his parishioners.

  His only true extravagance was keeping Friar. And it was an extravagance he wished to expand.

  “We need to get you a horse,” he said. It was a chilly day but she’d insisted on joining him on his walk out to the Felix property. They were both hatted and gloved and wrapped against the weather and his voice was muffled by the thick, ugly scarf he wore.

  Her heart hurt at his lovely offer—oh, how s
he wished she could one day ride beside him on his rounds of the parish. She evaded the issue. “And we need to do something about your scarf, which is beyond hideous.”

  He gasped. “Mrs. Stanwyck! I’ll have you know my old nurse made this for me.”

  “If half the things you claim about her are true, the woman is a cross between a saint and the queen.”

  “It’s almost as if you’ve met Nanny Potter already, darling.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t it cost a great deal to keep a horse?”

  He shrugged her question away with his customary response to anything that did not fit with his plans. Mel had learned that her new husband was accustomed to getting his way. It was only lucky for the world that Magnus’s impulses were generally so selfless and kind.

  “You need a horse in the country,” he said by way of answer.

  “But I’m not a horsewoman.”

  “You are well on your way after your time in Devon.”

  She was opening her mouth to argue when a horse and rider came bursting out of a road she knew led to the squire’s house.

  Even with her inexperienced eye she could see the rider lacked the skill to control his mount, a massive, glorious black beast who looked like something from a fairy tale. Until he came closer.

  “Oh Magnus,” she murmured, taking a step closer to him. “Is that poor thing bleeding?”

  “He is.”

  She turned at his grim voice and he squeezed her hand.

  “Let me deal with this.” He raised his eyebrows at her and she nodded.

  The squire, for that was who it was, pulled up brutally on the bridle and Mel saw that the bit he was using was not only larger than the one Magnus used on Friar, but it was cinched cruelly tight.

  “Mr. Stanwyck, well, what a pleasant . . . surprise.” Barclay’s eyes slid to Melissa and his fat, moist lips twisted into a smile that made her stomach lurch. “I returned last night to learn congratulations are in order, Mr. Stanwyck. This must be Mrs. Stanwyck—or should I say Lady Magnus?” He grinned and continued. “I just came from up north, where I was hunting with a few mutual friends.” His slimy gaze drifted between them. “Good friends of both of you—I would almost say intimate friends,” he added with barely suppressed glee.

  Mel glanced at Magnus; did he know what Sir Thomas was hinting so heavily about? But Magnus remained immobile, his blue eyes as chill as the weather, his gaze fastened on the distressed stallion.

  “I believe your horse’s bridle is not properly adjusted, Sir Thomas. Would you like me to fix it for you?”

  Barclay’s smile grew and he lazily shifted his amused gaze to Magnus. “This is a method I heard about for breaking a willful animal.” His hands tightened on the reins until the horse’s eyes showed white.

  “I think the only thing this practice will yield is a broken animal.” Magnus’s voice was like the cold blade of a knife. Even when he’d been furious at Hugo—and her—he’d not sounded so grim.

  But Barclay just grinned. “Well, thank you for your expert opinion, Lord Magnus. But the animal belongs to me, so that makes it my affair, doesn’t it?” He chuckled suddenly, his eyes swiveling back to Melissa. “You just take care of your own animals. I’m sure you’ll have your hands full.” He nodded to Melissa and smirked at Magnus before digging his spurs into the horse’s bloody sides.

  Magnus vibrated with rage as Barclay charged down the dirt road. “That man is an abomination.”

  “He is. But nothing he is doing is against the law, Magnus. He could bridle his wife with the same mechanism and get away with it.” He turned to stare at her, his expression one of horror.

  Melissa shrugged. “It is life, Magnus. Come,” Mel slid her arm through his. “We’ll be late.”

  But he didn’t move. “You don’t think somebody should do something—try at least to stop him from tormenting that animal?”

  “By somebody do you mean you? Then, no, I don’t.”

  He shook his head at her, his eyes clouded with disappointment and disbelief.

  His expression angered her. “His cruelty is abominable, Magnus, there is no denying that. But that is a horse. All over this country, as we stand here, worse is being done to women and children every minute of every day.”

  “So, we should do nothing?”

  “No, I am merely saying we should choose our battles.” He stared down at her and she pulled on his arm. “Think about it, Magnus. What can you do to stop a man from abusing his animals? What power does the law give you in such matters? None. And you know that.”

  He glared at her, his jaw moving from side to side.

  Mel squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry. Sir Thomas is a despicable man—but there is nothing you can do in this instance.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, but finally nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

  Mel kissed his cheek. “We should make haste, the Felixes are expecting us.”

  Finally, his expression softened and he nodded, allowing her to pull him away.

  ∞∞∞

  That night, after dinner, Magnus worked on his next sermon—even though he was not to give it for almost two weeks—while Melissa looked through a book of recipes from their new cook, Mrs. Hawkins. Melissa liked the older woman, who came during the day to make their meals and do the other chores. Melissa was learning a bit more about cookery than she previously knew—which had only been the coddled eggs and toast she’d made for Mrs. Tisdale.

  Thinking of Mrs. Tisdale made her realize she’d been here for over two weeks and had not yet gone to see Sarah since waving at her on the day of their arrival.

  Mel was torn about wanting to see her, wanting to know what was happening in London, because she knew Sarah would have received letters. Most likely because she’d written letters, something Melissa had yet to do.

  But, at the same time, she wanted to forget all about the outside world and stay wrapped in the warm cocoon with Magnus. Although he spent a great deal of time away and they often dined with the vicar and his wife, their nights together were magical and private.

  She had so little time left with him she did not wish to spoil it. Not only that, but her letters to London would likely create questions she did not wish to answer. Cognizant of how little time she had left to conduct her business, Mel had sent letters to both her man of business and Hugo and Laura. She knew Hugo did not gossip, but could not feel as sanguine about Laura, who had a tendency to drink copious amounts and become indiscreet.

  So, all of that had combined to keep her away from Mrs. Tisdale’s—or Sarah’s, she supposed she should now call it.

  She wondered if Magnus had been to see Sarah. Perhaps he would like to go with her tomorrow. She looked up to find him staring—his expression intent, his blue eyes burning.

  “What is it?”

  He shook his head slightly, as if coming out of a dream. “It’s nothing.” To her surprise, his cheeks reddened.

  She closed the book of recipes and went to where he sat in the plain wooden chair that served the writing desk. He laid down his quill and gestured to his lap, so she sat, her arm around his shoulders, her bottom resting on his hard thighs. He kissed her neck.

  “Tell me what you were thinking, Magnus.”

  He pressed his face against her throat and she could feel the heat. He chuckled, the sound husky. Melissa shifted subtly, moving her bottom higher until she felt his cock: he was hard. He hissed in a breath.

  “You have been thinking about me, I hope.”

  “Yes.” The word was muffled by the quickly heating skin of her throat.

  “Magnus?”

  He pulled away and looked up at her, his face positively flaming. “I was wondering about that man—Hugo.”

  “I’ve already told you I never—”

  “Shh, I know. I wasn’t thinking that. I was wondering what he does there?”

  Mel blinked. “You mean at The White House?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he
is . . .” She bit her lip and then shook her head in frustration. “I know you don’t like the word whore, Magnus, but I’m afraid I’m at a loss as to how else to describe it.”

  But her husband wasn’t interested in semantics. “I understand about needing to use the word. I don’t understand about him.”

  Magnus was, she realized, curious about Hugo. Perhaps even titillated by the notion of what he did, but too innocent or embarrassed to know how to articulate it. Melissa realized, rather late she supposed, that this was at least one way in which she could help her husband: sexually. After all, what was the good of being the most sought-after whore in London if you couldn’t share some of your hard-won skills with the man you loved?

  She saw he was waiting. “Part of The White House caters to women.”

  He blinked. “You mean as customers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Women go to a brothel?”

  Mel couldn’t help it, she laughed.

  “You are laughing at my naïveté. Yes, yes, you are Mel,” he insisted when she opened her mouth to argue. “That’s all right, I am naïve. However, I’m not completely unaware and I’m positive I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “That’s because it’s not something I advertise. It is a service that sells itself by word of mouth alone.”

  He just stared.

  “Everyone knows men go to prostitutes—aristocrats, poor men, and—yes—even members of the cloth on occasion.” He opened his mouth and she shook her head. “You asked, Magnus. Will you let me finish?”

  He made a show of shutting his mouth tight.

  “Just what do you think women do when their husbands keep mistresses and live their entire lives with them—complete with a half-dozen children like our very own royals do?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Some women like the pleasures of the flesh. But even the wealthiest women are the property of their husbands or fathers or brothers or whatever man controls their lives. Women must satisfy any needs they have in utter secrecy or risk being beaten, committed to an asylum, or divorced. That is what I offer: discreet sexual pleasure for women. And Hugo is the most popular of my employees.”