by Kit Morgan
“She’s having dinner with you, isn’t she?” Cecil pointed out.
“True, but perhaps she’s just humoring me. I haven’t exactly been the perfect gentleman around her, I’m afraid.”
Cecil took a batch of biscuits out of the oven and set them on the worktable. “Well, that’s a bit of news. What did you do?”
“Before you condemn me, I’ll have you know there was a witness.”
“You’re not in court, son.” Cecil bent to take out another pan from the oven. “Who witnessed what?”
Fletcher frowned in guilt. “Grandpa caught me kissing her in the parlor.”
Cecil snorted. “Is that what this is about? For Heaven’s sake, son, a kiss is just a kiss.”
Fletcher’s face reddened. “No, Cecil – this one wasn’t just a kiss. It was … A Kiss.”
Cecil’s laughter cut off. “Oh dear. You mean …?”
“Exactly. By all rights I should be forced to marry her after such a kiss.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Forcing yourself?”
Fletcher ran a hand through his hair and began to pace again. “No … well … I don’t think so, but …”
Cecil sighed. “Years ago, if your father had kissed your mother in the way you described, they might’ve had a shotgun wedding. But it’s not 1872 anymore. We’re about to embark on a new century. Times have changed a little.”
“I almost wished they hadn’t. A shotgun wedding might have been easier on me.”
“Why? To save you the heartache if she decides she’s not interested? Come now, son, you’re more man than that.”
Fletcher stuck his hands in his pockets. “What was it like with you and Betsy? When did you realize she was the only woman in the world for you?”
Cecil thought a moment. “We were doing the dishes together and talking about pie recipes. Your parents were in the other room – the parlor, I think – speaking with your grandmother. I noticed Betsy’s eyes and got lost in them. I knew then that I wanted to be able to look into her eyes every day for the rest of my life.”
Fletcher absently kicked at a leg of the worktable. “That’s how it is with Sophie. But it happened so fast. I just want to make sure it’s not because I’m … well …”
“Lusting after her?”
His guilty look was back. “Yes.”
Cecil put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Son, ask yourself if you’d be going through all this trouble to court the woman if it was just lust. Wouldn’t it be simpler to go to Salem or Portland and find yourself a harlot?”
Fletcher gasped in indignation.
“Exactly. You’re not that type.”
Fletcher pulled out a pocket watch, flipped it open and checked the time. “She’ll be down any minute.”
“Gads, man, pull yourself together. If there’s any question about whether or not you’re in love with the gal, then this certainly decides it.”
“In love with her?”
Cecil harrumphed and shook his head again. “Young people!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do yourself a favor, son, and propose tonight.”
“Propose?! The only thing I’ve proposed so far is that we court. For all I know she’s planning to turn me down and say she wants nothing more to do with me.” Fletcher stalked out.
Cecil looked to the ceiling as if imploring the heavens. “Love is wasted on the young,” he grumbled.
Chapter 15
Sophie started down the staircase, heard a gasp and stopped. Fletcher stood at the bottom and stared up at her, his mouth agape. It sent a thrill of power through her when she realized she was the cause. Was Betsy right? Had she put a spark in his eyes?
She studied him, or rather, those mesmerizing eyes of his. How was she supposed to tell? Their unusual color made her dizzy already. Just what did gray eyes look like when they sparked?
“Sophie,” he whispered.
Nervously, she brushed at her skirt, took a fortifying breath and continued her descent. “Fletcher,” she greeted him when she reached the bottom.
He offered her his hand, she took it and he guided her to the parlor. Once there he stood before her, staring like he’d never seen her before. “You look beautiful.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot, then noticed his attire: a dark frock coat and trousers, green waistcoat, and white shirt and bow tie. Not that he looked much different than usual, though the coat was nicer than his normal one. It was the way he looked at her that was different. Gone was the careful, apologetic man lamenting that single glorious kiss. Instead, there was determination in his eye. He’d come to some sort of a decision. She wondered what it was.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Sophie nodded, unable to take her eyes from his.
He smiled and offered her his arm. “Shall we, then?”
She took it, half-expecting him to lead her into some dining room at a formal ball. But of course, he headed for the kitchen.
When they entered, he led her toward the back door. She glanced around, expecting to see a table set for two. “Where … where is it? Where are we going? I thought …”
“Shhhh,” he said, a finger to his lips, and continued outside.
Sophie went with him – and gasped. The table she’d expected to see inside was set up in a private side yard ringed with pink and white rosebushes in bloom, their soft colors breathtaking in the light of lanterns hung in nearby shade trees. “Oh, Fletcher … it’s beautiful.”
“No,” he replied. “Romantic, perhaps. You’re beautiful.”
She stared at him, stunned. What could she say to that? It was just as well, really – the man was trying to sweep her off her feet, and she didn’t want to botch it up. This was unexpected, and she suddenly felt very unsure and shy.
He walked her to the table and pulled out a chair for her. She sat, still silent. She’d never had a man treat her this way before, never had one genuinely interested in her to the degree Fletcher was. She watched as he went around to the other side of the table and sat. “Thank you,” she finally managed.
Cecil walked over, a tray in his hand. “Lemonade?” He wore a butler’s uniform, but much nicer than the one she’d seen him in before. His hair was combed and slicked back, his shoes shined. He looked like a palace servant.
“Let’s not overdo it, Cecil,” Fletcher said quietly as the man poured him a glass.
“It’s my job, Master Vander,” Cecil quipped, his voice crisp.
Sophie watched Fletcher try to suppress a smile.
Cecil served her next and finished with a bow. “Dinner will be served momentarily.” He turned sharply on his heel, clicked them together and left.
Sophie giggled. So did Fletcher. But before either one could speak, Betsy walked up, a tureen of soup in her hands. “May I serve, Master Vander?”
Fletcher nodded at her as Sophie tried not to fall out of her chair in her effort to not laugh.
Betsy set the tureen on the table, served them each what looked like tomato soup, then prepared to leave. She stopped, looked at the ladle, then at Sophie. “You know, I’d leave this here utensil with you in case he got out of line, but I have to serve the folks in the dining room next.” She turned to Fletcher. “You behave yourself while I’m gone or there’ll be the devil to pay.”
Fletcher raised an eyebrow. “Betsy. Manners.”
Betsy sighed. “Yes, Master Vander,” she grumbled.
Sophie could stand it no longer and laughed.
“The things I do for you, son …” Betsy turned and left.
Fletcher closed his eyes and allowed himself a chuckle. “This isn’t going quite the way I’d planned …”
“And how is that? Just what did you have in store for me?”
“Us.”
She stopped giggling. There was that word again. “Us?”
He nodded. “This –” He waved a hand at their surroundings. “– was Cecil and Betsy’s idea. Well, mine to begin with,
but the way they’re acting, the lanterns in the trees … those are their embellishments.”
She smiled again. “Have they done this sort of thing for your parents?”
“On occasion, yes, though perhaps with less formality. But never for me. There was never any call for it before.”
She blinked owlishly. In other words, he’d never courted anyone before, or from his hometown before, or just not to this extent. “So I’m your first?” She wanted to be sure Priscilla was just telling a tale. And call it selfish or shallow, but she wanted to be the first woman he’d seriously courted.
He cocked his head to one side and studied her a moment. “Yes, you could say that.”
Her brow knit with curiosity. “What does that mean, exactly?”
He put his elbows on the table and formed a steeple with his hands. “I don’t think swimming with the other children after school counts as courting, though I did have my eye on Kate Mullaney at one time.”
“Kate Mullaney?"
“Mrs. Brock’s granddaughter. An Irish spitfire who comes to town now and then with her parents to visit, though I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Is she the only one from Independence that’s ever caught your eye?”
He put his hands down and leaned toward her. “Why? Are you jealous?”
She thought about telling him of Priscilla Holbrook’s slanders, but rejected the idea. Why spoil a nice evening? “No, just curious.”
He laughed and motioned to their soup bowls. “We’d better eat before Betsy comes back and lays into us. She gets upset when someone doesn’t finish a meal.”
“I hadn’t noticed. Probably because I always finished mine.” She picked up her spoon, and they began to eat.
Sophie caught herself trying to catch little glimpses of him of here and there. The more time she spent with the man, the more fascinated she became. She’d never had anyone so interested in her, and she still couldn’t believe it. What if it was all an act? What if, for some unexplainable reason, he was doing all this for some other motive, more convoluted than just another kiss? Worse, what if a kiss – and what came after – was all he wanted, no strings attached …
“Are you all right?” Fletcher asked.
She looked at him, looked down and realized she’d dropped her spoon. Where did these ridiculous thoughts come from? What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she just enjoy a nice man’s interest without ascribing it to some kind of evil intent? She picked up the spoon and tried to stay calm. She was jumping to conclusions and that wasn’t fair, to him or to her. “I’m fine,” she said quickly.
He arched an eyebrow at her. “What I wouldn’t give to get inside that pretty head.”
Without thinking, she slurped a huge spoonful of soup. Oh, great – there went her table manners.
He sat back in his chair. “But to save me the trouble of trying to get in there, how about you just tell me what you’re thinking?”
She froze like a mouse under a hawk’s gaze. “What makes you think I’m thinking anything?”
“Because I’ve been with you enough to know that this isn’t your normal behavior. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were upset – and frankly, I don’t know any better. Have I done something?”
Yes! she wanted to scream. He had to go and be wonderful, too wonderful. A cad would be much easier to deal with – that only required anger. This was much more difficult. She wanted him, probably as much as he wanted her. She’d never been so attracted to anyone. He affected her in ways she didn’t understand but was old enough to figure out. Her body wanted him, often terrifyingly so, but at other times, her heart wanted him even more, and the combination was driving her mad.
It could only be one thing. Love.
“Sophie?” he whispered across the table.
She startled at his voice, but mercifully it broke her train of thought. She gave him her full attention, even as she wondered if it would be rude at this point to continue eating her soup.
“Sophie,” he began again. “To answer your question, no, I’ve never courted anyone like this before. Not in Independence, not in Portland, not anywhere. No one’s ever caught my eye the way you have.”
Sophie almost dropped her spoon again.
Fletcher smiled stiffly. “I’ve said enough. At this rate you’ll never finish your soup and neither will I.” He picked up his spoon and, without taking his eyes off her, scooped a spoonful and slurped loudly, just as she had.
Unfortunately, his timing was terrible. “Fletcher Vander, were you raised in a barn? Gentlemen don’t eat soup like that in front of a lady!” Betsy marched to the table, took his bowl from him and pulled the spoon out of his hand. “Land sakes, wait until your grandmother hears about this!” She turned to Sophie and suddenly smiled. “All done, honey?”
Sophie did her best not to laugh. “Yes, thank you.”
“Mm-hmm. At least you eat like a civilized young lady, unlike that barbarian sitting across the table.”
Sophie snorted in amusement. Little did Betsy know …
Fletcher fidgeted in his chair, tried to swallow a grin and failed miserably.
Betsy, soup bowls in hand, glanced between them. “Oh for crying out loud, if you two don’t pull yourselves together, the neighbors are gonna wonder what’s going on over here!” She turned and headed back into the house.
As soon as she was gone, Sophie and Fletcher burst out laughing. “There goes my reputation,” Fletcher managed between guffaws. “Thanks for coming to my defense – seeing as you started it!”
“Me?” Sophie said in mock innocence, then started laughing again.
“Yes, you! You slurped first!” He almost doubled over.
She knew instinctively that he was enjoying himself. Oh, to forget Priscilla’s taunts and simply trust the man sitting across from her had nothing but pure motives. But at least she could give him – and herself – time, time to prove himself true, time for her to heal from past hurts. If he wanted to court her in order to get to know her – and, dare she dream, marry her – time was on their side. Barring yet another disastrous event, of course.
That last clause was the key. She’d been through too many disasters already.
By the time Cecil brought their dessert and coffee, Fletcher had made up his mind about two very important things. One, he not only wanted to court Sophie, he wanted to marry her. And two, she wasn’t ready. He’d have to go slow or he’d scare her away. At times she laughed and seemed perfectly relaxed. Then suddenly her face would tighten with worry and, he noted, there’d be fear in her eyes. She was skittish and he wasn’t quite sure why.
Well, he had some idea why. She’d moved from town to town all her life – Independence was the sixth she’d lived in, in five different states. She’d lost every family member she’d ever had, often after years of illness that she’d had to nurse them through. Just in the weeks she’d been in Independence, she’d lost her fiancé, been implicated in his murder, had to deal with Priscilla Holbrook’s poison tongue, started a new job and her first romantic relationship. It was enough to drive a weaker woman into hysterics.
So the best thing he could do for her was to lessen her burdens – starting with solving Jasper Munson’s murder. He didn’t want it hanging over her head – or his, for that matter. Should they marry, the last thing she’d need was to be haunted by it. It didn’t help that the murderer might still be in the vicinity, though the more time passed, the more doubtful that became. It had been over a week since the incident – what idiot would stick around?
Unless …
“I love chocolate, don’t you?” Sophie dipped her spoon into her chocolate pudding, brought it to her mouth and savored it.
The action almost did him in, and certainly derailed his train of thought. “Is it good?” he asked, unable to tear his gaze from her mouth.
“Mmm … yes, very.” She noticed he wasn’t eating. “What’s the matter? Are you full?”
He glanced at his own
dessert. “No, just enjoying … something else.” He swallowed hard – why had he said that?!
But she didn’t seem bothered, just continued eating her pudding.
He felt his heart race. He wanted to kiss her again – now. Not even the chocolate was helping keep the thought at bay. He took a huge bite anyway, but the thought crossed his mind of kissing pudding off her lips, and he almost choked. Oh Lord, he thought, give me strength.
She stopped eating and stared at him.
He stopped too and returned her gaze.
She set down her spoon. He did the same.
She put her hands on the table and looked around the dimly-lit yard.
“Sophie,” he rasped, and squinted his eyes shut in shame. Could his desire be any more obvious?
Her eyes met his again, and she swallowed. He noticed her chest was rising and falling quicker than before. His eyes widened. It was happening again, to both of them. Egads, what was he supposed to do? The obvious answer – get up, go around the table, take her in his arms, kiss her until they both fainted from lack of air – might not be the best course of action at the moment, but his brain couldn’t come up with anything else.
“I see the two of you are enjoying your dessert,” Betsy said as she approached. Then she stopped, folded her arms across her chest and gave Fletcher a stern look. “You look like a man who’s hankering for a second portion – and not of pudding.”
Fletcher shut his eyes again and tried not to moan. Experiencing it was bad enough; he really didn’t need Betsy pointing it out.
“And you, Miss Baxter, you’re breathing like you just chased a rooster around a barnyard.”
Fletcher’s hackles rose. “Betsy!” he snapped, opening his eyes. Sophie looked like she wanted to hide under the table. “What are you doing?”
“Well, someone has to help love along. Better me than Cecil – he’s liable to come out here and sing.”
Fletcher buried his face in his hands. When Betsy and Cecil made their minds up about something, they had no qualms about seeing it done, no matter who suffered. The couple always had the other person’s best interests in mind – but not always their comfort in the moment. Especially not if they were family.