The Vicar's Widow

And then suddenly she forced her hand up between them and pushed hard against his chest, forcing him to let go. She stepped back, bumping up against the obelisk, blinking up at him.

Darien refused to let go and merely smiled.

So did Mrs. Becket. “That was a terribly wicked thing to do,” she whispered.

“Yes, it certainly was. I’m a heel, a roué. A rotten bounder. But I adore you.”

Her smile deepened with pleasure, and she playfully shoved him away. Darien let go, stepped backward. She slid down the obelisk and reached for her basket, carelessly tossing the flowers into it before rising again. “I must insist you not behave in such an objectionable manner again.”

“Of course not,” he said, bowing his acquiescence.

She smiled, righted the bonnet which had slid off the back of her head, and put the basket on her arm. “And now, I will take my leave of you, sir, for you cannot be trusted with my good virtue.”

“You are quite right. I most certainly cannot.”

With an impertinent smile, she began walking.

Darien watched her for a moment, the smooth swing of her hips, and suddenly called out, “Kate!” He stopped her with the use of her Christian name, the first time he had ever uttered the name aloud, except to whisper it on those occasions when he longed for her the most.

She did not turn round but slowly glanced over her shoulder. “My lord?”

“Do you care for picnics?”

She said nothing at first, turned halfway toward him, assessing him. After a long moment, she smiled again. “I do,” she said, and with a laugh, she turned and glided away from him, her basket swinging carefree in her hand.





Chapter Six




Lords Montgomery and Frederick arrived at the Wither-spoons’ May Day Ball, the two of them striding into the ballroom looking quite dashing in their black tails and black waistcoats over pristine white shirts.

They paused just inside the entrance of the ballroom and casually glanced about, seemingly oblivious to the young debutantes who coyly eyed them from behind their ornate fans. Spying a group of men, the two proceeded forward to join them.

On the other side of the dance floor, Emily watched Montgomery as he chatted with the other men, absently looking about, openly eyeing the ladies who twirled about the dance floor as well as those who lined the wall, not so fortunate to be standing up with their favorite beau.

This was the second time in as many days Emily had seen the viscount. Yesterday, it had been in Hyde Park, where she had been riding with her mother. They had happened upon Montgomery, who was likewise on horseback, and Emily’s mother, sensing her interest, had invited him to join them for a leisurely ride about the park.

That was how Emily learned he had not intended to be in London this season at all but had meant to be abroad, but that something had cropped up at the last moment, and he had remained in London. He claimed to be happy for it, as things seemed, he said, infinitely brighter this season. He’d been looking at her when he said so.

Emily believed he intended to convey something personal to her with that remark, and after a full day of stewing about it, she was feeling rather confident about her prospects with Lord Montgomery and his forty thousand pounds a year.

So confident that she took Tabitha by the hand and made her promenade about the dance floor with her, finally easing to a halt near the group of men who were laughing together at something one of them had said.

Tabitha instantly realized what Emily was doing and hissed, “What do you mean to do?” as she self-consciously fidgeted with the pale blue ball gown Emily knew she’d wear.

“Would you care to dance, or stand aside all night, looking quite indistinguishable from the pattern of the wall covering?” Emily hissed back.

Tabitha was clearly taken aback by her remark and reluctantly nodded and bowed her head.

Emily straightened, her back stiff as a board and pretended to watch the dancers while she tried to listen to the gentlemen’s conversation. Unfortunately, what with the music and din of conversation in the room, she could make nothing out but the occasional round of laughter. She moved slightly, turning her head just a bit, and therefore missed the approach of Lord Dillingham.

The instant she realized that someone had joined her and Tabitha, she quickly extended her hand—but Tabitha’s hand was already in Lord Dillingham’s.

“Miss Townsend,” he said, bowing over her hand and lingering there for a moment before slowly lifting his head and smiling warmly at her. “You look quite lovely this evening.”

Tabitha nearly swooned.

Emily cleared her throat; Lord Dillingham shifted his gaze to her. “Miss Forsythe,” he said, not quite as warmly. “How do you do?” He bobbed a little over her hand and quickly let go.

“Very well, thank you, my lord,” Emily said stiffly.