The Vicar's Widow

“No one shall ever know; I give you my word,” he vowed.

As much as she wanted to go, as much as she longed to go, she knew what sort of man he was, and she knew very well what a man like him would want with a widow. Hadn’t her father just said as much? And as much as she might want the same, she could not risk her honor. “I scarcely trust a man with your considerable reputation, sir.”

“Aha. Then you have heard me labeled a scoundrel, have you? I will freely confess to being a scoundrel and more, if it pleases you,” he said, with a fetching grin. “It’s all quite true; I will not lie. But that was all before you, Kate. You have my word that I will honor you, as you have my word your honor will be protected always with me.”

When she did not immediately respond, he tugged her closer. “You know I adore you. You know I want you. And if that desire is unrequited, I scarcely care—I will honor your wishes if you will just be with me for the afternoon.” And then he smiled in that devilishly charming way he had, tugging lightly at her hand, and Kate felt herself light up inside like one thousand beeswax candles.

“You must fear for your eternity, my lord,” she said, taking a tentative step toward him. “For you will surely suffer the consequences of spiriting a widow away from her father’s home.”

“Madam, I am more than prepared to suffer the fiery pits of hell for it,” he said cheerfully and popped open his umbrella as he carelessly pulled her into the rain.





Chapter Eight




They ran across the manicured lawn beneath their umbrellas, Kate’s bonnet dangling from her hand, through the mews that ran along the side of the vicar’s house and out to the main street.

At the gate, Montgomery stopped and stood on tiptoe to peer out through the ornate wood carvings that adorned the top of the fence. “Perfect,” he said low. “There’s no one about in this wretched weather.” He grabbed the gate handle, pulled it open, then took Kate’s free hand securely in his and pulled her along behind him, through the gate, and to the left, striding purposefully down the walkway, Kate running to keep up.

She felt as if she were eloping, running off to something spectacularly secret.

At the corner of the street, there was a large black landau coach, fully closed, with a gold crest painted on the side, attached to a team of four grays. Two men were perched atop the driver’s seat, their hats pulled low over their heads and the collars of their greatcoats turned up around their ears.

Upon seeing the viscount, one of them hopped down and quickly put down a small footstool before the coach door.

He pulled open the door as they reached the coach. “Milord,” he said, bobbing his head.

“Thank you, Percy.” Montgomery held his umbrella high over Kate, took hers, and handed it to the man before helping her into the interior of the coach.

Kate gasped as she settled onto the velvet bench; the interior walls were covered with red silk; the two opposing benches were covered in bloodred rose petals that filled the coach with a heavenly scent.

Montgomery came in behind her, landing directly across from her on the dark velvet squabs, his knees almost touching Kate’s, beaming proudly as the door swung shut behind him. “What do you think? Is it to your liking?”

“It’s lovely,” she said. “Breathtaking. I shudder to think how many innocent roses met their demise here.”

He laughed, tapped the ceiling, and the coach lurched forward.

“Was it some sort of accident?” Kate asked, looking at them scattered on the floor, on the bench, and sticking to his wet boots and her wet hem.

“Ach, have I failed so miserably? I rather hoped you’d find the look and scent of them appealing.”

“Oh, of course I do,” she said laughingly. “But it’s a pity that they’ll lie inside your coach while we . . . while we are elsewhere? Or do you intend to picnic in the coach?”

“There are plenty of roses in England. A veritable army of them, actually,” he said with a wink, and leaned over, withdrew a small flagon of wine from beneath the bench and then a small glass. And another. “It seems as if my genius is not yet apparent to you.”

“On the contrary—a picnic in a coach is quite imaginative. Some might even be moved to call it genius.”

He grinned, obviously pleased by that. “Imaginative, perhaps, but a bit close, wouldn’t you agree? No, the picnic is somewhere else entirely,” he said as he poured a small amount of wine into a glass and handed it to her. “We shall be leisure in the course to our destination, where you will dine on roasted hen, tender leeks, and sweet pudding.”