The Vicar's Widow

Darien laughed, urged her up and helped her from the barge. He let the boatmen go, giving the captain a handful of coins to disappear for a couple of hours, then led Kate across the exterior dock to the boathouse.

Her blue eyes widened when they entered the interior. Near the open doors, two piles of rich brocade cushions lined either side of a damask tablecloth. On the tablecloth, a pair of silver candelabras rose above several covered platters. Two bottles of wine were nearby, as were china plates and silver cutlery. In the boat slip, candles floated, bobbing languidly in time to the rain on the roof.

And everything was covered in rose petals.

Darien glanced at Kate. Her lips had parted slightly; her eyes were wide as she tried to absorb what he’d done for her. Actually, he was rather impressed himself. He had described what he envisioned to Kiefer, but he’d never dreamed it would look as good as this. The man had outdone himself, and Darien made a mental note to commend him for his mastery.

“I’m . . . astounded,” Kate said at last.

“I’m rather astounded myself,” Darien said.

They sat on the cushions; Kate gazed out the doors open onto the river as he lit the candelabras and poured the wine. “I can scarcely believe you’ve done all this . . . for me,” she said softly, gesturing to the picnic.

“Why can’t you?” he asked, tipping his wineglass against hers and lifting it in a salute before drinking.

“No one has ever been so considerate of me,” she said thoughtfully and smiled warmly. “I’ve never been given a picnic. It rather warms the cockles of my heart, my lord.”

Darien grinned. “That’s all the thanks I need,” he said and put aside the wine and lifted the dome from the first platter. Roasted asparagus. “I should think your husband, may he rest in peace, might have treated you to a picnic now and again,” he said, broaching the subject that had weighed heavy on his mind these last few weeks.

“No,” Kate said, shaking her head and drawing her legs up against her chest. “Richard was a good husband. But he was not as creative as this.”

“Asparagus?”

“Please.”

“Your husband was a clever man. I rather enjoyed his sermons. But I must confess, Mrs. Becket, that I have often wondered if he knew about the Christmas soiree.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

Her eyes filled with a regret that speared him, and she dropped her gaze to her lap as she shook her head.

Darien said nothing. He regretted it, too, and feeling awkward now, he busied himself with putting chicken and roasted potatoes on her plate.

“He was fond of you, you know,” she said after a moment.

That surprised him greatly; he looked up to see if she was jesting as he handed her the plate. “Of me?”

“Mmm. He once said that your reputation was born of what little society really knew about you, but that you were far greater than they knew.”

Darien arched a brow in surprise. “He said that of me, did he?”

She nodded, bit into the chicken. “It’s delicious!” She gave him a pleased smile that he rather suspected would entice men to move mountains. “Richard knew of your charitable works, of course. And your endowment for the boys’ school.”

It was Darien’s turn to color slightly—his endowment was not something about which he cared to speak. That sort of information invariably brought beggars and charlatans crawling out of the woodwork looking for money.

“Does that disconcert you?” she asked, smiling softly.

“A bit,” he admitted with a wry smile. “But not for the reasons I think you’d believe. It’s just that I’d rather keep that sort of effort to myself.”

“Your secret is quite safe with me,” she said lightly. “And besides, I rather enjoy hearing the other things people know about you. I’d hate to cast you in a favorable light and dash all their presumptions to pieces.”

“What other things, if I may?” he playfully demanded.

Kate shrugged and bit the top off the asparagus spear. “I can hardly be specific, you know. There are so many things said. And written. And debated.”

“Are there, indeed?”

“Mmm. The on-dits in the society pages, you know. Whether or not you were actually seen at Vauxhall Gardens with Lady Spencer on your arm, or was it, perhaps, Lady Penshurst?”

“Lady Penshurst?” Darien cried, almost choking on the roasted chicken. “Madam, I’d rather be drawn and quartered than accompany Lady Penshurst so far as the garderobe!”

“My lord!” Kate cried with a burst of laughter.

“I’m quite serious,” Darien insisted. “There was never a more disagreeable woman in all of England, you may rest assured!”

“But you do not object to Lady Spencer?” she asked coyly.

Darien lifted a brow. “No more than you object to Connery, or Anglesey, or—”