The Vicar's Widow

“I suppose I can, and I did,” he’d said gruffly.

“But why, Papa?” she’d asked as she had taken the gown from the modiste box to admire it.

“Is it not obvious, Kate? You are a young woman in the prime of her life. I can’t bear to see you sitting about this tiny house wearing that drab vicar’s wife gown, reading to an old man night after night! You deserve happiness! You deserve the very best this life has to offer! But you’ll not find it rapping at your door—you must seek it, and I’ll be damned if I’ll allow you to seek it looking like a martyr.”

Kate loved her father dearly. And on any other occasion, she would have been proud to wear the gown, thrilled with the luxury of it. But on this occasion, she felt nothing but dread. How could she see him, see his eyes and his mouth and his broad hands, and watch him publicly offer for Miss Forsythe? She’d die of heartache; she was certain of it.

It was not to be borne.

But she’d not had the heart or the courage to tell her father what had happened between her and Montgomery, and therefore could do nothing but don the gown and attend.

Her resolve crumbled quickly once she reached the ball and saw her father into the gaming room, however, for everyone was whispering about the impending offer Lord Montgomery would make for Miss Forsythe. “He’s forty thousand pounds a year,” Mrs. Peters whispered to Kate as she helped herself to punch. “That will make Mr. Forsythe quite happy, I assure you, as his fortune has dwindled somewhat with his son’s gambling debts.”

“Forty thousand pounds a year,” Kate said evenly. “That’s almost impossible to comprehend, is it not?”

“Not if you’re Miss Forsythe, I assure you,” Mrs. Peters said with a decided smirk.

“It happened at the May Day Ball,” Kate overheard one young woman say to another. “He was very attentive to her.”

“Because she fainted,” the other woman said, clearly not as impressed with the events of the May Day Ball.

“And you wouldn’t do the same,” the first woman chastised her friend, “if Lord Montgomery had whispered decadent thoughts into your ear?”

Kate tried to stay away from the whispering and conjecture, and busied herself with the preparation of the night’s auctions. It was an exercise in futility, for it seemed that everywhere she looked, Darien was standing there, looking magnificent in his formal tails and snowy white waistcoat, his eyes gleaming as he chatted with other guests. And if she felt her heart start to tear in two again, she would turn away from him, only to see Miss Forsythe, looking quite serene in her gown of pink and green.

Worse yet, more than one woman looked at her with some disgust. Or in the case of men, with lust.





Emily’s court gown, as she explained to Tabitha, was made by a French modiste. Tabitha declared she couldn’t possibly tell if it was French or English, but that it was perfectly lovely for such an important occasion. Emily thought it was more than perfectly lovely—it was the grandest gown in the entire room. When Montgomery offered for her, she’d be the envy of every woman in attendance.

In truth—not that she’d admit this to another living soul—she’d been rather anxious when she and her family had arrived tonight. Even though her father returned home from calling on Montgomery with the news that he would offer for her this very night, Emily had been bothered by the small detail that he’d not called on her personally to say as much. Shouldn’t he have done so? Her mother said no, that it was not absolutely necessary to do so, seeing as how he’d already spoken to her father.

Perhaps not. But still . . .

When the Forsythes had arrived earlier, it seemed as if everyone in the entire ballroom knew about the supposed offer that was to take place. Emily was aware of heads turning toward her, whispers at her back. And when Montgomery made his entrance with Frederick, calm and perfectly poised, she’d known a bit of panic. How could he possibly be so calm if he contemplated making a public offer that would impact the rest of his life?

But then Montgomery had walked very near her, and had paused, turned round, and walked to her. “Miss Forsythe,” he’d said, bowing low.

“My lord,” she said and curtsied as she offered him her hand, as she had practiced dozens of times in the privacy of her chambers.

“It gives me great pleasure to see you this evening.”

Emily’s heart dropped to her toes. She beamed up at him. “Thank you!” she gushed.

With a subtle wink, he walked on in the company of his friends, one of whom said, in Emily’s hearing, “You’ll have her eating from your hand before the vows are even said.” For some reason, that remark caused the other gentlemen to laugh heartily. Emily didn’t care—let them laugh, for she’d have the last laugh as Lady Montgomery.