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“How is your sister taking your brother’s departure?”

“As I am. Shocked, gradually reconciling herself to his absence. She didn’t see too much of him—like me—in recent years, since the two of us had little in common with Harold and his way of life. Yet, he always loomed in our lives. He was the next head of the family.”

“I’m glad she found time to write me . . . to tell me of your brother’s illness. I did pray for him.”

He rubbed his chin, looking away. “I’m sorry I didn’t write you myself—”

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t expect you to write me.” She stopped, embarrassed by the memory of their last meeting.

His gaze rose to meet hers. “I should have. I received a note of thanks from your father shortly after I left London.” Before she could decipher his reception of her father’s letter, he continued. “I could use the excuse that I was too preoccupied by my brother’s condition, but it wouldn’t be the truth.” He watched her steadily as he spoke, his voice soft.

She maintained his steady gaze with effort. “I had no reason to expect to hear from you ever again—” Her voice caught on a sob at the last word, and she clamped down her jaw to control her emotions.

He covered her clasped hands with his hand, dwarfing hers. His hand felt warm, causing a yearning to feel it upon her cheek. She remembered his lips touching hers that afternoon in Kew.

“You had every reason to hear from me. I was very concerned for you after that . . . that evening. Well, I shan’t refer to it except to say that Captain Forrester and I called upon you the next afternoon only to hear from Mrs. Phillips that you had decided to return here. You can imagine our shock. I had no idea your state of mind the next day. Then as soon as I returned home, I received a summons from my own father to come to Kendicott Park without delay.”

He took a deep breath. “Yet, I continued to wonder why you had left London in such haste. I know you perhaps didn’t wish to see”—he cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening, then rushed the next words—“Mr. St. Leger again, but you had no reason to fear scandal. No one but Captain Forrester and I knew anything, and you can be sure we would never breathe a word.”

As he spoke, Jessamine’s eyes filled with tears, and she didn’t dare move her hands to swipe at them. Try as she would to stem them, as Mr. Marfleet continued in his gentle tone, the tears welled up, until they spilled from her eyes onto his hand.

Before she could move to seek a handkerchief, his eyes met hers
with concern. “I didn’t mean to distress you. Forgive me.” He pulled his own handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and patted her cheeks, first one, then the other as if she had been a child.

She sniffed and tried to sit back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying. I—I’ve put that . . . evening behind me.”

“It’s because I’m being very clumsy at explaining why I didn’t write you.” He smiled crookedly. “I wished to, and yet didn’t dare.”

Her eyes widened. “Didn’t dare?”

“I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t know your state of mind, and . . .” He shrugged as if not finding the right words. “I was angry and . . . and disappointed in you at first, but that’s long since past. You are not to reproach yourself for anything. That blackguard took advantage of you.”

She wiped her nose with her own handkerchief and looked away from him. “You had—have every right to reproach me. I was foolish and naïve—and willful—and deserved what happened to me, and can only thank God that He sent you and Captain Forrester to rescue me that night so that I suffered nothing more than a headache.”

“Shush. Do not reproach yourself, Miss Barry. You behaved no differently than any young lady of the ton. He is the blackguard. But I don’t wish to speak of him. He has left London, and you have no need to worry about him ever again. I only beg your pardon for not corresponding with you sooner to see how you fared.”

With a sigh he drew back from her. “And then so much time had passed—and so much has happened, that I decided the only thing for it was to see you in person.”

She shook her head, still amazed that he had made this trip just to visit her. “You had no need to make such a journey.”

He raised a light red eyebrow. She had once thought that shade so unattractive and now found herself admiring it. His skin was pale. Her gaze lowered. His lips were well shaped, not too narrow, neither too fleshy. His chin had a faint cleft.

“I had every need.” His lips tilted slightly on one side. “I wanted to meet your father, for one thing.”

She was able to return his smile. “He seems to like you.”

His smile broadened. “I am relieved to hear you say so.”

“My father likes everyone—but he would be particularly interested in someone who shares his love of botany.”

“He promised to show me his collections tomorrow, including his
Gelsemium
sempervirens
.”

Her eyes flew to his. “Yellow jasmine?”

“The very one.” Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I asked particularly about it.”

“It is just an ordinary vine. It is probably not even in bloom.”

“That’s all right. I have enough bloom before me.”

As if conscious suddenly of having said something flirtatious, his face filled with color and he looked away, clearing his throat.

She would have pitied him if she wasn’t so relieved that he didn’t witness her own flushed cheeks.

“Shall we return to the house?” she asked.

“If you wish.” His tone returned to the polite, sober one he’d used in the parlor. He stood and held his arm out to her.

She complied, trying to hide her disappointment that their walk was at an end.

When they arrived at the house, he paused before the door. When he didn’t open it right away, she looked up to find him regarding her. “Is something the matter?” she asked.

“I hope there is not. I merely wished to ask you if I might call upon you?”

“Call upon me?” she echoed faintly. “But . . .” She placed a hand to her throat, feeling her quickening pulse. “I—you live away.”

“I was thinking of staying in the neighborhood a while.”

“Oh.”

“Unless it would be distasteful to you. I don’t wish to remind you . . . of things you’d rather forget.”

She shook her head. “No, of course not.”

“Then perhaps tomorrow. Your father promised to show me his greenhouse.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” That must be his reason, his desire to see her father’s collection. She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. “It is nothing like Kew.”

“That’s all right. I look forward to seeing it.”

Without another word, he opened the door and held it for her.

They found her parents still in the parlor.

Her father rose and rubbed his hands together. “They aren’t much, but I hope you derived some pleasure from the gardens.”

“They were most enjoyable,” Mr. Marfleet said at once. “Very nicely laid out and full of variety. Thank you for the opportunity to see them, in such agreeable company.”

Her father bowed his head, his twinkling eyes meeting Jessamine’s.

“Well, I shall make my way to the village now. I believe I saw an inn there as we drove through.”

“Yes, there is a nice inn there, but please, I hope you will stay with us while you are in Alston Green.”

Jessamine’s gaze flew to her father. He was inviting Mr. Marfleet to stay in their humble parsonage? She turned to see how Mr. Marfleet would react.

“I wouldn’t wish to put you and your wife to any trouble. There is my coachman and a groom, though they, of course, can stay at the inn.”

“Capital,” her father said, rubbing his hands again. “We haven’t a lot of room for a retinue of servants, but we would certainly wish to have you stay with us during your visit. And of course to sup tonight.”

Mr. Marfleet looked to Jessamine as if asking her permission, and she could only offer a small smile, too confused by the rapid turn of events to do more.

It seemed to be enough because he turned to her parents and thanked them again for their hospitality. Her mother then took charge, going with him when he left, to give his servants directions to the inn.

“Well, my dear.”

“Well, what?” she asked carefully, afraid of what her father would say.

He took her by the elbow to lead her toward the window, where they watched the footman unload Mr. Marfleet’s baggage. “I do believe you have a serious suitor.”

“I think he is only here to see your plant collection. I . . . I told him much of it when I knew him in London.”

Her father chuckled. “I shall be pleased to show it to him if that is the reason he claims.”

“I don’t know if that is what he
claims.
” She didn’t want to make Mr. Marfleet out to be a deceitful person. “I was only deducing that from his words.”

He patted her hands, which she realized she had begun to wring. “Never mind what you think he means by his visit. I am just happy that he seems a fine young gentleman. A man both your mother and I could be well pleased with
if
our only child has caught his favor.”

She looked into her father’s loving gaze, unable to find any words to refute him.

23

T
he days went by quickly—too quickly for Lancelot. He’d been at the parsonage five days already, days spent in the bosom of a family such as he’d never known, a family filled with love and warmth for each other and for anyone under their roof. They had received him as one of themselves.

All except Miss Barry.

He still didn’t know her true feelings. He glanced sidelong at her now as they trudged along one of the turf paths in the countryside. She took him on one of her long walks each day, except the one day when it had rained, which they had spent in the greenhouse helping Mr. Barry transplant some seedlings of a species he was propagating.

Miss Barry was unfailingly friendly and sympathetic, showing interest in whatever topic he spoke of. She was everything a good friend could be, but was there hope for more?

Anytime he broached anything approaching his own feelings, she changed the subject in such a polite, gentle way that he could not take offense, yet still he felt rebuffed.

He had not pressed the point because he, too, wanted to make sure of his heart. Taking his sister’s advice, he used the days to
ascertain whether what had drawn him to Miss Barry in the first place had in any way diminished.

It had not. Each day brought new delight in her company and a greater certainty that this was the woman God had for him.

But he could not deny the reluctance in her.

Was he yet so distasteful to her? Was her resolve never to be a vicar’s wife unchanged? But he would not always be a vicar, she must realize that now.

He drew out a breath, knowing whatever her sentiments, he could wait no longer to express his own. His parents needed him home. And he needed to make a decision on his own immediate future.

He felt the letter that lay folded in his pocket, the one he’d received that morning.

The bishop needed an answer.

“May we sit awhile?” He pointed to a grassy area under a large oak tree in the nearby meadow.

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Once they were settled under its shade, he knew of no way but to go directly to the point. “Do you know why I came to visit you, Miss Barry?”

She looked away from him and made a vague motion with her hand. “I supposed you wished to see my father’s collection.”

“Your father’s . . . ?” He let out an abrupt laugh, which he cut short as soon as he saw her look of alarm. “No, that was
not
the reason—though I have enjoyed discussing botany with him and seeing his achievements.”

He drew in another breath, hoping his next words wouldn’t repel her. “I wished to see if you . . . you returned my feelings.”

This time she didn’t look away but repeated faintly, “Your feelings?”

He nodded. He edged closer to her and took one of her hands in his. He loved the feel of her smaller hands the few times he’d
been able to hold one of them. They were so soft . . . and felt so right in his. “I wished to ask you to be my wife.”

Her lips parted, and her green eyes scanned his. “I didn’t think you’d—” She shook her head and pulled her hand away, leaving him with a sense of dread. She half turned from him, giving him her back. “You can’t want me for a wife, not after how I behaved with Mr. St. Leger. You will be Sir Marfleet some day. Your parents would never accept me.” She waved back toward the way they’d come. “You see how humbly my parents live.”

He reclaimed her hand and held it firmly. “But what do
you
wish, Miss Barry?”

She shook her head. “It’s too late for what I wish,” she said in a choked voice.

His heart sank. Did she still have feelings for Mr. St. Leger? “What is it?”

She bowed her head. “It’s too late for me to wish for things.”

“Because of what happened that night?”

She nodded, not looking up.

“I’ve told you—
you
did nothing wrong. And if you showed poor judgment in encouraging Mr. St. Leger in any way . . .” He struggled for a way to express what he wanted to say. “It is perfectly understandable. You were a young lady enjoying her first season. Perhaps you flirted a bit with St. Leger. It’s not wrong to be flattered by a young man’s attention.” It was coming out sounding all wrong.

But as he spoke, she slowly turned to face him again, and he tightened his hold on her hand, feeling encouraged. His heart hitched at the sheen of tears he detected in her eyes.

“My father wouldn’t have condoned flirting with Mr. St. Leger.” She sniffed. “I allowed my vanity to believe he found me attractive—pretty enough to compete with the other young ladies of the ton.” She brought a fist up to her mouth. “I was so hurt by . . . by . . .” She struggled once more and he waited, his breath held.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, she continued. “When Rees—Mr. Phillips—fell in love with Céline and left me for her.”

For a moment, he felt confusion. Then he remembered meeting Mr. Rees Phillips. The revelation was like a clanging bell in his chest. So, he had been right—she did love Mr. Phillips!