A Kiss to Remember (15 page)

At the sight of the dimple in his cheek, the tension melted from her shoulders. “You shouldn’t tease so, sir,” she chided with a half-smile of her own. “It’s most unkind.”

He gave a mock shudder. “I certainly wouldn’t want to incur your wrath. I’m beginning to think this fellow deserves my pity more than my scorn. Surely being cast from your good graces is punishment enough for any man.”

As he reached to tuck a feathery strand of hair behind her ear, Laura could no longer tell if he was teasing. She couldn’t even quite remember how they’d ended up on the ground, on their knees, so near that if he wanted to kiss her he had only to slip his head beneath the brim of her bonnet and touch those exquisitely skilled lips of his to hers.

Dropping the last of the blooms, she scrambled to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Radcliffe, I need to speak with Reverend Tilsbury about a matter of great importance. Please inform Cookie that I’ll be back in time for tea.” She gathered up her gloves and started for the gate.

“If you don’t believe in ghosts,” he called after her, rising to his feet, “then what are you so afraid of?”

You.

Half-afraid she had spoken the damning word aloud, Laura hastened from the churchyard, leaving Nicholas standing among the crumbling gravestones, his only companion the alabaster angel who kept vigil over Eleanor Harlow’s grave.

When the bells began to toll their melodious invitation on Sunday morning, Nicholas didn’t waste time burying his head beneath the pillow. He simply rolled out of bed, ignoring the disgruntled chirp of the small yellow cat who had made a nest of his pillow, and splashed a bracing dash of cold water in his face.

As he ushered George and Laura into the family pew of St. Michael’s a short while later and slid in after them, followed by Lottie, he felt nothing more than a sense of mild resignation. He had high hopes of dozing his way through both the sermon and the second reading of the banns, since there weren’t to be any surprises to jar him from his nap this week. As the rector mounted the steps to the mahogany pulpit, he settled himself more comfortably into the pew.

“Today,” the white-haired man intoned, adjusting his spectacles, “we will examine the wise words of King.

Solomon in Proverbs Nineteen—’Tis better to be poor than a liar.’ ”

George’s foot lashed out, kicking Laura soundly in the shin.

She let out a sharp yelp, quickly muffled into her glove, but not before several of the parishioners had turned to glare disapprovingly at them. Frowning, Nicholas shook his head at George, wondering what spirit of mischief had possessed the lad.

Before he could ask Laura if she was all right, Lottie’s reticule lurched into his lap and began to gnaw at the edges of his prayer book.

“Sorry,” she murmured, retrieving the silk purse with an angelic smile.

Nicholas stretched out his legs and propped his cheek on his open palm, feeling his eyelids growing heavier with each of the rector’s droning words. While the sun streaming through the mullioned windows warmed the musty nave, the little man went on and on with some nonsense about liars falling into the devil’s clutches.

Nicholas was drifting in and out of a misty dream where he was kissing each freckle on Laura’s creamy skin when he heard the man say, “As soon as your new rector is ordained, I will be leaving you.”

Good, Nicholas thought uncharitably without bothering to open his eyes. It was a pity he couldn’t leave immediately.

“As all of you know, I have been dividing my time between three parishes since Reverend Fairleigh was called home to heaven seven years ago. Although I have grown quite fond of Arden and all of you during this time, I must confess it will be something of a relief to
hand over my duties and responsibilities a few months hence. I pray you will join me in welcoming the man who will soon be your new rector to our parish—Mr. Nicholas Radcliffe!”

Nicholas jerked awake, wondering if he was still dreaming. But the only constant between his delicious fantasy and this nightmare was the presence of the woman sitting beside him.

She was staring straight ahead, her profile as brittle as a piece of fine porcelain. Were it not for the uneven rise and fall of her bosom, he would have sworn she wasn’t even breathing.

He glared at her until she had no choice but to turn and meet his smoldering gaze.

As she slid her gloved hand into his, a tremulous smile curved her lips. “Welcome to our parish, Mr. Radcliffe.”

They’re havin’ their first quarrel,
they are. Why, it’s enough to break an old woman’s heart!” Cookie whispered, dabbing at her eyes with her apron.

“If he makes her cry, perhaps she’ll break the engagement,” Lottie said hopefully.

“If he makes her cry, I’ll break his neck,” George snarled.

Dower scowled. “If they’re quarrelin’, ’ow come I don’t ’ear no shoutin’ or cussin’? It ain’t a proper quarrel without a bit o’ pottery bein’ flung.”

It was fortunate that their varying heights and Lottie’s lack of concern about wearing out the knees of her Sunday stockings made it possible for all four of them to press their ears to the drawing room door at the same time.

“Try the keyhole,” Dower suggested.

Wiggling between George’s legs, Lottie squinted through the brass opening. “All I can see is the key. I do believe he’s taken her prisoner.”

Dower began to roll up his sleeves. “That’s it, then. Break down the door, George, while I fetch me pitchfork.”

“Don’t be a ninny, old man,” Cookie chided, punching him on the arm. “Young lovers must be left to make up their own quarrels. You might not remember that nasty row we had over that Fleet Street doxy when you was courtin’ me, but I bet you ain’t ever forgot the cuddle we had afterward.”

“Of course I ain’t. Why do you think I’m goin’ to fetch me pitchfork?”

“Shhhhh,” Lottie hissed, flattening her ear against the door. “I think I hear something.”

Lottie was mistaken, for inside the drawing room Laura sat on the ottoman in absolute silence, thinking that she’d never actually seen a man too furious to speak. Her father had been a mild-mannered soul who considered displays of temper vulgar and unseemly. She’d once seen him drop an enormous Bible on his foot, breaking two toes, only to roll his eyes heavenward and beg the good Lord’s pardon for being so clumsy. She’d never once known him to lift his voice to her mother or any of his children, much less his hand.

Laura watched Nicholas prowl back and forth across the drawing room with wary fascination, the way one might eye a hungry lion pacing its cage in the Royal Zoo. Except at the Royal Zoo, she would have been safely outside the iron bars instead of inside the cage with the lion. The yellow kitten perched on the hearth studied his movements with equal absorption, as if trying to determine which one of them he would gobble up first.

He’d shed his church clothes for the pagan comforts of his lawn shirt and buckskin trousers. Every few steps
he would wheel around to glare at her, open his mouth as if to say something, then clamp it shut again, and resume his pacing. After repeating this ritual several times, he was reduced to shaking his head and running a hand through his hair until he looked every bit as wild and dangerous as Dower still believed him to be.

He finally stopped with his back to her, rested his balled fist against the mantel, and said, very softly, “I don’t suppose I’m given to swearing, am I?”

Laura shook her head. “Only under extreme duress.”

He swung around to face her. “And just what would you consider extreme duress? Would it be waking up naked in a strange bed with no memory of who you were? Would it be suddenly discovering that you’re about to become the husband of a woman who swears you’ve never even had the good sense to kiss her? Or would it be learning, along with the rest of the good folk of Arden, that you’re to be the village’s new rector?” His voice rose. “Don’t you think you might have discussed that little snippet of information with me before sharing it with the town crier?”

“I told you I had to speak to Reverend Tilsbury on a matter of great importance. And what could be more important than our future together?” Laura folded her hands primly in her lap. “I thought you’d be pleased to learn that I’d arranged a living for you. Arden is a small parish, but when you combine the income you’ll be receiving from the parishioners with the money the manor earns from its flocks, we should be able to manage quite nicely. We won’t be wealthy, but we won’t be destitute either.”

Nicholas sighed. “I appreciate your practicality, but
what if I don’t wish to become a clergyman? Did that thought never occur to you?”

“And why wouldn’t you? There’s really nothing to it—just marrying, burying, and the occasional baptism. My father studied at home for months, but when he went to take his orders, he was most disappointed in the ease of the examination. The bishop simply asked him if he was the same Edmund Fairleigh who was the son of old Aurelius Fairleigh of Flamstead, then clapped him on the shoulder and took him to see a bawdy play.”

“At least I’ll have something to look forward to,” Nicholas muttered, raking a hand through his hair again.

“I can help you study, you know,” Laura told him earnestly. “I’m fluent in both Hebrew and Greek.”

“How inspiring. Perhaps
you
should be Arden’s new rector.”

His jaw taut, he flung open the doors of the secretaire and began to shove aside cracked leather ledgers and scraps of yellowing stationery. A cut-glass decanter Laura had never seen before emerged from the shadows.

As he withdrew the decanter from its hiding place, Laura sat up straighter, thinking it peculiar that he’d known exactly where to find it. Judging from the layer of dust furring the glass, the brandy within must be very well aged indeed.

As he carried the decanter over to the tea cart and found a clean glass, Laura cleared her throat in what she hoped was a delicate manner.

Nicholas jerked the stopper from the mouth of the decanter.

“I hesitate to mention it…” she began tentatively.

He splashed a stream of liquor into the glass.

“Especially at such an inopportune moment…”

He lifted the glass to his lips, the fierce light in his eyes daring her to continue.

“… but you never indulge in spirits.”

“Bloody hell and damnation!” Nicholas slammed the glass down on the cart, sloshing half the brandy over its beveled rim.

His curse hung in the air between them like a warning roll of thunder. Laura wasn’t sure whether to duck or make a run for the door. But then a slow smile began to spread across his features. A smile so sensual it made Laura’s toes curl within the pinching confines of her shoes.

“That felt marvelous,” he proclaimed.
“Bloody
marvelous!”

Her eyes widened as he raised the glass and tossed back what was left of the brandy. His tongue circled his lips, capturing every stray drop as if it were the sweetest of nectars, while his eyes drifted shut in an expression of pure bliss. When he opened them again, they were glittering with determination. He refilled the glass, then lifted it in a defiant toast before polishing off its contents.

Then he filled the glass a third time and crossed the room to put it into her hands. “Here. You might have need of this.”

“But I’ve never—”

He arched an eyebrow in warning. She subsided and took an obedient sip. The stuff burned a tingling path down her throat that was unnerving, but not unpleasant.

Nicholas retrieved another glass and poured himself more brandy. He draped one arm along the length of
the mantel, the glass dangling from his long, elegant fingers. “It has come to my attention, Miss Fairleigh, that every time I’ve turned around in the past week, you’ve been telling me what I do and don’t fancy. ‘Have another one of Cookie’s crumpets, Mr. Radcliffe,’” he mimicked. “ ‘You’ve always loved Cookie’s crumpets.’ ‘Do listen to this poem Lottie wrote. You’ve never failed to find her sonnets amusing.’ ‘Why don’t you and George play another hand of loo, darling? He does so enjoy your company.’ ”

His voice rose with each word. “This may come as a shock to your delicate sensibilities, my dear, but your brother can barely stand to be in the same room with me, Lottie is a spoiled brat who couldn’t write a decent couplet if Will Shakespeare himself came crawling out of his grave to help her, and Cookie’s crumpets are dry enough to choke a camel!”

Laura’s horrified gasp was nearly drowned out by a trio of echoing gasps from outside the drawing room door.

Leaving the glass on the mantel, Nicholas strode across the drawing room and flung open the door. The foyer was deserted, but the sound of scampering feet echoed through the manor. Shooting Laura an accusing look, he shut the door with deliberate care and twisted the key in the lock.

She took another sip of the brandy, this one much larger than the last.

He leaned against the door and crossed his arms, continuing as if they’d never been interrupted. “I hate to spoil the sainted image of me you’ve obviously been cherishing in your heart for the past two years, but
spending my afternoons painting watercolors with Lottie bores me to tears and I can’t abide those silly card games George seems to be so fond of.”