“You stayed away from me,” she pointed out. “If you knew, why didn’t you come here the next morning? Why did you dance with a Frenchwoman?”
He looked down at her with his small, crooked smile. “I wanted a bit of revenge. For your calling in the favor. I found it hard, you see, to admit that I had lost the challenge. But I was about to come to you when you finally wrote me.”
There was just one thing, one small question that she had to ask: “So you won’t wish to return to France someday?”
He pressed a kiss on each of her eyelids. ?
??I’m done trying to throw myself from Walter’s carriage. I loved him, and I love you. And I’ll love that babe once we have him or her. I have the fiercest wish to hang onto the reins, Emma.”
“I love you,” she whispered into his neck. “Je t’adore.”
“In English, Emma. In solid, old-fashioned, Anglo-Saxon English, I love you.”
A Note About Scene Painters and Sisters
As a female scene painter, Emma would have been quite unusual for the 1800s, although not utterly improbable, as women were employed in many areas of the stage by this period. I made Emma a scene painter because my imagination was caught by the description of Philip de Louther bourg’s sets for Drury Lane, created in the 1770s. One of de Loutherbourg’s innovations was to stretch colored silks on side scenes that served as transparent shades, casting a brilliant color on the backdrop. As soon as I read this detail (thanks to my brilliant research assistant, Franzeca Drouin), I imagined the scene between Emma and Gil: a proud Titania challenging—and conquering—her wayward Oberon. The description of the fairy woods is purely my invention, although the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was certainly probable. In the season 1811-1812, for example, there were eight Shakespeare revivals staged at Covent Garden theater alone.
One final note: Emma’s sister Bethany Lynn is a real person, blessed with a passionate and loving husband who wrote me a note out of the blue, telling me of his wife’s birthday and his wish to give her a particularly interesting birthday present. So . . .
Happy Birthday, Bethany Lynn!
The Vicar’s Widow
JULIA LONDON
Chapter One
London, 1816
On the chilly December night that Darien, Lord Montgomery, hosted a holiday soiree in honor of his sister’s recent nuptials, some happy culprit seasoned the cranberry punch with an entire bottle of gin.
The crime was established quite early when the offending bottle was found, sans contents, beneath the sideboard where the punch was being served. Or rather, had been served, as it had proven to be a popular refreshment.
Any and all would acknowledge that it wasn’t entirely unusual for a little sauce to be covertly added to the punches at lively affairs in Mayfair’s finest homes—particularly when the invitation list included some of the ton’s most notorious revelers—but it was unusual for the ton’s least-likely revelers to be in attendance, and on this night, the results of mixing those two crowds with a little gin proved to be . . . well, interesting.
Particularly for Montgomery. Not that he’d been among the revelers to have overindulged in the punch (more was the pity), but because he’d been occupied with tending to the comfort of his nearly one hundred guests, as well as ensuring that his good friend, Lord Frederick (otherwise known as Freddie), did not scandalize every young lady beneath the mistletoe as he seemed bent on doing.
In light of that, it was an ironic twist that Darien himself would be the one to do the scandalizing.
In hindsight, he could not begin to describe how it might have all happened, other than to note that he did indeed own a reputation for being something of a notorious bachelor. His favorite activity, after all, was women—flirting, seducing, making love—followed closely by hunting and equestrian sports. He was not, in his own estimation, the sort of chap to pass up an opportunity to gaze at a young lady’s décolletage or take a kiss . . . or more, were the lady so inclined.
But that evening, he had enough to do just playing host.
All right, then, to be fair—he had indeed made a trip or two to one of half a dozen sprigs of mistletoe he had hanging about the grand salon of the old Montgomery mansion on Audley Street, both times hoping to catch the vicar’s wife below it.
Oh yes, he’d certainly noticed the vicar’s young wife, along with every other man in attendance. How could he not? She was lovely. She had a glow about her, the sort of complexion one associated with the good health of country folk. With her pretty green eyes and reddish blond hair, she was quite remarkably pretty, especially when compared to the pale-skinned debutantes who stocked the streets and parlors of London.
But the most remarkable thing about the vicar’s wife was her vivacious smile. When she spoke, her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. When she smiled, it seemed as if her entire body and those around her were illuminated with the brilliance of it. That smile was the one thing that compelled Darien to attend Sunday services each week, and not, as he had professed, the vicar’s rousing sermons.
And Darien imagined that lovely smile was what caused the good vicar, Richard Becket, to return last spring from his annual trek home to Bishop’s Castle in Shropshire, quite unexpectedly, with a wife. Darien would have been sorely tempted to do the same, had he been in the vicar’s shoes.
This December night, she arrived dressed in a deep green velvet gown that was the exact color of her eyes, and Darien could not seem to keep from looking at her. As the evening wore on, and the guests grew livelier (thanks to their gin-soaked libations), her smile seemed to grow brighter, warmer, and on more than one occasion, it seemed to be aimed directly at him.
But Darien lost track of her altogether when Lady Ramblecourt had a nasty encounter with a chair, after which, having observed that fiasco, what with the wailing and whatnot, the natives began to root about for more of the punch. Darien’s butler, Kiefer, was nowhere to be seen, so Darien hastened to the wine cellar to bring up more gin, lest he have a mutiny on his hands.
He was quite pleasantly surprised to find Mrs. Becket on the lower floor, propped up against one side of the stone wall that formed the narrow corridor leading to the cellar stairs, fanning herself. She glanced up when he landed on the last step and smiled prettily.
“Oh, my Lord Montgomery!” she demurred, her gloved hands fluttering near her face. “I pray you will forgive me, but I found it necessary to seek a cool and quiet place for a time.”