Page 51 of Miss Delightful
The sooner he freed her from this vicarage, the sooner she could unleash her thunderbolts of reform on the unsuspecting and take the world by storm.
And take Alasdhair by storm too, of course. He was looking forward to that part very much.
He stroked her hair, searching idly in Gaelic for the state of bliss that came afterin love. “Shall I get that special license, Dorcas?”
“You haven’t even spoken with Papa yet.”
Nor did Alasdhair need to. The vicar’s daughter had been ordering her own affairs for years, all unbeknownst to her father. But Dorcas would appreciate the usual protocol, and Alasdhair had planned to observe it.
“I will beg a moment of his time tomorrow, then. When would suit?” The vicar would not know his daughter’s schedule for the rest of the day, but Dorcas would be acquainted with every appointment and outing on her father’s calendar for the next month.
The mulish light flickered across her features, then she used the end of the plaid scarf to dab at her eyes. “Right after the noon meal. Papa has no appointments in the early afternoon, and he relies on me to deal with any callers.”
She did not look like a woman who’d all but agreed to become engaged. She looked forlorn and bewildered, and Alasdhair wanted to take her in his arms all over again.
“Dorcas, do you trust me?”
“Yes.” A gratifyingly swift and certain answer.
“And I trust you. This is all moving too quickly for you, I suspect, but I have searched for years to find the woman my heart has yearned for. If I am not the man your heart has yearned for, then set me aside, and there’s an end to it. You remain in control of this situation, though it might not feel that way at the moment.”
He could hear his cousins berating him for that speech. Bad strategy to remind a woman she was always free to change her mind. But maybe not. Goddard hadn’t married his Ann for anything less than true love, and Powell was cut from the same cloth. When he fell—and he would fall eventually—he’d fall hard and forever.
Dorcas gave Alasdhair a considering look, then patted his chest. “You are right. You have quite swept me off my feet, and the novelty of such an approach is disconcerting. Much to my consternation, the last thing I want to do is set you aside,Alasdhair.”
She brushed a kiss to his cheek and slipped into the vicarage. She had perfected the art of the effective retreat, had Dorcas.
Alasdhair stood for a moment, staring dumbly at the closed door, then made his way back to the tea shop for a reprise of his snack. By the time he’d finished his second sandwich, he’d resolved in his mind that the morning had been a victory.
Dorcas had confided her worst regret to him, which was only fair when he’d imposed the same burden on her first.
She had called him Alasdhair, and on purpose.
She had not forbidden him to get a special license—very telling that, very encouraging.
She had permitted him to schedule a call upon her dear papa. More telling still.
She had flung the most endearing string of insults at him—awful, abominable, horrid, and so forth. She’d have to do better than that once they were married. He’d teach her some Gaelic, and she could doubtless brush up his Latin.
By the time Alasdhair had returned home, he was entirely pleased with the morning’s events. Dorcas had also called him hopeless, but—finally, at last—that adjective no longer applied. And as long as he was married to his darling Dorcas, Alasdhair would never be hopeless again.
* * *
Dorcas frequently longedfor solitude at the vicarage and was just as frequently denied that boon.
After the discussion with Alasdhair—how she delighted to think of him thus—she stood behind the closed front door and contemplated the enormity—the wonderful, miraculous, heady enormity—of becoming his wife.
Possiblybecoming his wife, for more challenges lay between her and that objective. Such ponderings called for several long, slow circuits of the garden, though meeting minutes would have to come first of course.
Dorcas was no stranger to joy. Every time a parishioner was safely delivered of a healthy baby, every time an engagement was announced, when Papa’s sermon was especially well received, she was moved to happiness on behalf of those involved.
But to marry Alasdhair and leave the vicarage would mean more than joy, it would mean freedom of a magnitude Dorcas had not permitted herself to contemplate. Papahaddoted on Michael, Papahad notseen the danger to a young daughter as clever as she was headstrong.
Not that the past was Papa’s fault, of course.
“Oh, there you are.” Mrs. Benton stood at the top of the steps that led down to the kitchen. “Did you have a nice outing, Miss Dorcas?”
“I did,” Dorcas said, setting her bonnet on its customary hook. “How was the market?”
