Page 15 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
Chapter 4
May 4, 1815
De Courcy Manor
Hampshire
“Asatisfying visit, I imagine?”
Wills took her chair at the dinner table and smiled at her father. “Indeed.”
Barkleigh Jerford Sheffield, the Earl de Courcy, a convivial fellow at core, had a dim view of mingling with those one did not know well. Papa had many good qualities. Attentive landlord. Generous employer. Kind family member. But egalitarian? Never.
Moreover, hetook only polite interest in anything the Viscount and Viscountess Courtland did. Politically opposite, the earl and the viscount had argued last winter in the House about a bill pertaining to punishment for poachers. The debate, one of dozens the two had engaged in over the past decade, had left a sour note in her father’s mouth. That he brought it up—and the viscount, her recent host, had not—left an ugly taste in hers.
“The usual guests?” he asked her as the footmen began to circle round to offer family the soup course.
“My friends from school. Looking well, thank goodness. A few who are new to the guest list.”
Her mother met her gaze. Wills had spoken with her minutes after she arrived home earlier this afternoon. Sharing the news of who among her former schoolmates was engaged, who wasenceinte, who had not attended this year, Wills had left out any tales about the Courtlands’ new, enthralling vicar.
“What of the new cleric?” Her father had an uncanny knack for choosing the very topic she wished to avoid.
“Yes, they have one.” She attended to her spring pea and carrot consommé.
“And? What?” The man persisted. “Is he all fire and brimstone? Courtland, I understood, had that in his last appointment.”
She sought a neutral bit to relate. “No, sir. He is a peaceful sort.”And devastatingly handsome.“A new thinker.”
“Oh, the devil, you say.” His spoon halfway to his lips, her father paused and skewered her with a frown on his broad brow. “Why bring one’s politics into the pews? Not good for the people.”
“Bark!” Her mother shot her ire toward her husband. “Nor is this subject good for your digestion.”
He gave his wife a shrug. “I hear he’s young. Wills? Is he?”
She could envision Charlie in all his glory. His thick dark hair ruffled by the breeze, a curl dripping low over his tanned brow. His flashing green eyes, sparkling with humor, full of compassion—and desire. For her. She shivered and concentrated on her soup.
“Willa!”
She jumped. “Sir?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Young? Is he young?” she mused. “Not very. Not very old, either.” How old was he? If he’d served so long with the Army, then he must be in his late twenties. Older than she. Those lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes told the tale of those sights he’d seen. More severe was the despair etched in the tautness of his mouth and the set of his jaw when he spoke of men wounded and dying.
Her father checked her mother’s expression but came back to focus on Wills. “What’s wrong with you?”
She dipped her spoon into her soup. “Nothing, sir.” Best to bluff her way out of this or he’d be on this topic for the next hour. “Why do you ask?”
“You are usually very willing to share every detail of this party.”
“I could, sir. But the trip home was long. I am tired. Forgive me.”
He busied himself with his soup, unhappiness furling his brow.
Wills waited for the assault she knew he prepared to conduct.
Minutes later, he set it out for her. “I’ve received word yesterday from the Earl of Pendenning.”
