Page 32 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
He was not accustomed to rejection. What he had in life—a university education, violin lessons, his Army rank and even his position in his parish—he himself had demanded or earned. Roiled at her father’s abrupt rejection, Charlie had left her family’s home and returned to his vicarage. While he pined, he also criticized himself for vanity. If she had suffered as long or as much as he, he had not written to ask or to prolong the agony. He had left her with an injunction three weeks ago. Was she here to enact it? Propose to him?
Her father was within his right to refuse his suit. But he’d done so in anger. Without moral cause. Marriage to a lowly vicar in a small parish was not a socially acceptable choice for the daughter of an earl, an heiress, a blue-blood of Norman descent and cousin to Valois French royalty. No matter that he was son of a duke. No matter that the use of a house from his father and a generous salary this past year plus the living the Courtlands gave him brought him more than enough money. No matter his beneficent work at the Marlborough Foundling Hospital saving children, feeding them, clothing them, loving them. He could save the world. But if she would not fight to have him, he must not pursue her.
Despite what he’d done to improve his lot, he would not propose again to her. She had to come to him. And so…
He’d not go near her. He’d not attend the ball tonight. Ignore her tomorrow at the wedding and the breakfast reception. Then soon after she would leave.
And he would spend months once again imagining her smile.
He shook his head and slogged on.
Bugger it! He needed his luncheon. One of Mrs. Powell’s sturdy stews that would put lead in his stomach, blubber in his brain and send him to his favorite chair for a nap. To hell with finishing his sermon for Sunday!
