Page 50 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
Wills hurried off through the throng to lose herself in the masses. She knew any number of the guests and each one, it seemed, wished to stop her, talk and purr at her about her gown, their health, news of theton. But Charlie was on her trail and she’d come tonight to show him up. Dance with other men. Flirt with other men. That was wrong, childish, punishing him for being the good man he was.
“You avoid me,” he said as he appeared next to her, two glasses of champagne in hand.
“We’ve nothing more to say to each other.”
He thrust the goblet into her hand. “I have much to say.”
“Get on with it, then. I’ve much to enjoy here tonight.”
His eyes lit in anger. Or was it jealousy? “I’ve tried to improve my lot. This past year, I’ve written treatises…”
Two of Charlie’s parishioners approached the banquet table and Charlie of necessity lowered his voice.
Wills gave a harsh laugh. “And your novels. By Reverend Peoples no less!”
The lady next to Wills had overheard and leaned close to her. “Oh, my goodness, that man is provocative, is he not?”
“Assuredly, Lady Barnsly.” Wills smiled at the woman and her husband. “He does make revolutionary statements.”
“I hope,” said Lord Barnsly, “he is not supported by our great church. What a travesty that would be, what, what?”
Charlie’s face turned bright red. “Do you not think, my lord, that the church must speak for all its children? They are His Creatures and—”
“And the poor must raise themselves up,” the man said with conviction. “Hard work. Good character. Earn their way. That’s the rub.”
Charlie grit his teeth.
Would he argue with the Barnslys? She’d heard him debate others on the topic. So had she. Last year here talking with others and Charlie present, too, she’d railed against child labor in the mines and factories of the north. Not just here in Britain but the world over.
She faced the two others fully, eager to state her case and to help Charlie make his. “A child has a need for sunshine, air, companionship and fun. I doubt there is much of any of that one hundred feet beneath the green grass.”
“True,” offered the lady with a tone that told she was soon to counter Wills’s position.
Charlie took Wills’s elbow. “Excuse us, please, my lady, my lord.”
“Deft, that,” she said when they were far from the two Barnslys. “Applause to you.”
“I believe what I said to them.”
“I’m know you do.” She downed the remainder of her champagne. “What you believe is so commendable. I support you in it. Your right to say it, believe it, fight for it. I think you honorable. More than any man I’ve ever known. And I wish it were possible for us to… But it isn’t.”
And then she left him. She strode away, wandering amid the magnificently attired crowd of titled ladies and gentlemen. They were the titled and well-to-do of the countryside assembled here to celebrate the wedding tomorrow of the only daughter of a viscount to the son of a duke. She was one of them—and she was imprisoned by the rules they lived by.
He caught up to her. “Dance the next set with me.”
She swallowed hard. Desire warred with despair.
“You love the music,” he whispered, so near, his emerald gaze searing her.
She gave him her hand. “Once. Then we part.”
He led her to the group forming on the chalked floor. His demeanor was that perfect, kind. His tempo, accurate. His steps, precise. He’d been taught well, but then he was the son of a duke. He’d had all the privileges of his patrimony, the courtesies, the education, the affiliations. But none of the freedoms his father enjoyed. None of the financial benefits his elder brother Oliver inherited—and took great license to fritter away.
She let the music carry her. Years of training in the necessary appearances for one of her rank had her focusing on him and matching his steps with her own attention to rhythm. They met in two steps forward, retreated in three. They’d done the same in life. Meeting and finding comfort in each other quickly, but just as quickly parting when her father would give no blessing to such a match.
The set continued with a roundelay that took her toward other men, other matches. Yet those too were brief pairings, blithe and immaterial, with partners who were as cool as the society that controlled them.
The final portion of the dance was the progression down the line. If she could survive society’s censure, she would have skipped down the line and have done with this farce. But she couldn’t. She was that much of a creature of her class that she did not wish to be ridiculed.And so what I do, I do in secrecy. To save my pride first. And only secondly to save my soul.
