Page 9 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
Her reluctance to marry did not mean, however, that she lacked attention of many men. She was too appealing for anyone to ignore. The next morning, she sat in his church, a vision in apple green, a bonnet of white straw strewn with apple blossoms perched on her black hair. She was rapt, her eyes flashing in the reflected greens of her pelisse. God, she was lovely and he congratulated himself for having written his text. He would have mumbled like a school boy had he not the script before him. After the service, he hurried to the doors. His heart pitter-pattered like a youth as she approached and shook his hand in thanks.
“You develop a good theme, sir.”
Relief swept through him that she took no umbrage as his topic. “I’m pleased you enjoyed it.”
“Instructive, I’d say.” She nodded, an imp’s wicked smile on her lips. “For some.”
“For you?”
“I think it over. Are you up to the house later?”
“I am invited, yes.”
“Then I look forward to seeing you again. Good morning, sir.” And off she trod, amid a group of her former school friends and two gentlemen who were also house guests for May Day.
Up at the house for luncheon, Charlie found her fully engaged by a myriad of gentlemen who were all too ready to converse, dine or stroll with her. They seemed intent upon imitating prancing peacocks who spread their feathers to display to her.
She—he happily saw—was not enthralled.
Yet wherever she was that day—with friends at cards again or in the village for the beginning of the May Day frolics—she sought him out with a glance, a far off secret smile, a little tip of her head. She had not been bored with his own company. He’d felt in his bones her warm regard, bathed in it, used it as justification for his quest to court her himself.
That evening at the Courtlands’ annual May Day Ball, he entered the gilded ballroom with one purpose. To find the woman whose question had him pondering his own acceptance of his profession and the direction of his life.
Dressed to the gills in his formal attire like the peacock he neither was nor would ever have the right to be, he was determined to ask her to dance, to speak, to touch her, to experience once more that shot of fire when she laughed or locked him in her intimate gaze.
Now to find her attired in her own jade silk finery like a frilly bird of paradise fogged his mind of purpose. Her bodice was low, her breasts perfectly rounded beauties, rising and falling above the thin fabric that made his mind frizzle like bubbles in champagne. She was laughing, a trilling sound that warmed his heart…and hardened his cock. Joy upon her lips, her head thrown back, she made him itch to take her mouth and make mad love to her. In a bed. Sans that sensational gown.
He grinned. She caught him at it too and gave an unladylike snort. The man who stood before her did not seem to take it as any indication of his boring demeanor, but leaned closer to her and tried to whisper intimately in her ear. The bounder.
Charlie scowled. A gentleman—who at the moment seemed to be less than that—was forcing her backward one step at a time toward the far wall. Her lovely expressive mouth curving downward, Lady Willa fended off the creature with firm refusals and a feral look in her eye of an animal cornered.
What is a good vicar to do when finding a fellow human in peril, but to perform a rescue?
“Good evening, Lady Willa.” He bowed before her. “Hello, Jerman. Good to see you.”
Lord Jerman, a former captain in the Fusiliers, was known for his stubbornness, his lies—and his penury.
“Compton.” The man inclined his head. He was a viscount without land and income and he had searched for years for a suitably rich bride to buy him out of his innumerable debts. No such lady or papa had been so gullible as to do so and Jerman counted on his fabricated war record to commend him to any and all. “Dressed to dance? I didn’t think men of the cloth did that.”
“I do, Jerman. I say, Lady Willa, may I have the honor of the next set?”
She opened her mouth to answer.
But Jerman did it for her. “I am her partner for this.”
“The one after that, then.” Charlie met her gaze, noting relief and delight there.Marvelous.
When Jerman took her hand and led her to the chalked floor, Charlie remained where he stood. He hadn’t trusted Jerman out of his sight in France. He wouldn’t do it here with her.
When at last Jerman brought her back to him, Charlie said his thanks and turned away from him. “A glass of rattafia?” he asked her.
She offered a pained brow. “Must I?”
“Wine, then.” He chuckled and found the attention of the nearest footman with a tray. As he handed a glass over to her, her fingers brushed his and the flames in his blood fanned to a blaze.
“I have news for you,” he told her, steadying his nerves, as her dreamy eyes remained focused on his.
“You’ve spoken, have you,” —she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling— “with Him?”
