Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1. Louise Allen

we?” Beau gestured to the cottage.

      “If you should wish me to delay a few moments until you finish your business with Mrs. Martin—” Lady Ardith plied her long lashes and gave him a smoky glance “—I could be persuaded. ‘Tis so enjoyable to ride with a partner.”

      Mrs. Martin made a choking sound, which she turned into a cough.’ ‘I can bring any necessary supplies with me when I call on your brother,” she volunteered.

      “No need for you to tarry then, my lord,” Lady Ardith said. “Have you ridden the trail by the river? ‘Tis wonderous scenic once you reach our land. My husband had several little grottos constructed that are charming and quite … private. Shall we race?” She inclined her head to the stallion he’d secured to the fence. “Your beast looks quite fresh, and my mare—” she sidled him a glance “—is nearly the best mount in the county.”

      “Do go, my lord,” Mrs. Martin said, her innocent tone at odds with her suspiciously twitching lips. “I shouldn’t wish to you to miss Lady Ardith’s kind offer.”

      He shot her a sardonic glance. The grin she returned looked entirely unrepentant.

      “Another day, perhaps,” he told the horsewoman.

      “Come now, I dare swear you’ve time for a little sport,” Lady Ardith persisted. “I promise you’ll not regret it.”

      Beau had no desire to conduct his business with Laura Martin while this lightskirt lay in wait for him outside the cottage. Giving Mrs. Martin an indignant glance that caused her to choke down another gurgle of laughter, he turned his attention to the necessity of getting rid of the annoying Lady Ardith.

      “A short ride,” he said.

      “Excellent.”

      Ignoring the lady on the sidesaddle, he turned back to Laura Martin. “I shall see you later, ma’am.”

      A devilish twinkle lighting her eyes, she dipped a demure curtsey. “My lord, Lady Ardith.”

      Not bothering to acknowledge Mrs. Martin, Lady Ardith brought her horse closer. “Can that stallion of yours perform as well as my mare? Let’s see!” With that, she spurred her mount.

      “Soon,” he warned Mrs. Martin, and set off.

      Half an hour later Beau brought his stallion to a halt at the shed behind Laura Martin’s cottage. He was not, he thought smugly as he dismounted and tied the horse to a post, the only person who could fob off an unwanted escort.

      Leaving his mount hidden back here, where no passer-by could see it and decide to interrupt his visit, Beau stealthily traversed the garden, intending to enter by the back porch door.

      Memories of the vision he’d stumbled upon the last time he’d silently approached down these herb-lined pathways kindled a flicker of heat in his stomach. Unbidden, the feel of her waltzing in his arms under the spangled stars, the taste of her lips meeting his eagerly, welled up in him, fanning the flicker.

      Not yet, he told himself, curbing the memories. He’d not have the wit to calm her fears and win her trust if he walked in with his body aflame.

      He paused by the door and raised his hand to knock.

      And heard something—Mrs. Martin’s high clear voice interspersed with deeper tones.

      Not again. Frustration humming through his veins, he paused on the threshold, debating whether to wait out the annoyance of a second visitor or to slip away and return later.

      He’d first determine who her caller was, he decided. Silently he eased the back door open and crept down the hallway until he could see into the front parlor.

      The scene he spied there paralyzed both thought and movement. In front of Mrs. Martin, who sat on the sofa by the window, he saw Reverend Blackthorne down on one knee.

       Chapter Thirteen

      Disengaging her hand, Mrs. Martin backed away from the vicar—straight toward Beau. Recovering his frozen wits in an instant, he leaped aside to flatten himself against the staircase wall, knowing it imperative he remain hidden until he’d sorted out what to do about this extremely disagreeable development.

      His first furious reaction—to stalk into the parlor, seize Reverend Blackthorne by his shirt collar and haul him bodily out of the cottage—he quickly discarded as impolitic, if eminently satisfying. His second thought was a throat-drying fear that in his self-absorbed concentration on maneuvering Mrs. Martin into the sort of relationship that would best satisfy his desires, he’d let this underestimated rival steal a perhaps insurmountable advantage over him.

      If Blackthorne did in fact assuage Mrs. Martin’s distrust of men by offering marriage, and she accepted him, how was Beau to counter that? He might lose her before he’d barely had a chance to press his own claims.

      Cold purpose focused him, let him shake his mind free of angry dismay. There had to be some way to stop this. Without a particle of remorse, he focused on overhearing as much as possible of the conversation.

      “Please, Mr. Blackthorne, I beg you proceed no further,” said Mrs. Martin, distress in her cool voice.

      That reassuring request was followed by the soft pad of Mrs. Martin’s footsteps, but in his current position Beau could not see where the occupants of the parlor now stood. Move away from him, he silently urged.

      “Surely my feelings cannot come as a surprise,” Blackthorne said, a bit of reproach in his tone. “I’ve long held you in esteem, as our dealings with each other must have shown.”

      “I felt you esteemed me as a member of the community who attempted to assist those in need, as I esteem you,” she replied. “Nothing more.”

      “Perhaps I was not as … forthcoming as I should have been,” he conceded. “A man of my position must naturally be circumspect to avoid becoming fodder for the local gossips. But I regret that restraint, if it left you in ignorance of the steadily increasing warmth of my regard. So much that I must beg you let me continue!”

      Beau heard heavier footfalls, and grimly concluded the reverend must have pursued Mrs. Martin. “Please, sir—”

      “No, dear lady, you must allow me voice! Granted, had certain … events not transpired I should not have chosen to approach you in so precipitous a manner, but at this critical moment both personal desire and my duty as your spiritual advisor demand that I address you now.”

      Beau heard Mrs. Martin’s ragged sigh. “Continue then, if you must.”

      “I beg you will acquit me of conceit if I state what I see are the advantages to you of this match. At this moment I occupy a position which might appear to offer little worldly gain, but I have an income independent of this living and the ear of my father, who is, I assure you, a most influential man. My wife and children will want for nothing. For months I’ve been increasingly drawn by your modesty, excellence and nobility of character, a beauty of soul surely the equal of your lovely countenance. I think we could pursue a common purpose. While I cannot claim to be without flaws, I hope I bear no more than my human share. Should you do me the honor of becoming my wife, I should earnestly strive to make you happy.”

      Though Beau could hardly have hoped the vicar would offer a lady of his parish carte blanche, still the formal proposal shook him to his boots. A widow in Mrs. Martin’s tenuous position, unless she held her suitor in absolute abhorrence, would be a fool to refuse such an offer.

      Torn between dismay and hopeless anger, Beau waited in wretched silence for the inevitable acceptance.

      “Mr. Blackthorne, please understand I am fully cognizant of the brilliance of your offer. A woman who occupies as humble a position as I could not help but be honored that a man of your birth and position would consider her for his wife, but—”