A Bride Of Honor. Ruth Axtell Morren

Reverend Hathaway.”

      Damien turned to greet an elderly parishioner. “Good morning, Mrs. Oliver. How nice to see you out again. How are you feeling this fine April morning?”

      The white-haired lady smiled beneath the deep rim of her straw bonnet. “Praise be to God, I am feeling quite myself again. After you prayed for me, the rheumatism in my joints subsided.” She patted his hand. “You were so kind to visit me while I was housebound.”

      “I am thankful to have you back among us.”

      With a last pat to his hand, she indicated the ladies behind her in the line—and Damien was caught by the large brown eyes of the beautiful young lady of the front pew.

      With an effort, he pulled his focus from her and turned to the older lady, intensely aware of his deformity.

      “I’d like to present you to my dear friend, Miss Yates,” Mrs. Oliver went on in her friendly tone, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “And this is her young cousin, Miss Phillips, just returned to London from school.”

      He bowed to the older lady. “How do you do?” Everything about her indicated a lady of rank and distinction. Her dark cloak was edged in fur, her manner dignified.

      Miss Yates inclined her head slightly, a genial look in her blue eyes. “Very well, thank you. I found your sermon most edifying. I look forward to visiting again.”

      Unable to resist the sincerity in her tone, he smiled. “You are always welcome. Please come any Sunday.”

      Damien tried to appear calm and untroubled as he prepared to bring his attention to Miss Phillips. It had been merely a trick of the light that had made her appear so ethereally lovely from his vantage of the pulpit, he told himself.

      Nevertheless, a flush crept from the edges of his white clerical collar to his hairline as he turned to her.

      The impact of her honey-brown eyes almost knocked him over. They were framed by lashes a shade darker. Tawny eyebrows created an arresting contrast to her golden hair.

      She was even lovelier up close than she’d appeared in the pew. Blond curls framed a heart-shaped face. A finely chiseled nose curved up the tiniest bit at the end.

      “How do you do?” he finally managed.

      She murmured something indistinct and looked down.

      He cleared his throat, searching frantically for something to say—anything to prolong the moment. But his mind had suddenly emptied of all lofty thoughts. He might never have preached an edifying sermon moments ago. “I’m honored you joined our humble congregation today.” As soon as the words were out, his face grew warm. He sounded as if he were toadying for a compliment.

      She looked up immediately. Her smile lit up the rich brown depths of her eyes and brought radiance to the delicate pink of her cheeks. “Oh, no, sir—it is we who are honored. I mean—that is to say…”

      Her evident confusion eased his own agitation. “I hope you enjoyed the service.”

      “Oh, yes, sir—Reverend—” She stopped.

      A kindred feeling stirred inside him as he realized how shy she was. She was very young, perhaps no more than seventeen or eighteen.

      He forgot his own fears in his wish to put her at ease. “Hathaway.”

      “I beg your pardon, Reverend Hathaway.”

      He was unaccustomed to reacting so to a young lady, but then he’d never been so close to one so lovely, and so obviously of rank.

      Before he could think of anything else to say—and conscious of the line of people waiting behind her—she said, “I…I enjoyed your sermon, Reverend Hathaway. Very much. I mean, I’m not certain if ‘enjoyed’ is the correct word….”

      His mouth turned up at the corner in rueful understanding. “I hope you found it thought provoking at the least.”

      “Oh, indeed, yes! That is a much better way to put it. I…I’ve never heard preaching such as yours before. It…it wasn’t comfortable, and yet—” she drew her dark eyebrows together “—it filled me with something I’ve never felt before.”

      The words were what every preacher wanted to hear. He tried to dismiss the thought that the pleasure he felt from the compliment was heightened by the fact that it had come from such a lovely young creature. To hide his confusion, he turned to his sister. “May I present my sister, Florence Hathaway, and her fiancé, Jonah Quinn.”

      She greeted both.

      “Enjoyed the preaching, did you?” Jonah asked with a smile.

      Again, she blushed, but did not lower her gaze as she had with Damien. “Yes, very much.”

      “Our Damien always preaches a good one. Warms the insides when it doesn’t feel like a punch in the gut.”

      Her laughter joined Jonah’s. “Oh, yes! That’s it exactly.”

      Jonah winked at both ladies. “Why don’t you come ’round for tea this afternoon for more of Reverend Hathaway’s wit and wisdom?”

      Damien was preparing to greet the next parishioner in line when Jonah’s words stopped him. His eyes sought his sister’s. Florence was rarely at a loss in any situation—she would know what to say. But Florence was looking at Jonah, stunned.

      An awkward silence followed when Florence did not speak up immediately to second the invitation. Damien, who knew his sister so well, realized she must be feeling nervous about entertaining ladies of such distinction. As the silence stretched out, he knew he must say something. Except for the rector and his mother, they rarely entertained members of the ton in their modest parsonage.

      Damien bowed his head toward Miss Yates. “We would be honored if you would visit us this afternoon.”

      “We should be delighted,” the older lady replied immediately. “What time would you expect us?”

      Florence seemed finally to remember her obligations as hostess. “Would four o’clock suit you?”

      “Four o’clock would be perfect.” Miss Yates touched her young companion on the elbow. “We must be going.” She bowed to the three of them. “Until this afternoon.”

      Damien watched them continue down the church steps and across the lawn toward a fine-looking carriage, his mind in a daze. A liveried servant sprang down and opened the carriage door for them, confirming his supposition that they were members of the upper class. When the servant slammed the door shut, Damien noted that it was decorated with a blue-and-gold crest.

      “Reverend Hathaway.” The peremptory tones of another female parishioner yanked his attention back to the receiving line.

      “Yes, Mrs. Cooper, how lovely to see you this morning….”

      Lindsay sat in their coach as it carried them down St. George’s Row along the northern edge of Hyde Park. Reverend Hathaway’s sermon still echoed in her ears.

      His words had seemed directed at her, exhorting her in a quiet, earnest way to become a true disciple of Christ. Church sermons had never been like this before. Sermons were usually dry, delivered in the elevated tones of a minister who seemed more concerned with his elocution than the text.

      Never had she heard the scriptures in such a personal way, a way that demanded something of her even though she’d always lived according to the church’s laws.

      “What did you think of the Hathaways, my dear?” Beatrice asked.

      Lindsay turned to the older lady, a distant cousin on her mother’s side who had recently come to live with her father to oversee Lindsay’s coming out. “Oh, most genial,” she agreed wholeheartedly, although thinking about it now, she had to admit she’d hardly noticed the reverend’s sister or her betrothed in her admiration for the reverend.

      “Mr.