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Authors: The Vicars Widow
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at Kate.
Hardly—she was wearing a drab gown, her hair was mussed from her hard walk across Mayfair in a downpour, and her feet, while shod in her best walking boots, were killing her. Not to mention her general confusion as to why this spate of callers were at her door to begin with. She’d rather thought that a gentleman called as the result of some mutual understanding betwixt himself and the lady. She had no such understanding with any of these gentlemen. Or the three who’d called earlier this week.
Nevertheless, the four gentlemen looked at her expectantly as they jostled about a bit to stand before her. Kate self-consciously put a hand to her hair and said, “I beg your pardon, good sirs, but I am not, at present, quite prepared to receive callers. I’ve had a rather arduous morning and really must tend to my father’s, ah . . . business this afternoon.”
The four men looked at one another. Lord Moreland was the first to waddle forth; he paused before Kate and snatched up her bare hand, pressed his thick lips to it before looking up and pinning her with a very strange look. “I shall call again if I have your leave, madam,” he said low. “I think you will find me a most pleasant companion.”
“Oh! Ah . . . I’m, ah, certain that you are, my lord,” she said, having no earthly idea what to make of it.
Mr. Anglesey and Baron Hardwick both sought to take their leave next, and Kate had to suggest that perhaps Mr. Anglesey go first, as he was closest to her. Both men exited quickly, eyeing Papa nervously as they vowed to call again at a more convenient time.
Lord Connery, naturally, was the last to leave, and he sauntered toward her, his head lowered, his gaze prurient. “Lovely Mrs. Becket,” he purred over her hand. “How long shall you keep me waiting for the pleasure of your company?” He bent over her hand and pressed his lips to it. She felt the tip of his tongue flick against her skin and quickly jerked her hand back.
“I thought I had been perfectly clear on that, my lord,” she said, smiling sweetly. “You shouldn’t wait at all, as I do not intend to grace you with my company.”
He was completely unrattled by her, and simply smiled in a way that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. “Very well then. I shall wait,” he said, and with a wink, nodded his good day to her father and continued his affected saunter out of the parlor.
Kate and her father walked to the front of the parlor room and looked out the window at the departing gentlemen as they walked quickly across the lawn, their umbrellas bobbing above them.
“Like rabbits, the lot of them,” Papa said, scowling. “Hopping eagerly about when the widow comes out of her weeds. There’s not an honorable one among them, I’d wager,” he opined and turned from the window.
“I can’t understand it, Papa. I’ve scarcely spoken to any of them, other than to greet them at church.”
Her father laughed. “You are not aware of your charm, Kate. But I think that just as well, for there is nothing more appalling than a woman convinced of her own appeal. In the future, mind you have a care about the bachelor gentlemen of our church.”
Kate laughingly agreed and glanced over her shoulder at her father. “You should rest, Papa.”
“I am rather tired,” he said, nodding. “Have William wake me before supper, will you?” he asked, and with a yawn, walked out of the parlor.
Kate thought to rest, too—the trek through the rain had been grueling. Perhaps she would lie down for a few moments in here, in the dark of the parlor. She turned round, went to the window again to draw the drapes closed, but she noticed someone standing at the gate. She stepped closer to the window and peered out.
It was Montgomery, leaning up against the wrought-iron fence, one leg casually crossed over the other, holding an umbrella over her his head as he absently twirled a timepiece around his finger, then out again, then in. He nodded
Hardly—she was wearing a drab gown, her hair was mussed from her hard walk across Mayfair in a downpour, and her feet, while shod in her best walking boots, were killing her. Not to mention her general confusion as to why this spate of callers were at her door to begin with. She’d rather thought that a gentleman called as the result of some mutual understanding betwixt himself and the lady. She had no such understanding with any of these gentlemen. Or the three who’d called earlier this week.
Nevertheless, the four gentlemen looked at her expectantly as they jostled about a bit to stand before her. Kate self-consciously put a hand to her hair and said, “I beg your pardon, good sirs, but I am not, at present, quite prepared to receive callers. I’ve had a rather arduous morning and really must tend to my father’s, ah . . . business this afternoon.”
The four men looked at one another. Lord Moreland was the first to waddle forth; he paused before Kate and snatched up her bare hand, pressed his thick lips to it before looking up and pinning her with a very strange look. “I shall call again if I have your leave, madam,” he said low. “I think you will find me a most pleasant companion.”
“Oh! Ah . . . I’m, ah, certain that you are, my lord,” she said, having no earthly idea what to make of it.
Mr. Anglesey and Baron Hardwick both sought to take their leave next, and Kate had to suggest that perhaps Mr. Anglesey go first, as he was closest to her. Both men exited quickly, eyeing Papa nervously as they vowed to call again at a more convenient time.
Lord Connery, naturally, was the last to leave, and he sauntered toward her, his head lowered, his gaze prurient. “Lovely Mrs. Becket,” he purred over her hand. “How long shall you keep me waiting for the pleasure of your company?” He bent over her hand and pressed his lips to it. She felt the tip of his tongue flick against her skin and quickly jerked her hand back.
“I thought I had been perfectly clear on that, my lord,” she said, smiling sweetly. “You shouldn’t wait at all, as I do not intend to grace you with my company.”
He was completely unrattled by her, and simply smiled in a way that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. “Very well then. I shall wait,” he said, and with a wink, nodded his good day to her father and continued his affected saunter out of the parlor.
Kate and her father walked to the front of the parlor room and looked out the window at the departing gentlemen as they walked quickly across the lawn, their umbrellas bobbing above them.
“Like rabbits, the lot of them,” Papa said, scowling. “Hopping eagerly about when the widow comes out of her weeds. There’s not an honorable one among them, I’d wager,” he opined and turned from the window.
“I can’t understand it, Papa. I’ve scarcely spoken to any of them, other than to greet them at church.”
Her father laughed. “You are not aware of your charm, Kate. But I think that just as well, for there is nothing more appalling than a woman convinced of her own appeal. In the future, mind you have a care about the bachelor gentlemen of our church.”
Kate laughingly agreed and glanced over her shoulder at her father. “You should rest, Papa.”
“I am rather tired,” he said, nodding. “Have William wake me before supper, will you?” he asked, and with a yawn, walked out of the parlor.
Kate thought to rest, too—the trek through the rain had been grueling. Perhaps she would lie down for a few moments in here, in the dark of the parlor. She turned round, went to the window again to draw the drapes closed, but she noticed someone standing at the gate. She stepped closer to the window and peered out.
It was Montgomery, leaning up against the wrought-iron fence, one leg casually crossed over the other, holding an umbrella over her his head as he absently twirled a timepiece around his finger, then out again, then in. He nodded
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