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Authors: Jennifer McQuiston
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is—”
“Missing?” For the first time this entire dreadful day, a devilish gleam flashed in Patrick’s usually stern eyes.
“Stained,” she finished weakly. Her hand fluttered over the neckline of her chemise. Too late, she realized the motion merely drew the visitor’s unwelcome attention more fiercely. If she hadn’t felt like snarling an oath, she would have laughed. She had endured three London Seasons cringing over the attention her hair sometimes caused, when all along she had unknowingly possessed a more formidable distraction. “I’ve misplaced my bag with my clothing, and as we need to head straight to Summersby on the morning coach, I cannot afford to let the stain set up.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I had thought you would be delayed a bit longer with the lamb and its bottle,” she added crossly.
The vicar finally seemed to shake himself to lucidity, though his eyes did not leave her chest. “I confess, I had not pegged you for someone who would consort with a woman of questionable virtue, Mr. Channing.”
Julianne’s irritation shifted into peevish territory. Nothing untoward had happened here, and she refused to act as if it had. This gentleman might be a vicar, and she might be a girl who hid her poor eyesight from the world, but even she could see hypocrisy when it was dangled in front of her nose. She fitted a smile to her face, summoning her three years of experience dealing with London drawing rooms. “Why, how refreshing it is to hear a man stand in judgment of a woman. And how original of you, sir.”
A wheezing sound gripped the vicar’s throat, and his eyes bugged round in his skull. “Reverend Ramsey,” Patrick said hurriedly, taking the man by the arm and steering him toward the sleeping dog. “I realize this seems a bit . . . improper . But Miss Baxter is an old family friend, the daughter of the Viscount Avery.” He glanced over his shoulder, and motioned with his chin toward the fabric she clutched in her hands. “She is here only because she assisted with your dog’s surgery today.”
Julianne lifted a brow. That wasn’t precisely true, and they both knew it. Then again, she supposed he’d scarcely burn in hell for the sin of lying to a vicar when he had other more impressive ones at the ready.
As the pair bent to inspect the black and white dog, Julianne turned back to the stove and wrung her lingering irritation out on the wet bodice. The bloodstain was still there. If anything, it was even more noticeable, now that the other layers of dirt had been loosened. With no other choice on the horizon, she slipped the damp fabric over her shoulders, though her skin practically screamed in objection. Only when she felt she could face them with some degree of respectability did she turn back around.
“It’s not my dog,” the vicar was saying. “Skip is . . . taller.”
“The dog is lying down.” Patrick’s voice echoed with a dry wit she remembered from their oft-remembered waltz, so many months ago.
“Well, it looks nothing like Skip. You’d know that if you attended church more often.”
“I attend as much as my conscience bids me.” Patrick’s voice remained flat, the picture of disinterest. “And for all that it was a puppy the last time I saw him, it strikes me that this animal is either your dog or its twin.”
How does he do that? Julianne wondered. How could someone remain so steady in the face of such derision? Despite the underlying sarcasm evident in his choice of words, Patrick outwardly appeared no more ruffled than if he was flicking a fly off his evening meal. She wanted to rake her nails across the vicar’s face, and she was only watching the interplay.
Julianne drifted closer, trying to unravel the odd pieces of the conversation. To cover the fact she was hovering, she picked up the bloodied saw that still sat upon the table, ran a dish towel over its length, and replaced it in the cupboard. A sudden silence sent her
“Missing?” For the first time this entire dreadful day, a devilish gleam flashed in Patrick’s usually stern eyes.
“Stained,” she finished weakly. Her hand fluttered over the neckline of her chemise. Too late, she realized the motion merely drew the visitor’s unwelcome attention more fiercely. If she hadn’t felt like snarling an oath, she would have laughed. She had endured three London Seasons cringing over the attention her hair sometimes caused, when all along she had unknowingly possessed a more formidable distraction. “I’ve misplaced my bag with my clothing, and as we need to head straight to Summersby on the morning coach, I cannot afford to let the stain set up.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I had thought you would be delayed a bit longer with the lamb and its bottle,” she added crossly.
The vicar finally seemed to shake himself to lucidity, though his eyes did not leave her chest. “I confess, I had not pegged you for someone who would consort with a woman of questionable virtue, Mr. Channing.”
Julianne’s irritation shifted into peevish territory. Nothing untoward had happened here, and she refused to act as if it had. This gentleman might be a vicar, and she might be a girl who hid her poor eyesight from the world, but even she could see hypocrisy when it was dangled in front of her nose. She fitted a smile to her face, summoning her three years of experience dealing with London drawing rooms. “Why, how refreshing it is to hear a man stand in judgment of a woman. And how original of you, sir.”
A wheezing sound gripped the vicar’s throat, and his eyes bugged round in his skull. “Reverend Ramsey,” Patrick said hurriedly, taking the man by the arm and steering him toward the sleeping dog. “I realize this seems a bit . . . improper . But Miss Baxter is an old family friend, the daughter of the Viscount Avery.” He glanced over his shoulder, and motioned with his chin toward the fabric she clutched in her hands. “She is here only because she assisted with your dog’s surgery today.”
Julianne lifted a brow. That wasn’t precisely true, and they both knew it. Then again, she supposed he’d scarcely burn in hell for the sin of lying to a vicar when he had other more impressive ones at the ready.
As the pair bent to inspect the black and white dog, Julianne turned back to the stove and wrung her lingering irritation out on the wet bodice. The bloodstain was still there. If anything, it was even more noticeable, now that the other layers of dirt had been loosened. With no other choice on the horizon, she slipped the damp fabric over her shoulders, though her skin practically screamed in objection. Only when she felt she could face them with some degree of respectability did she turn back around.
“It’s not my dog,” the vicar was saying. “Skip is . . . taller.”
“The dog is lying down.” Patrick’s voice echoed with a dry wit she remembered from their oft-remembered waltz, so many months ago.
“Well, it looks nothing like Skip. You’d know that if you attended church more often.”
“I attend as much as my conscience bids me.” Patrick’s voice remained flat, the picture of disinterest. “And for all that it was a puppy the last time I saw him, it strikes me that this animal is either your dog or its twin.”
How does he do that? Julianne wondered. How could someone remain so steady in the face of such derision? Despite the underlying sarcasm evident in his choice of words, Patrick outwardly appeared no more ruffled than if he was flicking a fly off his evening meal. She wanted to rake her nails across the vicar’s face, and she was only watching the interplay.
Julianne drifted closer, trying to unravel the odd pieces of the conversation. To cover the fact she was hovering, she picked up the bloodied saw that still sat upon the table, ran a dish towel over its length, and replaced it in the cupboard. A sudden silence sent her
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