The Unofficial Suitor (27 page)

Folding a clean napkin into a pad, she pressed it against the cut. “Please hold that in place, my lord.”

Fully recovered now from the effects of the brandy, he put his hands behind his head and grinned impishly up at her. “Not until you say my name.”

“If you do not do as I tell you, my lord, then I shall douse you with brandy again.”

He made no move to take the cloth, but instead scrunched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.

She was tempted to do it just to teach him a lesson, but she had the feeling she had finally met a man who was immune to all her threats. On the other hand, she could not very well stand there all day pressing the napkin against his wound. With a sigh, she gave in. “Please hold the pad in place, Perry.”

He opened his eyes and smiled up at her, looking quite like a naughty little boy who had just coaxed the cook into giving him another cookie. In this case, looks were deceiving—there had been nothing boyish about his kisses.

Quickly tearing a strip of cloth from her petticoat, she finished bandaging his ribs.

“You do that very neatly, my love.”

“I had ample practice in Spain, my lord.”

Without warning, he caught her arms and pulled her down onto his lap. “I thought we had settled that you were to call me Perry?”

“We have settled nothing, my lord, except that we both agree you have no sense at all.”

“I have quite enough good sense to recognize my own true love when I find her at last. Marry me, Annie Elizabeth Ironside.”

In a flash she was off his lap. “That has got to be the most ridiculous thing you have said so far.” Without stopping to listen to his protests, she marched resolutely from the room.

Belatedly she realized she should have run; he caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs.

“There is nothing remotely ridiculous about wanting to marry you. I am completely serious.”

Fending off his hands, she started up the stairs. “And I am also quite serious. I do not wish to marry you.”

“At least have the courtesy to tell me why you will not,” he demanded, still following her. She could only be thankful that there did not seem to be any other servants around at the moment—or even worse, one of the guests.

“Because you are a peer and I am only a servant girl,” she replied. “It would be most improper for you to marry so far beneath your station.”

“Then there is no problem,” he said gleefully. “I intend to give up my title and return to America. You can come with me. In America we do not allow titles, nor do people worry about ‘stations’ in life, their own or anyone else’s. Trust the English to worry about such nonsense.”

“I am not English, my lord, I am Scottish. “

“And I am an American, and you will soon learn we do not tolerate such undemocratic ideas.”

“I shall learn no such thing,” she said firmly. Reaching the top floor, she paused at the door to her room. Something about the look in his eyes made her feel so reckless, she blurted out the words she had always sworn nothing would ever make her say. “If you wish, I will be your mistress while you are here, but I will never marry you.”

Her offer made him so angry, for a moment she wished her knife were at hand.

“I don’t want a mistress—I want a wife!”

“Then you will have to find someone else, my lord. I have told you—I am not available.” Stepping into her room, she slammed the door in his face, then quickly turned the key in the lock.

“Something must be done at once!” Lady Cassie said, bursting into the drawing room where Lady Letitia was sitting with Perry, John, and Richard. “It is the most appalling situation.”

“What is, my dear?” Richard asked calmly.

“Mrs. Beagles has just told me about the vicar. The man is a veritable monster! She says he keeps his daughter shut away like a prisoner! He has turned down two very respectable offers for her and will not even let her visit the squire—”

“I believe she is shy—” John started to explain.

“She is no such thing! Every time we have invited her here, her father has forbidden her to come, and then that wretched man has sat here in our house, explaining in that mealy-mouthed way of his, that she did not wish to visit, and all the time she was back in her room in the vicarage, crying her eyes out.”

“Surely your housekeeper is exaggerating,” Perry said. “Even if her father were to forbid her to go about in society, she is of age and so can do whatever she wishes.”

Lady Cassie turned on him in a flash. “That just shows how little you know of the world. You make it sound as if women have the freedom to do whatever they wish. But Mrs. Beagles reports that the Reverend Mr. Shuttleworth does not give her even a penny of her own, lest she have some little pleasure in life. Why, the way he treats her, she is little more than a—a slave!”

The possibilities inherent in this situation were beginning to interest Lady Letitia, especially since she had noticed the meaningful looks that John and Richard exchanged when Lady Cassie uttered the word “slave.”

“Since we first met Mr. Philip Shuttleworth, I have written to various correspondants of mine to see if any of them know his background,” Lady Letitia said.

“What can you tell us about him,” Richard asked.

“Most of what I have learned was from a close friend of his mother’s.  She reports that as a boy he was the most odiously selfish child she has ever met—never wished to share his toys with his older brothers and sisters. Why, she has seen him spill an entire box of bonbons into the dirt, merely because his mother instructed him to offer some to his siblings.”

“You see, it is as I have said—the man is a beast. You must do something, Richard,” Lady Cassie said, still so incensed she was pacing back and forth. “We cannot allow the poor girl to be treated so shabbily.”

Before Richard could reply, Lady Letitia decided to meddle further. “I do not think it wise for your husband to interfere in the vicar’s private business, my dear. It is liable to cause bad blood, which can lead to endless feuding. It is always better to contrive somehow to remain on civil terms with one’s neighbors, no matter how sorely vexed one becomes. I suggest instead that John be allowed to handle the whole matter. I am sure we can count on him to be tactful.”

* * * *

John walked briskly along the path through the home woods, hoping that he would be more successful than he had been the last few days—that this morning he would find the woman he was seeking so diligently.

Twice he had paid a call at the vicarage, and twice the vicar had informed him his daughter was lying down with a sick headache and so was unable to entertain visitors. The frontal assault having failed, John had finally turned to Mrs. Beagles for advice.

“Mr. Shuttleworth is quite fond of wild strawberry preserves,” she had said, “and the season is not yet over. Try the meadow at the east end of the estate, and you may find Miss Shuttleworth there. Her father is not at all particular about whose berries go into his jams, you see. But Mr. Morwyle felt pity for the poor unfortunate girl, and he instructed all his servants and tenants to let her pick where she might.”

After two days of unsuccessfully checking the meadow, it had occurred to John that perhaps Miss Shuttleworth was only allowed out quite early in the morning, before the gentry might reasonably be expected to be abroad. This morning the sun was up, but the dew was still on the grass.

In the time that had passed since Lady Cassie had discovered the situation, he had mulled over the possibilities for the unfortunate vicar’s daughter and had decided that the best thing to do would be to settle enough money on her that she could hire a companion and rent a modest house in Bath.

On the other hand, while he was watching the sunrise this morning, it had occurred to him that after thirty years of being browbeaten, the unfortunate Miss Shuttleworth might no longer be capable of managing her affairs on her own. If her spirit had been completely broken, then he might have to hire someone as a caretaker ... and also, Bath might be too intimidating for her. He might need to find a smaller, less imposing town for her to reside in.

Emerging from the woods, he spotted a woman crouching in the middle of the meadow, her bonnet dangling down her back. At the sound of his approach, she rose to her feet and turned to face him.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman—her face was a perfect oval, her features well formed, her hair like polished mahogany, and even her drab gown, as ugly as it was, could not hide the fact that she had all the requisite curves in all the proper places.

What delighted him the most, however, were the stains of strawberry juice around the corners of her mouth. Despite his fears, he realized with relief that her father had failed to destroy her spirit completely.

“Good morning, Mr. Tuke,” she said as politely as if they were meeting under normal social conditions.

He tipped his hat. “Good morning, Miss Shuttleworth.”

She smiled and looked at him expectantly, and all his prepared speeches about settlements and companions and little houses in Bath flew out of his head. “I have come to rescue you,” he said, feeling not the least bit foolish to be speaking so dramatically.

“I have been hoping you would do so,” she replied simply.

So besotted was he by her smile, only now did it occur to him to wonder how she had known his name.

“Mrs. Beagles pointed you out to me several weeks ago,” she replied when he asked her, “when you all came out from London to inspect Morwyle House.”

“You should have spoken to me then,” he chastised her gently. “I could have rescued you that much earlier.”

“I am sorry to confess that I am not at all a resolute person. I have learned over the years that it is safer to avoid having a direct confrontation with my father.”

“Whereas I am afraid I have no particular talent for subterfuge,” John confessed. “So, shall we beard the lion in its den, as it were?”

“If by lion you are referring to my father, at this hour of the day he is still abed, so we may as well pick a few more strawberries first. They are so tiny and so well hidden, it may seem scarcely worth the trouble, but they are much sweeter and more flavorful than the domestic varieties. Would you like to try one?”

He nodded, and she bent down and retrieved her basket. To his delight, instead of allowing him to help himself, she carefully and with great deliberation selected one and fed it to him, her fingers touching his lips in the process.

The strawberry was indeed superb, but he scarcely noticed. Staring intently into her eyes, he caught a glimpse of something that made him realize there had been nothing inadvertent about her actions—she had deliberately used the berry as an excuse to touch him, and the blush creeping up her face merely confirmed his suspicions.

No hired companion would be needed, he decided at that moment. Miss Shuttleworth’s charms required a husband—and he did not need Lady Letitia to find the proper man. He himself intended to begin courting her without delay.

Reaching out, he took another strawberry from the basket she was holding, but instead of eating it, he fed it to her. “I have a better idea,” he said. “Instead of picking more berries, let us eat the ones you have already picked. Unless you wish to save them for someone else?”

Her blush deepened. “No,” she said, her voice quite breathless. “I shall be glad to ... to share them all with you.”

He took off his jacket and spread it out on the ground for her to sit on, then sat down on the grass beside her. “My father was also a vicar,” he began.

* * * *

The sun was quite high in the sky by the time they returned to the vicarage. Approaching it with her hand safely resting on John’s arm, Margaret was amazed at how brave she was feeling. She knew her father would rant and rave and scold and likely even call down curses upon her head, but she had enjoyed the morning immensely.

Already she had such faith in John’s abilities that she could not conceive of her father’s being able to intimidate him or drive him away. Only one little thing nagged at her. When they had first met, John had said he had come to rescue her. Just what had he meant by rescue? The word conjured up such possibilities.

She sneaked a peek up at him. He was so beautiful, it made her heart race faster just to look at him. There was so much nobility in his features, such strength, such courage, it fair made her tremble when his eyes met hers and she could gaze into their depths.

Dare she hope? No, that could never be. But at least he must intend to force her father to relax some of his rules, and if her father would only let her go out into society then she would surely see John again—maybe pass the time of day with him after Sunday services?—perhaps even be allowed to dine occasionally at Morwyle House?

It would not be enough. She sighed.

“Do not fret yourself, Margaret. Your father is only a man. No matter how he has treated you, he is not the devil incarnate.”

“I am not worried with you beside me,” she admitted, then realized her words made her sound quite shameless.

They were still a few feet from the gate when her father, his hair in total disarray, appeared on the other side of it, looking quite like an avenging prophet from the Old Testament. “So there you are, you wicked girl,” he shrieked, completely ignoring the man beside her. “You will go to your room at once and stay there, on your knees, praying for forgiveness, until I decide you have suitably atoned for your flagrant disregard for the rules I have laid down for you.”

She did not reply, nor did she release John’s arm, and he was the one to answer. “Good morning, Mr. Shuttleworth. I would like your permission to court your daughter.”

At his words, Margaret’s heart gave a little jump. Her dream, which moments before had seemed so unthinkable, now began to seem quite certain.

Unable to ignore her companion any longer, her father turned his baleful glare on John. “Denied,” he snarled. “I shall never give you permission to see my daughter or speak to her again. Why, you are nothing but a hired secretary—virtually a servant. I shall never allow my daughter to demean herself by associating with one of your class.”