Hot Under the Collar Page 11

  “You really think they’ll keep you on, even after you tell them you plan to marry me?” Her tone dripped with skepticism.

  “I do. But if they don’t, I’m more than happy to spend the rest of my days as your kept man. If you’ll keep me, of course.”

  She was silent for what seemed a long time, although it was probably no more than a few seconds. At last, she took a shuddering breath. “I can’t give you children.”

  “I know,” he said gently. “But I would rather spend my life with you and never have children than spend it without you in pursuit of children I don’t even know. Besides, I’ve no need of heirs. My oldest brother has two sons already, and given the way he looks at his wife, I’m sure there will be more to come. The title and the Langston name are in good hands, and I’ve nothing else of value to pass on to a son.”

  She looked away. “I would have liked to have children. I have a hard time believing it doesn’t matter to you at all.”

  “It matters.” He cupped her face in his hands, caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. “But only because it brings you sorrow. And I’ll do my best to fill your life with so much love and happiness and pleasure that you can bear the loss more easily.”

  Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against his chest. “I should refuse you,” she said at last. “I must be as mad as you are.”

  Joy and relief permeated every fiber of his being. Walter knew he was grinning like a fool. But he was the happiest fool on earth. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “You had better hope you really are a miracle-worker,” she said, shaking her head with disbelief.

  He winked at her. “I got you to agree to marry me, didn’t I?”

  She laughed.

  “And then there’s this,” he added, shifting his hips. They had never separated, and he had grown hard again inside her while they talked.

  “Oh,” she murmured, her skin flushing. “That is fairly miraculous.”

  It was better than miraculous; it was divine.

  Artemisia slipped out of the sacristy and into the church. She and Walter had done their best to rearrange her hair and smooth her dress enough to make the claim that she had dozed off in the retiring room plausible. Walter was all for honesty, but some things were sacred. Like making love on the vestry casement.

  “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

  She stumbled backward, her heart racing at the realization she was not alone. Someone was sitting in one of the pews toward the rear of the church. And with a sinking sense of dread, she knew who that someone was.

  “What are you doing here, Robert?” she asked, fighting to maintain some semblance of composure.

  The dimly lit figure stood up. “Discovering the identity of your lover, as I said I would.” He made a tsking noise. “The vicar? You really have sunk to a new low, my dear. And fornicating in church, no less. Truly, you’ve made it all ridiculously easy for me.”

  Artemisia fought the urge to swoon. “What do you want?”

  He walked down the aisle toward her. Artemisia desperately wished that Walter hadn’t decided to return to the Assembly Room by way of the side door that led directly from the sacristy to the church grounds. “You know what I want, Artemisia. I want you.”

  “You didn’t want me ten years ago. Why now?” She truly couldn’t fathom it.

  “Just because I didn’t want to marry you doesn’t mean I didn’t want to fuck you.”

  She gasped at the crudeness of his language, though it shouldn’t have surprised her. He stopped about three feet from her, and she made out the ugly leer he fixed upon her.

  “You were a hot piece, you know. I was prepared to keep you as my mistress, but you went and spoiled all that by getting pregnant.”

  As if she’d done it apurpose!

  “My father was furious when he found out. He thought I was going to have to marry you until I told him you’d been fucking all my friends, too.”

  The earl had been against their marrying? “But…but your father and my father were close friends!”

  Beaumont gave her a pitying look. “They were as close of friends as an earl and the descendant of a perfumier can be. Just because they got on doesn’t mean my father was anxious to see our bloodline mixed with yours. He was greatly relieved when he discovered you were just a dirty little harlot, no better than ought to be.”

  “But I wasn’t! You lied.”

  He shrugged. “I did what I had to do to protect myself. Good thing, too, since you couldn’t even whelp one living bastard. Think how you’d have botched birthing my heirs.”

  Fury boiled in her belly. How dare he talk about her child that way? Their child. If there had been a sharp object handy, she was fairly certain she would have run him through with it. As it was, she curled her hands into fists at her sides to keep from slapping him.

  “I wouldn’t have agreed to be your mistress then,” she said, surprised at the icy thread of calm in her voice. She had expected it to be shaking with rage. “I won’t agree now, either.”

  “Not even to save your precious vicar’s reputation? When I tell everyone I caught the two of you fornicating in the sacristy, he’ll never recover.”

  “You don’t know that. We could have just been talking.”

  A cruel smile twisted his lips. “I peeked in. You were just too…occupied to notice.”

  A wave of nausea nearly knocked her off her feet. To think he had been watching her, watching them… It was beyond bearing.

  “You really like to fuck, don’t you, Artemisia? The way you were mewling for more, writhing like a—“

  Her hand shot out before she could check its path. The crack as her palm connected with his cheek echoed like a gunshot. Or what she imagined a gunshot might sound like if it were fired in an empty church.

  He grabbed her wrist. “You’ll regret that, Miss Finch.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I will.” She’d wanted to slap his face for a decade. Actually having done it was cathartic.

  “This can still remain our secret. All you have to do is agree to become my mistress, and I’ll let your little vicar go on with his life. No one ever has to know.”

  Wresting her wrist from his grip, she considered her options. Walter would tell the congregation this Sunday that he planned to marry her. If they did as she expected and tossed him from the pulpit, Robert’s threat would be moot. And if by some miracle they did not, she might still have time to prevent the inevitable disaster.

  “I’ll have to break it off with him,” she said slowly. “How long do I have?”

  Robert nodded, a self-satisfied smirk overtaking his features. “Now you’re beginning to see reason. I’ll give you until Monday.”

  She closed her eyes. Perfect. She wouldn’t have to worry Walter with this problem until they already knew the outcome of his announcement.

  “We’ll work out the details of our arrangement then,” he said before turning away and walking toward the exit. As he pushed the creaking door open, he looked over his shoulder and added, “Be prepared to show me on Monday just how much you appreciate my generosity.”

  When the door slammed shut, Artemisia stood in the center of the church aisle, shivering. She’d never felt particularly inclined to prayer. Until now.

  16

  She ought to tell him. No possible good could come from keeping the truth from him. But as Artemisia sat beside her father, sipping her tea and looking out over the garden, she could not think of a single way to explain to him how she had come to be engaged—informally, at least—to Walter Langston.

  Papa, I’ve been having an affair with the vicar, and he has decided to throw away his career by asking me to marry him seemed rather abrupt, not to mention somewhat embarrassing. On the other hand, she couldn’t think of any other way to deliver the news that wasn’t roundabout to the point of absurdity.

  And so, she continued to stare out the window at the profusion of red Finch roses and wonder how on earth she could
tell her father she was about to destroy a man’s life.

  The clicking of footsteps coming into the solar saved her further deliberation. “Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Langston is in the parlor,” Hodgson announced.

  Artemisia moved to set down her teacup. What was he doing here? Had he thought better of the whole enterprise? She would not blame him if he had, although the ache in her chest at the idea told her that, while she would understand his decision, she would mourn anyway. “Thank you, Hodgson,” she said, “I’ll go to him at once.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Finch,” the footman said, shaking his head. “Mr. Langston asked to see Mr. Finch.”

  Her father appeared utterly unperturbed by what should have been a confusing exchange. After all, he ought to be asking himself why Artemisia thought their visitor had come to see her in the first place. Instead, he waved toward the door of the solar. “Bring Mr. Langston on through. Anything he has to discuss with me, he can discuss with me while my daughter’s present. Besides, I’ve no desire to let my tea go cold.”

  The footman bowed and retreated to fetch their visitor.

  “Papa, I—“ Artemisia began.

  Her father held up his hand. “You needn’t explain yourself to me, child. You’re a grown woman, and you’ve a right to your own life. I don’t fool myself as to the nature of my company. I’m an irascible old goat at times, and a boring old fart a good deal of the rest.”

  “That’s not true!” Artemisia protested. “You’re perfectly wonderful company.”

  “But I am your father, not a friend or confidant.” He reached across the space between them and patted her arm. “I know you get lonely.”

  She couldn’t deny that, but she didn’t want him to think being with him wasn’t enough. That she somehow resented him. “I want to be here, Papa. You don’t need me half as much as I need you.”

  Her father chuckled. “I’m not sure that’s true, but—“ He broke off as the sound of approaching footsteps once again echoed from the corridor. “I believe we are about to have company.”

  Hodgson entered first. “Mr. Langston,” he said sonorously, bowing before turning on his heel and exiting the solar.

  Artemisia’s heart fluttered like a handkerchief in a stiff breeze. Walter looked particularly handsome today, his white shirt and tie bright and starched, his black coat and trousers perfectly pressed. She loved the way his hair, pulled back into that queue, belied his otherwise slightly stodgy appearance.

  “Mr. Finch,” he said, bowing to her father. “Miss Finch.” Her, he winked at.

  Her stomach did a sweet, languorous roll.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Langston,” her father said, as if there were nothing at all unusual about the call. “The only other chair in the room is over there, by the desk.” He pointed toward the small writing table and matching wooden chair against the opposite wall. “I hope you won’t mind if I ask you to fetch it for yourself, under the circumstances.” He patted his cane, which leant against his chair, by way of demonstration.

  “Of course not, Mr. Finch,” Walter responded easily. He crossed the room in long, easy strides, picked up the chair, and carried it back. After setting it to the left of her father’s armchair, he seated himself.

  “So, what brings you here this afternoon? And at teatime, no less.”

  Walter’s gaze flicked to Artemisia’s. A question. May I? Subtle but clear. And then she knew why he was here. She knew, and her heart threatened to melt like a snow bank in a heat wave. He wanted to do this the right way. The way it should have happened years ago, for both her and, perhaps even more importantly, her father. The sweetness, the thoughtfulness of the gesture almost took her breath away.

  Her nod was infinitesimal, but he saw it. “I’ve come to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage, Mr. Finch.”

  There was a long pause. Her father looked from Walter to Artemisia and back again, but he appeared neither confused nor surprised by what should have been an entirely unpredictable development. If anything, he looked satisfied.

  “I see,” he said, nodding slowly. “That’s very polite of you, but as I’m sure you know, Artemisia’s hand—and heart—are only hers to give.”

  “I believe I already have them,” Walter said. “But I only felt it right to ensure you have no objections to the match.”

  “How could I object, my boy? Except that it likely means we’ll get another vicar like old Samuel Withers. I’m old enough now, I probably will be bored to death in the pews one Sunday morning.”

  “Wal—er, Mr. Langston believe he can convince the congregation to keep him on as vicar, even if he marries me,” Artemisia put in.

  Her father raised his eyebrows. “Does he? That would be quite a feat, I must say. Will you serve loaves and fishes at the wedding breakfast, then?”

  Walter chuckled and shook his head. “If I were more modest, I might be injured by your lack of confidence. Be that as it may, Mr. Finch, and whatever comes of my announcement to the congregation, I want you to walk your daughter down the aisle of that church when we marry. I want everyone to know you raised her and that I hold you in the highest esteem.”

  With a sigh, her father set his teacup on the table and picked up his cane, tapping the tip against the floor. “I’m not so sure I deserve that esteem. Sometimes, I think I did my daughter a great disservice.”

  Artemisia gasped. “Papa, how can you say that? You stood beside me and believed me when no one else did.”

  “Ah, but by doing what I did, by demanding that Sandhurst force his son to marry you, I made what happened public. If instead I’d sent you off on a “grand tour” or to visit some imaginary aunt, you could have returned a year later with no one the wiser. People would have suspected, of course, but they would not have known. And looking back, I am not sure I was right to press Sandhurst anyway. I think you would have been most unhappy in that marriage if I had managed to bring it about.”

  The lump that had formed in Artemisia’s throat swelled so painfully, she could scarcely swallow. “You did the right thing. Don’t ever believe otherwise. I would have been broken if you’d sent me away. Being here with you was the only reason I survived at all. And if my son hadn’t died…” She choked, unable to finish the thought. If her child had lived, she would never have been able to return to Grange-Over-Sands without him.

  “I believe you did the right thing, too, Mr. Finch,” Walter said, “although my reasons may be purely selfish. If you had done differently, Artemisia would already be married to someone else. Perhaps it would have been less difficult, but I am very grateful to you for saving your daughter for me.”

  A slow smile crept over her father’s features. “So that was the Lord’s plan all along, eh?”

  “Does that mean your answer is yes?”

  “If Artemisia’s answer is yes, then mine is as well.” Her father turned toward her with an expectant look.

  “It is mad as snow in August, but my answer is yes.” How could it be anything else when she loved him so? And when providence, whether divine or profane, had been kind enough to bring him to her?

  17

  Walter stood in the pulpit and surveyed his congregation. With very few exceptions, he thought of them all not just as his parishioners, but as his friends. As people he could count on to support him as he had supported them. Still, he couldn’t be certain. He was about to ask something very big of them. Something he suspected most of them would find shocking and intolerable from anyone else. And possibly just as shocking and intolerable from him.

  He looked toward the back corner of the church. Artemisia sat in the last pew, her head covered with a white scarf. No one else had registered her presence. He caught her eye. He thought she gave him a faint smile, though at this distance and in this light, it was difficult to be sure.

  In some ways, he wished she’d stayed at home this morning. That she had not chosen this Sunday as her first to attend church in over a decade. If things turned ugly, she would be the focus of t
he ugliness, and he hated the thought of subjecting her to that. On the other hand, he could hardly expect her to wait at home while he allowed his congregation to decide their mutual fate. She deserved to hear the outcome when he did.

  Taking a steadying breath, he launched into the brief sermon he had prepared for this occasion. He hoped it would have the desired effect.

  “It is a common misconception that our faith provides us with adequate moral guidance to keep us from committing sin. That through a strong enough belief in God and a dedication to our Christian values, we can avoid the worst follies of our sinful nature. But I am here to tell you, this is not so. No amount of faith, no degree of piety, no level of devotion will keep us from straying. We are human. In the words of Alexander Pope, ‘to err is human, to forgive divine.’

  “And we must adhere to not just the letter, but the spirit of Pope’s observation. Just as we all err, so we must leave the ultimate forgiveness of our transgressions to God. This means we must have a care not to condemn our brothers and sisters for their sins, however, for so the Bible enjoins us. Recall Matthew 7:1, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ Remember, too, what Jesus said to the Jews preparing to stone the adulterous woman in John 8:10. ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’

  “Perhaps our most common failing is the ability to see the failings of others, while never holding our own to the light. As Jesus says in Luke 6.41: ‘Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?’ The answer to this, my friends, is that it is always easier to revile the faults of others than to acknowledge one’s own. But we must resist this impulse, and let the verse which follows the Lord’s Prayer be our guide: ‘For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.’”

  He waited a few moments after he finished for the murmurs and rustling of his audience to die down before launching them into a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. When they finished, he held up his hands to indicate the service would not end as it usually did.