Elisabeth Fairchild (19 page)

She was not one to disobey. Her eyes met Alexander’s.

“Sir!” he protested.

Her father waved her ahead of him. “My dear,” he said firmly.

Alexander fell into step at her father’s heels. “Sir, I beg you wait. Please,  I must explain.”

“No explanations necessary.” His grip on her hand tightened as she pushed her way through the  merrymakers, their hurried progress, and his grim expression winning them attention on all sides.

“Father!” She tried to slow him. “It’s not what you . . .”

“Hmph!” His grunt silenced her. “I know all too well what young men want of you, Penny.”

Heads turned.

Behind them whispers followed, and the thump of Mr. Shelbourne’s heels.

“Mr. Foster!” he cried. “Please, sir.”

Her father’s frown deepened. His steps did not slow.

“I would  pay court to your daughter. Will you not allow it?” The loud words stilled the whispers, stopping the nearby dancers. Her father came to an abrupt halt, jaw askew.

Penny snapped her mouth shut.

The crowd parted, waiting.

Her father seemed completely at a loss for words.

Cupid knew everyone listened. She read his awareness in eyes fixed on her, as if he expected her to understand--even to support his stance.

“I would consider myself most fortunate, sir, if you would allow me to openly court your daughter.” He made no effort to lower his voice, that all might hear, that those gathered might widen their eyes, seeing her in a new light.

In that moment the pieces fell into place. Here it was--her Valentine request fulfilled.

Her father stammered a response, in favor of Mr. Shelbourne’s gentlemanly request, “If Penny is amenable to the idea.”

She smiled, though she would rather weep, and gave the slightest of nods, heart aching, shot through by the keenest of arrows. He would not see her suffer, she thought. He would not see her suffer.

Chapter Twenty-One

The second day of the wedding celebrations dawned fair, and still. It seemed a day that held its breath, as motionless as the village when Alexander set out to fetch Penny, in a hired gig.  As he directed the horse away from the King’s Head, he caught sight of a familiar figure walking toward him, from the direction of St. Lawrence’s, and waved.

The vicar waved back, rather frantically, and called out to him, “Have you a moment, Mr. Shelbourne?”

Alexander stopped the horse, and asked him with a smile, “Do you mean to participate in the wedding races today, vicar?”

The vicar shook his head. “No, no. I leave that to younger limbs, lad, and sharper eyes. It is on another matter entirely I would speak with you.”

“Where is it you are headed, father? I would be happy to deliver you.”

“Thank you kindly, lad. It is just a wee piece. I wish to call on the widow Brumley.”
He climbed promptly into the gig, and when he had settled himself, Alexander said, “Is it Val’s drinking brings that worried look to your brow, father? I must admit it troubles me, and yet I’ve no idea what I might say or do to dissuade him from imbibing.”

The vicar frowned, shook his head, his gaze no less troubled. “Not Val, lad. ‘Tis you I’ve concern for.”

Alexander turned to him, surprised. “Me? Whatever for?”

“I do hate to speak ill of any of my parishioners,” the vicar said, “but I fear there is much you do not know of the young lady who has chanced to catch your eye.”
“Miss Foster?”

“Aye. Poor Penny Foster.”

He arrived a quarter of an hour later tn expected. Penny, who could not believe her fortune changed, that he regretted his outspoken commitments of yesterday heard with wildly beating heart the rattle of carriage wheels.

“I do beg your pardon for my tardiness,” he said when she met him at the door.

“It is very kind of you to do this,” she said. “But you need not, you know.”

“I was waylaid by the vicar.” His brow wrinkled as her words sank in. “Need not what?”

“You have fulfilled your Valentine promise. You need not continue the charade.”

Alexander looked at her most quizzically as he helped her into the hired gig. “Do you not care for my company, Penny?”

She could feel heat build in her cheeks. “No, no,” she exclaimed.

“I am hurt,” he said.

She clung to his hand when he would have stepped away. “I do care for you. I do.”

“Do you?”

Abruptly she released her hold on him, unable to look him in the eyes.

“Of course. You have been very kind.”

He stared at her a moment, trying to read the expression she hid beneath the brim of her bonnet, before, with a smile he rounded the back of the gig, to settle in the narrow seat beside her. His hip rubbed hers, then his shoulder as he picked up the reins.  He had no choice, of course, the bench was short.

He tilted his head to look her way, mischief in his eyes. “Do you think I regret your company?”
“That I cannot speak to.”

He laughed, and called to the horse. “Walk on.”

Then he tipped his head her way again, eyebrows raised.

“It is just . . .”

“Do you really think I am drawn to you for no more reason than the fulfillment of a Valentine promise?” His hands were firm in guiding the horse, his gloved fingers long and elegant.

“No, but it might be better for you, if you were.” She stared out at the familiar countryside, eyes glazed, heartsick. “You are the son of a gentleman, of good character and better connections. I am the daughter of mischance and mistaken assumption. Will not your mother, your father, wish more for you?”
“They wish me happy. “

Such a dear face he had, to look upon her with such genuine confusion. She, who loved him, wanted only what was best for him. “But . . . ”
He slowed the horse. “Would you warn me away, after the vicar himself has failed?”

“The vicar?”

“Poor man feared I knew not the whole story of your past.”
“Oh?”

He smiled as he flicked the reins. The gig leapt forward, the horse at a trot. “Turned out he was the one misinformed.”

“Was he?”

“Indeed. Told him as much.”

She twisted the edge of her shawl in nervous fingers. “Exactly what did you tell him?”

His eyes twinkled with mirth. “Why, that he ought to have a chat with the barber of Dunston, for if anyone knows the truth of the matter, it is he.”
She sat staring at the world flashing by-- a familiar blur of grass and trees, and yet today they seemed new--changed. “You knew? All this time, you knew, and never told me?”
He chirruped to the horse, his attention on the road that rushed toward them. “I knew from the moment I first saw you.” He turned his head, to gaze at her with unguarded affection. “On the road into Appleby.”

On this, the second day of the wedding celebrations, a saddle was to be run for, two bridles trotted for, two belts wrestled for, two hats boxed for, gloves leapt for, and three pewter tankards shot for.

Penny, who felt she had won the greatest prize of all in Alexander Shelbourne’s willing presence at her side, felt no urge to join the foot races, even though wings had been lent to her feet. However, when the three-legged race was announced, Alexander turned to her with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Care to give it a go?”

There lurked an element of danger in such a request. Generally married men and women ran the three-legged race. For an unattached female of good reputation to do so invited censure. There seemed something both titillating and entirely appropriate in the idea of binding her leg to his, that they must walk in tandem, as they had in coming down from Nichol’s chair.

“Yes,” she said, knowing they would create a minor sensation, knowing she ought to say no. Of course, she could not, after all, lay claim to a spotless reputation, and everyone knew it. What further harm could such an entertaining pastime do her?

Looking well pleased with himself, Alexander went away to put their name in the running, returning with a handful of black ribbon.

“Ready?” he asked, waving them, and though she said she was, it was a lie. Word was fast in getting about that she meant to participate, and there were men, both young and old, who drew nearer,  that they might get a glimpse of her preparation. Nothing sufficiently prepared her either, for the effect her Cupid had on her whenever he drew near--near enough this time to align his shoe with hers, the edges of their soles bumping as he knelt to bind their ankles.

He stood, and she must grab at his coat tail or fall over, so natural was her inclination to step away that she almost felled them both.

“Steady.” He chuckled low in his throat, and braced her position with his arm about her waist, a move that had the men who watched elbowing one another while whispered opinions flew among the women who observed as keenly as did their husbands.

“Yes,” She felt breathless in this moment, as wildly wanton as many had long assumed her to be. And yet, not entirely so--she adjusted her foot so their ankles did not bang into one another.

“And now,” he said ,”You must forgive me for taking liberties, but I think we will do better if you remove this.” His hand rose to the ribbons beneath her chin, and with a swift tug he had it loosed and lifted her bonnet away from her head. The breeze fingered her curls. She felt he undressed her with far too practiced a hand as he set the hat aside, and bent to lift her skirt. Paying no attention to her gasp,  or the raised brows and suggestive grins of the oglers, he grazed her leg with gloved hand, with the movement of hem and petticoat, exposing black stockings to just below the knee.

“You will hold this while I tie?” he asked.

She could not look at those who watched, could not look at anyone but him, at the spot on the nape of his neck where his dark bristling hair formed a perfect V.

Wordlessly, she clutched at the hem of her skirt, swaying against him, clutching at him a little, in fact, though it was her inclination to put some space between them as cold air and warm hands swept beneath her skirt.

“Good,” He looked up with a wink, eyes sparkling, as if he enjoyed the moment.

How hot her cheeks felt. How stirring his gloved hand as he slid another length of black ribbon into the sensitive hollow at the back of her knee, hands touching, fingering, pushig aside petticoat and drooping hem.

“You understand the necessity of my forwardness?” He glanced sideways at her.

“I begin to wonder if this is a good idea.” She inhaled sharply as, rising, he pressed the entire length of his leg most familiarly to hers, and tied it snug just below the knee, the connection of muscled calf moving against muscled calf wildly stimulating.

Their shoulders bumped when he straightened, all of him too close, and yet not close enough, their position dizzying, both striving for balance. She was troubled by conflicting desires: either she must step further away, or closer still. He leaned into her, saying, “Steady now. We mustn’t fall down at the outset. Perhaps this will help.”

Adjusting his stance, arm sliding about her waist, fitting her shoulder into the hollow of his, he said, “That’s better. Can you be comfortable?”

Could she? Comfortable was not at all the word she would have chosen to describe their current posture. How could one be comfortable when every iota of one’s being cried out with awareness, with heightened sensitivity to the brush of sleeve to sleeve, and stockinged leg to stockinged leg? Could she be comfortable without him?

He gave her waist a warm squeeze, “You must relax into it for this to work well. Like dancing,” he said.

“Like dancing,” she echoed.

She focused her attention on relaxing, tensed muscles softening, so that her thigh seemed to mold itself to his. Hip bumped hip. She felt the ebb and flow of his breathing, by way of his ribcage as it settled against hers.

“Can you feel it?” he asked.

“What?” The laughter in his eyes captivated her.

“The difference?” He shifted his weight.

She had no choice but to shift with him.

“And now we must try walking.” He laughed. “You first.”

They were awkward, but soon fell into stride. Penny even allowed herself to enjoy the odd sensation of their combined rolling gait until she looked up with a laugh and found Val watching them with a dour expression.

So forbidding was his regard she trod unevenly, and almost tripped, but Alexander braced her waist, and cried, “Watch out!” and with a quick look down at their feet she better focused both mind and body.

When she looked up again,Val was gone, and so fast had the moment passed that she wondered if she had imagined the resentful disenchantment of his features.

They set off at a walk, gaining speed, establishing a common, hip jolting rhythm, moving in mirrored tandem, at a slow run, thigh against thigh, his arm at home about her waist. Alexander could not help but think of other ways in which they two might thump and bump along together as breathless laughter bubbled from their throats and the gathered crowd cheered them on.

 They were not the fastest. They could not compete for speed with two, long-legged brothers who passed them with gleeful shouts of “Make way. Make way.”
But nearing the finish line one brother tripped. With twin oaths the two tumbled. Laughing, Alexander and Penny stumped breathlessly past them, to carry away the prize, matching crystal champagne glasses with which they were urged to toast their success, indeed, their coupled state was commented upon with growing favor. Oscar told them as much as he poured a victory libation.