Critical praise for
RUTH AXTELL MORREN
and her novels

THE MAKING OF A GENTLEMAN

“Engaging characters and a smooth, fast-paced story line make this a historical to be savored.”

— Publishers Weekly

THE ROGUE’S REDEMPTION

“A beautifully written Regency-era love story.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews

DAWN IN MY HEART

“Morren turns in a superior romantic historical.”

— Booklist

LILAC SPRING

“ Lilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek God’s will for their lives. Fascinating details about 19th-century shipbuilding…bring a historical feel to this faith-filled romance.”

—Bestselling author Liz Curtis Higgs

WILD ROSE

Selected as a Booklist Top 10

Christian Novel for 2005

“The charm of the story lies in Morren’s ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.”

— Booklist

A Bride of Honor
Ruth Axtell Morren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Pastor Rafael Grey,

a man after God’s heart.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

London, April 1812

“‘I have found David, the son of Jesse, a man after mine own heart’.” Damien paused in the reading of the scripture and looked from the pulpit to the congregation below him.

St. George’s Chapel was filled to overflowing. Not due solely to his preaching, unfortunately, although his flock had been growing steadily in the last few years since he’d been curate there.

No, it was not the service or his preaching that brought most people out this Sunday to morning prayer, but scandal.

Damien’s glance strayed to the chancel where his sister sat beside her intended. Jonah Quinn, a man who’d escaped the gallows and been a fugitive from the law, had only last week received a royal pardon from the prince regent himself.

Overnight, Jonah, Damien and his sister had become objects of notoriety. The fashionable world from nearby Mayfair flocked to catch a glimpse of the man who’d escaped detection from the magistrates by hiding out in Damien’s own parsonage.

A rustle of someone’s prayer book pulled Damien’s thoughts back to the sermon at hand. His business was not what had brought people into the house of God that morning, but what they would take with them when they left.

“How is your heart with God today?” As he asked the question, his gaze roamed over the congregation once again, stopping here and there to make eye contact with a parishioner. Most quickly averted their eyes.

His attention was caught by a young lady in the front pew. For a few seconds, he lost his train of thought. She was looking at him as if drinking in each word.

Clearing his throat, he looked back down at his notes, wishing all his parishioners listened so attentively.

“Is your heart condemning you when you come before the Lord in prayer?”

Damien’s voice grew soft and there was little sound coming from the congregation. He continued to ask the probing questions, questions he himself had dealt with in his earlier life when he’d felt inadequate to fill the shoes of a preacher.

“God’s word tells us that there is no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.” He grasped the sides of the pulpit, his voice rising. He no longer needed to look down at his notes as his words tumbled forth.

His attention returned time and again to the young lady. Her look never wavered. What had brought her this morning? She certainly didn’t behave like those interested in the latest scandal. Not once had her glance drifted toward Jonah, unlike so many of the congregation.

The young lady was sitting beside an older woman. Damien recognized neither. Both were fashionably dressed. Were they part of the Mayfair crowd squeezed into the pews that morning?

As soon as the service was over, Damien went into the vestry to remove his stole and surplice, then made his way to the church’s entry in his black cassock to greet the parishioners. Thinking of the moment he would face the young lady, he felt a brief qualm as he listened to the tap of his wooden leg against the hard floor. Would a flicker of distaste mar her pretty features? The worry was quickly gone. What did it matter what she thought? Chastising himself briefly for his vanity, he joined his sister and Jonah who were already at the door.

“Good morning, Reverend Hathaway. Wonderful sermon.” He returned handshakes and greetings, thanking those who commended him on the sermon.

Many of those who were strangers hardly gave him a nod before turning an eager eye to Florence and Jonah. Damien glanced their way but saw at once that his future brother-in-law didn’t need help from him. Jonah shook hands and smiled broadly at one and all, answering those who were bold enough to ask him about his pardon.

He chuckled, rubbing his muscular neck. “Aye, the noose was already nipping at me throat ’ere I was rescued. No, I never did ken who they were.” His listeners’ eyes popped open wide, their mouths hanging slack in wonder.

“Good morning, Reverend Hathaway.”

Damien turned to greet an elderly parishioner. “Good morning, Mrs. Oliver. How nice to see you out again. How are you feeling this fine April morning?”

The white-haired lady smiled beneath the deep rim of her straw bonnet. “Praise be to God, I am feeling quite myself again. After you prayed for me, the rheumatism in my joints subsided.” She patted his hand. “You were so kind to visit me while I was housebound.”

“I am thankful to have you back among us.”

With a last pat to his hand, she indicated the ladies behind her in the line—and Damien was caught by the large brown eyes of the beautiful young lady of the front pew.

With an effort, he pulled his focus from her and turned to the older lady, intensely aware of his deformity.

“I’d like to present you to my dear friend, Miss Yates,” Mrs. Oliver went on in her friendly tone, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “And this is her young cousin, Miss Phillips, just returned to London from school.”

He bowed to the older lady. “How do you do?” Everything about her indicated a lady of rank and distinction. Her dark cloak was edged in fur, her manner dignified.

Miss Yates inclined her head slightly, a genial look in her blue eyes. “Very well, thank you. I found your sermon most edifying. I look forward to visiting again.”

Unable to resist the sincerity in her tone, he smiled. “You are always welcome. Please come any Sunday.”

Damien tried to appear calm and untroubled as he prepared to bring his attention to Miss Phillips. It had been merely a trick of the light that had made her appear so ethereally lovely from his vantage of the pulpit, he told himself.

Nevertheless, a flush crept from the edges of his white clerical collar to his hairline as he turned to her.

The impact of her honey-brown eyes almost knocked him over. They were framed by lashes a shade darker. Tawny eyebrows created an arresting contrast to her golden hair.

She was even lovelier up close than she’d appeared in the pew. Blond curls framed a heart-shaped face. A finely chiseled nose curved up the tiniest bit at the end.

“How do you do?” he finally managed.

She murmured something indistinct and looked down.

He cleared his throat, searching frantically for something to say—anything to prolong the moment. But his mind had suddenly emptied of all lofty thoughts. He might never have preached an edifying sermon moments ago. “I’m honored you joined our humble congregation today.” As soon as the words were out, his face grew warm. He sounded as if he were toadying for a compliment.

She looked up immediately. Her smile lit up the rich brown depths of her eyes and brought radiance to the delicate pink of her cheeks. “Oh, no, sir—it is we who are honored. I mean—that is to say…”

Her evident confusion eased his own agitation. “I hope you enjoyed the service.”

“Oh, yes, sir—Reverend—” She stopped.

A kindred feeling stirred inside him as he realized how shy she was. She was very young, perhaps no more than seventeen or eighteen.

He forgot his own fears in his wish to put her at ease. “Hathaway.”

“I beg your pardon, Reverend Hathaway.”

He was unaccustomed to reacting so to a young lady, but then he’d never been so close to one so lovely, and so obviously of rank.

Before he could think of anything else to say—and conscious of the line of people waiting behind her—she said, “I…I enjoyed your sermon, Reverend Hathaway. Very much. I mean, I’m not certain if ‘enjoyed’ is the correct word….”

His mouth turned up at the corner in rueful understanding. “I hope you found it thought provoking at the least.”

“Oh, indeed, yes! That is a much better way to put it. I…I’ve never heard preaching such as yours before. It…it wasn’t comfortable, and yet—” she drew her dark eyebrows together “—it filled me with something I’ve never felt before.”

The words were what every preacher wanted to hear. He tried to dismiss the thought that the pleasure he felt from the compliment was heightened by the fact that it had come from such a lovely young creature. To hide his confusion, he turned to his sister. “May I present my sister, Florence Hathaway, and her fiancé, Jonah Quinn.”

She greeted both.

“Enjoyed the preaching, did you?” Jonah asked with a smile.

Again, she blushed, but did not lower her gaze as she had with Damien. “Yes, very much.”

“Our Damien always preaches a good one. Warms the insides when it doesn’t feel like a punch in the gut.”

Her laughter joined Jonah’s. “Oh, yes! That’s it exactly.”

Jonah winked at both ladies. “Why don’t you come ’round for tea this afternoon for more of Reverend Hathaway’s wit and wisdom?”

Damien was preparing to greet the next parishioner in line when Jonah’s words stopped him. His eyes sought his sister’s. Florence was rarely at a loss in any situation—she would know what to say. But Florence was looking at Jonah, stunned.

An awkward silence followed when Florence did not speak up immediately to second the invitation. Damien, who knew his sister so well, realized she must be feeling nervous about entertaining ladies of such distinction. As the silence stretched out, he knew he must say something. Except for the rector and his mother, they rarely entertained members of the ton in their modest parsonage.

Damien bowed his head toward Miss Yates. “We would be honored if you would visit us this afternoon.”

“We should be delighted,” the older lady replied immediately. “What time would you expect us?”

Florence seemed finally to remember her obligations as hostess. “Would four o’clock suit you?”

“Four o’clock would be perfect.” Miss Yates touched her young companion on the elbow. “We must be going.” She bowed to the three of them. “Until this afternoon.”

Damien watched them continue down the church steps and across the lawn toward a fine-looking carriage, his mind in a daze. A liveried servant sprang down and opened the carriage door for them, confirming his supposition that they were members of the upper class. When the servant slammed the door shut, Damien noted that it was decorated with a blue-and-gold crest.

“Reverend Hathaway.” The peremptory tones of another female parishioner yanked his attention back to the receiving line.

“Yes, Mrs. Cooper, how lovely to see you this morning….”

Lindsay sat in their coach as it carried them down St. George’s Row along the northern edge of Hyde Park. Reverend Hathaway’s sermon still echoed in her ears.

His words had seemed directed at her, exhorting her in a quiet, earnest way to become a true disciple of Christ. Church sermons had never been like this before. Sermons were usually dry, delivered in the elevated tones of a minister who seemed more concerned with his elocution than the text.

Never had she heard the scriptures in such a personal way, a way that demanded something of her even though she’d always lived according to the church’s laws.

“What did you think of the Hathaways, my dear?” Beatrice asked.

Lindsay turned to the older lady, a distant cousin on her mother’s side who had recently come to live with her father to oversee Lindsay’s coming out. “Oh, most genial,” she agreed wholeheartedly, although thinking about it now, she had to admit she’d hardly noticed the reverend’s sister or her betrothed in her admiration for the reverend.

“Mr. Quinn certainly seemed genial, not at all what I expected.”

Lindsay remembered the large, dark-haired man’s friendly manner. “Oh?”

“I meant from all I’d heard about him.”

“What do you mean?”

Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Don’t you know? He’s a former convict.”

Lindsay turned on the seat and stared at her cousin. “A convict?”

“Haven’t you read the papers? He was awaiting his execution at Newgate when he was rescued by a gang of ruffians. For months he escaped the eyes of the law.” Beatrice shook her head with a chuckle. “It turns out all along he’d been hiding away in a parsonage right here. The magistrates were in an uproar.”

“You can’t mean he was here…at St. George’s?”

Her cousin nodded. “The very same.”

Lindsay looked away from her cousin, her thoughts in a whirl, unable to reconcile the godly man who had delivered such a quietly convicting sermon with a man who would harbor a criminal.

“He could not have stayed hidden for so long if the reverend and his sister hadn’t helped him,” Beatrice confirmed for her. “And to think, in the course of aiding and abetting him, Miss Hathaway fell in love with him. It is to her he owes the royal pardon he received.”

“Oh, my,” she breathed, hardly able to grasp it.

“It was in all the tabloids,” Beatrice continued. “Of course, I’m forgetting you’ve been away at school and have missed the goings-on here in London.”

“Tell me all the particulars. It sounds wonderfully romantic!”

By the time Beatrice had finished a story that sounded more incredible than anything in her novels, they’d arrived at Lindsay’s home on Grosvenor Square in the heart of Mayfair.

Despite the happy ending to the tale, Lindsay found it almost impossible to imagine breaking the law and hiding out from the authorities. “You know, I believe it’s no coincidence Mr. Quinn gave himself up to the authorities. If I had been residing under the Reverend Hathaway’s roof all that time, I, too, would have been convicted of any wrongdoing and made a clean breast of things.”

“Yes, I imagine the Hathaways must have influenced Mr. Quinn greatly. Reverend Hathaway appears to have a true shepherd’s heart.”

After the last parishioner left, Damien, his sister and Jonah used the footpath behind the church to cut across the cemetery and apple orchard to the parsonage.

Damien glanced at his sister, wondering if she would say anything about Jonah’s unexpected invitation for this afternoon.

But Florence remained silent during the short walk home. He would just have to wait for her to speak. He took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet-scented air, trying to reconcile himself to the coming afternoon.

When they entered the kitchen, Mrs. Nichols, their cook and housekeeper, turned from the roast she was basting on a spit over the fire. “What a crowd this morning. I haven’t seen the like since I heard Wesley preach just beyond on Harper’s Field nigh on five-and-twenty years ago.”

“I don’t believe it was to hear my preaching that so many turned out,” Damien said with a chuckle, approaching the range. “My, but that roast smells succulent.”

“Oh, they might come to eye Jonah, but they stay to hear your words, my boy.” Jacob Nichols, their man-of-all-work at the parsonage who’d known Damien since he was a lad, clapped him on the back.

Jonah shut the door behind them with a bang. “I don’t want to claim any credit, but people do seem a curious lot. I don’t think I’ve had so many pairs of eyes on me since I stood on the gallows.”

Florence shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that awful day.”

He draped his arm around her slim shoulders and pulled her to him. “Easy there, lass. If it hadn’t been for that day, I’d never have met you.”

She looked up at him a second, her hand cupping his cheek. Damien marveled afresh at the love that had blossomed in so unlikely a pair—a rough laborer and a godly woman who had long since accepted her spinsterhood. A rush of something like envy shot through him. He rapidly dismissed the unworthy feeling.

Florence began untying the ribbons of her bonnet. “Enough of that. Let me help Elizabeth or we’ll never get dinner on the table—and we have company coming this afternoon.” She bit her lip, frowning up at her fiancé. “Whatever were you thinking to invite those two ladies to the parsonage?”

Jonah raised his eyebrows, a puzzled look in his green eyes. “What do you mean? I was being hospitable. Now that I’m a free man, it seems you’re always inviting someone from the parish over on Sunday.”

“Yes, I know, but these ladies are complete strangers. They don’t even belong to our parish.”

“What’s that to the point? Are we supposed to only hold out the hand of friendship to those within our borders?” His grin took the sting from his words.

Damien could see his sister was at a loss yet again.

She removed her apron from the hook and began to tie it behind her. Jonah immediately took over the task. “Thank you,” she murmured. “What I mean is, these women are ladies, undoubtedly from Mayfair. They probably only came to our chapel to ogle the ‘pardoned felon’ this morning.”

With a final tug on the bow, Jonah straightened. His heavy black eyebrows knit thoughtfully. “Did you think so? I confess I didn’t get any such impression. The older lady seemed quite amiable and the younger—” he looked across at Damien and winked “—why, she only had eyes for our good parson here.”

They turned to look at Damien, and he felt himself flush. He glanced down, closely examining the narrow brim of his low-crowned clergyman’s hat which he held in his hands.

“Nonsense,” Florence said, smoothing the front of her apron. “I admit, they were ladylike enough, but to have them here the first time you lay eyes on them?”

Jonah scrubbed his hands clean at the pump, took up a linen towel and leaned against the soapstone sink, eyeing Florence. “Don’t you think you’re good enough for the likes o’ them?”

Florence took his place at the pump. “That’s beside the point. They are obviously ladies of rank who accepted your unexpected invitation out of a sense of obligation. They would have found it impolite to do otherwise.”

Jonah crossed his burly arms across his wide chest. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The young one was eating up the parson’s words, eh, Damien?” Jonah’s green eyes danced with mirth.

Damien hung up his hat. “I didn’t notice.”

Jonah chuckled. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being the godly man you are.”

Damien crossed the kitchen to the door opposite, hoping to escape everyone’s attention.

Florence sniffed. “Most of the congregation is usually held captive by Damien’s sermons, so that is nothing unusual. Besides, why should you be so interested in distracting Damien with some foolishness about a young lady’s attention?”

Once again, Jonah put his arm around his future wife. “I suppose, dear heart, since you’ve made me such a happy man, I only wish the same for the preacher.” He looked at Damien over Florence’s head. “The good book says it’s not good for man to be alone. Since I’ll be stealing his only kin from him, I feel an obligation of sorts to make up for his loss.”

Damien was touched by the sincerity of Jonah’s words beneath the lighthearted tone, even if the man’s concern was misplaced. Before he could think how to change the subject, Florence turned around, disengaging herself from Jonah’s hold.

“In any case, you really should think twice before inviting someone to tea.” She’d softened her tone, and Damien realized she was truly worried about the coming afternoon. “You tell him,” she said to Damien.

Damien put his hand on the doorknob. “I would never presume to curtail Jonah’s hospitable inclinations. That is what we are here for, whether those invited belong to our parish or not.” He smiled to ease his sister’s concern. “Don’t distress yourself about this afternoon. I’m sure everything will be fine if you behave with your usual amiability. Our guests will most likely be bored by our limited conversation and make their visit short. They’ll feel under no obligation to return the invitation, and we’ll not see them again.” He nodded at Jonah’s frown. “You did right in issuing the invitation.”

Before anyone could comment further on their impending guests, Damien exited the kitchen and headed to his study.

Once he’d entered the quiet of his private sanctuary, he could put aside his mask of serenity and contemplate the coming afternoon.

He hadn’t felt so nervous since the first time he’d had to stand in the pulpit and preach. He glanced down at his black cassock. That presented another problem. Would he wear it during the ladies’ visit, or remove it and appear in his dark jacket and knee breeches, the way he usually did for such social calls, the only sign of his office the two white, rectangular preaching bands hanging from his collar?

He removed the cassock now, unbuttoning the long row of buttons down the front, as his mind struggled with this new dilemma. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about the matter. But now, dread of removing the ankle-length gown rose up in him.

In the church this morning, under the cassock and surplice, his wooden leg had not been so apparent. In his knee breeches, however, the dark peg strapped to his left leg called attention to itself like a lightning-scarred tree in a healthy forest.

He hung up the cassock, trying to ignore the thump of the wooden leg as he walked back to his desk. He sat down heavily, his fingers rubbing his left knee absently as he stared out the window to the garden beyond. Why did it matter now? He’d accepted the loss of his leg so many years ago that he hardly gave it any thought anymore. But on the brink of the impending visit by a lovely young lady who’d eyed him—if not the way Jonah described, at least with some measure of admiration—his peg leg loomed like a great, hulking deformity.

Today was no different than any other, he reasoned with himself. His congregation—the entire parish, even the prisoners at Newgate, where he frequently ministered, and the inmates of the Marylebone workhouse and orphanage—had grown accustomed to his disability.

It was only when his leg hindered him in his activities, or when he was meeting people for the first time, that he was at all aware of it. But that awareness usually passed quickly.

“Stop it, Damien,” he chided himself in a harsh whisper. “You’re overreacting! It’s nothing but a simple tea with some parishioners. Nothing you haven’t done a hundred times before.”

Taking up his feather quill and twirling it between his fingers, he reminded himself that he was the curate of a small parish. He was the Lord’s servant, not a gentleman to worry about his appearance. He was here to meet the needs of his flock.

But the young lady’s heart-shaped face and large brown eyes flashed across his memory, and he recoiled from the moment she’d meet him without the long cassock. He steeled himself for the disgust that would cloud her pretty features as soon as her gaze dropped downward.

Damien swiped a hand across his eyes to dispel the image and pulled toward him the large, worn Bible that lay open on the desk. The best antidote to such foolishness was God’s word. It was balm to his spirit, solace to his tortured thoughts.

The young lady had clearly been hungry for God’s word. Damien bowed his head and closed his eyes, praying for something to give her when she came this afternoon. She was a precious lamb, and perhaps the Lord had sent her to St. George’s that morning to receive something from Him. He prayed for guidance in ascertaining what that something might be.

Chapter Two

L indsay’s heartbeat quickened as soon as the curate appeared in the doorway. She’d had to hide her dismay when she’d first entered and not seen him in the drawing room. For a moment, she’d feared he would be absent for tea. Now, an enormous relief overtook her at the sight of his tall frame.

“Good afternoon,” he said. The curate had such a warm smile, she couldn’t help smiling back. “Good afternoon,” she replied with a curtsy.

He began walking toward them. She sucked in her breath. He was lame! Just below his left knee was a wooden peg where his leg should have been. Her gaze flew back up to his face and their glances met. A glimmer of pain flashed in his eyes.

Oh, dear! Why had she looked down like that?

But in the next instant he extended his hand to Beatrice. “Good afternoon, Miss Yates, how nice of you to visit us here at the parsonage.” He had a low, well-modulated voice that immediately put a person at ease.

Her cousin smiled. “The gratitude is all ours for your gracious invitation.”

Lindsay bit her lip, waiting quietly as he exchanged pleasantries with her cousin. She hadn’t even noticed the wooden leg during the service, but he’d been gowned and standing behind the pulpit. Many young men had lost limbs in the war, but this man was a clergyman. How had the injury come about? At least it was only below the knee. The loss was all the more poignant because he had such an athletic build, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his good leg well shaped and muscular beneath the stocking.

And then he turned to her. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

“Thank you.” To her chagrin her voice came out as little more than a whisper. She couldn’t help responding to the kindly look in his blue eyes. They were such a beautiful shade, like a cloudless sky on a summer’s day. His light brown hair, though cut short, had a slight curl to it.

Before she could think of anything more to say, his sister spoke. “Why don’t we sit down and I’ll ring for some tea?”

Lindsay followed her cousin to the settee Miss Hathaway indicated. Trying not to look too anxious, she watched the curate to see where he would sit. Alas, he waited until all the others were seated. Mr. Quinn took one of the armchairs opposite and Miss Hathaway the other. There were no other chairs within range of the settee. The curate went to an alcove facing the street and took a seat.

Miss Hathaway cleared her throat. “We were very gratified to have you in the chapel today.”

Thankfully, Beatrice was not at all nervous. “Oh, we were delighted to be there.” Unmindful of the distance between them, she turned to Reverend Hathaway with her customary warm smile. “We so enjoyed your sermon. Did we not, my dear?”

“Oh, yes.” She tried to inject all the feeling possible into her words, wishing she could ask the curate more about the scriptures. She’d even brought her small New Testament, given to her by her mother, along with a notebook and pencil in her reticule.

Miss Hathaway smoothed down her skirt. “Where do you usually attend services?”

Once again, Beatrice took the initiative to reply. “At your mother church, St. George’s Hanover. We live close by on Grosvenor Square.”

“Oh, yes, the rector’s church.” Miss Hathaway fiddled with the white fichu at her throat. “How is Reverend Doyle?”

“He’s very well, thank you. He is the one who first told us of your services here at the chapel.”

A brief look clouded Miss Hathaway’s features, and Lindsay wondered at it. She glanced at the curate and caught him looking at her. Before she could smile, his gaze flickered away.

“I see,” was all Miss Hathaway said.

Beatrice folded her hands on her lap. “We decided at last to come hear for ourselves. And we were not disappointed.”

As the stilted conversation progressed between Miss Hathaway and Beatrice, Lindsay fretted, wishing she knew how to draw the curate in. Would this be the last time she ever spoke to him? Would he think them awfully tiresome visitors?

He remained silent, and she wondered what he was thinking. She stole another look at him, but he appeared as serene as he had in church, giving nothing away.

Mr. Quinn was also quiet, and Lindsay glanced at him, amazed afresh at his story. She caught his gaze as well, but instead of looking away as the curate had, Mr. Quinn grinned at her, and she found herself smiling back. There was something engaging in his countenance.

The tea tray arrived at that moment and Miss Hathaway busied herself with pouring. Mr. Quinn didn’t wait for his cup to be brought to him but rose and wandered over to Miss Hathaway. He took the cup offered him, then approached Lindsay. “See here, since you’ve probably visited the good parson to discuss this morning’s sermon, why don’t you sit here in his corner and ask him whatever you like. The reverend knows more about scripture than I’ll ever know in two lifetimes.”

It was as if he’d read her mind. Before she could think what to say, Mr. Quinn turned to Beatrice. “In the meanwhile, I’d be glad to regale Miss Yates with tales from Newgate if you’d care to hear them.” He smiled and winked at her cousin.

To her credit, Beatrice took it in stride. She replied with enthusiasm, “I would love to hear about Newgate.” She looked across at Miss Hathaway. “Reverend Doyle has told me something of your work among the inmates. I would dearly like to know more of it.”

Mr. Quinn quirked an eyebrow at Lindsay and held out his arm as if he were escorting her to an assembly at the exclusive Almack’s. “Shall I take you to Hathaway?”

She stood at once, her heartbeat quickening. Two armchairs and a small round table formed a cozy nook before the bow window. Reverend Hathaway stood as she approached and waited until she was seated before he resumed his seat opposite.

“Well, Reverend, are you ready for a catechism lesson?” Mr. Quinn asked in a jocular tone.

Instead of replying, he glanced toward his sister, but she was already engaged in an animated conversation with Beatrice. Lindsay heard her saying, “The inmates are kept in atrocious conditions….” Then, almost as if reluctant, the curate turned back to Lindsay. “Of course. What is it you wish to know?”

After Mr. Quinn went to rejoin the women, Lindsay cast about for how to begin. Reverend Hathaway was so much younger than Reverend Doyle, yet so unlike the young gentlemen of the ton she’d met during her coming out.

“I—you—” he began, then brought a clenched hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “You had some questions?”

“Yes.” Lindsay pulled open the drawstring of her reticule, relieved to have something else to focus on besides the awful moment he’d caught her looking at his peg leg. She removed the small Bible and laid it atop the tapestry covering the table. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not. Were you reading a particular passage?” he asked.

“I was trying to find the scriptures you spoke of this morning, but I must confess, I did not write them down.” To her chagrin, she felt herself stammering. “I—I shall be more diligent next Sunday.”

“I can help you there,” he said, taking the Bible from her and opening it, easing her nerves somewhat. “I began with a verse in the Book of Acts, in chapter thirteen.” He ruffled the thin pages. He had beautiful hands, his fingers long and slim, the nails cut short and straight across. When he came to the passage, he handed the book to her. “Here.” He pointed with his forefinger. “Verse twenty-two.”

She tore her attention from his hand and bent her head over the scripture, trying to concentrate on the words.

When she’d finished, she lifted her face and caught her breath when she found him looking at her. This close, he looked even more handsome. His face was slim, the lines firm and well proportioned. She was reminded of the sculpted busts and statues of the Renaissance she’d had to study at Miss Pinkard’s Academy. So different from the Mayfair dandies who surrounded her at each dance.

She turned her mind back to the Bible verse. “How beautiful it sounds, ‘a man after mine own heart.’” She drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Do you think God would regard a woman’s heart the same way? Could a woman also have a heart like David’s?”

“I believe God doesn’t look at the externals—the gender of a person, or her status in society, or level of education—but at the heart.”

The gentle look in his eyes, and the confidence of his words reassured her. She found herself smiling, and the two remained looking at each other a moment.

Then he blinked and looked back down at the Bible between them.

Her thoughts returned to his sermon. “You also read something this morning about ‘being born again.’” She repeated the last words slowly, puzzling over them.

He nodded. “Yes. Jesus first uses the term in the Book of John, but I was quoting from the Epistle of Peter this morning. If you’ll permit me…” He reached for her Bible again, and she quickly turned it around for him. Their fingers grazed. “Pardon me—”

“It’s quite all right—” Their words collided just like their hands, and she fell silent, still feeling the tingle of the contact. Would he think her an utter schoolgirl, ignorant of every social grace?

He flipped through the pages once more until finding the verse he’d used. “‘Being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth forever.’” He turned the book back toward her, his forefinger once again marking the place.

She bent over the fine print of the Bible. When she looked up this time, he asked her, “Have you never heard that scripture before?”

“I confess, I don’t recall it.” Her glance left his and she looked out the window at the view of Hyde Park, across the road. “I haven’t been very diligent with the reading of scripture in the past few years, not since going away to school.”

“That is understandable in one so young.”

She bit her lip, her fears confirmed. He did think her a mere schoolgirl. “I wasn’t trying to excuse myself. Your preaching this morning made me want to begin reading again. I have read the prayer book every Sunday,” she added hopefully.

His fine lips curved up and she felt even more childish. “That’s admirable. However,” his tone sobered, “if you truly would wish to hear the Lord speak to you, I would encourage a daily habit of reading the scriptures.”

“Does God really speak to a person—I mean, besides a clergyman?”

“Of course.” He said it as if it were the most natural thing.

She shook her head slowly. “Papa would disagree with such a notion.”

“What does your father say?”

She tried to formulate the principles her father had taught her over the years. “He does not believe that God interferes with man.”

“Ah, a deist.”

She tilted her head. “I’m not sure what the term means. He has brought me up to understand that God created all things but that He has left it up to humans to behave according to the reason He has given us.”

“Yes.” Reverend Hathaway tapped his long fingers lightly on the tabletop, as if considering. She wondered if she had said something displeasing to him, but he quickly dismissed the impression. “There is much to be commended in rationality. Unfortunately, it ignores much of who Christ is and why He came to live among men.”

Her eyes widened at the direct yet gentle way he was saying her father was wrong. Up to now, the concept had never entered her head. Her father had always been the wisest person she knew. She looked down at her hands, her thoughts in a quandary. “When my mother was alive, she would read me the scriptures each evening before bed, but somehow I never continued after she passed away.”

“Has she been gone long?” he asked softly.

She shifted her glance back to the view beyond the window, the sympathy in his tone bringing a prick of tears to her eyes. “Three years.”

“Yours is still a fresh loss.”

Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his. “Most people expect me to be over it by now.”

“I would imagine you must miss her very much. She left you at a time when a girl is becoming a woman and needs her mother.”

How intuitive he was. “How…do you know?” she whispered.

“You forget, I’m a clergyman. I see and listen to many people’s situations and have come to experience much loss through what I hear from my parishioners.”

He’d had his own loss to deal with, she thought, remembering his leg. How could she let him know without embarrassing him? She dug into her reticule for her handkerchief and touched the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve never…spoken to a man of the church the way I have with you. They seem so dignified and far removed.” She folded her hands. “I mean no disrespect to any clergyman,” she added suddenly, afraid she might have insulted him.

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

They were interrupted by Mr. Quinn, who approached the small table. “I see you’ve managed to answer some of the young lady’s questions.” He glanced at her with a smile. “I mean, I hope he has, and not raised new ones.”

She laughed with a sense of relief, as if she’d kept things bottled up inside too long and now felt carefree. “Oh, a little of both, I believe.”

“That’s what he always does to me, lass, so you needn’t fear you’re alone.”

Beatrice rose. “We really should be going, although I’ve had a delightful time. I am most interested in hearing more about your work at Newgate,” she said to Miss Hathaway. “I would so like to organize a group of women at the church to help you.” She walked toward the alcove. “I hear you, too, are a frequent visitor to Newgate,” she said to Reverend Hathaway.

The curate stood as she approached.

Mr. Quinn beamed at him. “He’s even begun helping teach a group of criminal boys there to read. The new chaplain isn’t a bad chap and he thinks many of these boys are redeemable.”

Beatrice looked at the curate with heightened interest. “I find that admirable.”

A flush crept over his smooth cheeks. “I fear our efforts are minuscule compared to what needs to be done,” he said.

Beatrice nodded. “But everything must start somewhere.” She turned to Lindsay. “Well, my dear, have you had any of your questions answered?”

Lindsay closed her New Testament. “A few.” She gave Reverend Hathaway a shy smile. “Thank you, Reverend, for your time.”

Mr. Quinn rocked back on his heels. “If you’ve only had a few questions answered, and more raised, I suggest you begin coming ’round for the reverend’s study group.”

Before the reverend had a chance to reply, Mr. Quinn continued. “The curate has a group of us each Thursday evening right here, reading the good book and asking any questions we’d like. Miss Hathaway is present as well, so everything would be proper if Miss Phillips, and yourself o’ course, would be interested in attending.”

Lindsay felt hope rise within her. Perhaps she would not only have the opportunity of seeing the reverend again, but to study the scriptures under his tutelage! She looked at Beatrice.

Her cousin smiled at the curate. “Why, we shall certainly consider it. Of course, I must talk to Miss Phillips’s father. As you know, Miss Phillips is in the middle of her coming out. Her engagement calendar is quite full.”

“Of course,” he said immediately. “Mr. Quinn only meant to suggest a possible—er—”

Mr. Quinn interrupted, addressing Lindsay directly. “Well, whenever you get bored with all the dances and parties, you’re welcome in our midst.”

She brought her hands together. “I should love to come. I have ever so many more questions.” She turned once again to Reverend Hathaway. “That is…if you don’t mind having someone so ignorant of scripture in your group.”

“Remember, God looks at the heart,” Reverend Hathaway replied. “You—both of you—” he turned to include her cousin “—are most welcome any evening you are not otherwise engaged.”

Beatrice smiled and held out her hand. “We thank you most graciously. Now, we really must be going.” She made her farewells to Miss Hathaway and Mr. Quinn.

Reverend Hathaway smiled at Lindsay and she couldn’t help but notice his deep blue eyes again. “Thank you for coming to visit us,” he said.

“Thank you for having us. I…I hope we can join you at your Bible study.” How she wished she could say more—how full her heart felt after having conversed with him.

He gave a small nod, his eyes never leaving hers. “I look forward to seeing you some evening.”

After they’d left, Damien sat back in a daze, only half listening to his sister commenting on the visit. His attention was caught by Jonah’s reply. “Beautiful child, she is. She certainly seemed riveted by our Damien’s conversation, but I always say he’s the wisest man I know.”

Florence looked up from her needlework. “She is a pretty child, indeed, but I’m sure this is the last we shall see of her. She belongs to an entirely different world from ours. You heard her cousin—her life at present is full of balls and concerts. A girl’s coming out has a sole purpose to it, and that is to make a good match.”

Damien said nothing though his sister’s words brought about a sense of desolation in him. Jonah’s regard came to rest on Damien as he replied to Florence. “And what better husband for a young girl such as she than our good curate?”

“Jonah! What foolishness will you say next?” Florence exclaimed. “Goodness, don’t even think such nonsense.”

Jonah’s eyes twinkled in response. “No more foolish than the notion of a lady falling in love with a Newgate prisoner.”

Florence turned a bright red and she busied herself with her square of linen. “Hush. You’ll only distress Damien.”

Jonah quirked an eyebrow at him, and he did his best to appear unruffled. “Why should Damien be distressed by the thought of a pretty young thing like Miss Phillips giving him a second look?”

“Jonah!” Florence’s countenance bespoke genuine distress.

Damien stood and straightened his waistcoat. “That’s all right, Florence. Jonah was just having sport. No harm done. If you’ll excuse me, I shall be in my workshop.”

As he shut the door behind him, he heard Florence’s sharp whisper. “Now see what you’ve done? Your teasing was cruel.”

“I didn’t mean to be cruel. I told you, I just want to see my future brother-in-law all set up with a good woman of his own.”

Damien didn’t hear any more. He walked rapidly away from the door and headed downstairs for the small room off the kitchen, which served as his workshop. His father had been a clockmaker and brought his son up to follow in his profession. Instead, Damien had felt the call of the church. But since returning to London from Oxford to take up the curacy at St. George’s, he’d continued repairing clocks as a hobby. Working on the precise inner workings of a timepiece helped settle his mind. Often an answer to a perplexing question in scripture or a difficult problem with a parishioner would come to him as he sat pondering the clockworks.

He entered the small room and was immediately soothed by the steady ticking of the various clocks sitting on shelves and mantels in the room. He bent over the fire and stirred up the smoldering embers in the grate, adding some fresh lumps of coal. His hand stilled on the tongs as he stared at the sizzling coals, unseeing or—more precisely—seeing a radiant young face. When the fire burned brightly once again, he went to the battered old table that served as his work surface. It overlooked the kitchen garden and orchards beyond, providing ample light in the afternoon.

He moved the lantern clock in the brass case closer. He had to convert it into a fusee clock, which would only have to be wound once a week instead of daily. He turned it around so its back was facing him and picked up a screwdriver. The shiny brass back was etched with fancy scrollwork.

He stared at the inner workings of the clock. What should have been a simple procedure turned into a chore. Snatches from the conversation he’d just had with Miss Phillips kept shifting his focus.

Had the Lord brought this young lady for him to disciple in some fashion? Her questions about the scriptures seemed genuine.

How would he be able to disregard the yearnings this young lady stirred in his heart and focus solely on her spiritual well-being? He pondered the brass cone-shaped gear in his hand.

Likely his sister was right. Miss Phillips would have no time for an evening Bible study. A girl’s coming out was a major event in her life. How could an evening studying scriptures at a modest parsonage compete with a ball at one of the great houses of Mayfair?

Yet the shimmer of tears that had glistened in her eyes had been genuine. How he’d longed in that moment to offer comfort.

His fingers tightened on the gear. He was a simple clergyman. This young lady was as far removed from his sphere as a French gilded clock was from the parsonage. He must banish such foolish thoughts of her immediately, before they caused him any trouble.

Crowded between the other young ladies, Lindsay could hardly breathe. Her fan did little but move the stifling air in front of her.

Had she only been at the Middletons’ ball three-quarters of an hour? The wall she stood against was jammed with similarly dressed young ladies, all in white or pale-colored high-waisted gowns, tiny reticules and silk fans clutched in their gloved hands. Hair was curled around faces shiny from the heat of the room. Wall sconces only added to the pressing warmth.

The music from the orchestra on the balcony above them reverberated through the long ballroom. Squares of four couples each along the center length of the ballroom carried out the steps of the quadrille. Lindsay had begged to be excused from this set. Her father had gone to get her some refreshment in the meantime.

“My, what a turnout.” Beatrice waved her own fan in front of her, her eyes on the guests promenading about the crowded room.

With a sigh of relief, Lindsay spotted her father making his way toward them with cups of punch in his hands. She watched him proudly, noting how handsome he was. In his mid-forties, his dark blond hair had hardly any gray in it and was only just beginning to recede a little at the edges of his forehead. His carriage was erect and he was slim compared to most gentlemen of his age.

She marveled that he had accompanied them this evening. Normally, he was content to let her attend every social engagement with only Beatrice.

This evening, however, her father had not only made the effort to don his black evening tailcoat and white satin waistcoat, but he’d inspected her gown as well, making her change from pink tulle to white organdy lace over a blue satin underskirt.

As he came closer now, Lindsay noticed a tall, young gentleman following closely behind him. She waited, intrigued. Her father had acted mysteriously all through dinner, alluding to the wonderful time that awaited her at the Middletons’ ball.

“Here you go, my dear.” Her father handed her a glass of ratafia. He passed the other one to Beatrice.

He turned to the gentleman at his side. “Lindsay, I’d like you to meet Jerome Stokes. Jerry, this is my daughter, Lindsay Phillips, and her mother’s cousin, Miss Yates.”

Lindsay studied the man before her. His hair was dark brown, almost ebony, and arranged in a thick wave away from his brow. His eyes, heavy lidded, were a pale green. They met hers head-on, causing her to feel appraised. To her further dismay, his gaze roamed slowly over her face before descending. He paused at her bosom, causing a flush to cover her exposed skin. She felt like a specimen at the Royal Society.

Before she could think of a proper setdown, he took her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips. His hair let off a scent of cologne as he bowed. “Enchanté,” he murmured.

The French word sounded affected on his fleshy lips.

He was quite tall and she had to crane her neck to look into his face once he straightened. He stood a few inches too close, and she felt hemmed in, with no escape. His evening clothes fit impeccably, a navy coat with matching knee breeches and white silk stockings. A white satin waistcoat hugged a powerful torso, and a high white cravat enfolded his neck completely, falling in beautiful folds. He reminded her of pictures she had seen of the famous dandy, Beau Brummell. Yet, his appearance left her cold.

She half curtsied, wishing he’d let her hand go. At last he did so to greet her cousin. Then he addressed her once again. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

Her father smiled with unaccustomed warmth. “By all means. Show Mr. Stokes what an accomplished dancer you are.”

Hiding her disinclination to step onto the dance floor with this stranger, she gave Mr. Stokes her hand again. “Yes, Papa.”

“Go on and enjoy yourselves. Get acquainted.”

It would soon be over, she told herself. She was used to dancing with all sorts of gentlemen and didn’t know why this particular one caused such an immediate antipathy in her.

They followed the intricate steps of the country dance at first, briefly touching hands and circling around other pairs of dancers for the first few moments. Then, as they stood and watched the lead couple execute a turn, he said, “Your father did not exaggerate your beauty. I thought surely he had overstated it, as parents are wont to do when conversing of their offspring.”

She frowned at his dispassionate, almost scientific tone. Was this why her father admired him so? Was he a fellow amateur scientist?

Suddenly she thought of Reverend Hathaway’s warm yet almost shy speech. How different he was from this man. “If you know my father at all, you know he is a man of precise words.”

He chuckled. “I flatter myself that I know your father better than most people, and what you say is true. He is a man given to accurate observation.”

Her dislike grew at the familiar way he spoke of her father. Her father had never mentioned Mr. Stokes to her.

She was relieved when they began to dance again and had a brief respite from talking. But when they came together to execute a turn, he said, “When your father spoke of your beauty, I thought, he has lost his objectivity when it comes to his only offspring. His judgment cannot be trusted.”

She pressed her lips together, unwilling to offend her father’s acquaintance, although her annoyance was deepening.

“He has spoken much about you.” His warm breath grazed her ear, and she stiffened. “You are like an exquisite Dresden vase, Miss Phillips.” He was standing inches from her, his hand holding hers and guiding it over her head, to turn her about. She couldn’t help looking up at him as he said these words.

A shiver went through her. Not of pleasure, but almost of fear at the predatory look in his eyes. She felt like one of the reptiles her father kept in jars along the shelves of his library, their spotted and scaled bodies curled inside the apothecary jars, helpless to escape, preserved for all time.

She pushed aside the image as she moved away from Mr. Stokes in time to the music. Her father could not possibly be considering this man as a suitor for her!

When the dance ended, Mr. Stokes took her by the elbow and led her back to her father.

As they approached him, her father rubbed his hands together and smiled. “There now, how did you two get on?” Without giving her a chance to reply, he turned to Stokes. “Didn’t I tell you the two of you would suit?”

“You did indeed.”

“And did I not tell you she was beautiful?”

“A diamond of the first water,” he murmured, and she could feel his gaze on her.

“She has had every advantage. She will make an admirable wife. Any gentleman here tonight would consider himself fortunate if she accepted his suit.”

“Papa!” Her cheeks grew hot in embarrassment.

“May I call on you tomorrow?”

She stared at Mr. Stokes, thinking how to refuse. Before she could open her mouth, her father smiled. “Of course you may.”

“I shall take her for a ride in the Park in my phaeton. It’s the envy of my set.”

He spoke to her father as if she weren’t even present. Her heart sank. A phaeton. That would only seat the two of them. She swallowed, dreading having to sit so close to this man.

As the evening wore on and Mr. Stokes stuck by her side, Lindsay’s thoughts veered to Reverend Hathaway as to a beacon. Was he sitting in his cozy drawing room with his sister and Mr. Quinn, sharing the scriptures? Or out visiting the poor of the parish? Her cousin had told her of all the good works he did. She could well understand now how he had offered an escaped convict refuge.

She’d read compassion in the curate’s blue eyes. For a second, she wished she had a suitor like him. Warmth suffused her cheeks at the audacious thought. Immediately, her heart sank as her gaze rested on her father. He would never countenance such a match.

Chapter Three

D amien eyed the young men seated around the parsonage drawing room. The room was filled to capacity, every chair brought from the dining room and study—even from the bedrooms upstairs—to accommodate the visitors. And still, they kept coming. A few were forced to stand along the wall or perch on a chair arm. Another instance where something besides the thirst for scripture brought the crowd.

Damien’s gaze went to Miss Phillips. Although he’d tried to avoid looking at her during his scripture lessons, he couldn’t help being aware of her each time she came to the parsonage. In the fortnight since she’d begun attending the weekly studies with Miss Yates, turnout had gone from half a dozen earnest young men to over two dozen.

He closed his Bible as Jacob and his daughter brought in the tea things and the assembly started to break up.

“Reverend Hathaway, there is a passage in Hebrews I was pondering this week which I wanted to ask you about.”

He dragged his attention to the young man who’d approached his chair. “Of course.”

As soon as he could, Damien made his way toward the tea table, although he was waylaid once or twice more by young men eager to discuss a point he’d made earlier in the evening. He tried to answer as briefly as he could, promising to take up the questions once their lesson resumed after the tea break.

Even though he endeavored to maintain a professional distance from Miss Phillips, he always felt drawn to her. Berating himself for his weakness, he told himself he was no better than all the young pups who flocked around her chair.

She never seemed to encourage any familiarity, however. If anything, she all but ignored the young men who were clearly there because of her and stuck to her cousin’s side. Of course, he was relieved to discover she was not a flirt, nor a flighty young rattlebrain. Her questions to him during their studies indicated she grasped the scriptures and was sincere in learning.

He knew the gentlemen present were all vying for her attention, and yet he didn’t think any would ever cross the bounds of propriety. Had any of them said anything to offend Miss Phillips? Is that why she acted so timidly?

She looked too pale and serious for a young woman enjoying her introduction to society. He knew little of such things. Perhaps she was exhausted from all the dances and social engagements.

By the time he reached the tea table, he was relieved that everyone had been served. Miss Phillips had found a place on the settee between Florence and Miss Yates, as if she needed guarding from the young men.

He took the cup and saucer Florence handed him. “Thank you,” he said to his sister before turning to Miss Phillips. Her face broke into a smile as soon as his eyes met hers.

His heart never failed to be jolted by the radiance of her smile and he couldn’t help but respond. “Good evening, Miss Phillips. How have you enjoyed the discussion thus far?”

“Oh, very much. You always manage to bring out things in the scriptures which I have failed to see.”

“Don’t give me the credit. I’ve spent years studying them under very learned teachers.”

She tilted her head a fraction as she continued looking at him. “I believe God has also given you insight into them besides what you have gleaned from others.”

He bowed his head, saying nothing. “God’s grace is beyond measure.”

He read agreement in her eyes. As he scanned her face, he discerned the faint shadows under her eyes. “Are you feeling quite well?”

Her smile faded and the light in her eyes dimmed.

When she said nothing, he added, “I know you must be very busy. I appreciate all the more your attendance at the Bible study.”

“I wish I could come to services at the chapel, too, but, alas.” Her voice dropped. “My Papa…doesn’t approve. I—” She stopped as if hesitating to say more.

“I don’t wish you to incur his disapproval.”

“My cousin has asked him to allow me to accompany her, and he has reluctantly agreed…but I don’t know for how much longer.” Her voice dwindled away, and he felt alarmed at the thought of never seeing her again.

“I do hope I can attend for a while more. Miss Yates and I so enjoy your evenings.” Her voice regained some animation.

Miss Yates turned to them with a chuckle and glance about the room. “I notice your attendance has increased dramatically. I hope you’ll still have room for us.”

“Of course.” He couldn’t help the concern that they might stay away on account of overcrowding. “I’m afraid if you ceased coming, attendance here would also fall as dramatically.”

The two smiled in understanding at each other, before Miss Yates glanced sidelong at her young cousin. “Lindsay has been garnering attention wherever she goes this season. Her papa is most proud of her.”

Damien strove to keep his expression neutral. “I’m sure he must be.” His glance strayed to Miss Phillips, expecting some coy expression. Instead she looked almost distressed. He sought about for another topic. “How is Reverend Doyle?”

Miss Yates blinked. “Quite well. He was by for a visit just yesterday. Haven’t you seen him yourself?”

Damien hesitated. “Not recently. He is a very busy man.” He didn’t add that he’d never gone so long without a visit from his superior. Florence was already fretting that it did not bode well. Ever since the rector had discovered Damien’s role in Jonah’s escape, he had been notably cold toward Damien. With a nod to each lady, Damien excised himself.

He had no more reason to linger beside Miss Phillips although his brief talk with her had only increased his misgivings. Something appeared to be wrong.

He made his way back to his seat and conversed with the small core of students that were truly eager to learn more of God’s word, but his mind and attention remained fixed on Miss Phillips.

When the group dismissed for the evening, Damien stood at the front door to bid his guests goodbye. Most of the gentlemen had departed, but Miss Yates remained speaking with Florence about the prison ministry.

As he turned from bidding farewell to a couple of gentlemen, Miss Phillips approached him. She had already donned her bonnet and pelisse.

“Miss Phillips.”

“Might I…” She bit her lip.

“Yes?” He strove for a tone of reassurance, eager to know what she wanted to say.

She began again. “Might it be possible to ask you something?”

“Certainly.” When she said nothing, he said more gently, “You may ask me anything. Is something the matter?”

“No.” She wet her lips and looked away from him. “Yes.”

He reached out a hand but dropped it before it touched her sleeve. “What is it, Miss Phillips? What is wrong?”

“I…that is…I just needed to ask you something. Is there…somewhere we can meet?”

His heart began to pound unnaturally loudly. “Yes. Could you come by tomorrow with Miss Yates?”

She shook her head immediately. “Not here.” Her cheeks grew red.

His mind cast about for a suitable reply. “Would you like me to…er…come to your house?”

“No.”

He recoiled at the immediacy of her reply. Would she be embarrassed by a visit from him? Of course. He didn’t blame her, even as the pain shot through him. He stepped back.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, she said more softly, “I mean…I’d rather it not be at my house.”

He considered. She wasn’t his parishioner and even if she were, it would be unseemly to meet her alone anywhere. “Is there somewhere we could—ahem—meet, then?”

“I have a music lesson tomorrow afternoon in Marylebone—that’s not so far from here.” The words came out in a rush.

He blinked, not expecting that. At a loss, he blurted out, “Do you sing?”

“A bit, and play the pianoforte.”

How little he knew of her. “How nice.”

“I finish at three o’clock. Could…could you perhaps meet me there afterward? It’s at number four, Portman Square.”

He thought for a second, but her look of appeal made him forget all other considerations. “Very well.”

“Oh, thank you!” Her heartfelt look of gratitude erased any lingering doubts.

As he bade both ladies good-night, his mind was troubled. What could be on Miss Phillips’s mind to ask him such a thing? Why wouldn’t she go to her cousin, or to her father…or to her own pastor, Reverend Doyle? Was she in some kind of trouble?

He resolved to increase his prayers for her—and for himself—that God would grant him the wisdom to give Miss Phillips whatever she needed.

Chapter Four

L indsay sighed in relief at the sight of Reverend Hathaway leaning against the wrought-iron fence that surrounded Portman Square. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how worried she’d been that he wouldn’t be waiting for her when she left her music lesson.

He saw her immediately and straightened. But he didn’t approach her, discreetly waiting across the street. She bade her teacher goodbye and tucked her drawing pad under her arm. “My maid will return the key in a little bit when I’ve finished my sketch.” It had been the only pretext she’d been able to think of to borrow the key to the square.

As she turned from the house, she said to her maid, “Clara, please wait for me in the carriage.”

The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss.”

Lindsay waited until the girl had climbed into the coach and the door was shut behind her. Then she quickly crossed the street.

“Hello, Reverend Hathaway,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you for coming.”

He lifted his hat in greeting and smiled. “How was your lesson?”

She was reassured by the warmth of his tone. Suddenly, the day truly felt like spring—she began to hear the birdsong and feel the fresh breeze upon her cheeks. “My lesson? Oh, it was fine.” She shook her head. “I must practice more. That’s what I’m always told.” And suddenly, she laughed out loud for the sheer pleasure she felt. The weight of the past few weeks fell from her shoulders. Reverend Hathaway would know what she should do.

She gestured toward the large square. “Would you care to take a stroll in the park?”

“That would be very pleasant.” He took the large iron key from her, unlocked the gate and held it open.

They began to walk along the hard-packed dirt path under the elm trees in the neatly laid-out square. The reason for her being there returned and her spirits fell. She said nothing for a few minutes, unsure how to begin. She had never done such a thing in all her life. But she was so confused….

She swung around to him, bringing him to abrupt stop. “I would like to ask you something. It’s only a theoretical question, mind you.”

He nodded, his blue eyes regarding her steadily. Why did they look even bluer out-of-doors? “Ask away. Clergymen are always having theoretical questions pitched at them.”

She felt her face grow warm. Was she that transparent?

As if sensing her chagrin, his expression sobered. “What is it, Miss Phillips? What is troubling you so?”

She bit her lower lip. “If one is required to do something, to obey, but one finds the choice…distasteful, but one wants so very much to obey…”

He nodded. “Obedience can be very difficult at times.”

“Oh, yes!” He did understand. “Have you ever felt like that? As if the Lord were asking something impossible of you, and it would cost you everything to obey?”

He was looking at her keenly now, all traces of humor erased from his features. “I think we all come to that place in our walk with Him, where He requires us to surrender all to Him.”

Her spirits sank. It couldn’t be. How could she bear it? “But if the choice is so…so disagreeable?”

“His grace is sufficient for thee,” he answered gently.

Her shoulders slumped and she turned back to the path, resuming their walk. “I never thought my coming out would be filled with that kind of decision, as if having my own will would cause others so much displeasure, but obedience will cause me—” She wrung her hands together, unable to express her horror. “I do so want to be obedient. These last few weeks at your Bible study, I’ve learned so much about the Lord’s word. There’s so much I feel I need to learn. I don’t want to be a self-willed person. You speak of the cross and dying to the old nature. But what if that old nature refuses to die?”

He walked alongside her, his hands clasped behind his back. His wooden leg didn’t seem to impede him. She discerned no limp, although the wood made a different sound than that of their shoes upon the ground.

“I’ve found, in the years I’ve been counseling the flock the Lord has brought me, that many times a person’s spiritual growth is impeded by one thing alone—a thorn in the flesh, as it were, and not by a host of earthly pleasures.”

“Oh, yes, that’s it exactly. One thing alone!”

He glanced at her. “At least in your case, you are honest enough to admit it. Most people hide from the knowledge, and the Lord has to work on them for years before they are willing to put the item on the altar.” He sighed. “In the meantime, however, they don’t realize how many years have gone by, years in which they could have been growing in the knowledge of the Lord and reaching new heights.”

Her spirits sank further. She didn’t want that to happen to her. But the alternative! Jerome Stokes’s face rose in her mind. To be betrothed to him. She shuddered.

“Come, Miss Phillips, can it be so very bad? You are a young lady born with every privilege, your whole life before you.”

She turned to him, stricken. If only he knew what Papa was asking of her. “Yes,” was all she could whisper. She could never speak anything ill of Papa.

They were both silent some moments, and she focused on the soft sound of their footsteps on the ground. The bark of a dog on the other side of the square and the chirp of birds barely registered with her.

She drew a deep breath. “Have you never faced that kind of dilemma? In which…if you say no, you would be holding back from God?”

He was quiet a moment, and when she feared she had overstepped the bounds of propriety, he said, “I gave my heart and soul to the Lord as a young lad, before I was faced with many worldly temptations.”

He hastened to add, “Not because I was some kind of saint, but simply out of my desperate need.” He gestured with his chin downward. “After my accident, my need for God was great.”

She followed his gaze, realizing he was referring to the loss of his limb. “H-how did it happen?” she finally dared ask.

“I ran out in the road after a duck.” He glanced sidelong at her, his expression unreadable to her. “I was eight years old and responsible for a flock of ducks.”

She held her breath. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t look before running out. A heavy wagon ran over my leg.”

“Oh, my—” Her hand covered her mouth. She couldn’t imagine the pain and anguish for an adult let alone a child.

“It was a miracle I survived. The wheel could just have easily run over my body. There, now, Miss Phillips, please don’t be upset. It happened so long ago. Eighteen years,” he murmured, as if amazed himself. “The pain and terror have long since faded.”

“How…could you bear it?” she asked, her voice still faint.

“I believe I wouldn’t have if not for my parents’ faith.” His finely shaped mouth turned up at one corner. “And Florence’s. Hers was more the bullying kind. Once I was fully healed and fitted with a wooden leg, I had to face perhaps what was harder than the physical pain I’d endured before. I had to take up my life, face the children at school, pretend I was as normal as they.

“Florence was my champion. If a boy so much as snickered behind my back or dared even breathe a nickname, she was over him, giving him the thrashing of his life.”

She couldn’t help laughing at the image of the spare woman fighting a big bully. “How wonderful it must have been to have a big sister,” she said wistfully.

He looked at her as if he understood more than she was saying. “You have no brothers or sisters?”

She shook her head. “I always envied my friends at school who had several brothers and sisters. Tell me more of what you meant. You said your accident made you turn to God for help.”

“Yes. Having Florence defend me and my parents shower their love on me wasn’t enough. To be able to face every day with my head held high, I needed to know the Father’s unconditional love. I needed the Lord’s grace to make it through each day, knowing I was no longer a whole boy, but a—” his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed “—cripple.”

“Oh, no! You’re not a cripple. You are many things. A fine curate for one.” Yes, that was true. His disadvantage seemed so very small in light of the whole man before her.

He smiled, but it didn’t hide the bleakness in his expression. “But that’s what I was in the eyes of others. In order to overcome my limitations, I had to rely on God’s strength. I came to understand in a very personal way, the verse, ‘My strength is made perfect in weakness.’ God proved it to me time and again.”

They had walked the whole perimeter of the square. Lindsay, unwilling to have their walk end so soon, said abruptly, “You were so brave to take in a…fugitive.”

He blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Quinn?”

She nodded.

He shrugged. “At the time the choice seemed easy. A man came to our door on a rainy winter’s night, cold, feverish, hungry. In truth, it was my sister who brought him in. I only seconded her decision.”

She shivered, picturing it. “I don’t know if I would have dared do such a thing.”

He studied her steadily. “It sounds as if you have your own decision to make which requires bravery.”

Her eyelids fluttered downward and she kicked at the dirt in her path. “I don’t know if I am able to be as brave as you.”

“God doesn’t give us more than we are able to bear.”

How she wanted to believe that!

After a few minutes, the reverend said quietly, “It would seem to me that you have already decided which is the proper course to follow.”

She drew in her breath. Those were not the words she wanted to hear. Before she could respond, he continued. “I shall pray for you, that the Lord make His perfect will clearly known to you and give you perfect peace in your decision.”

A masculine voice hailed them from behind. “Good day, Damien.”

They both looked in surprise at the gentleman walking toward them. Lindsay immediately recognized her own pastor.

Reverend Hathaway halted and waited for the older gentleman to reach them. “Reverend Doyle.”

Lindsay bit her lip, wondering what the rector would think of seeing her alone with the curate. Doyle eyed them both without smiling. He nodded to Reverend Hathaway and then to her. “Miss Phillips. How lovely to see you. What are you doing all the way in Marylebone alone?”

“Good afternoon, Reverend Doyle. I was just leaving my music lesson.” She raised her chin, annoyed at how nervous she sounded, as if she had been doing something wrong.

“I wasn’t aware that you were acquainted with my curate.” His glance strayed to the reverend.

Her companion replied in an easy tone before Lindsay could think what to say. “Miss Phillips and her cousin came one Sunday to the chapel and I had the privilege of meeting them, thanks to your recommendation.”

Instead of smiling, the rector merely nodded. “I had spoken highly of you at one time, that is true.” There was unmistakable censure in his tone.

“I’ve been attending the reverend’s Bible studies at the parsonage with my cousin Beatrice,” she added, hoping to dispel the tension she felt in the air.

The rector raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

A silence fell between them. Then he asked, “I trust your father and cousin are in health?”

“Yes, they are both quite well,” she answered, hoping news would not travel back to her father about this encounter.

“I am relieved. You may tell them I shall be over soon for a visit.”

“Yes.” Her worry grew. What would her father say? Would he forbid further Bible studies under Reverend Hathaway’s tutelage?

The rector turned his attention back to the reverend. “I shall call upon you in the coming days. There is much we need to discuss.”

“I am at your service,” Reverend Hathaway said quietly.

“Very well.” With a final glance between the two of them, the rector bowed his head and bade them farewell.

“I didn’t expect to see Reverend Doyle here,” she said when he had exited the square.

“He lives nearby on Cavendish Square.”

“I see. He seemed displeased about something,” she ventured.

“Yes, I fear so.” He sighed. “For many years, he was almost like a father—a spiritual father—to me. He advised me on my studies and procured this living for me at St. George’s.” He turned to her. “I am not a gentleman’s son, you see, but the son of a clockmaker.”

Her eyes widened. “But…but you are…” She laughed nervously. “You seem to be a gentleman.” Far more a gentleman than Jerome Stokes with all his privileges and assets, she added silently.

“If so, it is thanks to the rector. He is the one who made it possible for me to receive a gentleman’s education. He recommended me to Lord Marlborough of Portman Square who paid for my studies at Oxford.”

These new facts only served to increase her admiration for the man before her. “You must have been worthy of their belief in you.”

His gaze traveled over her face, almost in wonder, she would hazard. “You are remarkable, Miss Phillips.”

She smiled tentatively. “Why do you say that, Reverend Hathaway?”

He shook his head slightly. “Most young ladies would not see it in that light.”

“How would they see it?”

“They would see me rather as a fraud. A man dressed up like a gentleman, pretending to be something he is not.”

“Oh, no!” Such an accusation angered her. “You are a man of God, whose life reflects what he preaches from the pulpit.”

His cheeks deepened in color, and she hoped her words had brought pleasure and not embarrassment to him. She meant them with all her heart. A thin line appeared between his eyebrows. “Have you asked advice from the rector? He is, after all, your spiritual advisor.”

She shook her head, looking down. “I don’t feel I know him well enough. You see, I’ve been away at school some years, so I really have not seen him much.” She fell silent. There was no rational way to explain that in the short time she’d known him, Reverend Hathaway was the only person whose counsel she trusted in this matter.

“Reverend Doyle is a man of great wisdom. I would advise you to talk to him.”

“He must be very proud of you for helping Mr. Quinn when he was in so much trouble.”

A shadow crossed his eyes, and he hesitated. “He did not approve of what my sister and I did.” He hastened to add, “He was right to object. We were aiding and abetting a fugitive. We broke the law in doing so.”

She felt a tremor at the gravity of his tone. “Is that why he is displeased with you?”

The reverend nodded. “I don’t regret having taken Mr. Quinn into our keeping. However, I would not counsel anyone lightly to do what we did. One must be very sure what one is doing is absolutely right in God’s eyes before taking such a step.”

Did he think she was on the brink of making a wrong decision? Was he warning her?

She lifted her chin. “In that case, I think it was all the more brave of you to help Mr. Quinn.”

The reverend’s blue eyes seemed to lighten. “Thank you, Miss Phillips. Your good opinion means a lot to me.”

Before she had a chance to feel the pleasure his words gave her, he continued. “Sometimes it is not easy to make the right decision. Sometimes what seems the right choice—that determined by the rules laid out—is, in fact, not the right way.”

Did his words spell hope or doom for her? Was there a way to disobey her father without losing his love and esteem? “How does one know in such a case?” she asked in a whisper, her eyes intent on his.

“By much prayer. In the end, the answer must come from here.” He tapped his chest. “A person must follow his—or her—conscience, whatever the risks involved.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze lifting from his slim hand back up to his face.

When the time came, would she have the courage to follow the dictates of her conscience?

Damien held up the slate toward the group of boys sitting on the floor at his feet in the cell given them to use for the lesson. “Let us review what we learned yesterday. Who can tell me what this says?”

Several arms shot up like arrows.

Damien smiled at one eager face, pale skin shining through the smudges. “Yes, Sam?”

“The Lord is my sh-shepherd!” He finished with a triumphant smile.

“Very good. Let us try another sentence.” He wiped off the slate with his rag and wrote again.

As he held it up, his glance went to a dim corner of the prison cell. A group of older boys was whispering and sniggering among themselves. In a second, Jonah squatted beside them. “You’d rather end up on the gallows or the transport ship than learn yer letters, is that it?”

“Tell us about the gallows,” a black-haired youth with a chipped tooth replied.

With a quick wink Damien’s way, Jonah sat down cross-legged among them. Damien continued with his lesson. He knew it was impossible to reach them all, so he appreciated Jonah’s help in keeping the unruly ones occupied while he taught those who wanted to learn.

He turned back to the young pupil. “Sam?”

The underfed lad screwed up his face in preparation to read. “Th-the t-t-time of—”

Damien prompted him gently until he managed the whole sentence. When they finished the lesson, he and Jonah parceled out the food and provisions they had brought with them. Before they left, he told them a Bible story.

On their way out of Newgate, Jonah shuddered as they passed through the arched entrance. “Always glad to leave that hole.”

Damien glanced at him. “I do appreciate your accompanying me. I know it’s not easy to go back each time.”

“It’s truly a dark pit in there.”

“All the more reason we must bring the light.”

Jonah nodded as they made their way past the Old Bailey. “I’ll never forget the day I was sentenced to be hanged.” He shook his head. “To think Florence was sitting there, praying for me even then.” At the corner, he asked, “You want me to hail a cab?”

“No. Let’s walk.”

“You certain? Florence wanted me to get her some things at Covent Garden Market.”

“That’s fine.” Damien shook off the slight irritation he felt whenever Jonah seemed overly protective of him. He knew it was only thoughtfulness on the man’s part. But by now, he’d hoped Jonah would realize Damien was capable of walking the distance of any normal man.

They sauntered down Ludgate Hill and headed west on Fleet Street, jostled by the thick throng of pedestrians. It only worsened as they approached the Strand, where they veered off at Drury Lane toward the market.

“How’s the pretty Miss Phillips?”

Damien glanced sharply at Jonah. He’d told no one of his meeting with Miss Phillips the day before. “You should know as well as I, since you see her at the house as often as I do.”

Jonah shrugged. “She’s a fair young lady, who seems to admire you quite a bit.”

Damien made his way around a large woman who stood shouting to a hansom cab driver from the curb. “If she seems to admire me, it is only because I am a clergyman.”

“Is that all you think it is?”

Damien gave him a sharp look at the sly tone. The street noises grew louder as they approached the stalls and sheds occupying Covent Garden. Damien followed Jonah to a vendor’s table filled with a colorful display of fruits and vegetables. Jonah poked at a pile of green cabbages. “What do you want for these sorry-looking things?”

The woman behind the table glared at him, her hefty arms akimbo. “Those be as crispy as anything you could grow yourself. A shillin’ for the pound.”

He grabbed up one from the top of the pyramid. “Here, weigh that one for me, be a good lass.”

When he’d paid for the cabbage, they walked on.

“Oranges from Valencia!” the rough voice of a hawker called out.

“I’ll take a half-dozen o’ those.”

“Here, let me carry them,” Damien offered as they started on again.

“That’s all right, I’ve got ’em.”

Damien clamped his lips down and said no more.

“So, you’re not interested in Miss Phillips as a young lady of marriageable age?”

Damien refused to be drawn. “I repeat, Miss Phillips only sees me as a clergyman.”

Jonah stopped before a fish vendor’s cart, and Damien stood silent while Jonah haggled over a piece of cod. As they waited for it to be cleaned and cut, he turned back to Damien, a twinkle in his dark green eyes. “Is that so?”

“She has seemed…troubled to me of late. If she can receive any counsel from the scriptures, then it is my duty to aid her in that way and no more. I am not even her proper pastor—that is Reverend Doyle’s purview. I must respect his office.”

Jonah mulled on that a moment, then dug in his pocket for some coins. “I beg your pardon, then. I didn’t quite see it in that light. I just see you as a good-looking young gent. Don’t you ever fancy yourself in need of a wife o’ your own?”

Damien was momentarily saved from replying when the vendor handed Jonah his change and packet of fish. But as they resumed walking, Jonah quirked an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

Damien jabbed his walking stick into the cobbled stones. “I realized long ago my calling was to serve God, and it is a full-time occupation as you have come to observe in the time you’ve been residing with us.” He tried not to sound as testy as he was now feeling.

Jonah remained silent, seeming to examine the other stalls they passed. Damien felt compelled to add, “The Apostle Paul put it very well. When a person is married, he becomes concerned with the needs of his spouse to the detriment of the business of the Lord.”

Jonah grunted. “How is it then that most vicars and curates I see are married? Their wives seem to be their helpmates in the parish. Didn’t the good book also say something about it not being good for a man to be alone?”

Damien pretended to study the display of flowers at one stall. For the first time, he regretted having taught Jonah any scripture.

Jonah fished out a coin and indicated a posy of primroses. “These blooms have nothing over the bloom in your cheeks,” he told the vendor.

The pretty girl’s cheeks dimpled. “Thankee, sir.”

“Can you wrap them in a bit o’ paper for me?” As the girl complied, Jonah murmured, “That’s a good lass.” He took them from her and handed her the money.

“And who’s the lucky lady these are for?”

He inspected the colorful bouquet, turning it around in his large hand. “They’re for a very special lady, the one who’s promised to marry me.”

“Ooh!”

When the girl tried to hand him the change, he said, “Keep it and buy yourself your own posy.”

The girl flashed him a wide smile. “Thankee kindly, sir!”

Damien swallowed, watching the careful way Jonah placed the small bouquet atop his other purchases in his satchel. The incongruous sight of his blunt fingers handling the fragile blooms sent a curious pang through Damien. How would it feel to buy a woman flowers? He’d never know the pleasure.

Jonah’s keen eyes met his at that moment. “Don’t you ever fancy having a lady of your own to come home to?”

“I am content with my single state.” At Jonah’s raised eyebrow, he added, “You’ve seen my life. I’m at the beck and call of those in need anytime of the day or night.”

Jonah shrugged. “That’s why the Lord gives a man a helpmate.”

They inched their way forward through the crowded aisle between the stalls.

“I must say I’m always amazed at the ease you have in talking to women,” Damien couldn’t help commenting when Jonah paused in front of a stall selling herbs and spices. The pungent aromas of cumin and cinnamon filled the air. Dried pods and seeds were heaped in large burlap sacks on the ground at their feet.

Jonah straightened from where he’d bent to examine a sack of nutmegs. “What’s that you say?”

Damien wished he had kept his mouth shut.

Too late, the words seemed to register with Jonah and his lips cracked open in a grin. “Talking to lasses is the easiest thing in the world.”

Damien shook his head, unable to keep from smiling back. “I doubt you’d find many men to agree with you.”

Jonah draped a brawny arm across his shoulders. “All you do is look at ’em a certain way and tell ’em they’re the loveliest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. Works about three-quarters o’ the time.”

Damien chuckled. “And the other quarter of the time?”

“Why, you just spend some blunt on ’em, and they’re yours.” He waved his arm. “Look around you at all the young women. I’d lay odds that any number o’ them would give their spinster eyeteeth to catch a fine parson like you.”

The crowded market was filled with far more women than men. Women of all ages, plump and slim, well-dressed and shabby. Damien shook his head, wondering how he’d gotten into this ridiculous conversation with his future brother-in-law.

Jonah frowned a moment, removing his arm from Damien’s shoulders and adjusting the satchel he carried. “Of course, you realize, with your sister, it was different. There was nothing I could ’a done or said to win her, if the Lord hadn’t o’ had mercy on me.”

Damien chuckled. “I think she saw what lay beneath the surface.”

Jonah shook his head. “That was pretty rotten, too. No, it took God’s grace to bless me the way He has with your sister’s love.”

Before Damien could say anything more, Jonah gestured quickly with his hand. “See the ladies standing by the fruit vendor?”

Damien’s gaze traveled to two women inspecting the fruit. One of them looked older, perhaps thirty, the other probably not more than nineteen or twenty. In their plain dark pelisses, they could have been servants out to make purchases, or young matrons doing their household shopping. “What of them?”

“What of ’em?” Jonah mimicked in mock scorn. “They’re a pair of pretty lasses who’d probably lap you up like a plum pudding if you so much as looked their way.”

When Damien became aware of what Jonah intended, his steps slowed, but Jonah hauled him forward by the elbow. The next thing he knew, Jonah was smiling and tipping his hat to the ladies in question. “Good day to ye, madam, miss. Have you ever seen such plump-looking grapes in all your life?”

He snatched up one of the fat black grapes and popped it into his mouth. “Sweet as honey.” He addressed the older woman, but included both in his smile. “Of course, hothouse grapes don’t come near to the taste of those grown outside in the warm sun and refreshing rain. When I lived in the country, I used to grow my own. Muscats, Rieslings, Gamays. You’ve never tasted a sweeter grape than those I harvested.”

“Oh, where did you cultivate grapes?” the older one asked with a simpering smile.

“I tilled the soil on a place in Surrey.”

Damien couldn’t help admiring how quickly Jonah had them entranced. He looked a well-set-up gentleman in his bottle-green cutaway coat and black pantaloons, nothing like the farm laborer he used to be. Although he didn’t lie, his words made the women assume he had been a landowner on some prosperous farm.

“Oh, yes, I grew apples and pears, too. I was only just telling my young friend, the parson here, that I haven’t seen a fruit nor a vegetable in London yet that beats anything I grew myself.”

The two women turned to notice Damien, who’d been standing slightly behind Jonah.

“Of course, he’s city bred, so he doesn’t know what it means to pick your own apple and feel the juice on your tongue at that first, crisp bite.”

Damien thought that was a bit much, considering the orchard in his backyard, but he kept silent, allowing Jonah to have his fun.

“Would you ladies like me to hail you a cab? You’ve an awful lot of parcels to carry,” Jonah asked.

“Oh, that would be most helpful,” the older said. “We live in Cheapside. It’s always hard to get a cab around here.”

“Come along then, here, let me help you with those. The preacher can take yours,” he said, turning to the younger lady.

As they began to move apart, the young girl suddenly looked down at Damien’s legs and her eyes grew round. Without a word, she handed Damien her basket, but when they began walking, she took her place beside her companion, on the farthest side away from Damien and Jonah.

Damien slowed his steps until he was walking just behind the group. Jonah continued chatting amiably with the older woman as if nothing had happened. Damien hoped he hadn’t noticed anything.

They reached the curb and in a few moments Jonah had procured them a hack from those waiting at a stand.

As the lumbering vehicle inched away down the crowded street, Jonah muttered under his breath, “Couple o’ low-class wenches. Weren’t worth your time, my boy.” He nudged Damien on the elbow and they crossed the street. “That girl was as sallow as whey. Plenty more where she came from!”

A block farther, Jonah hailed them a cab. The two climbed in and rode silently back toward the parsonage. Damien kept his eyes fixed out the window. Perhaps now his well-meaning friend would drop the subject of a wife for him.

Chapter Five

“L indsay, now that you have had some weeks’ acquaintance with Jerome Stokes, I want you to accept his proposal of marriage.”

Lindsay stared at her father. She’d just come in from an outing with Beatrice when her father had summoned her to his library. “Papa, it’s so sudden.” Her voice sounded faint and her heartbeat began to thud in dread. Although she’d expected the words, hearing them spoken made her fate seem all the more dire.

“Will you deny your father the joy of knowing you are in good hands, regardless of what happens to me?”

Instinctively, Lindsay reached out and clasped her father’s hands, unable to bear the thought of losing her father, too. “Oh, Papa, don’t talk as if something awful is going to happen to you.” His color was a bit pale, but Lindsay knew it was the lack of sunlight from all the hours he spent in his library.

“I have passed the age of five-and-forty. Many men never reach it. Few go many years beyond it.”

As she listened to him in dismay, he released her hands and rose slowly from the settee. “Thankfully, I am a healthy man. I’ve suffered few illnesses in my life, so there is no reason to suppose you will not have me for many years yet.”

He fixed his eye on her, his eyebrows drawn together. “That is not to say my time is guaranteed, my dear. Your mother would wish me to ensure that you are well provided with a good husband—”

“But, Papa,” she began with a nervous laugh, “I need more time.” Too long she’d avoided this conversation with her father, although he’d hinted at it since introducing her to Mr. Stokes. Was this going to be her test of faith? Obedience to her father, even if it cost her her very self-respect? Would refusing him threaten her father’s health?

“And if I can live to see a few grandchildren, I shall count myself truly a blessed man.”

“I’m only eighteen, Papa. It’s my first season.”

“Most young ladies with your beauty and fortune are married by the end of their first season.”

“May I not enjoy two seasons before having to settle down?”

“Who is to say you cannot enjoy countless seasons after you are officially betrothed? You will be a young leader of fashion then with no worries of having to escape the fortune hunters or dodge the otherwise unsuitable, or of remaining on the shelf.” He held her gaze coldly for a moment. “Of course, with your beauty, that fate would never befall you. But other young ladies, who wait too long, preferring to play coy, find themselves suddenly high and dry, the best picks of the season taken by their rivals—inferior in both looks and fortune—simply because they wanted to ‘enjoy’ their season with no thought to the future.”

He patted her on the cheek. “I would not have that happen to you, my dear. Nor would your mother ever forgive me. If she were here—” he sighed “—she would guide you and give you the same counsel I am giving you, of that I am certain. Your cousin Beatrice is but a poor substitute.”

“Beatrice has been very accommodating, I assure you, Papa.”

“Oh, to be sure. But she is not someone who can counsel you as your own mother and father can. She has lived outside of London society too long, her means small, her vision limited.”

Her father rubbed his hands together. “Yes, I believe it is now the time to announce your betrothal. In a few more weeks the season will be over. You can leave at the apex. We shall go to the country and make preparations for a sumptuous wedding in the autumn, after the hunting season, of course.”

“W-would I have to be married so soon?” She waited to hear her father’s next words, her breath held.

His lips thinned in the humorless smile he displayed when he was displeased with someone’s argument. “You wouldn’t have to, no, but I would know the reason you would wish to delay.”

He had that way of waiting for her to answer. Ever since she was a little girl, and he’d tutored her in some subject from Latin to mathematics to botany, he’d explain things meticulously and then quiz her, expecting her to come to the correct conclusions as he stood over her. When she didn’t know the answer, she would feel worse and worse, her mind going blank the longer he fixed his intent stare on her.

He lifted a brow. “Well?”

She bit her lip and looked down at her rigidly clasped hands. Why was she required to make a decision that seemed to be ending her life just on the brink of its beginning?

“Mr. Stokes has everything to offer a young lady of your advantages.”

“Yes, Papa,” she whispered.

“He has expressed his single-minded affection for you. He has pledged to me that he will do his utmost to make you happy. His fortune, coupled with yours, will ensure your comfort and protection from the fortune hunters hedging you.”

“Yes, Papa.” Her throat closed, and she could hardly get the two words out.

He lifted her chin with a long finger. “What say you, dearest daughter, are you ready to obey your wise father and accept his offer of matrimony? Jerome only awaits your word.”

She moistened her lips and looked downward. Her eyes were brimming with tears. She tried to remember the Bible verses she had heard from Reverend Hathaway. My grace is sufficient for thee. My strength is made perfect in weakness. But she felt no solace. How to explain the dread that filled her heart at the thought of being betrothed to Mr. Stokes? All she could do was nod her head.

Her father’s hands came up to clasp her briefly on the shoulders before he let her go. “That’s my girl. I knew I could be proud of you. Your mother is smiling down at you now.”

He turned away from her, his voice already businesslike with plans. “I shall inform him of your consent, and he shall ask you formally tomorrow evening at the Clarksons’ dinner. I will see to it that you have a private moment with him. Wear your prettiest gown. Beatrice can help you in your selection. She has a good eye.”

Lindsay stood mute, but inwardly her natural spirit began to rebel. Why couldn’t she simply explain her misgivings to her father? Why was she always so intimidated around him, struggling so to please him?

She heard no more of her father’s plan as she turned and headed for the door, her slippers feeling as if they contained lead in their soles, her life apparently over.

Damien looked up at the sound of a knock on his workshop door. He set down the clock he held in his hands. “Yes?”

Florence popped her head in. “Am I interrupting?”

He swung around in his chair. “Not at all. Come in. I’m mainly thinking of Sunday’s sermon as I sit here tinkering.”

His sister entered and pulled up a hard-back chair to the end of the worktable.

He smiled, sensing she had something on her mind. She was usually too busy to seek him out during the day.

She folded her hands in her lap. He was happy to see that since she’d become engaged to Jonah, she had begun wearing more attractive gowns. Today, she was dressed in a pretty yellow-and-cream striped dress with long sleeves. “We’ve set a date.”

“Indeed?” At her hesitant nod, he broke into a grin. “Wonderful! I was wondering what was keeping you from going ahead.”

She smoothed down her dress. “Well, we wanted to let all the gossip and rumors die down a bit…and of course, make sure there was no adverse effect to your ministry.”

He waved away the consideration. “You shouldn’t have let that stop you.”

She immediately frowned. “Of course we should have. We weren’t going to leave you to face things alone. After all, it was my doing you had Jonah here all those months.”

“Well, now he’s boarding with Elizabeth and Jacob, and I’m sure there’s no need for him to be crowded in their cottage any longer when the two of you are planning to be wed.”

“Yes, well, that is what I came to talk to you about.”

He lifted an eyebrow when she paused.

“We were thinking the end of the month, on a Saturday.”

He sat back. “The end of this month? That gives you a little over three weeks. It isn’t much time…I mean, I always thought a wedding entailed mounds of preparations,” he added with a forced chuckle. In truth, the time suddenly seemed upon them, even though he’d known it was coming. What would he do without his sister? Except for his few years at Oxford, they’d never been apart. They not only lived under the same roof but shared the ministry.

“We don’t want to do anything elaborate. It gives us just enough time to post the banns. I—we would like you to perform the ceremony. Would you do that?” Her gray eyes looked earnestly into his.

He reached across and took her hands. “Of course. I’d be hurt if you asked anyone else.”

“Of course I wouldn’t do that! Besides, whom else would I ask? Reverend Doyle?” She gave a bitter laugh. “He has not spoken to me since I refused the offer of his hand, and after the trouble with Jonah, we still aren’t sure how deep his displeasure with you goes.”

Again, he waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “Oh, don’t worry about him. His pride was a bit bruised where you were concerned, and any disagreement he had with me, I’m sure it will all smooth over in a while. He just needs some time. When he sees what an up-standing citizen Jonah is, he’ll come around.”

She made a dismissive sound. “In any case, I wouldn’t want him officiating at my wedding.” She peered at him. “But is it all right with you? It isn’t too soon?”

“It’s perfectly all right. I will announce the banns this Sunday. And I’ll make sure I have nothing else scheduled. Christenings and funerals and all other weddings shall have to wait!” He banged his fist on the table, rattling the various cogs and wheels, to punctuate the pronouncement. They both laughed.

“There’s something else.”

His laughter died at her abrupt change of tone. “What is it? Nothing wrong, is there?”

She looked at him a moment, and he was reminded of the way his mother used to look at him. Florence often tried to fill her place—another reason he was happy that she had finally found a husband of her own, a man to cherish and take care of her the way she had done for him and so many others. “We’ve found a place.”

He frowned, not understanding. “A place?”

“Of our own.” She looked down at her folded hands, a shy smile softening her features. “A farm.”

Comprehension dawned. “Th-that’s wonderful. It’s what Jonah has wanted to do, isn’t it?” Even as joy filled him, he realized the gap her news left in him. Somehow he never thought his sister would move out and have a home of her own.

Her gray eyes met his immediately, relief flooding them. “Yes. You know he used to farm. To own his own farm, why, it’s something he never dreamed was possible for a mere laborer.”

“Where is the farm?”

“Oh, not so far from here. A few miles down on the Uxbridge Road. You know this place will be developed over the next few years, so we wanted something farther west where it’s still country. Jonah was talking with Mr. Merriton the other week. He told him of a farm available.” His sister hurried on, as if she were nervous.

“It sounds just the thing.”

Her eyes remained on him.

“What is it, Flo?”

“It’s for…sale.”

He quirked an eyebrow upward. “And?”

“We had thought of leasing something.” She swallowed. “But this one is for…sale.” Again, she said the word as if it were difficult to articulate. “We went out to see it yesterday. Oh, Damien, it’s perfect. Just the right size to farm without too much extra help. It’s near enough to London to supply the markets. Jonah looked at the fields. He says the soil is fertile and well drained. There’s a barn on the land and a good well….”

“So, what is the hitch?”

“It would require some capital.”

He ran his fingers over the teeth on a cog lying on the worktable. “I see no problem with that. We have Father’s money. Is it more than that?”

“Oh, no! But that money is for both of us. I couldn’t take it.”

“Is that your only concern?” He sat back, feeling a surge of relief. “That money is for us to use, however we choose to use it. It was from the sale of Father’s business, and he and Mother would have wished for you and your future husband to have a home of your own.”

“It must be divided equally between you and me.”

“Florence, I don’t need capital. I have this living. I’m provided with a house that’s bigger than anything I need. Why shouldn’t you have that money? If we didn’t have it, I’d insist you share my house.”

She swallowed, visibly moved. “I know you would. And I hope we can continue living a little longer under your roof, until the farmhouse is ready for us…that is, if we—” She stopped in confusion.

Once again, he squeezed her hands. “Of course you may stay with me as long as you wish. And you needn’t say anything more about the purchase of this farm. I would love to have a look at it, of course. But otherwise, let’s talk to Mr. Samuels at the bank, shall we?”

She seemed ready to argue some more, but he shook his head. Finally, she said, “I don’t want to deprive you of what is rightfully yours.”

“You won’t be depriving me of anything. You see how this parish is destined to grow. Soon, I’ll be a wealthy old vicar with more income than I know what to do with—except, of course, I know very well what to do with it.”

“Yes, if I know you, it will all go to charity.” She smiled indulgently at him.

“As anything extra you have does,” he retorted.

They both laughed. As they quieted, he strove to reassure her once more. “I don’t lack anything here, and since I’ll never marry, my needs are few. You, on the other hand, might still have children.” He smiled fondly, liking the thought of nieces and nephews. For so long, it seemed the two of them would remain single and childless.

She turned a deeper shade of pink. “I never thought I would. If the good Lord would grant us offspring, I’d count myself a blessed woman indeed.” She sobered. “It would help make up for Jonah’s loss.”

He nodded, thinking of his future brother-in-law’s loss of wife and two young offspring before they had met him. Homeless and hungry they’d perished in the harsh winter after Jonah had been locked up in Newgate, victims of the enclosure laws, which were displacing farm laborers and bringing them to the cities with few skills. The Lord had, indeed, given Jonah a new chance.

His sister rose. “Well, we shan’t decide anything until we’ve spoken to the banker. You never know. Don’t say you’ll never marry. I know the Lord has someone out there for you, too—a good, worthy girl who would make a fine wife, someone who would be your right hand in your ministerial duties and have the same heart for God.”

He gave a wan smile, looking away from Florence, trying to appear as if the sentiment meant little to him…even as a picture of Miss Phillips flashed through his mind. His fingers tightened on the clock part. He must erase such foolishness from his very thoughts.

Lord Eldridge leaned toward her. “They tell me you are the toast of the season, my dear.”

Lindsay smiled faintly at the heavyset gentleman on her right. He lifted his crystal goblet to her. “I can well believe it, from the look of you. Let me pay homage to your beauty before you are snapped up by one of these dandies who won’t appreciate your charms like this old connoisseur.” He took a long swallow of the burgundy.

When decently appropriate, Lindsay turned away from him and looked back down at her plate. Thankfully, Mr. Stokes, on her left, was momentarily engaged with the lady on his other side. All evening she’d felt hemmed in by his presence.

Her lips felt stiff from keeping a smile in place. She broke the crab-stuffed sole into pieces with the edge of her fork, but her stomach balked with each mouthful she forced herself to take.

She pressed her hands to her stomach now, hoping she wouldn’t be sick before the night was through.

As the waiters removed the covers in preparation for the pâtés to follow, she glanced down the table at her father. By his jabbing forefinger and heightened color, she could tell he was in a heated debate with another member of the Royal Society. She sometimes wondered if she were a disappointment to him, not being a son who could follow his interests in mathematics and science. Perhaps if she’d been born with a more forceful character, she could debate with him as he so enjoyed…and refuse to marry the man he’d chosen for her.

Her father’s glance strayed to her. He gave her a reassuring smile, which she forced herself to return. With a subtle nudge of his chin, he communicated his wish to her.

With a sinking heart, she turned in the direction he’d indicated.

Jerome Stokes swallowed a healthy draft of his ruby-colored wine and eyed her. His full lips were still stained crimson, and Lindsay couldn’t tear her gaze away, even as a wave of repugnance filled her.

“The sole was excellent, was it not? Although I found the mullet a trifle dry.” His tongue roamed over his teeth as if savoring the last remnants of fish.

She forced herself to look away from his mouth. As his wife, she would have to…kiss that mouth. “I didn’t have any.”

His hooded gaze wandered over her features. “You’re looking a bit haggard. Haven’t the megrim, have you?”

“I’m quite all right.”

He eyed her plate as it was being removed. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

“I…wasn’t too hungry.”

“As soon as dinner is over, I shall take you for a turn outside. That will put you to rights.” He covered her gloved hand with his large one and pressed it.

She could only nod and turn away from him, knowing the real reason he would be taking her outside.

Although there were a dozen courses to be got through, and she ate little, she found the meal going by too quickly. It was with dread that she watched the final dishes being cleared. The glacé cherries had helped refresh her but it signaled the end of the meal.

As soon as the other ladies rose to go to the drawing room, she knew her time was short.

“Are you quite all right, dear?” Beatrice asked as they seated themselves. “You seemed quiet at dinner.” She frowned, looking at her more closely. “You look awfully pale.”

Lindsay smoothed down her silk gown. “Just a bit of headache.”

The hostess came by and asked her to play a piece, and Lindsay almost jumped up at the chance to be doing something—anything—to forget for a few moments what the evening was for. She sat down at the pianoforte and looked over the sheet music. With shaking fingers, she finally settled on an ode of Handel’s. As she began to play and sing, her breathing steadied, and for a little while she managed to put aside thoughts of what awaited her.

“That was charming. You have a lovely voice, Lindsay.”

“Thank you,” she murmured to the hostess as she resumed her place beside Beatrice. Another guest took up the instrument and Lindsay pretended to be listening to the music.

All too soon, the gentlemen rejoined the ladies. Her father wasted no time, strolling over to her with a purposeful step, bringing Mr. Stokes with him.

“My dear, Jerry tells me you were feeling a bit peaked at dinner. He suggests a stroll in the garden. It will be just the thing.”

She rose slowly, trying to steady her breathing. “Yes, Papa.”

Mr. Stokes took her by the elbow and led her to one of the doors to the garden.

She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her once they were in the chill night air.

“It is not too cold for you?”

“No, but perhaps we can soon return to the drawing room.” All she wanted now was for the evening to be over. She’d been fretting about it and dreading it for so long that she’d decided it was best to simply comply with her father’s wishes and make everyone happy.

“Yes, of course.” They walked along the gravel pathway until they were a distance from the house. The lights spilled out of the upper level windows onto the dark garden.

“Your father has given me to understand I have found favor with you.”

She moistened her lips. How could she pretend this was what she wanted? She tried to think of the pleasure she’d take in pleasing her father but her mind was numb. “Ye…yes…”

He took her hand in his. “In that case, I should like to ask for the honor of your hand in marriage.”

She was silent for what seemed a long time. It was as if she stood poised at the edge of a cliff. Behind her was all that she was familiar with—her happy childhood spent in her mother’s company, her girlhood friendships at her boarding school, even the amiable times recently with Beatrice. A brief flash of Reverend Hathaway—but no, she blocked out all that his image evoked. She would break down if she thought about him.

Finally, the word came out, a mere breath on the night air. “Yes.”

“You have made me a most happy man.” He took her chin in his hand and guided her face upward. Her first impulse was to pull back, but his face came down too quickly, his fingers locking onto her chin. His sweet cologne filled her nostrils, bringing a wave of nausea over her.

The next second, his wine-stained lips touched hers, and she recoiled. But he pressed against hers, hard, until she felt she would suffocate.

“Please,” she gasped when he released her lips a fraction.

“You are so lovely,” he breathed against her skin before assaulting her lips once more. His whiskers burned her cheeks. She tasted the residue of tobacco and port on his lips. She beat her hands against his chest, but he was immovable. Waves of dizziness swept over her.

Finally, it was over. She gulped in the night air.

“You will make me the happiest man,” he murmured, his hooded eyes staring at her heaving chest. She turned away from him, shielding herself from his view.

But he reached out and took her elbow, forcing her gently but firmly around. “You will grow to like it, dearest Lindsay. I may call you that, may I not, now that we are to be wed? You’ll grow to like it,” he repeated, his voice a velvety threat.

“Is everything all right?”

Lindsay turned with a sharp intake of breath to face Reverend Hathaway.

His look and tone were so solicitous she had to fight the urge to throw herself upon his broad chest and ask for his protection. She had come to his Bible study feeling it her only place of refuge in the nightmare her life had become in a few short weeks.

She pressed her lips together, trying to maintain her composure. “Yes, of course,” she finally managed, the words coming out a choked laugh.

His blue eyes continued to regard her with concern. “I’m sorry if I seem to be overly inquisitive. I only wondered because of our talk the other day. I take it the Lord has answered your prayers to your satisfaction?”

She gripped her teacup more firmly, finding it harder to maintain her composure. Oh, how she wanted to confide her fears to him! “I—want so much to obey and yet—”

“And yet?”

At that moment, Jonah tapped his teaspoon against his cup, calling everyone’s attention. “Miss Hathaway has finally settled on a date for the wedding. It’s to be the last Saturday of this month and you are all invited to attend the ceremony, which our good parson here will perform.”

At once, everyone began clapping and talking at once. Well-wishers crowded between her and Reverend Hathaway.

Turning away, she swallowed her anguish and told herself it was for the best. What could he do after all? He had enough worries of his own taking care of his parish. She wouldn’t add to his burden.

Lindsay walked slowly to Miss Hathaway and Mr. Quinn. Mr. Quinn stood beside Miss Hathaway’s chair and beamed at everyone who shook his hand. “Yes, I’m a blessed man. She’s certainly marrying beneath her, but let’s hope she’ll succeed in bringing me up a smidgen more than she’s managed already.”

As the others laughed and Miss Hathaway looked embarrassed, Lindsay extended her hand. “I wish both of you all happiness.”

Miss Hathaway smiled at her, and Lindsay felt a sudden overwhelming pang of envy. What must it be like to be celebrating one’s betrothal with a man one loved and trusted? For despite their differences in station, the couple clearly cared deeply for each other. She could see it at every Bible study in the way they deferred to one another and seemed to anticipate each other’s needs.

“Thank you, my dear.” Miss Hathaway glanced up at Mr. Quinn, and he looked at her at the same moment. Lindsay could see the silent understanding being communicated between the two, before Miss Hathaway turned back to her. “I hope you will know the same kind of joy.”

Lindsay’s mouth attempted a smile, but her lips felt wobbly as all she wanted to do was cry. Quickly she murmured her thanks and moved away, feeling as if her own world were ending when another’s was beginning.

On the way home with Beatrice, her cousin, said “How happy Mr. Quinn and Miss Hathaway appeared. It was so nice of them to invite us to their wedding.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder what we should get them for a wedding gift. Miss Hathaway told me they will eventually be moving to a nice farm a few miles up the road from the chapel. Mr. Quinn is an experienced farmer, although he has never owned his own farm.”

Lindsay turned to her in surprise. “They won’t be living at the parsonage with Reverend Hathaway?”

“Well, it won’t be for a while yet, she gave me to understand. Still, when they do leave, I wonder what the curate will do by himself? A parson needs a wife to help him with his duties.”

“Does—” She cleared her throat, glad for the darkness in the carriage. “Is there anyone…?” Her voice trailed off.

“In Reverend Hathaway’s life? I couldn’t say. He is a very handsome man. I’m sure there are a dozen young ladies in his congregation who would be honored to be his wife.”

For some reason the information did not cheer her. Of course there must be someone special. Reverend Hathaway was such a dear, kind man. The most noble man she’d ever met.

“It’s a pity about his leg,” Beatrice went on, “but I shouldn’t think that would matter to a good Christian woman.”

“Of course not.”

“You seemed very quiet tonight.” After a few moments, Beatrice added, “I’m surprised you didn’t mention your own good news.”

“What news?”

She could feel her cousin’s stare in the dark. “What news, indeed! Why, your betrothal, of course.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh no!”

“Why ever not, my dear? A young lady is usually very proud to announce such an event.”

“I didn’t feel it appropriate. Miss Hathaway seemed so happy. I didn’t want to take away any of the attention from her this evening.” Lindsay looked down at her lap, amazed at how one could feel such utter despair on one hand and sound so matter-of-fact on the other.

“That was thoughtful of you.” Her cousin turned to peer out the window. “You are such a modest young lady. Most would be showing off her ring to all and sundry. Apropos of that, has Mr. Stokes given you a ring yet?”

“No. I told him there was no rush, that…we could pick it out together,” she added hastily before her cousin could show her amazement again.

“Oh, well, that makes sense. You might as well sport something to your liking. I’m sure Mr. Stokes won’t stint with jewelry. And once you are a married lady, your father will begin giving you your mother’s diamonds and all the most valuable jewelry that has been in both families for generations.”

Why did the thought give her no pleasure? She pictured herself, jewels draped about her neck. The imaginary weight suddenly felt like chains.

Her cousin continued talking, unaware of the turmoil in Lindsay. “Of course, someone at the Bible study has probably read about Mr. Stokes’s marked attention to you in the papers. It has certainly captured the attention of the ton this season. You have made a brilliant match.”

When Lindsay said nothing, her cousin asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m just tired, I suppose.”

“Yes, with so many parties you’ve been attending, I’m surprised you have been so diligent in going to the Bible study. I commend you for it. I’m sure the curate does, too.”

“I don’t do it to be thought good.”

“I assure you, my dear, that is not what I meant.” She reached over and patted Lindsay’s hand. “I do commend you all the same. It’s not many young ladies of the ton who spend any thought on the things of the spirit. Their charitable works usually don’t begin until they are gray haired like me,” she added with a chuckle.

Would that be all Lindsay had to look forward to? Doing good works in her old age? Would she then enjoy a relative freedom, a freedom from her husband’s un-appreciated physical desire for her?

Her only hope for the future seemed to be that one day he would no longer find her attractive.

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