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Authors: The Vicars Widow

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BOOK: Julia London
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When she did not immediately respond, he tugged her closer. “You know I adore you. You know I want you. And if that desire is unrequited, I scarcely care—I will honor your wishes if you will just be with me for the afternoon.” And then he smiled in that devilishly charming way he had, tugging lightly at her hand, and Kate felt herself light up inside like one thousand beeswax candles.
“You must fear for your eternity, my lord,” she said, taking a tentative step toward him. “For you will surely suffer the consequences of spiriting a widow away from her father’s home.”
“Madam, I am more than prepared to suffer the fiery pits of hell for it,” he said cheerfully and popped open his umbrella as he carelessly pulled her into the rain.
Chapter Eight
They ran across the manicured lawn beneath their umbrellas, Kate’s bonnet dangling from her hand, through the mews that ran along the side of the vicar’s house and out to the main street.
At the gate, Montgomery stopped and stood on tiptoe to peer out through the ornate wood carvings that adorned the top of the fence. “Perfect,” he said low. “There’s no one about in this wretched weather.” He grabbed the gate handle, pulled it open, then took Kate’s free hand securely in his and pulled her along behind him, through the gate, and to the left, striding purposefully down the walkway, Kate running to keep up.
She felt as if she were eloping, running off to something spectacularly secret.
At the corner of the street, there was a large black landau coach, fully closed, with a gold crest painted on the side, attached to a team of four grays. Two men were perched atop the driver’s seat, their hats pulled low over their heads and the collars of their greatcoats turned up around their ears.
Upon seeing the viscount, one of them hopped down and quickly put down a small footstool before the coach door.
He pulled open the door as they reached the coach. “Milord,” he said, bobbing his head.
“Thank you, Percy.” Montgomery held his umbrella high over Kate, took hers, and handed it to the man before helping her into the interior of the coach.
Kate gasped as she settled onto the velvet bench; the interior walls were covered with red silk; the two opposing benches were covered in bloodred rose petals that filled the coach with a heavenly scent.
Montgomery came in behind her, landing directly across from her on the dark velvet squabs, his knees almost touching Kate’s, beaming proudly as the door swung shut behind him. “What do you think? Is it to your liking?”
“It’s
lovely,
” she said. “Breathtaking. I shudder to think how many innocent roses met their demise here.”
He laughed, tapped the ceiling, and the coach lurched forward.
“Was it some sort of accident?” Kate asked, looking at them scattered on the floor, on the bench, and sticking to his wet boots and her wet hem.

Ach,
have I failed so miserably? I rather hoped you’d find the look and scent of them appealing.”
“Oh, of course I
do,
” she said laughingly. “But it’s a pity that they’ll lie inside your coach while we . . . while we are elsewhere? Or do you intend to picnic in the coach?”
“There are plenty of roses in England. A veritable army of them, actually,” he said with a wink, and leaned over, withdrew a small flagon of wine from beneath the bench and then a small glass. And another. “It seems as if my genius is not yet apparent to you.”
“On the contrary—a picnic in a coach is quite imaginative. Some might even be moved to call it genius.”
He grinned, obviously pleased by that. “Imaginative, perhaps, but a bit close, wouldn’t you agree? No, the picnic is somewhere else entirely,” he said as he poured a small amount of wine into a glass and handed it to her. “We shall be leisure in the course to our destination, where you will dine on roasted hen, tender leeks, and sweet pudding.”
“How lovely,” Kate murmured and sipped her wine, felt a warm glow from it and the knowledge that the handsome man sitting across from her had gone to so much trouble on the slim chance that she might agree to his insanity.
It was beyond her ability to comprehend, really. A wealthy viscount, a vicar’s widow . . . it was scarcely the sort of affair that the
Morning Times
alluded to among the
ton.
Men of Montgomery’s stature attracted any number of women—in fact, she’d read such speculation about him on more than one occasion. But he had been steadfast in his pursuit of her, and at the moment, she hardly cared of his motives. The butterflies he always seemed to put in her belly had somehow expanded into an entire aviary of wings beating away inside her, making her feel giddy with wild excitement.
It felt as if she had scarcely sipped her wine when the coach came to a halt. She detected the pungent scent of fish and heard the voices of several men.
“Where are we?” she asked.
Montgomery smiled enigmatically. “At the river’s edge,” he said as the door swung open. “We’re to take a short journey upstream,” he added and disappeared through the open door, then extended his hand to help her down.
Kate didn’t know precisely where on the Thames they had come to. They hurried across a rain-slicked dock to a waiting barge. In the middle of the barge was a large, box-shaped enclosure. Three boatmen were on board, two with oars in hand, and another at the rudder. A fourth waited patiently on the dock, next to a thick rope that anchored the barge to the dock.
“Mind your step,” Montgomery warned her and hopped onto the barge, then caught her by the waist, lifted her off the dock, and swung her down onto the barge. With a boyish smile, he grabbed her hand, pulled her into the boxed enclosure.
She made a sound of surprise as she ducked and entered the enclosure. The small area was furnished with thick brocade pillows. The walls were velvet, and two tiny port-holes graced each side. There were candles in the sconces, a basket at the opening, and rose petals everywhere.
Everywhere.
They covered the cushions, the blankets, the baskets.
Kate was so awed by the sight of it that she scarcely noticed Montgomery was helping her in, seating her on a pile of cushions next to the porthole. He covered her with a blanket, then took his place next to her. From their vantage point, they had a view of the river as they headed upstream.
Water lapped gently at the sides of the barge as the boatmen made the final preparations to launch in the thick rain and mist. Kate watched them move back and forth before the enclosure until the barge glided away from the dock and started upriver. Then she shifted her smiling gaze to Montgomery.
“What’s this?” he asked, looking at her soft smile. “Ah, I expected as much,” he said and reached for the basket, his arm brushing carelessly against her as if they were quite accustomed to one another.
He placed the basket on his lap. “I should not expect you to ride very far without some sustenance,” he said as he unfolded the linen cloth in the basket. It was filled with tiny sweet biscuits of various shapes and varieties. “What would you like?”
Kate leaned forward, glanced at the biscuits in his lap, then lifted her gaze. “What would you suggest?”
With a low laugh in his throat, Montgomery put aside the biscuits and put his hand on her neck. “I would suggest,” he said, leaning closer, “this.” He pulled her to him, kissed her soft and wet as they floated into a thickening mist.
Neither of them noticed.
 
 
They kissed, ate biscuits, and kissed again until the barge bumped up against a pier sometime later. Darien lazily lifted his head and leaned to one side, peering at the porthole to have a look, and turned a beaming smile to Kate.
She was turned to one side, lying against the cushions. A part of a rose petal had adhered itself to her cheek, and another was tangled in her hair, which had come quite undone. Her lips were slightly swollen and glisteningly moist. Through half-closed eyes, she smiled dreamily at him. “Where are we?”
“You must come have a look for yourself.” He helped her up; Kate leaned across his lap and looked out. Her brow puckered slightly as she tried to make out where they were. “It’s a boathouse.”
“That it is.” But it wasn’t just any boathouse. It was the grand old boathouse on his uncle’s estate. His uncle, who was well past his eightieth year, neither cared nor noticed that his nephew was borrowing the boathouse for the afternoon.
Darien had sent his butler Kiefer this morning to arrange it all. The boathouse had a pair of doors that opened up to the river, so that boats could be launched from an enclosed dock.
“Oh my,” Kate whispered, taking in the grassy slope of lawn that stretched from the water’s edge up to his uncle’s magnificent estate. “It looks like something from a picture book.”
Darien laughed, urged her up and helped her from the barge. He let the boatmen go, giving the captain a handful of coins to disappear for a couple of hours, then led Kate across the exterior dock to the boathouse.
Her blue eyes widened when they entered the interior. Near the open doors, two piles of rich brocade cushions lined either side of a damask tablecloth. On the tablecloth, a pair of silver candelabras rose above several covered platters. Two bottles of wine were nearby, as were china plates and silver cutlery. In the boat slip, candles floated, bobbing languidly in time to the rain on the roof.
And everything was covered in rose petals.
Darien glanced at Kate. Her lips had parted slightly; her eyes were wide as she tried to absorb what he’d done for her. Actually, he was rather impressed himself. He had described what he envisioned to Kiefer, but he’d never dreamed it would look as good as this. The man had outdone himself, and Darien made a mental note to commend him for his mastery.
“I’m . . . astounded,” Kate said at last.
“I’m rather astounded myself,” Darien said.
They sat on the cushions; Kate gazed out the doors open onto the river as he lit the candelabras and poured the wine. “I can scarcely believe you’ve done all this . . . for
me,
” she said softly, gesturing to the picnic.
“Why can’t you?” he asked, tipping his wineglass against hers and lifting it in a salute before drinking.
“No one has ever been so considerate of me,” she said thoughtfully and smiled warmly. “I’ve never been given a picnic. It rather warms the cockles of my heart, my lord.”
Darien grinned. “That’s all the thanks I need,” he said and put aside the wine and lifted the dome from the first platter. Roasted asparagus. “I should think your husband, may he rest in peace, might have treated you to a picnic now and again,” he said, broaching the subject that had weighed heavy on his mind these last few weeks.
“No,” Kate said, shaking her head and drawing her legs up against her chest. “Richard was a good husband. But he was not as creative as this.”
“Asparagus?”
“Please.”
“Your husband was a clever man. I rather enjoyed his sermons. But I must confess, Mrs. Becket, that I have often wondered if he knew about the Christmas soiree.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Her eyes filled with a regret that speared him, and she dropped her gaze to her lap as she shook her head.
Darien said nothing. He regretted it, too, and feeling awkward now, he busied himself with putting chicken and roasted potatoes on her plate.
“He was fond of you, you know,” she said after a moment.
That surprised him greatly; he looked up to see if she was jesting as he handed her the plate. “Of
me?

“Mmm. He once said that your reputation was born of what little society really knew about you, but that you were far greater than they knew.”
Darien arched a brow in surprise. “He said that of me, did he?”
She nodded, bit into the chicken. “It’s delicious!” She gave him a pleased smile that he rather suspected would entice men to move mountains. “Richard knew of your charitable works, of course. And your endowment for the boys’ school.”
BOOK: Julia London
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