To Tempt the Saint Read online

  Miss Twiggy said, “So, tell me about your three brothers, your father.”

  He groaned and she chuckled wickedly. “You don’t get along?”

  “No. At least not with my father.”

  She waited.

  “He has plans for me. Has always had plans, even before I was born.”

  “They disagree with your own?”

  “I don’t have any plans.” George nearly stopped when he admitted to it. Why it was so shameful, he didn’t know, but he felt heat flood his face and he cleared his throat. “My father’s plans have always been there, right in front of me. Perhaps having no plans at all was the only way I felt I could have my own.”

  “So what are these diabolical plans of his?”

  “Oh, I suspect anything less than archbishop will disappoint him.”

  She laughed, and then realized he’d been completely serious.

  He said, “My father has grand plans for all his sons though I suspect he is destined to disappointment regarding me. Have you ever felt, Miss Blackstock, like you were living a lie? That every day another piece of the real you was being sloughed off, and that one day you would wake up and there would be nothing left at all?”

  She tripped and he grabbed for her elbow, catching her before she could fall. She looked up at him, the umbrella forgotten and the drizzle coating her stricken face.

  She whispered, “Yes,” and he hauled her up.

  “Forgive me. I did not mean Mr. Moffat. I wasn’t thinking at all.”

  He picked up her umbrella and her maid came over to fuss and Miss Blackstock stood there in the rain letting them.

  When she was put to rights and they finally began moving again, George said, “Enough about me, I think. What of your family?”

  She laughed weakly. Humorlessly.

  “I don’t know that my father ever had any plans for me but I think it’s safe to assume I have not achieved them.”

  “And your mother?”

  “I loved her.”

  George said quietly, “That is a lovely epitaph, Miss Blackstock.”

  She adjusted her umbrella and cleared her throat. “She spent her life trying to give my father a son and died doing it. And when she died. . .I wanted to die, too. My aunt came to take care of me and stayed when my father remarried. And when my father’s new wife gave birth two years in a row, I left to live with my aunt permanently.”

  They walked a ways in silence before George asked, “And they’ve been good to you?”

  “Better than I deserve. They’ve treated me not as a child but as an equal. As an adult.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  She nodded. “There is a kind of peace one feels when the people who know every one of your ugly secrets loves you. When they would follow you to the ends of the earth to help you get back what you lost. Good people who would give up their comforts, their home, their souls for you.” She said softly, “I wish with all my heart that it had been enough to know that they would have and had not actually required them to do it.”

  George helped her across a busy street, his hand lingering on hers.

  “Manchester is fairly terrible. But I am glad you left London, even if it cost your aunt and uncle their souls.”

  She smiled at him, the stricken look that had remained in her eyes since she’d tripped finally fading.

  She took her hand back slowly and said, “Mr. Clarke followed you to Manchester. You must know the cost family will sometimes pay.”

  “Only too well. He reminds me of all he left behind in London with regular consistency.”

  And he decided right then to share his ugly secrets with her.

  Because he knew hers. Her broken engagement.

  And he wondered what she would say about his odd family when she had her own.

  “Though, he had little say in moving to Manchester with me. Mr. Clarke’s father was a farmer and he is my valet as well as my brother-in-law.”

  She looked at him with surprise, but he was gratified to find no censure.

  “That is not a relationship you hear of everyday.”

  “No.” George shook his head. “I loved his sister, and when she married my brother it helped to have Collin with me. It helped to not be alone even if it sometimes hurt to look at him.”

  Miss Blackstock tilted her head to the side and studied him. “You loved his sister, and she married your brother.”

  George nodded.

  “Your eldest brother,” she said as if that explained it, and he laughed. The first time that he’d ever laughed at his broken heart.

  “No. My twin.”

  She sucked in a quick breath and George answered before she even asked.

  “He’s not anything like me.”

  “Then perhaps she was the brave one. Painfully, heartbreakingly brave. And I would thank her heartily if I could.”

  George smiled at his own words. And knew when he deposited her at home that he wouldn’t ever want to get off this path.

  And the next evening, sitting down to dinner next to Miss Blackstock and across from Mrs. Turpin, Mr. Turpin at the head of the table and Collin diagonal, George was even more certain.

  Dinner was a close and comfortable family affair; he and Mr. Turpin happy to talk cigars– the flavors, the brands, their favorites.

  And he grinned when both Collin, “Not at the table, please,” and Mrs. Turpin, “After dinner, we will leave you and Mr. Turpin to smoke all you like, Mr. St. Clair,” interrupted them.

  Miss Blackstock smiled. “Now you know. Should you ever tire of anyone’s company, simply bring up the subject of cigars and they will banish you themselves.”

  “I will remember for the next time I visit with my father.”

  Mr. Turpin spoke up. “Is your father a vicar as well, Mr. St. Clair?”

  Collin threw a long glance at George, who said carefully, “My father is the Viscount St. Clair.”

  Mrs. Turpin froze with her fork half-way to her mouth and Miss Blackstock said slowly, “I suspected you were the son of somebody. I didn’t expect. . .that.”

  George felt a tad gratified that his father’s title was so unwelcome; he’d thought the same thing himself a time or two.

  “We all have our embarrassing relations. Remember, I am only a vicar.”

  Miss Blackstock said, “We could hardly tell, tonight.”

  “I don’t have to be condescending and self-righteous all the time.”

  “I’m simply surprised you can turn it off. You being a vicar and a lord’s son.”

  Collin nodded agreeably with her and George said to the both of them, “I can only turn it off when I am in the most agreeable of company.”

  Mr. Turpin smiled at the pretty compliment to his niece, though Mrs. Turpin still seemed shaken.

  Miss Blackstock cocked her head. “You must mean my aunt and uncle then because you have been disagreeable oft enough in my company.”

  Collin snorted into his drink, sending himself into a short coughing fit, and Mrs. Turpin’s color rushed back into her cheeks after the apparently devastating news of who George’s father was.

  “Oh, Mr. Clarke,” she cried and patted Collin’s back solicitously as he continued coughing.

  George watched, smiling, and said, “I must mean them.”

  Six

  Before the ladies left the dining room to the men, George nodded at Collin. Collin sighed, spared a glance for Miss Blackstock, then, finally, nodded.

  Giving his blessing, and George smiled at his friend and then swallowed.

  George helped Miss Blackstock with her chair and when Collin distracted Mr. and Mrs. Turpin with a question, George quickly followed her out of the room.

  “Miss Blackstock, my father is. . .difficult. There’s no getting around that.”

  She continued to the sitting room, saying over her shoulder, “I have never met a father who wasn’t.”

  “Met many, have you?”

  She quoted the bible, proving her point. “And,
ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath. . . Ephesians 6:4.”

  George took a breath. “Every vicar’s wife should be able to quote the bible.”

  Miss Blackstock froze, then whirled around to stare at George. “Is that a requirement nowadays for the Church of England? I hadn’t realized.”

  “I hadn’t realized there were any requirements at all. They approved me, a man who doesn’t even pray,” he confessed. Because he wanted her to know.

  “A vicar who doesn’t pray?”

  “I suspect there is a range of vicar and they all have their own vices. Ingratitude is mine.”

  He came to stand right in front of her and she chuckled softly. “Is that what you call your failure to pray? Ingratitude?”

  “I call it a great many things. Necessary being the most important.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the last thing I prayed for was the death of my brother. God doesn’t need to hear anything more from me.”

  She lifted her hand and grazed the side of his cheek with one finger and when he caught it gently, he held it to his chest.

  He looked into her bright eyes– how could he have ever compared them to mud– and asked, “Does that make you hate me?”

  She flattened her palm over his heart and said softly, “It makes me feel a great many things for and about you. None of them are hate.”

  “You should know what kind of man I am, Miss Blackstock. I want you to know.”

  She smiled at him. “And you’re the wicked vicar? Mr. St. Clair, I already knew you were. It was a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.”

  He closed his eyes and she whispered, “George?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you going to kiss me?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Stop thinking.”

  “If I kiss you, Miss Twiggy, I will then have to deposit myself in front of your uncle.”

  “You want to kiss him, too?”

  “If I have to.”

  He opened his eyes to find hers smiling back at him, and George hadn’t realized eyes could.

  She said, “I don’t think he will require it.”

  “I’m relieved. And unafraid.”

  “That’s. . .odd.”

  “Do you want to know why I am unafraid?”

  “You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

  “Your eyes are not shy and your smile is not demure. Your eyes are determined.”

  There was no giving Miss Blackstock to anyone. She would choose, her alone. She would choose. . .him?

  “And I try so hard to hide the determination. What a pity I did not succeed. But tell me, Mr. St. Clair. What of my smile? What does that say about me?”

  He looked at her lips and said softly, “Twiggy. So very twiggy.”

  Her lips opened and her determined eyes softened and George said, “Perhaps a short engagement. I can’t wait to find out what I’ve married on my wedding day.”

  She agreed with a nod. “A short one.”

  George smiled. “Was that a yes?”

  “Was that a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then. . .yes.”

  George’s heart started beating again and he leaned toward her.

  “It was a wicked thing to do, Twiggy. To make me fall in love with you.”

  She whispered, “Did I?”

  He put his lips against hers and whispered back, “Oh, yes. My Letitia.”

  Her uncle did not require kisses, though George did offer one to her aunt.

  Letitia kept her arm linked tight with his as they celebrated with glasses of wine and when Collin congratulated them, there was real happiness in his voice.

  “I think you will make my friend very happy, Miss Blackstock.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Clarke.”

  And when they left too late that night, Miss Blackstock’s uncle returned the favor and distracted Collin while Miss Blackstock followed George out into the darkness, shutting the door softly behind her.

  Her hand found his, her skirt brushed his leg, and her breath puffed against his cheek.

  He closed his eyes, wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her, and he was happy.

  When he opened his eyes again, they’d adjusted to the darkness and he could see the smile on her face. See her happiness as well.

  “Letty?”

  She pulled back. “Yes, Georgy?”

  “Twiggy?”

  Her fingers grazed his lips and she whispered, “I like Twiggy.”

  “So do I.”

  “I like you.”

  “I rather gathered that when you agreed to marry me.”

  “I don’t know why I like you. And to be honest, I don’t know why you like me. Not this me, the real me.”

  He wasn’t entirely sure either. Except he thought she might have been made just for him.

  Made to stand toe to toe with him.

  He said, “We’ll think on it, and perhaps have an answer before we actually wed.”

  She leaned against him, whispering in his ear and slipping something into his hand. “Maybe this will help. You did say a short engagement?”

  He nodded, feeling her cheek slide smoothly against his own and realizing the item she’d given him must have been the twig that had once again been in her hair.

  He let go of her, putting her bodily away and reminding himself that he was a man of the cloth and the walk home would do him good.

  Reminding himself yet again that they were going to have a very short engagement.

  Twiggy called out softly, “I’ll dream of you tonight. And figure out why.”

  George decided abruptly that he and Collin would take the long way home.

  Honora stayed outside in the dark.

  Stayed outside and pretended she could see him walking down the lane for far longer than she actually could.

  She closed her eyes and remembered how he’d told her he’d fallen in love with her.

  Not the first time a gentleman had proposed the idea to her, not even the first time she’d believed it.

  She remembered his non-proposal, and she believed for the first time that sometimes no words were needed.

  She was still smiling when she went inside, still smiling when she bid her aunt and uncle a good night.

  Her aunt stood. “Honora?”

  “Yes, Aunt Gertrude?”

  “Aunt Beatrice. Uncle Arnold. Have you forgotten?”

  “Of course not. You know I try to stay in character.”

  “I don’t think you’ve been in character for quite a while.”

  Honora hadn’t been. And it was as if she could breathe for the first time in years.

  “I don’t need to be in character as Miss Blackstock. This is who he knows me as.”

  “I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about you. You are forgetting that this isn’t real.”

  Aunt Gertrude glanced at her husband and he rose, saying, “I think I’ll go see about some tea.”

  Uncle Hubert shut the door behind him and Honora remained standing, the smile on her face and in her heart fading.

  The silence lengthened and both women waited for the other to speak. When Honora finally did, it was with gut-wrenching honesty.

  “I don’t want to play the game with him, Aunt Gertrude. He’s not. . .he’s not like the rest.”

  The older woman closed her eyes. “No, he’s not. His father is a viscount.”

  The son of somebody. Somebody important.

  Honora had known just by how he expected the world to fall into line around him.

  She said softly, “We don’t have to swindle him,” and her aunt opened her eyes.

  “Good, good. Call it off. Tomorrow. Tonight!”

  “I mean that I could marry him.”

  She remembered his lips on hers and her hand in his. The countless afternoons they’d sat next to each other, bickering and trying not to laugh, and Honora thought a lifetime of that wo
uld be wonderful.

  It seemed like a future one could welcome.

  Her aunt sat suddenly, heavily.

  “Honora, you can’t get married as Miss Letitia Blackstock. It wouldn’t be legal. She doesn’t exist.”

  “It wasn’t legal for me to become engaged under countless names, to collect reparations under those names.”

  Her aunt whispered, “You must see that this is different. Must see the consequences of such an act would not mean disaster for us but for your children. If it were found out that you’d married under a false name, they would be illegitimate. They would have nothing. Be nothing. And there would be no hiding it, not like last time.”

  Oh, it hurt. As it was meant to, and Honora could only forgive her aunt because there was just as much pain shining in the older woman’s eyes at that hateful reminder.

  The woman who had cried with Honora when first her mother had died– Honora only fifteen and still in need of a mother even if she wished she didn’t. The woman who had cried her own tears over the death of her sister.

  The woman who had held Honora again when her father had remarried– those tears hot and angry.

  And then, finally, when Honora had discovered that a man could lie and take advantage of that loss and anger and guilt, promising the sun and moon and stars only to steal her virtue and her honor. Leaving her to discover that he was already married and that her child would never have a last name.

  Those tears had been filled with fear. Those tears had been helpless. And her aunt had wiped them away gently, crying her own even as she made plans to protect her niece. Even as she stood between Honora and Honora’s father as they screamed and shouted at each other for months, the whole family hidden away in the country until the birth.

  Honora had stopped screaming when her stepmother had taken the baby from her body.

  Had stopped shouting when the baby was given a last name and a family. A mother and a father and sisters. A future.

  But Honora hadn’t stopped crying, not for a long time. And when her father and stepmother had finally moved back to town, her littlest “sister” nearly six months old and her stepmother pregnant again, Honora had talked her aunt and uncle into renting a cottage far, far away.