Page 61 of Indecently Daring

“No, there is not. You’re a bottomless pit, is what you are. Now you run down and see if those useless hens have started laying again, and mind you put your coat on, it’s cold out. When you get back, I might have some bread and jam for you. Run along now, quick smart.”

Jeb flashed her a grin and rushed out of the room.

“Ah, he’s a good boy,” she said fondly. “You reckon his ma will leave him be now?”

Harry nodded. “I think so. Last I heard, she’d taken her money and gone to London.”

“Good riddance,” the lady said with a sniff.

Harry opened his mouth to suggest this wasn’t a very Christian attitude before deciding to save his breath. He wasn’t a hypocrite, after all, and whilst he wished her no ill, he very much hoped Mrs Maby went away and did not come back again. Though what he was to do with Jeb when he married Alana, he didn’t quite know.

When he married Alana.

The words spun in his mind with a dreamlike, unreal quality he could not quite get used to. He’d kept his distance since that eventful night, on Lady St Clair’s express instructions. She said she would spread the word of their engagement, and Harry’s heroics in rescuing poor Jeb, in the hopes this story would excite the parish’s sympathy and Lady Catherine’s presence might be swept under the carpet. In the meantime, he was supposed to keep a low profile and hope that his bruises faded somewhat.

The boys had been exceedingly impressed with him when he had taken his first class since that night. Especially when Jeb told them how Harry had flattened the ‘big bugger.’ That was entirely inaccurate—and, considering Jeb had been off his head when it happened and had no clue what he’d done, a downright lie—but Harry was touched by Jeb’s pride in him all the same, and he wasn’t so stuffy as to not appreciate looking like a bit of a hero to his boys.

Harry glanced up at the kitchen clock on the mantle. Alana’s parents arrived this morning to hear exactly what had gone on and why their daughter was suddenly engaged to the local vicar. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, the porridge suddenly weighing heavy. He was expecting a summons at some point, to present himself to Mr Cadogan and explain why he ought to be considered a fit prospect for a husband. It was not an idea to fill him with confidence, and with good reason. Jerome Cadogan was a close friend of Nathanial Hunt, of Hunter’s fame. The club owner was exceedingly picky about who he allowed entry to his club and took a dim view of those who couldn’t pay their bills. Of course, Harry had paid his bill… eventually. He swallowed down a groan as the porridge churned unpleasantly in his guts.

“You all right, vicar? Looking a bit peaked, you are.”

“Quite well,” Harry said gloomily.

What if Alana’s parents forbade the match? Though, if they did, she’d probably be ruined after the events of that night. But what if they agreed to it because there was no choice, but then despised him for it? Perhaps they’d think him a fortune hunter, not that he’d had the slightest clue about her fortune, but they might think it. What if they cut Alana out of the family in disgust? Despite the fact Harry was the son of an earl, his father was notoriously tight-fisted, which made him unpopular. Nor was the earl especially well-connected because of his well-known proclivity for miserly behaviour. Added to that, the fact Harry was only a third son meant he was hardly a fine prospect for a girl with a fortune, who could claim Lord and Lady St Clair as close kin.

Harry frowned and then jumped as Mrs Hogget set down a large brown bottle and a spoon in front of him.

“What’s that?”

“Syrup of figs,” she said briskly. “That’ll get things moving.”

“Moving?”

“You’ve got that screwed up look, like your guts is in a knot.”

Harry rolled his eyes and got up from the table. “Thank you for your concern, Mrs Hogget,” he said with dignity. “But I am not constipated, just a little distracted, is all.”

“If you say so, Vicar,” Mrs Hogget said dubiously as Harry made his escape.

Chapter 18

I was never more shocked when she told me. Poor Ruth is devastated. I don’t know what he was thinking. If he was thinking? And Lyall of all people! He’s always been so quiet and sensible, dependable. If it had been one of his daft brothers, I’d not have batted an eyelid, but Lyall! According to Ruth, the girl is a manipulative little she devil, and you know Ruth never has a bad word for anyone so I can only imagine what provoked her into saying such a thing. She believes the girl has some hold over Lyall, but the man will say nothing about it. Well, he’s always played his cards close to his chest, a secretive lad, but to just up and marry the girl without telling a soul… I don’t know what to make of it. Not that there’s a thing to be done about it now. She’s the Viscountess Buchanan, for better or for worse.

―Excerpt of a letter from Her Grace, Prunella Adolphus, The Duchess of Bedwin to her friend, The Most Hon’ble Matilda Barrington, The Marchioness of Montagu.

Still the 31st of January 1845, The Vicarage, Holbrook, Sussex.

Later that morning, Harry was alone in his study, ostensibly working on his sermon, though he’d spent a deal more time daydreaming about Alana than actually writing anything sensible. Jeb was busy in the church, keeping an eye on the ladies who were cleaning and arranging the flowers on the altar, and no doubt getting made a dreadful fuss of. That was a good thing, Harry reflected. Jeb could stand a bit of fussing after the past few weeks.

Tap, tap, tap.

He turned, looking at the window behind him and finding his heart jolt with happiness when he saw the object of his daydreams appear before him.

“Alana!” he said, swinging the window open.

“Can I come in?” she asked urgently.

“Well, of course, but you could have used the front door.”