Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Read online

  Praise for Minerva Spencer's Outcasts series:

  "Minerva Spencer's writing is sophisticated and wickedly witty. Dangerous is a delight from start to finish with swashbuckling action, scorching love scenes, and a coolly arrogant hero to die for. Spencer is my new auto-buy!"

  -NYT Bestselling Author Elizabeth Hoyt

  "[SCANDALOUS is] A standout...Spencer's brilliant and original tale of the high seas bursts with wonderfully real protagonists, plenty of action, and passionate romance."

  ★Publishers Weekly STARRED REVIEW

  "Fans of Amanda Quick's early historicals will find much to savor."

  ★Booklist STARRED REVIEW

  "Sexy, witty, and fiercely entertaining."

  ★Kirkus STARRED REVIEW

  "A remarkably resourceful heroine who can more than hold her own against any character invented by best-selling Bertrice Small, a suavely sophisticated hero with sex appeal to spare, and a cascade of lushly detailed love scenes give Spencer's dazzling debut its deliciously fun retro flavor."

  ★Booklist STARRED REVIEW

  "Readers will love this lusty and unusual marriage of convenience story."

  -NYT Bestselling Author MADELINE HUNTER

  "Smart, witty, graceful, sensual, elegant and gritty all at once. It has all of the meticulous attention to detail I love in Georgette Heyer, BUT WITH SEX!"

  RITA-Award Winning Author JEFFE KENNEDY

  More books by S.M. LaViolette & Minerva Spencer:

  THE ACADEMY OF LOVE SERIES

  THE MUSIC OF LOVE

  A FIGURE OF LOVE

  THE OUTCASTS SERIES

  DANGEROUS

  BARBAROUS

  SCANDALOUS

  NOTORIOUS

  THE MASQUERADERS

  THE FOOTMAN

  ANTHOLOGIES:

  BACHELORS OF BOND STREET

  THE ARRANGEMENT

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  Copyright © 2020 Shantal M. LaViolette

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  First printing May 2020

  ASIN: B086JB7WY2

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Photo stock by Period Images

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Chapter One

  New Bickford, England

  Melissa Griffin stared into red eyes that burned with malevolence.

  Her breath froze in her chest but her heart made up for her lungs’ mutiny by thundering in her ears. She took a minute step back, but her tormentor strode inexorably closer. She shuffled to the side, but he followed her sideways, too.

  “What do you want from me?” She forced the words through gritted teeth.

  The foul, evil beast said nothing, stalking ever closer.

  There were only two choices: she could run or she could fight—and there was no chance she would vanquish such an implacable foe.

  Mel silently counted to three, grabbed two fistfuls of her skirts, and broke into a run while screaming, “Heeeeelp!”

  She flew past a tiny daub and wattle cottage that looked like it should have housed angels instead of this nasty brute. Something struck the back of one leg and Mel risked a glimpse at her pursuer: he was right behind her, dogged and menacing and—

  “Ooof!” Melissa slammed into a wall that was hard and warm and . . . human.

  The human wall grunted. “Here, then, don’t be afraid,” a deep voice soothed.

  Mel was blind to everything except the red eyes and razor-sharp claws behind her and plowed through the thicket of limbs, climbing the stranger’s body as if he were a tree.

  Strong arms slid around her, lifted her, and spun her around before depositing her on the ground, his body a shield—a substantial one, at that—between Melissa and that fiend.

  “Hector!” Her protector’s deep voice was overlaid with a tone of command that demanded to be obeyed.

  When only silence met his order, Mel stood on her toes and peeked over broad, black-clad shoulders, pale blond hair tickling her nose.

  Her jaw dropped at what she saw: the demon had screeched to a halt and was ambling away in the opposite direction, behaving as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, er, beak.

  “Why that—that—”

  “Rooster?” the same deep voice said, this time laced with amusement rather than command.

  Mel realized she’d pasted the front of her body to the back of his and took a hasty step back. He turned and she blinked; it might have been the conceit of a city dweller, but she’d not expected to see a man as lovely as her savior in the middle of a country lane. In fact, Melissa could not recall seeing a man as beautiful—yes, beautiful—as this one ever. And he was wearing a clerical collar.

  “I’ve been rescued from that—that hellion by a vicar?”

  Rather than be insulted by her disbelieving tone he smiled, a warm, charming, gorgeous smile that should not have belonged to a man of the cloth. Not that she knew anything whatsoever about vicars and what type of smiles they should or did have. Men of the cloth tended to be thin on the ground in her line of business. For all she knew, all clergymen were this attractive. Perhaps it was a prerequisite of the job? Was that how they filled their pews on Sunday?

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the honor of being a vicar—yet. So things are even worse, you see: you’ve actually been rescued by a mere curate.” He executed a graceful bow. “Mister Stanwyck at your service, Miss. . .”

  Melissa pulled her gaze away from his mouth, which definitely was wasted on a vicar, and said, “Er, Griffin.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Griffin.”

  His eyes were the clear, guileless blue of the sky and they met her own rather than roaming her body. Mel’s inner critic—as vociferous and relentless as a Greek choir—pointed out that not every man in Great Britain wished to lay themselves out at her feet. Even if it had seemed that way since she’d been fourteen.

  “I know everyone in New Bickford so you must be a visitor, Miss Griffin.”

  “Yes. I—I’ve come to the country to convalesce.”

  His brow furrowed and his expression shifted to one of genuine sympathy. “I am sorry to hear you’ve been ill.” He wasn’t just mouthing a platitude; he actually sounded sorry.

  “I am on the mend now, just—”

  “Mister Stanwyck! Yoohoo!” The voice floated toward them from the direction of the quaint little cottage which the vile Hector apparently called home. Right now said villain was placidly scratching among his hen harem, pausing a moment he
re and there to execute what must have been some type of hen-attracting side-step shuffle, his chest puffed out.

  Melissa glared at him; how dare he look so harmless?

  The curate greeted the approaching woman. “Hello, Miss Philpot. And how are you this afternoon?”

  The woman in question was a tall, gangly female easily twice the curate’s age who was sporting a coquettish smile and the eyelash batting airs of a schoolroom miss.

  “Oh, Mr. Stanwyck, Gloria will be so relieved you are here.” Her bulbous green orbs swiveled toward Melissa and her steel gray eyebrows dropped like twin guillotines. “And you’ve brought. . .your sister?” The last word was spoken in such a hopeful tone that Melissa had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

  The curate pressed his too-beautiful lips together in a mild smile that was belied by the twinkle in his eyes. “I’m afraid my parents did not see fit to bless me with any sisters, ma’am, only brothers.”

  Miss Philpot was nothing if not adaptable. She turned from Mel, her expression softening as she gazed at the curate. “Well that is certainly the lord’s work if they are all as handsome and sweet-natured as you, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  The curate accepted the compliment with a smile and gestured to Melissa. “This is Miss Griffin. I’m afraid she just had a—well, I don’t suppose you would call it a run-in so much as a run-away, with Hector.”

  Mel narrowed her eyes at his witticism and was rewarded by one of his stunning smiles.

  Miss Philpot wagged an admonishing finger at the vicious animal. “Oh, Hector! Have you been over-vigilant?” She spoke in a tolerant, cooing tone that sent Hector into another of his sideways step-slides. Miss Philpot tittered appreciatively at the maneuver. It seemed the bird’s debatable charms worked on more than just his hens; maybe Hector was smarter than he looked.

  Miss Philpot turned to Mel. “I do apologize for Hector’s enthusiasm, Miss, er, Griffin.” The affection in her eyes—a residual product of Hector’s charm—slid away to reveal a zealous gleam that would have done a Spanish Inquisitor proud. “Are you just visiting our village on your way to . . . somewhere else?”

  Miss Philpot wasn’t the only one waiting for her response with interest. The cerulean blue eyes of the curate were also turned her way.

  Something about his clear gaze made Mel shy and fidgety, a feeling she’d not had since selling oranges on street corners when she was a girl. She brushed off the skirt of her walking costume, as though Hector might have been pelting her with rotted fruits and vegetables rather than just his—she paused to eye the rooster, and was forced to admit, very scrawny—body.

  “I am staying in a house down the way.” She gestured with the hand that wasn’t clutching her reticule and then realized she’d motioned in the direction of the ocean. Both members of her small audience wore slight frowns of confusion. Melissa bestowed her most winning smile on Miss Philpot, curious to see if it had any effect on the woman. It did not.

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m a bit turned around.” She pointed toward the path she’d just sprinted down a few moments earlier. “I am staying at Halliburton Manor.”

  Miss Philpot’s eyes widened. “Halliburton Manor?”

  “Yes, that is correct.” Why was the woman looking at her that way?

  “Ah . . . I see. How unusual that we heard nothing about it.”

  Mel wondered if she was supposed to place an announcement in the local newspaper or contact the town crier. “I expect that is because I dealt with an agent in London and brought all my own servants.”

  “Ah. And you are staying there, er, alone?”

  Melissa suppressed a twinge of annoyance at the prying questions; this was the sort of curiosity she should have expected when coming to such a small village. “I—”

  “Mister Stanwyck!” a voice trilled from the direction of the cottage. “How delightful to see you. But Agnes, why are you keeping the reverend standing out—oh,” the newcomer said when she noticed Melissa. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Gloria, this is the new tenant in Halliburton Manor—Miss Griffin. Miss Griffin, my sister, Miss Gloria Philpot.”

  Mel would have known without being told this was Miss Philpot’s sister since the two women were mirror images of each other.

  “Halliburton Manor?” Miss Gloria aimed a curious expression Melissa’s way. Just what was it about her choice of residence that was so interesting?

  Miss Gloria opened her mouth, no doubt to take over the inquisition, but the curate took charge of the conversation. “You must be walking to town, Miss Griffin? Perhaps I might show you the way?”

  Mel thought he looked . . . hopeful.

  The Misses Philpot, on the other hand, looked forlorn.

  “But, Mr. Stanwyck, didn’t you just come from town? Won’t you come in for some tea?” The elder Miss Philpot stared accusingly at Melissa while she spoke, as if Mel were some sort of siren leading the curate toward jagged rocks.

  “And I thought you were going to look at our wisteria trellis, the bit that needs mending,” Miss Gloria added when the curate didn’t jump on the offer of tea.

  Mel couldn’t help herself. “Yes, Mister Stanwyck. I should hate to deprive you of tea. And the trellis.”

  A muscle at the corner of his shapely mouth twitched. “I’ll just walk Miss Griffin into the village—and show her the church along the way—and be back in half a jiffy. Not to worry, I shall see to the trellis before the day is out.” His hand was at her elbow and he’d managed to turn them both and start down the path without Mel even realizing it.

  “Goodbye, ladies. It was a pleasure to meet you,” she tossed over her shoulder at the frowning women. She turned to the reverend, who was walking briskly, as if to put some distance between himself and the two disappointed members of his flock. “A half a jiffy, Mr. Stanwyck? I don’t believe I’ve heard that particular expression before.”

  He chuckled, his hand falling away from her arm. “Why do I feel that you enjoy a bit of mischief-making, Miss Griffin?”

  “I certainly don’t run away from mischief—not like I run from nasty little feathered, beaked goblins.”

  He made a tsking sound. “I can see you’re going to hold that slip of the tongue against me, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He cut her a look of mock severity. “To err is human but to forgive is divine, Miss Griffin.”

  “I’m afraid I’m far more familiar with erring, Mr. Stanwyck.” He had no idea just how true that was.

  “Hmm, I see. Well, I must warn you that Hector is something of a favorite in these parts. It would cast a shadow over your reputation to be heard bandying about such opprobrium regarding his character or, er, stature.”

  Mel laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t want to have a shadowy reputation.”

  “Indeed.” He grinned down at her, looking like the least probable example of a clergyman in all of Britain. “Now, I’m afraid we departed before Miss Philpot could winkle out all your pertinent details.”

  “Winkle away, Reverend.”

  “When did you arrive at Halliburton Manor, Miss Griffin?”

  “Just yesterday.”

  “Ah, that explains why neither of the Misses Philpot knew of your arrival. They are early to bed—with the chickens, as it were.”

  Mel cast him a sideways look and then wished she hadn’t. With his striking white-blond hair, huge blue eyes—fringed with dark, rather than blond, lashes of course—and classical features, he really was a gorgeous specimen of manhood and that was an area which she could claim expertise. Although he resembled an angel, he was as solidly muscled as a bull beneath his loose-fitting suit—she knew that from having his arms tight around her.

  The fact that he was dressed in the sober attire of a clergyman somehow made his fair good looks even more appealing. Or perhaps that was just the novelty of him?

  While Melissa was more knowledgeable about men than she cared to be, she’d rarely associated with the w
holesome type and she’d never spoken to a member of the clergy—at least not that she was aware of. Something about walking beside him made her feel. . . anxious. Most likely it was just that he did not fit neatly into any of her categories of men. Or perhaps it was because she thought God might strike her down at any moment for having the audacity to associate with one of his Chosen Ones.

  “Have a care, Miss Griffin.” A strong, steadying hand reappeared at her elbow and he steered her around a prominent tree root in the path.

  “Thank you.” She’d do better to pay more attention to where she was going and less to inventorying the man beside her.

  “Do you have an appointment in town or can you take a moment to come and see our fine church windows?” he asked after they’d walked a moment in silence.

  She had nothing but time. But did she really want to go inside a church? After all, it hadn’t been her intention to actually attend services or even interact with any of the villagers. That had been the point of leasing a house outside of town.

  “Our windows are considered some of the finest in this part of England,” he added, the humor in his voice making her risk another glance. Lord! His eyes were sparkling at her. Were curates supposed to sparkle? Surely not.

  “Well, I can’t say no to that, can I?” Mel asked, her tone tarter than she’d intended. “But I cannot stay long because I’m to meet up with my aunt.”

  “I’ll show you only the high points and that way deliver you to your aunt in good time.”

  “Oh, you needn’t deliver me to her, I’ll be—”

  “I can introduce you to the vicar, Mr. Heeley, if he is about.”

  “No, really, you needn’t go out of your way.” Lord, the last thing she needed was to meet more clergy. It would be a miracle if she didn’t turn to a pillar of salt, or smoke, or stone, or suffer some sort of divine punishment, not that she’d ever actually read any of the Bible or had any idea of what type of punishment was meted out between its covers.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said, interrupting her muddled thoughts, but not before she realized that she wanted to see his windows and be delivered to the village by him. When was the last time a man had cared enough about her safety to deliver her anywhere? Well, a man other than her dear friend Joss, of course. Perhaps it might be nice to receive such care? That realization only served to annoy her; she had most certainly not come to the country to engage in casual flirtation—especially not with a bloody vicar.