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

  “Is giving every visitor to New Bickford a personal tour part of your strenuous curate’s duties?”

  “Oh yes. I’m responsible for any number of things: taking tea with parishioners, mending trellises, showing off church windows, rescuing damsels in distress from feathered predators—Ah, here we are, to the left if you would, Miss Griffin.” He gestured toward an ornate gate set in an old stone wall. “This is the back way into the churchyard now, but it used to be the original lychgate.” He lifted the heavy horseshoe-shaped latch and pushed open the gate. “It is a rare example of the Gothic style.” He waited until she’d gone through and closed it behind her. “Back in those days they called this a resurrection gate.”

  Melissa noticed they’d stepped into a graveyard filled with worn, tilted headstones. “Why is this gate no longer used?” She frowned, “Actually, just what is a lychgate for?”

  He gestured to the heavy beams topping the gate. “It was a place to shelter the coffin before burial, hence the gate’s unusual substance. The path we just came down is what people used to call a corpse road.”

  Mel shivered.

  “Are you chilled, Miss Griffin?” He wore a look of concern but she saw the humor lurking in his eyes.

  “No, that was merely a case of the shivers, which is exactly what you expected after telling me such a gruesome piece of information.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Confess it, Mister Stanwyck—you wanted to give me the shivers.”

  He laughed, his even white teeth adding to his list of perfections. “You’ll have to forgive me; I have so few amusements.”

  Somehow Mel doubted that.

  “It is at this point in my tour where I point out our magnificent spire.” He leaned low and close, as if to view something from her height and perspective, and then held out his arm and pointed. “Can you see just the tip of it above that big chestnut tree?”

  Melissa was conscious of the heat of his body and his clean, masculine scent. She ignored her body’s unwanted twinge of interest and followed the direction of his pointing finger, to where a foot of gray stone was visible above the tree canopy.

  “The church and the gate were built together?” she asked, aware of the pulse beating at the base of her throat and glad when he stood and put some distance between their bodies.

  “You have an excellent eye for architecture, Miss Griffin.”

  “Now you are guilty of flattery, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  He gave the same warm chuckle as before and Melissa decided eliciting such a velvety laugh could prove an enjoyable pastime. Before she could give that alarming thought the scrutiny it deserved, another man dressed in the clothing of a clergyman came toward them.

  “Ah, Mr. Stanwyck. Good morning.”

  “I was hoping our paths would cross, Vicar. Mr. Heeley, may I introduce Miss Griffin? She is new to our area and has just taken up residence at Halliburton Manor.”

  The vicar, a bone-thin man who looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies, stiffened at something his curate said, his reaction not dissimilar to the Philpots’. But he recovered quickly and turned his deep-set gray eyes on her. His mouth curved into a warm smile. “Welcome to New Bickford, Miss Griffin. I am very glad to hear that Halliburton Manor has a tenant again.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Heeley.”

  “I encountered Miss Griffin not far from the Philpot cottage. She was, er, finding it difficult to pass.”

  The vicar chuckled. “Ah, Hector, was it?” He nodded at his own question, not appearing to need an answer. “He is a fierce protector who is cast in the mold of the ancients. A most excellent rooster.”

  The curate gave her a look that said, See, I told you so.

  Mel’s lips parted.

  “Indeed, you speak the truth, Vicar,” Mister Stanwyck interjected when Melissa couldn’t quite find the words she was looking for to express her thoughts on Hector. He cut her a sideways glance and rocked back on his heels. “Hector is one of the Titans.”

  “And how long will you stay with us, Miss Griffin?” the vicar asked, pulling her away from the narrow-eyed look she was giving the teasing curate.

  It was time to share the story she’d concocted. “Until the end of the summer.” She cleared her throat. “I was ill last winter and have come to the country with my aunt to partake of the country air.”

  “Ah, I see. You are from the city?”

  “Yes, we are both from London.”

  “Well,” the vicar said, his tone brisk as he rubbed his hands together, as if he’d just completed a task and was brushing away the remnants. “I know I’m biased, but I believe there is no town in Great Britain better than ours for peace and healing. We are a close community but also one which respects the privacy of our members.”

  Melissa hoped he was correct. Because anyone who pried too deeply into her story would find something they wouldn’t care to discover.

  “Well, I shall leave you and Mr. Stanwyck to continue your tour. It was a pleasure, Miss Griffin, and I shall see you on Sunday.”

  Melissa made some non-committal sound, waiting until the vicar was out of earshot before turning to the curate.

  “I can’t help but think people are surprised to hear I’m staying at Halliburton Manor?”

  His cheekbones—high, sharp, and beautiful—looked even more appealing with a faint red stain. “I’m afraid the last inhabitant, er, well, she met a rather tragic end.”

  Mel dipped her chin when he stopped. “Yes?”

  “She was a widow. Her husband was—” he grimaced. “Well, he was killed in a military engagement in India. Mrs. Symes took her own life.”

  It was a sad story, of course, but she still didn’t see—

  “Mrs. Symes had not seen her husband for eleven months.” He hesitated and said, “She was with child when she died.”

  Ahh, now she understood the odd looks. And the reason for them made her fume.

  “I see—a tragedy and a scandal.” She cut him an arch look that was not playful. “Or do the good and proper villagers even see it as a tragedy?”

  He blinked in surprise. “Death is always a tragedy, Miss Griffin.” It was an answer, but not one to the question she had asked. He leaned toward her, his blue eyes shadowed with concern. “You look flushed. I believe I’ve tired you out dragging you about.”

  She swallowed her irritation at the story he’d told. She’d known something was going on when the two older women, the Philpots, had assumed that faint, virtuous air. Melissa had been the recipient of that look more times than she could count.

  Take hold of yourself, Mel!

  Yes, she’d better. After all, she’d known a small community often meant small mindedness, but she’d come here, anyway.

  You came here to rest and make some important decisions, not to battle rural prejudice.

  She forced herself to smile. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. I am, however going to be late so perhaps I’d better be on my way. Maybe you can show me the church some other day.” Though not if she had any say about it.

  No, the story he’d just told her made it painfully clear she didn’t need to make friends here—in fact, that was a terrible idea. And making friends with a man of the cloth—especially this handsome, kind, and curious curate? Well, that was the worst thing she could do. For both of them.

  Chapter Two

  Magnus’s clerical collar felt oddly stiff and scratched his neck as he watched Miss Griffin walk away down New Bickford’s narrow main street—its only street, really—with her aunt, Mrs. Daisy Trent.

  Mrs. Trent had been waiting for her niece at New Bickford’s tiny inn, the Sleeping Ferret, enjoying a pot of tea in their private parlor.

  And what an aunt Mrs. Trent was. Certainly nothing like any of Magnus’s numerous aunts, none of whom were tall, buxom, and bold eyed. He also suspected Mrs. Trent was wearing cosmetics, although he wasn’t familiar enough with such things to be certain.

  The two women looked nothing alike. Miss Griff
in was a delicate, pale, almost ethereally beautiful auburn-haired goddess who appeared too fragile for this world. Her aunt, on the other hand, epitomized earthiness. Not just her lush body, but her full smiling lips and the knowing glint in her eyes. Magnus had felt as if she were inspecting his person and stripping away his clothing in the process. It was a strange feeling and he’d no doubt imagined it.

  After the women had taken their leave from Magnus they’d disappeared into Cooper’s Mercantile together. It hadn’t been his plan linger outside the shop and spy on the two newest members of New Bickford through the diamond-paned windows, but neither was he in a hurry to get away.

  Magnus was re-living his brief conversation with the delectable Miss Griffin when a voice behind him pulled him out of his pleasant musing.

  “Mr. Stanwyck—a word, please.”

  He turned to find Mrs. Pilkington and her three daughters approaching him and bit back a groan.

  “Ah, good afternoon, ma’am.”

  If you asked anyone who knew Magnus even a little bit whether he was arrogant, proud, or conceited, they would have thrown back their head and laughed. It was true: he wasn’t proud about his physical appearance, which he viewed as a product of two attractive parents, rather than any efforts on his part.

  He’d never aspired to be a pink of the ton and his clothing—even before he’d entered the clergy—had always been functional and comfortable rather than stylish. His only real contribution to his outward appearance was to keep his body healthy and fit, which happily was an unexpected byproduct of being an active country curate.

  Just because Magnus wasn’t conceited about his looks didn’t mean he was insensible to their effect on the feminine sex. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that excessive interest in his person was an inconvenience for a curate who was not in a position to marry.

  It wasn’t his ability to resist all the lures that were tossed his way that worried him. Rather, it was the sheer exhaustion he experienced from having to fight so many silent, relentless skirmishes.

  Like Mrs. Pilkington and her three daughters, for example.

  “Mister Stanwyck,” Mrs. Pilkington said in her strident voice while her daughters spread out around him. The eldest Miss Pilkington moved into position on his left flank, her middle sister on his right, and the youngest drifted somewhere behind him—a maneuver they must have learned from studying a tactical map of Hannibal’s movements at the Battle of Cannae.

  Magnus took pride in meeting his opponent head on and without flinching. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pilkington.” He turned slightly and nodded to the girls. “Ladies.”

  “I have not received your response to our Summer Soiree invitation yet, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  Ah, yes, the blasted soiree.

  Magnus had begun to suspect that soiree was another word for “curate auction.”

  “I apologize for my tardiness in responding, Mrs. Pilkington. I haven’t forgotten. I’m afraid I’m not yet sure of the date of my brother’s wedding and I couldn’t miss that.”

  Mrs. Pilkington’s pale, reptilian eyes widened. “Would that be your brother the Earl of Sydell?”

  Magnus ground his teeth; his family connections had only served to increase his appeal as a matrimonial object. “No, ma’am. It would be my eldest brother but one.”

  “Lord Michael?”

  The fact that she knew his brother’s name sent a frisson of terror up his spine. Clearly she’d acquired a copy of the peerage.

  The only reason she wasn’t “Lord Magnusing” him all over the county was because of the vicar’s comment early on in Magnus’s curacy: that the title of a man of God superseded those given by men, even the King.

  “Yes, it is my brother Michael who will be—” A movement across the street captured his attention. It was Miss Griffin and her unusual aunt leaving the mercantile, each carrying paper-wrapped parcels.

  “Who is that?”

  He turned to find Mrs. Pilkington’s tiercel gaze fastened on the two women.

  “That is Miss Griffin and her aunt, Mrs. Trent.”

  “Oh, the new tenants at Halliburton Manor.”

  “You know of them?” he asked in some surprise.

  She gave Magnus an annoyingly smug smile. “Mr. Pilkington was instrumental in the preparation of the house.”

  Mr. Pilkington was in the building trade, so that was her grand way of saying her husband had done some repairs on the long-vacant cottage.

  “She’s come from London to partake of our healthy air,” Magnus said.

  Just then, Mrs. Trent threw her head back and laughed rather raucously, drawing the attention of more than one passerby.

  Mrs. Pilkington frowned at this open display of revelry. “I do hope she is not a hurly-burly sort.”

  Her youngest daughter, Emily—the only one who didn’t have a militant gleam in her eyes—squirmed at her parent’s harsh statement. “Oh, Mama.”

  Mrs. Pilkington’s head whipped around, her eyes narrowing and her long nose twitching, the expression causing her to bear a striking resemblance to the ferret on the sign she had the misfortune to be standing beneath. She fixed her daughter with a freezing look. “Yes, Emily?”

  The girl stared; her eyes held like a rabbit before a hawk.

  Magnus stepped in. “I hope you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Pilkington, but I’m afraid I’m late for Mrs. Tisdale.”

  An unchristian snort escaped from her mouth. “Oh, her again, is it? A creaking door hangs longest.”

  Magnus suppressed the flash of irritation he felt at her unkind comment and swallowed his retort—that Mrs. Tisdale was not a creaking door, but a sick, lonely old lady. Instead he smiled, bowed, and headed off down the street. Conveniently in the same direction as Miss Griffin and her aunt, not that he had any plans to catch up with them.

  The path to Mrs. Tisdale’s tiny cottage pulled him off Miss Griffin’s trail not far out of town, but it did not pull her out of his mind.

  Magnus told himself that his interest in her was a normal reaction for any man. After all, he couldn’t recall ever meeting a woman as beautiful as Miss Griffin. In addition to her striking auburn hair, creamy complexion, and remarkably voluptuous figure that her walking costume had only served to accentuate, she also possessed a kittenish upper lip that made her plush lower lip appear positively sinful. And, if all that wasn’t enough, her tilted green eyes had sparkled with a weary humor that had shot right to his chest.

  Well, to be honest, it had shot a few other places in his body, as well. Just because he was a man of the Church did not mean he was immune to beauty and feminine charms.

  Magnus adjusted the strap on the battered leather satchel he always carried, the jars and bottles inside making it heavier than usual. The vicar’s wife had loaded him down with calf’s foot jelly and a poultice that she’d promised to one of the parishioners he planned to call on today. Magnus didn’t have the heart to tell Mrs. Heeley that her jelly most often got passed from household to household until it finally ended up in a pig trough on an outlying farm.

  Mrs. Heeley was widely known to be the worst cook in the county—perhaps all of Britain. But she was so good-natured that nobody wanted to hurt her feelings. And so she continued to preserve her bodyweight in dreadful jams and jellies every year, much to the chagrin of her parishioners.

  “I don’t know how you can bear it—all those people,” Magnus’s oldest brother Cecil had said the last time Magnus had gone home to visit.

  Although Cecil and he were the oldest and youngest of the six brothers they were still the closest. Magnus found their mutual affection both amusing and odd because they had nothing at all in common. Cecil had no time for people—indeed, he actively avoided them—and Magnus rarely met a person he didn’t like.

  “What people do you mean, Ceec?” Magnus had asked his brother.

  “I mean those malingering sick people, lonely old pensioners, and desperate on-the-shelf spinsters—all clambering for your attention and clinging to yo
u like so many limpets.”

  Magnus smiled now as he recalled Cecil’s horror. His brother liked hunting, hounds, and horses. Other than that, Cecil seemed uninterested in the world around him, not the best characteristic for a man who would one day inherit the marquisate and its extensive properties and people.

  Their parents had long despaired of him ever pulling his attention away from the sporting life long enough to marry and produce children. It wasn’t that Cecil was a carouser—he didn’t enjoy drinking or gambling—it was just that he had no interest in flirting, dancing, or attending house parties.

  When Magnus hadn’t been quick enough to refute Cecil’s words his brother had continued in the same vein. “I don’t understand you, Mag. You’ve got Briar House and a good chunk of land. With some damned fine trails,” he’d added, because there was nothing more important than fox hunting. “You don’t have to do this curate bobbery.”

  Magnus had been having this discussion with members of his family ever since he’d decided, at the age of fifteen, to join the clergy. By the time he was twenty he’d given up trying to explain his call to the Church. He was the first, and perhaps only, member of his family as far back as anyone knew to have shown an interest in a career usually taken—unwillingly in most instances—by second sons.

  While Magnus had stopped trying to explain his calling to others, he still had to justify moving so far from home to pursue it.

  “You don’t need to go all the way down South to be a mere curate.” Cecil said the word south as if it were a vulgar epithet. Which it was to most Yorkshiremen.

  “I know that, Ceec, but I like New Bickford and I like Reverend Heeley. And, as difficult as it is for you to believe, I like being a curate and I like tending to old people, on-the-shelf spinsters, and—who else was it you said?”