The Vicar's Widow

“Are you quite all right, Mrs. Becket?”


She opened one eye. “Do I seem unwell?” she asked, wincing a bit. “I’m afraid I might have drunk too much of your delicious punch.”

“Quite the contrary, actually. You seem, at least to these eyes, rather well indeed,” he said, and let his gaze casually peruse the shapely length of her. “In fact,” he added, lifting his gaze languidly, “there has been many a Sunday morning that I looked at you and thought that perhaps I was gazing upon one of God’s angels, you look so well.” He smiled provocatively.

Mrs. Becket opened the other eye and lowered her head, gazing up at him through long lashes with a suspicious smile. “My husband has warned me about men like you, sir,” she said pleasantly. “In fact, he’s warned me several times of you in particular.”

“Has he indeed?” Darien asked, cheerfully surprised that a man like Becket would have discerned the subtle smiles and greetings Darien had freely bestowed on his young wife. “And what has he warned you?”

Now she lifted her chin and filled the corridor with a soft, warm laugh. “That a rogue, by any other name, should smile as sweet, but is still a rogue.”

Darien couldn’t help his appreciative laugh. He took a step closer and asked low, “A philosopher, is he? And what does the good vicar say about beauty, Mrs. Becket? Does he quote Petrarch?”

“Petrarch?”

“An Italian philosopher, long dead and buried,” Darien said and casually reached out, tucked the loose strand of Mrs. Becket’s hair that had once more slipped over her eye behind her ear. His finger grazed the plump curve of her ear, and he lingered beneath her crystal earring, toying with it. “Petrarch said that rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together.”

Mrs. Becket lifted one brow, then smiled fully, touched the strand of hair he had pushed behind her ear. “Mr. Petrarch sounds a rather jaded man. But I’m hardly certain if you mean to imply that perhaps I am a great beauty, my lord? Or possess great virtue? In either case, I should hardly know if I am to be insulted or pleased.”

“I am certain you are in firm possession of both,” he said with a slight bow, but he smiled a little crookedly. “I can see the great beauty. And I trust the great virtue.”

Mrs. Becket laughed low and pressed her gloved palm to her cheek. “My, it seems rather warm, even down here, does it not, my lord?”

“Quite,” he said. “I was just to the cellar to bring up a bottle of gin. Perhaps you might help me select. I am certain you will find the cellar much cooler.”

She glanced at the stairs leading to the cellar, then at him. “Ah, but that would be less than virtuous to accompany you to the cellar, would it not?”

“Absolutely,” he readily agreed. “But then again, there’s little harm in being slightly less virtuous in exchange for comfort.” He winked, held out his arm to her.

She looked again at the cellar stairs, and after a moment, nodded resolutely and pushed away from the wall. “You will find that I possess great virtue above the cellar, and in the cellar,” she said with a bob of her head, and put her hand on his arm.

“What a pity,” Darien said congenially, and led her to the top of the stairs. Next to the stairs was a small alcove from where he picked up a candle, lit it from one of the wall sconces, and turned toward Mrs. Becket. Still smiling, he took her hand in his and led the way down into the wine cellar.

At least he’d been truthful about the cellar; it was cooler the deeper they walked in between the shelves of wine and fine liquors.

“It’s delightfully cooler here,” Mrs. Becket said. “I am feeling quite renewed.”

“Ah,” he said, finding the shelf with the gin. “Here we are.” He put aside the candle and picked up a bottle to inspect it. Mrs. Becket peered over his shoulder. He turned toward her, the bottle in hand, and smiled at her sparkling green eyes. “Rather a good year for gin, I think.”

“I wouldn’t know, personally,” she said with mock superiority, “other than to say the addition of gin to a cranberry punch is most delicious.”

“I’m glad you found it to your liking,” he said. “It was quite unintentional.” And as he moved to put the bottle back and find another, he heard the scurrying feet of a rodent.

Mrs. Becket shrieked at the sound of it and lurched into his chest, grabbing his lapel in one hand. Darien grasped her firmly by the arms before they toppled into the shelving. “A mouse,” he said soothingly. “A little mouse as frightened of you as you are of it, I assure you. No doubt the tiny devil has already returned to his den.”