Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The morning mist dissipated as Tessa brought to life the bug-bitten leaf of a dying rose.
It drooped heavy from a branch that brushed against the stone bench where she sat in the garden near the house.
The bench had bruised the petals. The bug had nibbled its leaves.
But there was more interest in its flaws than in another bloom’s perfection.
She could give nothing to a perfectly beautiful rose.
But a flawed one… She could give a dying leaf a second life with a bit of charcoal and paper.
If only she could forget yesterday as easily.
Remmy had kissed her.
No.
He’d tried to seduce her.
Reduced her to a melted, pulsing pile of… of…
Obsession.
Her hand shook, and she dropped the charcoal in her lap, stretched her fingers.
Last night, in bed, she’d thought about him all night long.
His long finger tracing up her thigh.
His firm lips pressed coaxingly against hers.
The outline of his terrifyingly… significant manhood pressed against her hip.
She touched her tingling lips.
Why hadn’t she stopped him? She’d lain there, still and breathless as her body tingled into life. No. She’d kissed him back briefly before he’d put an end to the madness.
Thank heavens.
Remmy was supposed to be her friend.
Not a man!
And yesterday he’d been thoroughly foxed.
He likely wouldn’t even remember the kiss.
She’d best forget it as well. That should be easy enough, especially with the task before her: figure out her future.
And sketching would help her think on that.
Determined, she picked back up her charcoal and set it to the paper.
“There are more inspiring blooms than that to paint.”
She jumped, her pencil making a wild mark across the page. “Curses!” She turned to see who the interloper with the unfamiliar voice was.
And beheld an angel.
The man’s hair was like spun gold, and the sun rose behind him, haloing his head. He wore an amused smile that lit his grass green eyes. He was all summer affability in a perfectly fitted summer coat, cravat tied simply with neatly, sharp jaw smoothly shaven.
She stood and stepped away from him. “Inspiration comes in many forms, sir, not all of them pretty. I am afraid I do not know you.”
“Forgive me. For speaking without an introduction and for scaring you. When I saw a beauty with flaming hair and a sketchbook, I knew it must be the Miss Tessa King I’ve heard so much about. I was remiss in being overly familiar, but I feel as if I already know you, Miss King.”
“You have the advantage over me, then. I do not know you.”
He made a pretty bow. “Mr. Edmund Tilbury. Your acquaintance, Viscount Brawly, is my uncle.”
She laughed, an almost hysterical bubble of a sound. This man. This Adonis was supposed to court her? Her?
“You look suddenly pale, Miss King. Please, do sit.” His light touch on the back of her upper arm guided her back to the chair she’d been startled out of.
She resisted. “No, no. I am perfectly well. Thank you.”
“But I should hate to know I interrupted a work of artistic genius. The world needs new art, do not you think?” He slipped his hands in his pockets, his lean form slouching a bit as he smiled.
“I do.” She sat, pulled her notebook back atop her lap, found the pencil where she’d dropped it.
He positioned himself behind her, looking over her shoulder. She rather hated when people did that. Made her feel all wiggly.
She did her best to stay still.
“I see I did scare you,” he said. “That line mars the work.”
She shook her head. “Imperfections do not always ruin beauty.”
“As wise as you are beautiful.” Still he peeked over her shoulder.
She wiggled. Only a half one before she cut it off and closed her notebook. She could not create in these conditions. “Mr. Tilbury, I am not entirely ignorant of your existence. Lady Chattaway has spoken of you. You are a man of the cloth?”
He sauntered down the path a small ways, the soles of his boots crunching on gravel, then he ducked beneath the high branches of a tree and took up residence against its trunk, crossing one ankle over the other. “I am a vicar. I have a living in Surrey close to my uncle’s country seat.”
Just the sort of man her parents would approve of, the sort they’d tried to marry her off to six years ago. “How fortuitous.”
“I think so. I am happy in all particulars but for one.”
“I suppose you wish me to ask what that one particular is.”
“Even if you do not, I shall tell you.”
“Men usually will have their way.”
“I see no reason to be coy with you, Miss King. We are both of an age where time is running faster. I assume your employer was as plain with you as my uncle was with me. I am in the market for a wife, and they are of the opinion you might do.”
His open-faced honesty felt a bit like getting hit by a speeding mail coach.
“I’ve startled you again.” He ducked just a bit to leave the shaded circle of the tree branches.
“Now that you know my objective, we can slow down a bit. We do not have to talk about what might come at the end of this house party. Let us get to know one another better.” His tall, lanky form cast a shadow over her as he rested one hand on the back of her chair.
“I believe we might suit perfectly.” He was moving so slowly, so gracefully, she didn’t realize he was moving at first, but then he was close enough to feel his breath on her cheek, and she knew his lips would soon meet hers.
Panic, fierce and wild, shot through her.
Behind them, a chatter of voices billowed on the morning wind, accompanying the crunch of shoes on gravel. They were not alone. Or soon would not be.
She flinched away from him and whipped open her notebook, picked up the pencil and ducked her head so close to the paper she could smell it.
“Oh look!” Lady Chattaway’s voice. “They’ve found one another!”
Mr. Tilbury straightened, and in the growing space between them, she could finally breathe. What had he been thinking? They’d just met! Surely he’d not been about to kiss her!
“Good morning, Lady Chattaway, Lord Brawly,” he said as the footsteps stopped beside them.
Tessa pretended deep involvement in the point of a thorn.
“Glad to have found you so easily,” Brawly bellowed. “I had hoped to introduce you to a fellow man of God. Eddie, this is Mr. King, Mr. King, this is my nephew, Edmund Tilbury.”
Tessa looked up, dread making her tongue thick; her throat, too. Yes, there between Chattaway and Brawly—her father. Graying and slender with lines at the corner of his eyes and the mouth that was always so stern for her curved into a friendly smile for Mr. Tilbury.
“Good morning,” her father said. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”
“And what a delightful meeting it’s been.” Tilbury talked over her head.
But so did her father. “If you do not mind, I should like to steal her away for a moment.”
“I would not dare dream of keeping you from your most priceless possession.”
Tessa felt a little sick. She was of so little worth to her father he’d tossed her away with ease. But when her father touched her shoulder, she rose dutifully.
“Walk with me?” he asked.
She nodded and followed him onto a stray path nearby that led them deeper into a tangled summer frenzy of branches and blooms.
“Is Mother not with you?” she asked.
“No.”
“Ah. Well, erm, how is Verity?”
“She is well.”
“May I… Could I visit her?” Her nails dug into her palms, deeper, deeper.
“I do not think that wise.” Her father clasped his wrist behind his back and set a ponderous pace.
“I’ve come to speak with you about Tilbury.
Brawly wrote me weeks ago to consider a marriage proposal between you and his nephew.
I think it a wise decision. I’ve not spoken yet with your mother, but I am confident she will approve. ”
Her mother… Six years of silence. After the yelling.
It was like every one of her mother’s frustrations with Tessa had exploded out of her at one time.
The walls of the rectory had vibrated with her rage, and when she’d finally slipped into silence, she’d remained there.
Not a single word had passed between them.
Those words had built up inside Tessa like a flooded river held back by the flimsiest dam.
“How do you like Mr. Tilbury?” her father asked.
They’d reached the end of the path, and the tall hedge that separated the garden from the smooth, sloping lawn beyond.
“He’s handsome. And cheerful. But I’ve not even known him a half hour.” And this was all beginning to feel rather like an ambush.
“I wrote to our mutual acquaintances. They speak highly of him. If you do not marry, Tessa, you will have to find another position. Then one after that and one after that. You will never have a home of your own. Your mother and I… we have only ever wanted what is best for you.”
She picked at a thread on her skirt. “I know.”
“You are our eldest daughter.”
“I know.”
“And if you do this, it could be like the past never happened.” Her father tipped her chin up with one gloved hand.
“I have missed you. Your mother has missed you. Do not snort. It’s not ladylike.
And I’m telling the truth. Your mother would never admit it out loud.
She’s stored away everything that belonged to you. ”
That hurt. That hurt.
“But she has it still. And some days she disappears into the attic…”
That made it hurt even worse.
“You broke our family, Tessa. You can mend it. Mr. Tilbury is an impeccable suitor. I hope you make me proud by accepting him, though knowing you… it is too much to ask.” She didn’t watch him walk away, but she heard each footstep like a boot to the gut.
She wandered on numb legs in her father’s wake back down the path and found Mr. Tilbury sitting in her abandoned chair, flipping through her sketchbook. Her father and the others had disappeared. They were alone again.
He must have sensed her or heard her approach, because he looked up, then raised the notebook in greeting. “You’re quite good. Even if your eye is drawn to rather morbid subjects. Insects and graveyards and broken cups.”
“I would not call it morbid, Mr. Tilbury. Life is more than blooming beauty. Things wither. Die. And that is beautiful, too.”
“Hmm.” He slapped his thighs as he stood. “I see you are philosophical. Perfect.” He leaned low and near, a conspiratorial posture. “You can help me write my sermons.”
Hugging her sketchbook to her chest, she said, “I do not think my philosophy extends to the religious.”
“Then we will find other ways of getting on. Will you walk with me?”
He was so genial, and she had so few choices, she could not reject one of them without consideration.
She smiled, nodded, and closed the sketchbook, hesitating only a moment to study the line of the rose petal she’d been sketching that morning. Curvy and firm yet soft as velvet, and somehow shaped just like Remmy’s lower lip before a kiss.
Oh, why had he kissed her? Why ruin the almost sacred image she’d carried with her for six years, her knight in shining armor. He could not be so changed. It was bad enough her easy days with Lady Chattaway were ending, but to know that Remmy now was cold and callous… That seemed a tragedy too far.