Page 23 of A Lady of Means (Roses and Rakes #1)

Chapter Eighteen

M,

In the three days since your departure, the Duke of Andover was seen calling at the Herring residence.

The little redhead doesn’t have much by way of slander (other than her clothes, which, despite your efforts are still tragic to say the least) that I could find, but that father of hers is a different story.

Write back to me and tell me if we should ruin her and her whole family.

Kiss,

G

* * *

G (and C, I know you’re reading this over her shoulder),

Write it in the book. We will decide what to do with it if we must.

Kiss,

M

* * *

When Moria awoke with the house in the country rather than in town, decisions were still weighing her down like a heavy coat.

She carried the added weight of how little time there was left before Devyn had to leave on another military campaign.

She could set down that weight here, bask in an early summer sun and feel grass beneath her feet and clean air in her lungs.

“The inhabitants of the country, human and animal alike, care not for things like reputations,” that’s what her father had said a few years back, and Moria couldn’t really hear his voice anymore, but she heard it clearer in the country.

Her siblings assumed she was quiet because she missed being back in London, because she was bored.

Because she missed her friends or didn’t want to lose her chance at being a duchess.

It was simply that Moria didn’t have to say anything.

There was no audience to entertain but her memories and her foolish dreams.

Even so, Moria had selected a white dress sprigged with green leaves for luck for her nephew’s christening.

She’d chosen a matching hat with white flowers and green grosgrain ribbon to match the sash of her dress.

Noelle and Fitz were to be christened as new godparents, and she’d dressed them as well.

She figured maybe Noelle had asked for her “wardrobe expertise” to distract from the fact that Moria was the elder, she should be the godmother, but she wasn’t the one with a husband.

They were always worrying about the wrong things with her.

Moria could have corrected them, could have pasted on a broad smile and a cheery demeanor, but anytime she heard the cry of an infant, something protective inside of her tensed and shivered.

She did at times feel like there was only so much happiness in the world, and it had been snatched from her and given to the ones she loved instead.

It didn’t pain her anymore, they were more deserving of happy endings and forevers and sunny spring Baptisms of adored little babies anyway.

Anyone witnessing Moria on this given spring Sunday in the village chapel would have assumed she’d been rapt by the vicar’s sermon.

She lifted her blonde head when rustling in front of her occurred.

He was here, a welcome reprieve, the most welcome of reprieves she could have conjured, from looking at her sister, baptizing her nephew in the church where she would have baptized her and Marcus’ baby.

Her soldier only turned to look at her once. Feigning strangers, they smiled cordially at one another. But there in that brief mutual gaze, an entire conversation passed.

You. A lifted brow.

Me. A tug of his lips.

You’re here. Two blinks.

I’m here. But you don’t know me, remember? A barely there nod.

As if I could ever not know you. Her eyes resting on those lips.

And when he turned back around, she was reminded why she hadn’t been able to forget him, not in the last week, not in the last year.

Maybe not ever. He was gloriously made. The slope of his hulking shoulders beneath red wool, the curl of his dark hair at the nape of his tanned neck were almost too delectable to be real.

“Do you know that man?” Olivia stage whispered as she placed a hand on Moria’s muslin sleeve.

“Do I know what man?” Moria met Fitz’s eyes as he gave her a knowing smirk.

Olivia scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Is there a man alive who isn’t taken with her?” Olivia groaned her disappointment to Miss Kelley on her other side.

Moria willed him, or the back of his head, to turn back around.

Look at me again. So I know you’re really here for me.

He didn’t.

For the rest of the sermon, she was silent. Anyone would have thought it was the vicar’s words that had brought about this change in her; the rigid, pious posture and the emotion in her eyes.

At the conclusion of the sermon, Devyn appeared to be absorbed in rebuttoning his coat.

He walked right into her the way she’d walked into him at Olivia’s debut ball.

She dropped her hymnal and they both leaned to pick it up.

Her body raised all the bells at his nearness, bracing for the slightest, torturous touch from this man.

“Follow my lead,” he whispered as his hand touched hers for an infinitesimal second, the red wool of his coat grazing, no singeing, her skin through her kid glove. She fought the growing lump in her throat. They’d done this dance before. She hadn’t acquiesced then, but he hadn’t given up.

“I’m so sorry my lady, I’m an oaf,” He said in a stage whisper that had others craning to overhear as they milled about the exit of the church. The sound of his voice, rugged and beautiful, unlocked something in her.

She gave a small flirtatious laugh that surely God wouldn’t smite her for in His house. He listened to her many prayers; He knew her heart.

“I’m afraid the fault is mine, sir. I was so in thought over the vicar’s words I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Others around them stopped. She was no stranger to being noticed, it was merely encouragement for her performance. She feigned shyness, all blushes as the captain bowed and made an introduction.

“I’m afraid I’ll intrude upon your good manners further…

I’m Captain Winter, my lady,” he said with a smile, as if the name wasn’t already dear to her as air, as if she hadn’t traced her fingers over it written on parchment for over a year.

She saw her sister Noelle open her mouth to speak, brow furrowed, but Fitz was ushering her in the opposite direction, heads conferring together.

Devyn, with the aid of her loyal friends, was gifting her a proper introduction. One they could repeat years later at dinner parties. They…we…a shared possessive similar to the dark gleam in his all-too-familiar eyes.

Moria turned to the Vicar behind her, only to see the young man of God grinning in Miss Kelley’s direction. Both shepherd and wolf simultaneously. Bridget winked back at Moria.

Be brave, said Bridget Kelley’s green eyes.

“Lady Moria Pembrooke, sir.” She gave the captain her name, watching his eyes caught on her full lips. Moria didn’t blush, at least she thought she didn’t, she was used to controlling her blushes instead of the other way around.

“A beautiful name,” the way the words escaped him with that cheeky half tug of a smile, she knew he was thinking of the willow tree, of their game, of their informal introduction that felt like another life ago.

And then, her entire family descended upon them with the full force of all their well-meaning wholesomeness, all of them talking to her at once.

Jasper glanced at the other man; eyebrow raised. The captain extended a hand cordially.

And before Moria knew what had happened, the Captain had won every one of them over with his artfully polite words, his manners, some distant connection he’d likely stolen from her letters or concocted from thin air, and his good-natured laugh.

When he complimented her nephew, Moria saw the approval in Kathleen’s eyes.

She heard her eldest sister inviting him for the christening meal along with the other celebrants invited to partake, and Moria heard him give his assent. She was just looking at him. Looking was such a simple, innocuous word; but the sight of him made the word a religious act.

She looked over her shoulder for the Vicar, who gave her a sheepish smile.

“You lead the way, my lady,” the captain was planting a kiss on her gloved hand, placing it in the crook of his massive arm.

Those lips had kissed other parts of her as well.

Here she stood lying before her family and her village and God and the image of Mary and John the Baptist and Apostle Paul in the stained-glass windows, lying to all of them that this new suitor was a stranger until this day.

He grinned, a smile that reached his eyes, reached her very soul.

He was worth it.