Page 6 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

At least Mr. Townsend’s hair was not dripping like a sheepdog’s coat right now.

Bel could see that her earlier supposition was correct and that it was a dark shade of blond, even darker about the sideburns than it was on top.

Whereas Mr. Lymington’s hair was a uniform shade of deep, dark, rich brown—

Bel forced her attention back to the service and tried to keep her mind from wandering around the corners of her eyes.

She could sense that Aunt Lucy, with her customary curiosity, was having the same difficulty.

Even Mrs. Brownlee across the building was having a hard time keeping her eyes off Mr. Lymington.

The attention which had been reserved for the new vicar last week had been inexorably diverted to the mysterious visitor from London.

Finally, the service was over. Mr. Townsend proceeded to the back of the church where he could take leave of his new parishioners.

Bel vacated the wooden pew and sensed Mr. Lymington’s shadow over her shoulder.

He fell in step behind her and Aunt Lucy, almost as if he needed a guide or protector to see him out of the building.

She wondered if the unusual experience of attending a church service had made him uncomfortable. Good. It ought to.

A crowd of others were surging about them, doubtless hoping for an introduction to the newcomer, but Bel had no proprietary claim on his presence and was not about to halt and introduce him to everyone.

As Bel and Aunt Lucy approached the back of the church, Mr. Brownlee asked the question that everyone was wondering.

“Good morning to you, Miss Morrison. And to you, Belinda. Is this a guest of yours?”

Bel raised one eyebrow, surprised that Mr. Brownlee did not already know the man if he were here to confer with him on mining rights.

“It certainly might seem so since he trails on our skirts so closely, but no. He is a houseguest at Audeley House.” She closed her lips firmly, forcing the gentlemen to make their own introductions .

Mr. Lymington held out his hand to Mr. Brownlee. “Nigel Lymington.”

“Harold Brownlee.”

The two men shook hands. They were much of a height, but Mr. Brownlee’s shoulders were more stooped, and his blond hair had greyed and begun to thin.

Mrs. Brownlee, with her bright red cape waited hopefully at her husband’s elbow, desirous of an introduction.

But as usual, her husband seemed to have forgotten her existence.

“What brings you to Derbyshire, Mr. Lymington?” Mr. Brownlee’s craggy face was full of enthusiasm.

“I came to admire the landscape,” said the dark-haired visitor.

Bel looked at him sharply. What about his claim that he was here for investment purposes? Was that a sham? Or was he trying to find the lay of the land before letting the principal parties know of his interest?

“We certainly have landscape aplenty to admire,” said Mr. Brownlee. “Although the winter is not as conducive for sightseeing.” He stepped out to expand the circle and admit the vicar into the conversation. “I’ve been showing Mr. Townsend the sights, but it’s wet work.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Townsend, shaking his head energetically. “Rainy but rewarding. I believe I’m acquainted with half the parish now and can find my way from the vicarage to Upper Cross quite credibly. I called on the Miss Morrisons just two days ago and enjoyed their warm hospitality.”

Aunt Lucy gave a little gasp, no doubt still mulling over Bel’s forward questioning of the vicar that had sent him sprinting for the door .

“I’m glad that it was not too warm for you,” murmured Bel. She saw Mr. Lymington’s dark eyes send her a sideways glance. The import of that comment seemed to fly right over the vicar’s head, however.

“We are holding a dinner in Mr. Townsend’s honour this week on Wednesday,” said Mr. Brownlee, also oblivious to any undercurrents. “Perhaps you would care to join us, Mr. Lymington? And Miss Morrison and Miss Belinda too—we would not think of excluding you.”

“How thoughtful of you,” said Bel. She was not entirely sure that a dinner in the vicar’s honour would be a pleasant experience, but if he was to become a fixture in the neighbourhood, then perhaps it was best if she became used to him.

She stopped herself from looking at Mr. Lymington as she wondered whether he would accept the dinner invitation.

Before the dark-haired newcomer could answer, the vicar jumped in. “Indeed, you have been nothing but affable since my arrival.” Mr. Townsend beamed at Harold Brownlee. “I know you are acquainted with my mother from bygone days, but I had not expected to find such a welcoming or involved patron.”

Mr. Brownlee clapped the vicar on the shoulder with good-natured bonhomie.

Plump Mrs. Brownlee reached for her husband’s arm and nodded her head toward Mr. Lymington, trying to assert her own part in the dinner invitation.

But once again, her inattentive husband failed to make the requisite introduction.

“We shall send around invitation cards tomorrow,” proclaimed Mr. Brownlee, “and it shall be a magnificently merry party.” He cleared his throat. “And now, Mr. Townsend, have you become acquainted with the Ferris brothers? ”

A new crowd of parishioners surged forward to shake the vicar’s hand. Bel found herself pushed by the tide out onto the porch of the church, with Aunt Lucy snuggled beside her and Mr. Lymington standing far too close for comfort so they could all keep out of the rain.

“Do you think it will let up if we wait here a moment?” said Aunt Lucy.

“Not likely,” said Bel briskly. “Those grey clouds go on for miles.”

“Miss Morrison and Miss Morrison,” said Mr. Lymington, his face bending low between their two bonnets as the front of his greatcoat grazed against Bel’s shoulder. “I came in the Audeleys’ closed carriage, and it would be no trouble for Coachman John to drop you at your house.”

“Oh, I see no reason to impose,” countered Bel. She had been wet to the skin before without dying a lingering death. Further association with strange gentlemen seemed a far more dangerous malady.

“I can’t imagine that it’s an imposition,” said Aunt Lucy quickly. She smiled up at Mr. Lymington. “Besides, it will give you the chance to see where we live in case you wish to call on us.”

Bel bristled. They had not had callers for weeks on end in their provincial little part of Derbyshire, and were they now to be put to the trouble of two gentlemen callers within one sennight?

Mr. Lymington smiled as if aware of her irritation. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Morrison.” He gave a half-bow to Aunt Lucy; then he inclined his head toward Bel. “I hear you give a warm welcome. ”

“Oh, Belinda is the best of hostesses,” said Aunt Lucy, with more artifice than accuracy.

Bel glared at her aunt. She was glad she had never agreed to Aunt Lucy’s proposals that they take a house in London together—not if this was the way her aunt thought a companion ought to behave when gentlemen were in the vicinity.

John exited the church, and Mr. Lymington sent him round for the carriage while Aunt Lucy explained to Tam that the Miss Morrisons had found another way home. Bel, waiting on the porch of the church, set her lips into a firm line, thankful at least that the ride home was short.