Page 81 of A Convenient Fiction

He retrieved the tin with ease. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” As she took it from him, their bare fingers brushed.

A frisson of heat flickered low in his belly. She smelled of summer roses, lavender water, and starched linens. Clean and fresh and sweet. “Laura…”

She looked up at him. “What is it?”

“After tea, I have to pay a visit to the vicarage.”

“To see George?”

“To speak with the vicar. I owe him some kind of explanation.”

“He may not be in any mood to hear one. With everything George has been saying, he’s predisposed to think ill of you.”

“With good reason.”

A cloud of worry darkened her brow. “It’s not going to be a pleasant visit, I fear.”

“No. Which is why it’s better to get it over with. Especially if we want the vicar to marry us.” He paused, suddenly uncertain. “You do wish to marry in a church?”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Crabtree chose that moment to poke her head around the corner. Though she saw them both standing together, plain as day, she addressed her remarks to Laura as if Alex wasn’t there. “Did you find those biscuits, miss?”

“Yes, indeed. Here they are.” Laura handed her the tin. “Do you need my help with anything else, Mrs. Crabtree?”

Mrs. Crabtree’s mouth tightened a fraction. “You attend to your guest, Miss Laura. I’ll bring the tray in soon as it’s ready.”

“I often help,” Laura confided after the housekeeper had gone. “I suppose she doesn’t care for me to admit it in company.”

“You cook?” Alex was unable to keep the note of surprise out of his voice. Ladies weren’t supposed to assist in the kitchen, no matter how straitened their circumstances. Cooking was servants’ work.

“A little,” she admitted. “Why? Do you think it beneath me? I assure you it isn’t. After my father died, we couldn’t afford to keep on the kitchen maid or the parlor maid. It was up to me to help Mrs. Crabtree with some of the chores—and the meals, as well.” A faint flush of color rose in her cheeks. “I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Nor should you be.” He knew very well how Laura felt about work. She’d informed him the first day they’d met that being a gentleman—or a lady, for that matter—was no excuse not to do what one needed to survive. “All the same,” he said, choosing his words with care, “I’d rather you didn’t spend your days toiling in the kitchen. After we’re married, you must employ more help. A maid or two, and a footman.”

“Alex—”

“Don’t quibble. I may not be landed gentry, but I’m no pauper. Fifty or sixty pounds per annum in servants’ wages isn’t likely to bankrupt me.”

“It’s not that. Indeed, if things go according to plan with Hayes’s Perfumes, you won’t have to lay out any money on my account at all.” Her ebony brows drew together. “Would you like me to go with you to the vicarage?”

“Riding pillion on my horse?” He half smiled. “That would be charming—though unadvisable, I think.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Will you be coming back directly?”

He shook his head. “I need to find accommodations in the village. A room at the inn. Something. Best to keep this looking as aboveboard as possible.”

“It’s a little late for that. The whole village is already brimful of gossip about you being a villain, and my being your unwitting victim. It can hardly get any worse.”

“Let’s not tempt fate, shall we? You and your family have to live in Lower Hawley. You’ll be here long after I’m gone. It won’t hurt to try to right the ship before I leave.”

“Ah yes. Your plan to marry me and then quietly disappear.” She smoothed her hand over his waistcoat. “I have more to say on that subject.”

His breath hitched. These little proprietary touches of hers would be the end of him. “Say it, by all means.”

“Not now. It requires a longer conversation than can be had in a pantry cupboard.” She hesitated, her fingers toying absently with one of his buttons. “I can’t ride behind you on your horse, but there’s nothing to say we can’t walk together to the vicarage.”