Page 22 of Fair as a Star

“A costly thing, a Parisian gown,” Mrs. Doolittle remarked.

Beryl pasted on a smile. “My aunt has been exceedingly generous. I’m very grateful to her.”

“So you should be,” Mrs. White said. “A whole year in Paris. Such an adventure!”

“Oh yes.” Mrs. Doolittle exchanged a speaking glance with one of the other ladies on the committee. “Quite an adventure.”

There was an eruption of tittering laughter.

Mrs. Malvern responded to it with a stern look. “Do try to remember to keep your voices down, ladies. Mr. Rivenhall is working on his Sunday sermon.”

Beryl affected not to notice the laughter and the whispered words. At this stage, confronting the perpetrators would do nothing to quell the gossip. Chances were it would only enflame it. Better to keep herself to herself. To be placid and kind—and completely uninteresting. Boredom was death to gossip. Given time, it would strangle for lack of oxygen.

She glanced at the open door at the back of the church. “Is he in his office?”

“He is,” Mrs. Malvern said. “Do you need to speak with him?”

Beryl bit her lip. She did want to speak with him, but not if it meant disturbing his work.

Mrs. Malvern seemed to read her mind. “You needn’t worry about interrupting him, dear. He usually breaks for a cup of tea roundabout this time.” She gave Beryl an encouraging smile. “Go ahead. The decorations will still be here when you return.”

With a murmured word of thanks, Beryl made her way through the open door and down a short hallway. At the end, the door to Mark’s office stood open, his frock coat and hat hanging on the back of it. Mark was inside, seated behind his cluttered desk, scratching over a paper with a sharpened quill.

Beryl froze in the doorway. She couldn’t help but stare. She’d never seen Mark in such a state of undress. Not only was his waistcoat unbuttoned, the sleeves of his linen shirt were rolled up, exposing a bare expanse of leanly muscled forearm. The sight of it made her feel rather strange. As if butterflies were unfurling their wings in her stomach, preparing to take flight.

A foolish thought. And an equally foolish feeling. She was only a little nervous, that was all. Who wouldn’t be after what had happened the last time they met?

Moistening her lips, she rapped lightly on the doorframe.

Mark glanced up from writing his sermon. His blue eyes widened. “Beryl!” He rose from his chair so quickly that he bumped his desk, unsettling a pot of ink. He righted it at once, but not before a quantity of black ink spilled out.

She rushed forward to help him move his papers out of the way. “Mind your sermon.”

“It’s fine. No harm done.”

“Thank goodness. Have you a handkerchief?”

Producing one from the pocket of his trousers, he reached to blot the spilled ink at the same moment Beryl reached to take the handkerchief from his hand. They brushed against each other, nearly unsettling the inkpot once more.

She rested a hand on Mark’s chest with a huff of laughter. “This isn’t efficient at all.”

He stared down at her. “No. It isn’t.”

Her smile faded as she returned his gaze. Something seemed to pass between them. She didn’t know what it was. But it made warmth pool low in her belly. “Mark, I—”

“You’d better move away,” he said. “You’ll stain your dress.”

Her eyes dropped to her skirts. Standing wide over petticoats and crinoline, they were pressed, rather intimately, against Mark’s legs, nowhere near the ink spill. She nevertheless turned and went to the opposite side of his desk. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your work. Mrs. Malvern said you’d be breaking for tea.”

“I lost track of time.” He wiped his hands on his handkerchief before disposing of it. “But you haven’t disturbed me. I’m glad to see you.”

“Are you?” She hated how hopeful she sounded.

“I’m always glad to see you.” He motioned for her to sit down. “Please.”

She reluctantly took a seat. Her heart was still beating swiftly. A result of that unsettling encounter behind his desk. Goodness, the way he’d looked at her! The warmth in his blue gaze had practically been a smolder. She’d never known Mark Rivenhall could look that way. Not at her, or anyone.

But he wasn’t smoldering now. Far worse. Once again seated behind his desk, he was regarding her with a look of concern.