Page 10 of Prince of Scandal

The best thing to do was return home to the estate and stay there. Hibernate until the irresistibly plump Mrs. King and her indecently tight breeches returned from whence she’d came.

After a further ten minutes of purgatory, Ashton arrived at the parsonage. It took all his willpower to suppress a groan of discomfort as he slid down onto the ground and stumbled a few steps to hitch the horses to the fence. His backside might never recover from this, and his shoulders and arms ached from the extra effort required in controlling the two oversized demons who pulled the cart.

“Mr. Latimer!” called the tall, silver-haired, and simply dressed reverend cheerfully as he bounded down the stone steps. “Good day to you, sir.”

Ashton smiled. While most vicars he’d observed were dour, this man had the manner of an excitable pup. And when he preached, it wasn’t thunder and brimstone rants about vice and moral decay, but gentle urgings on love and kindness and charity toward others. It was decidedly unusual, but he actually found himself enjoying the St. Laurence service each Sunday, and never once envied the other wealthy landowners who travelled to the grand cathedral in Norwich. “Afternoon, Reverend. I have the timber for your gate.”

“Oh, God bless you! I fear the gate is on its last legs; the creak is almost enough to send a shiver down my spine. Phoebe is convinced one day it will actually unhitch itself and terrorize the neighbors. My girl has a vivid imagination like her mother—those two and their gothic novels,” the vicar finished fondly.

A tiny frisson of jealousy surprised Ashton. Reverend March loved his wife and daughter so absolutely, so unashamedly, constantly singing their praises and sharing stories. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like to have a loving father. Someone proud of him. Or a loving wife and child to eat supper and discuss books and other matters with. This vicar—haunted gate and all—truly had the world.

“I admire your lenient stance toward their reading,” he said gruffly. “Not many husbands and fathers do so, to their discredit.”

Reverend March nodded. “Nothing good comes from banning books. Far better to share and answer questions, to guide with love and respect, than endure a household of secrets and deceit.”

Ashton almost winced. He’d lost count of all the secrets he kept, and hated deceiving the people of Brundall about his true identity. But how, after ten years, could he casually drop into conversation that he was a Prussian prince? Perhaps it was a good thing he might soon be leaving. A duty marriage at the behest of his mother and King Frederick would certainly be adequate punishment for the freedoms and quiet life he’d experienced here in this tiny corner of Norfolk.

Instead, he straightened his shoulders. “Where would you like the timber? I have nails as well, on advice from the timberyard.”

“How thoughtful of you. Over here, please.”

In no time at all, he and the vicar made a neat pile of short planks under the shelter of the covered porch. The parsonage was a picturesque but ramshackle two-story cottage—at least three hundred years old, constructed of both stone and wood, with a colorful garden and dozens of potted plants that Mrs. March fussed over. But the building was in desperate need of a repaint and some repairs; every time he discreetly slipped the reverend some money, the man persisted in spending it on the church buildings, or distributing food and cloth to those less fortunate in the parish. Which was both admirable and irritating. Nothing made a Prussian twitch like disorder; if he knew how to wield a paintbrush and thatch a roof, he would do it himself.

“Do you have a carpenter coming soon?” asked Ashton. “Don’t let the wood sit there too long or it will warp.”

“I won’t, I promise,” replied the vicar with a beaming smile. “A carpenter in the parish already told me he’ll fashion a new gate, what a blessing that will be. No more squeaks and shrieks! I am in your debt, Mr. Latimer. Especially knowing how much you dislike the city.”

“Not at all, Reverend. I needed timber anyway. For a section of fence line between my estate and Rose Cottage.”

“Oh! What a coincidence. I’ll shortly be returning to the cottage to fetch my ladies. They are there visiting the newest arrival to our area, Mrs. King. You might not have met her yet, a young widow, poor mite. But the Duke of Exton, who inherited the cottage from his late mother, wrote a personal letter requesting that Mrs. March check in on Mrs. King as often as she was able to. We gladly would have done so without reward, but His Grace included a sizable bank draft for a new stained-glass window at St. Laurence’s! I am never too proud to decline such a marvelous gift…I adore my church, but as you know, medieval buildings require far more tenderness than most. And with so many visitors wishing to see the lead font and the Flemish glass window…I couldn’t bear it to look shabby.”

Ashton nodded. This was something he understood well. Care and respect for tradition and the past. “No one could doubt your dedication. Well, I must be on my way. Good day, Reverend. No doubt we’ll talk again soon.”

The vicar looked at him a little askance. “We shall talk tomorrow, surely? At the fundraising fete?”

Damnation. He’d forgotten all about that. Usually it was a midsummer event, but they’d decided to hold a few more this year because, as the reverend had said, medieval churches were forever needing repair, and materials and experienced labor only grew more costly each time. He should go, especially considering he might not be here in summer if his mother had her way. “Yes, of course. I’m afraid fourteen miles in this wretched cart rattled it right out of my mind.”

Reverend March laughed. “I must admit, my bones winced in sympathy on your arrival. Even with our carriage, I insist on extra cushions these days. But I’m so glad you’ll be attending the fete. I’ll introduce you to Mrs. King. It is only right and proper you become acquainted, being neighbors and all.”

Ashton merely inclined his head. Even with a man of the cloth, he wasn’t about to confess that he’d already met the woman. Well, more correctly, met the woman and berated her hoydenish behavior, woken hard and aching from lusty dreams about spanking her, and spent a ludicrous amount of time pondering the way her large backside and ample breasts had looked so damned fetching in breeches and shirt.

Those were things he wouldn’t reveal under any circumstances.

“I shall look forward to the fete. And sampling some of Mrs. March’s marzipan. I trust there will be a generous supply available?”

“Of course. I think there might be riots if not. Last year it did get a bit tense when we thought there might be insufficient quantity. Fortunately another dish was found. Of all the battles waged in Norfolk, I think that might become the bloodiest.”

Ashton’s lips twitched. But it was excellent marzipan, flavored with orange and lemon and blackberry, and melted in one’s mouth. “As you say.”

“Oh, do remember your dancing shoes. Mrs. March would dearly love to partner you; says you have the lightest feet in Brundall. No doubt she’ll wheedle you into dancing with Mrs. King as well, to welcome her to the village.”

Somehow, he didn’t recoil. Touching Georgiana King? Holding her in his arms?

No. That would be a bridge too far.

“I’ll be sure to ask Mrs. March,” Ashton replied deliberately as he climbed back onto the cart and settled into the rock-hard seat with a pained grimace. “Until tomorrow, then.”

The reverend offered a friendly wave and returned inside the parsonage. Ashton clicked the reins, shuddering as the cart lurched once more into motion.