The Vicar's Wife

9

The object of Hattie's attention stood quietly at his study window, staring dismally at the green pastureland beyond the small vineyard attached to his property. Normally a picture of quiet refinement, his features were set in a faint scowl, lines marring the skin between his brows. The gentleman sitting in a high-back chair behind him was equally sombre.

"How soon?"

"It's hard to say, Jon. With things like these..." the smooth voice left off with a shrug. Lips thinning into a hard line, the vicar turned.

"Hard to say? My future hangs by fraying strings, and you say, 'hard to say'?"

"Jon,"

"No." Firm, uncompromising, had the young vicar given his congregation the look he was giving his guest, none would dare stray from his teaching again. "Do not attempt to explain it away or give me empty assurances. Is he coming here, or not?"

"I would expect so, yes. He has every reason to ruin you. I just cannot tell you when for I have no idea at present."

"I am to be married!" Forsythe exploded, clenching his hands into fists. "How can I possibly expect to go through with it not knowing if my life here will remain!"

"No one could foresee this, Jon." The gentleman stood up, brushing a bit of lint from his trouser leg. "We thought this matter settled years ago."

"You told me he was dead."

"That's what I was told."

"You assured me-!"

"Because that's what I believed!" A small crack appeared in the man's bearing, the polished surface breaking. "Don't dare presume to cast blame upon me, Jon! I've as much to lose as you!"

"Ha!" A derisive snort earned the vicar a scowl. "Your title, influence, and friends protect you, Wentworth! Bloody Duke of Essex!"

"Control your tongue, Jon," Clifton Wentworth spoke softly, green eyes icy. "I am patient only to a point."

"If he shows up here, it is my life that shall be shredded beyond repair, not yours," Forsythe breathed, slightly calmer. "That is all I meant, which you are very well aware."

"It wounds me to think you believe me the kind of man to abandon his friends." A slight smile betrayed him, but Forsythe was not coaxed to respond in kind. "Come, Jon, we were in the right. Even if it becomes known, we were in the right."

"If that were a truth that would have spared us, the truth would have come out long ago. We wouldn't have sworn to bury it," raking a hand through his cultured locks, he froze, seeing movement from the lane. A soft sound of distress made Wentworth approach, glancing through the window. Appraisingly, he studied to trim figure hurrying toward the small house. Both noted her slightly bedraggled appearance, though neither commented on it. Wentworth's eyes glinted.

"Who is that spirited creature?"

"Hattie Foster," it was a choked sound as panic fluttered across the vicar's expression. "My betrothed."

"Ah," too much satisfaction lingered in the duke's tone. "At last, I meet the kind of girl that catches your fancy."

"Not likely." With a shove, Forsythe propelled the duke toward a side door leading into the small livestock yard. "You will be gone."

"Why should-?"

"I will not be burdened with having to explain to my fiancée how it is I am on intimate footing with the Duke of Essex! And by explain, I mean lie! Now, get out!"

"Your manners have suffered since moving into the country, Jon," Wentworth dragged his feet, teasing his friend who scowled. "No one ought to treat me like some poor beggar."