Page 33 of Fair as a Star

She dropped Ernest down on the grass. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I thought I’d tied him securely. I’d no idea he would get loose—or that he’d behave in such a dishonorable fashion.”

“It’s I who should be apologizing. I’m the one who gave you the dog.”

“With the best of intentions. And you were right. He’s been such a comfort to me. Though, I must admit, his habits aren’t as fastidious as one might wish.”

Mark choked back a sound of amusement. “A vast understatement.”

Her own laughter bubbled to the surface. “The look on your face.”

“And on yours. It was all I could do to smother a laugh.”

“I don’t know why you should be laughing. What he did was next door to sacrilege.” But she was laughing, too. Indeed, she laughed so much, that tears sprang to her eyes. She had to lean against the wall of the church to keep from doubling over with it.

Mark was equally afflicted. He propped next to her on the wall, overcome with hilarity. “Mrs. Arbuthnot did say he was prone to messiness. I hadn’t realized she was referencing his plumbing.”

“Oh, do stop.” Beryl clutched a hand to her corseted waist. “You’re giving me a stitch in my side.”

“Forgive me,” he said, still grinning. “It’s not really even that funny, is it?”

She swiped at her eyes. “Indeed. We should both be appalled.”

“Just so.” Standing from the wall, he ran a hand through his hair. He gave her a rueful smile. “I’d best get back before the sermon ends.”

But he didn’t go. Quite the reverse. He came closer, and reaching up, brushed his fingers gently against her cheek. His expression softened. Not with humor this time, but with something else. Something warmer and infinitely tender.

“I haven’t seen this dimple in an age,” he said.

Beryl’s heart thumped hard. Her mouth was still curved in a smile, but the hilarity of the moment had gone. It was replaced by a peculiar tension. A deep thread of connection, vibrating between them, just as it had when she’d sat next to him in the Grange’s rose garden. Drawing her closer to him, almost against her will.

Impulsively, she covered his hand with hers, and turning her head, brushed her lips against his palm.

Mark made a sound low in his throat. “Beryl, I—”

“Don’t say anything.”

They were neither of them smiling now.

He gave her a searching look, and then slowly, slowly bent his head to hers. She stretched up to meet him, her breath trembling out of her as Mark’s arm slid around her waist and his mouth captured hers.

She’d been kissed before. A brief kiss from Henry on the day of their betrothal. It had been everything that was chaste and proper. Utterly unobjectionable. But that kiss had been a different manner of thing. A fleeting exchange between two restrained individuals.

This was something else entirely.

Mark kissed her softly, deeply. An intimate kiss that left nothing secret. It made her heart stop and start again. Made her knees go weak, and her body flush with unexpected heat.

She clutched at the fabric of his surplice.

His surplice.

The reality of it jolted her back to her senses as effectively as a bucket of ice water. Heavens above. She was kissing the curate of Shepton Worthy. Mark Rivenhall. The man who was soon to be her brother-in-law.

Wrenching her mouth from his, she broke free of his arms. Her back met the stone wall of the church, her chest constricting on a panting breath. Oh lord, what had she done?

What had she done?

Mark stared down at her, stunned. His blood was still simmering, his breath as unsteady as her own. He reached out to her. “Beryl, wait.”

She turned away from him, her fingers lifting to her lips. She looked slightly dazed. “What have I done?”