Page 63 of Fair as a Star

“I’m perfectly well,” she said.

It wasn’t entirely true.

The whispers about her broken betrothal had already begun to catch flame. Beryl had sensed the gossip swirling in the air as she stood inside her stall at the fete, selling her whitework. Several village ladies had stopped, not to buy but to talk, their chitchat sprinkled with wheedling innuendo.

She wondered what people would say when they learned that it wasn’t only a broken betrothal? That it was Mark she loved, not Henry?

It was going to be a trial by fire. She would have to be brave. And she could be if she needed to. That much, she’d proven to herself already. She’d sold her dress and confronted Henry. Had even managed to procure Winnifred a horse. And she’d done it alone.

What more might she accomplish with Mark at her side?

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“I’m not afraid of the gossip,” she said. “What does it signify what any of them say? They none of them have a connection to my own happiness. Yours is the only opinion that matters to me.” She hesitated. “You’re not put off by it, are you?”

“No. All I care about is you.” His thumb moved over her wrist. “I wanted to see you alone today. To talk with you about something.”

Warmth suffused her veins as he caressed her hand. “What about?”

“I’m not sure now is the right time. Everything was meant to be perfect.”

She returned the clasp of his fingers. Her mouth curved. “This isn’t perfect?”

He bent his head to hers. “In a graveyard, with you ministering to my wounds?” Humor sounded in his voice, along with masculine chagrin. “It’s not the way I envisioned it.”

Nearby, a soft snore rose from Ernest as he dozed peacefully in the sun. He’d worn himself out at the fete, barking at every villager who passed.

“I think it’s lovely here,” she said. “It’s a beautiful day. The wildflowers are blooming. And we’re here, alone together, outside the church. Not far from the place you first kissed me.”

Mark looked at her steadily.

“Tell me,” she urged him.

“Very well. If you insist.” After a long moment, he drew back. “You said you didn’t want me to mention marriage. Because of Henry. That it was better for us to wait for a certain length of time.”

“Six months, we agreed.” It felt like forever. And even then, Beryl doubted the gossip would have died down.

“Exactly. But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about the future, does it? Just you and I, privately together. It would hurt no one if we began to make plans.”

Her brows knit. “No…I suppose not.”

He seemed relieved at her answer. “Good. Because I wanted to tell you that there’s a fair chance I might leave Shepton Worthy.”

The color drained from her face. “You’re leaving?”

“I didn’t mean you.” He took her hands in both of his, holding them safe. “I would never leave you. I meant my position here as curate.”

Relief washed over her. Still, she didn’t understand. Mark had been born in Shepton Worthy. Had lived here all of his life. It was his home. “But why?”

“It would be for the best. For both of us. Think of it—a new parish. A place where we could start over with a clean slate. And it wouldn’t be too far from your mother and sister, nor even from Henry.”

“You sound as though you have another church in mind.”

“I do. The living at the Earl of Harbury’s estate in Dorset stands vacant. Dr. Black has written to him on my behalf, and if matters progress as he believes they will—”

“What has Dr. Black to do with it?”

Mark hesitated before answering. “Lord Harbury is his father. It’s something Black prefers to keep private.”