Page 28 of Prince of Scandal

“I’ll join you in just a moment, Reverend,” said Ashton, inclining his head. Then he lifted her gloved hand and brushed a kiss across it. “Good day, Mrs. King.”

She almost moaned at the way his lips seared through the fabric and branded her skin. They had to meet again. Soon. Or she would go quite mad. “Good day, Mr. Latimer.”

Cursing inwardly, she watched the vicar usher Ashton away. This was certainly the least attractive element of country village life, the perpetual stuffiness. It reminded her of Kingsford House, where she forever felt like a bird trapped in a cage.

“Why so glum, Gigi? Has something happened?”

Straightening her shoulders, she turned and smiled at Phoebe. Her friend had done nothing to deserve a gray cloud. “Not at all. Just a bit of a headache,” Georgiana replied as they linked arms. “Shall we stroll? How is Sir Alan?”

Phoebe grinned as they left the church. “Naughty. But I keep him on a righteous path by making him listen to Papa’s sermons before Sunday service.”

“He is naughty? I think the baronet is putty in your hands.”

“You may be right. But we are both desperately curious about one topic: you and Mr. Latimer. The man usually keeps to himself and has never seemed taken with a woman before, but he likes you.”

Georgiana’s heart beat faster. “You think so?”

“Oh, yes. India turned puce when she saw you two sitting together. She was the one who pointed it out to Papa. I do apologize for him rushing down—he’s so intent on being the good shepherd that he forgets some of us are fully grown sheep,” finished Phoebe, grimacing apologetically.

“He’s a vicar,” Georgiana replied, squeezing her friend’s hand as they walked toward the parsonage. “It’s what they do.”

“I love him dearly, even if he does drive me mad sometimes. Back when Sir Alan first tried to court me, Papa and Mama were terrible.”

“I’m sure no one could ever be good enough for their girl. And I understand that. You are splendid.”

Phoebe blushed. “Why thank you. But enough about me. Do you like Mr. Latimer? Is he very different from your late husband?”

Her own cheeks warmed. “Mr. Latimer is…lovely. I thought him cold and stuffy at first, but he’s just stern. An old-fashioned gentleman. And that is very attractive to me.”

“Why, Gigi King. You’ve kissed, haven’t you!”

In a manner of speaking.

“Shhhhhh!” Georgiana replied. “No need to tell the entire congregation.”

Phoebe nodded in satisfaction. “You have. My lips are sealed. Much like yours and his.”

They both began giggling as they hurried up the front steps of the parsonage and into the parlor. Mrs. March and India Dunmore were already there, along with several other women of various ages, sitting in a semi-circle of high-backed chairs. Some clutched partially embroidered handkerchiefs, others were sorting colorful yarn balls or preparing to darn stockings, and two were stitching together large squares of fabric to make a patchwork quilt. It was a cozy scene, complete with roaring fire in the neatly brushed hearth to take away the coolness of the overcast morning.

But they all ceased activity as soon as she walked in. Hmmm. This must be how it felt to be a bug trapped in a jar.

“Phoebe!” said Mrs. March, shaking her head and smiling fondly. “I thought you two might dawdle, so we started without you. Come and help us with this quilt. Oh, Mrs. King, do you stitch?”

Georgiana winced. They were all clearly experts; the quilt was a whimsical scene of four little rabbits frolicking in a vegetable garden. Some fortunate child would adore it. “Alas, I have no talent whatsoever with a needle. Perhaps there is another task I might undertake?”

India rose to her feet and beamed. “Perhaps, Gigi dear, you might assist me in fetching the tea? I know Mrs. March would greatly appreciate it.”

Georgiana’s fingers flexed. What was the witch up to now? That smile was entirely too bright. “Of course,” she replied coolly. “Anything to assist Mrs. March.”

After exchanging a glance with Phoebe, who looked equally uneasy, she followed India into the temporarily empty parsonage kitchen. A wheeled trolley sat waiting for them; the March’s housekeeper had helpfully added a teapot, cups, saucers, lemon slices, sugar cubes, and a tiny pot of milk. There was also a plate of still-warm raisin cake.

“Mmmm,” said India, bending down to examine the cake. “Doesn’t that look delicious.”

Georgiana tilted her head and stared at the other woman. “You have me alone as you wished. What do you want to say? I know there must be something.”

All the amiability fell away from India’s face, like she’d taken off a mask. “Direct, aren’t you?”

“I prefer a frontal attack to being stabbed in the back.”