Page 39 of Indecently Daring

22nd January 1845, Holbrook House, Sussex.

Harry didn’t need to turn to know she was following him, every sense, every nerve ending lit up with anticipation at the prospect. He walked faster, telling himself it was beyond his dignity to break into a run but sorely tempted all the same. The church came into sight, and he kept his gaze upon it, though the temptation to turn around and look at her ate at his self-control.

Almost there. Almost there. Behave yourself, you bastard, he warned his less noble instincts. It’s not like before. You’re a man of God now. You’ve put it all behind you. There will be no slip-ups. No falling into temptation. If you give into one, then the others will follow. You know how it works. You know this. You know this.

The internal lecture continued as he walked faster, hoping she might not catch up with him, hampered as she was with petticoats and etiquette. Except this was Miss Cadogan, who didn’t seem to give a snap of her fingers for either petticoats or etiquette. As he heard rustling close behind, Harry made the mistake of glancing back, only to see her running towards him, skirts hiked up to allow her to move freely. He groaned at the vision of shapely ankles and calves, and the indecent glimpse of her lacy garter would be seared into his brain for all time. His temper snapped.

“Miss Cadogan, surely your mother taught you not to make such a display of yourself! It is not seemly for a young lady to act with such abandon!”

And oh, bloody hell, now he sounded like a righteous prig and exactly the kind of fellow his younger self would have despised and mocked at every opportunity. Quite rightly, too, he thought ruefully.

She drew to a halt beside him, breathing hard, which did the most distracting things to her bosom. Pressing an elegant, gloved hand to her heart, she returned a scathing look which was only marginally spoiled by the fact she was still gasping for breath.

“My mother…” she panted, “…taught me not to pay any mind to narrow-minded, self-righteous pedants.”

Well, that told him.

“Narrow-minded,” he muttered with wonder as he opened the lych-gate. He shook his head sadly. “Pedant. Good grief.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said with a sigh. “It’s just rather shocking to hear such words flung in my direction.”

“Why?” she demanded, keeping pace as he walked up the uneven path to the church.

Harry paused with his hand on the heavy oak door and stared at her. Perhaps this was the way, the best way, to ensure she stayed away from him. “You want to know why?”

“Yes.”

He considered this as he pushed the doors open, feeling the peace of the cold, dim interior welcoming him inside as it always did. The sense of wellbeing, of homecoming, gave him courage.

“And you want to know why Kilbane was surprised I wasn’t feeding the worms?”

She followed him into the church, wrinkling her nose at his rather colourful description but she nodded. “Yes, though I know I ought not pry, but… Reverend Martin, are you quite well?”

He walked down the aisle towards the altar, finding he needed to touch it, to ground himself in this holy place and remember who he was now. Upon reaching it, he placed his hands upon it, smoothing out the velvet cloth that covered it. He let out a soft huff of laughter.

“You’re worried about me?”

She scowled at his amusement and folded her arms. “Against my better judgement, I assure you.”

“You ought to listen to your better judgement, Miss Cadogan.”

“You say that like I don’t know it,” she grumbled.

He laughed, a wave of fondness making him wish things were different. Yet, try as he might to put his past behind him, it was all around him, all the time. Temptation jumped out at him at unexpected moments, making him sweat and his breath come short and every time he had to battle against it. He could never let down his guard, never pretend it hadn’t happened, and believe that he was in every way the decent, honourable vicar he purported to be. He had to resist temptation, all kinds of temptation, for giving into one would lead then to another and another, and Miss Cadogan was a temptation beyond anything he’d encountered for some time.

Only, she was worse, because she promised salvation. She tantalised him with her wholesome goodness, that vanilla-scented sweetness that he hungered for, but she wasn’t for him. She’d made that plain enough.

He stared up at the three narrow stained-glass windows before him, a triple lancet depicting the Resurrection, the Crucifixion and the Ascension. “Well, then, Miss Cadogan, if I put my darkest secrets in your keeping, will you guard them for me?”

He turned to face her. She looked taken aback, but then her expression grew serious, and she nodded. Harry believed her, knew in that moment that she would take his secrets to her grave. He trusted her, he realised, and so he told her.

“This,” he said, gesturing to his clerical robes, “is the new Harry Martin, for the old one was badly flawed. So flawed, he very nearly destroyed himself, and made a thorough job of destroying any friendship or kinship he ever had. The old Harry Martin was a desperate fellow, a surveyor of the highway, a vice admiral of the narrow seas.”

She looked so perplexed he wanted to hug her for her innocence, and then remembered why that was out of the question, so he grew serious.

“I was a drunkard, Miss Cadogan, and I would have sold my soul for another drink. I certainly sold my boots and the coat off my back. I lost everything, including my self-respect, and it has taken me a good many years to get them back again. As of a few days ago, and for the first time in five years, I am out of debt. Astonishing, really, how much money a fellow can piss up a wall. I beg your pardon, that was crude. But at first it was all jolly good fun… as most young men with coin in their pocket believe as they gain a little town bronze. I gambled, and I whored, and I was generally a jolly good companion. A regular roaring boy, and then I discovered I was not like my friends any longer, and gambling and drinking had become necessities, not pleasurable vices,” he said, disgust lacing the words.