Page 5 of Indecently Daring

“Erm, I suppose so,” Alana said, eyeing the vicar, who was studying them with increasing concern.

“I’ll just bet you are, Lady Catherine. My, the trouble I could have caused with a face like that,” Mrs Dankworth said with a wondering sigh.

“You caused your fair share and more, Cora, dear,” Lady Beauchamp murmured.

“True, but I did give it my all.” The old lady winked at them, and Alana and Cat laughed, delighted by her.

“I’m uncertain it’s appropriate,” the reverend said, his dark eyes filled with concern.

“What’s not appropriate?” Mrs Dankworth demanded.

“For two unmarried ladies to be visiting the neighbourhood to gather donations. Isn’t it a little… I mean…?” The vicar hesitated, turning towards Lady St Clair for help. “Is it quite the thing?”

Despite knowing she ought not, Alana rolled her eyes, naturally at the precise moment the vicar glanced back at her. He stiffened, obviously offended, and Alana winced inwardly. Well, whatever it was he didn’t like about her, she had just made it far worse. She made a mental note to give him a wide berth in the future, but it was just more proof that she was quite unfit to enter society. Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps she ought to go back to Monmouthshire.

Alana had enjoyed living with her sister Greer and her husband, rather to her surprise. Once upon a time, the idea of not living in London would have appalled her, but she had found life in the country offered her far more freedom than she’d ever had before, and she had revelled in it. The discovery that she was not afraid of hard work, had a knack for handling animals, and loved the challenge of a working farm had entirely changed her perspective of who she was and what she wanted. But that had been much to do with Ollie.

Pushing those memories to the back of her mind, Alana forced her attention back to the question of the auction. The vicar, despite looking like every girl’s dream of a knight errant, was obviously a stick-in-the-mud, the kind who thought the world would crash down about their ears if propriety was not observed. Ignoring his obvious disapproval, Alana turned back to her aunt.

“—perfectly respectable,” the countess said. “It only needs a proper chaperone to accompany them. Perhaps Mrs Dankworth—”

The vicar choked on his tea, setting his teacup down with a crash.

Lady St Clair sprang to her feet and pounded him on the back as the vicar gasped, wheezing and coughing.

“That will teach you,” Mrs Dankworth remarked with a smirk, as Reverend Martin glared at her, his dark eyes watering as he fought to catch his breath.

“A glass of water, perhaps?” Lady St Clair offered, but Reverend Martin shook his head again, getting to his feet.

“Best be off,” he managed hoarsely. “Appointments.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Lady St Clair said. “Let me see you out.”

They watched the countess escort the vicar out of the room.

“Poor Reverend Martin,” Cat said sympathetically, once the door had closed behind them.

Rather to Alana’s surprise, Mrs Dankworth snorted. “I could choke him myself,” she muttered. “The foolish boy.”

Lady Beauchamp reached over and patted Mrs Dankworth’s hand. “Now, now, Cora. He’s young yet, and he’s trying so hard to make something of himself.”

“Yes, but he’s doing it all wrong, the dolt!”

Alana and Cat shared a glance and Mrs Dankworth sighed. “Forgive me, girls. It just makes me wild to see him wasting his life.”

“Wasting his life?” Alana repeated cautiously. “You don’t approve of his religious calling, Mrs Dankworth?”

The lady shrugged, apparently indifferent. “Oh, no, that’s fine. If that is what makes him happy, then I’m all for it… and do call me Cora, dear. Mrs Dankworth is such a dreary name. Mr Dankworth was a dear soul, but I always wished he’d sounded a little more dashing.”

She gave another wistful sigh and shook her head.

Alana bit her lip, rather delighted by the old woman. She was short and a little on the stout side, unlike Lady Beauchamp, who leaned towards the statuesque. Cora’s curls were a soft white with an apricot tint, suggesting she had once had auburn hair. Her eyes, like her nephew’s, were brown, though the Reverend Martin’s were an unusual spicy colour that put Alana in mind of cinnamon, and Cora’s were a darker shade.

“If it is not his being a vicar, then?” Cat asked, daring to ask the question Alana had not been bold enough to voice aloud. “What is it that makes you think he is wasting his life?”

“Because he’s forgotten how to live it,” Cora said in frustration. “He’s so afraid that—”

She snapped her mouth shut as Lady Beauchamp cleared her throat suggestively.