LITMIR.BIZ

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He was becoming philosophical as well as political. His train of thought might be shared later with old Mr. Fitzmartin, who was a calming sort of fellow. He’d know the ecclesiastical answers, wouldn’t he? Someone had to have some answers.

      The air on this corner was perfumed with bread, and Jack took a quick gulp, reminding himself he was pretty close to starving. He was hungrier here than he’d ever been in his life, and didn’t think much of the Puddling dietary restrictions at all. Lucky Nicola was not bound to it, judging from the quantity and quality of her larder.

      Jack was uncertain how the Puddling governors decided on the best treatment for their Guests. Crystal ball? Turn of a card? Magnifying glass? He might not have signed himself in if he’d been aware of the full particulars.

      No, that wasn’t true. He’d met Nicola—surely that was reason enough to be grateful and stay.

      He wandered down another street, having lost count of how many laps he’d made in the Puddling pool. He was so focused on not losing his footing on the icy cobblestones that he nearly barreled straight into a woman wearing a becoming fur-lined scarlet coat. He’d had that woman and her coat in his arms not that long ago. Her eyes sparkled as she put a cane out to prevent him from knocking her over.

      He knew he was smiling like a lunatic, and tried to adjust his mouth to something more modest and less toothy.

      “Good morning! Are you on your daily constitutional?”

      She nodded her assent and looped her arm around his.

      “You’d be better off walking alone, you know. I’m in enough trouble with our jailers as it is. They believe me to be a vile seducer of young women. And no, I’m not,” he said quickly after seeing her own smile waver. “I mean to start with, you kissed me as I recall. I couldn’t do anything else but respond in kind—I’m not made of ice. But as a gentleman, I didn’t tell on you during my inquisition. Not one word. I’ve taken all the blame, and the punishment.”

      Her mouth opened in a concerned “o.”

      “Yes, it’s as dire as you can imagine. They are trying to kill me. Two bowls of cabbage soup yesterday, as if one bowl wasn’t insulting enough. An egg this morning the size of my thumbnail. The silent treatment—no offense meant—from Mrs. Feather. I had three of the governors on my doorstep at the crack of dawn reminding me I’m here at their discretion and I might be drummed out of the village at any moment if I continue to disobey. See those curtains twitch at the cottage across the street? Our movements are being reported even as we speak. Perhaps you should let go of my arm.”

      Jack was absurdly gratified that she clung tighter. “Very well. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

      They continued down the lane, holding onto each other. Every now and again, Nicola would tug on his coat sleeve so they could pause to admire a boxwood wreath or thatched roof or a painted garden gate. As a Londoner, he was slowly growing to appreciate Puddling’s bucolic charms. He hardly ever spent any time at Ashburn nowadays, his country place in Oxfordshire, the next county over. Somehow Jack felt it still belonged to his father, although the man had been dead for over six years. Lady Ryder had yet to move into the dower house, her reign of well-meaning terror unabated, which made Jack’s visits infrequent.

      He had few pleasant memories of growing up at Ashburn. He’d been sent away to school at a tender age, his tutors proving inadequate for the task of teaching him anything he didn’t already know. Holidays found him at other boys’ houses while his parents engaged in their marital warfare.

      As an adult, Jack had been too busy overseeing his various business enterprises to loll about as lord of the manor. He had an excellent steward in place, the farms were producing, the tenants taken care of. He often traveled to Manchester and Sheffield and Birmingham and points abroad. He could close his eyes and draw a map of the train routes.

      Now he was sequestered in this trainless village with too much time to think.

      But why dwell on unpleasantness when he had a pretty young woman on his arm? It was restful to walk with her, and after a while, his own nervous chatter stopped. Jack shortened his stride to accommodate her slower steps. Her walking was much improved, the cane mostly for insurance as they ascended and descended the hilly lanes.

      If they were discovered flouting the rules, he’d probably be thrown out of Puddling as the guilty party. Oh, well. The first thing he’d order when he got back home was beefsteak with a gallon of béarnaise sauce on the side.

      “Will you still risk censure getting a message out for me?” he asked on their third march up St Jude’s Lane. Nicola nodded, then pointed to the churchyard path.

      The iron gate creaked open and they were amongst the snow-dusted regimented yews, long lines of them, each clipped into a pyramid. There were a number of tempting table-like tombstones, and Jack wondered if Puddling’s children enjoyed climbing up on them as he would have when he was a boy.

      Nicola disentangled her arm from his and sat on a bench, patting the vacant spot next to her. His arse almost froze when he complied.

      “Do you think we have some privacy here among the dead? Old Fitzmartin might jump out of the church at any moment.”

      She reached into a pocket and drew out the small notebook he’d given her.

      I saw you walk by.

      And had come out to find him. Jack’s heart stuttered.

      “I heard you playing. It was magnificent.”

      Her pink cheeks pinked further. Thank you.

      “Are you a professional musician?”

      Heavens no. I do play the church organ at home, though. And once here. Mrs. Fitzmartin has offered me the job on a more permanent basis, but I’ve declined.

      She had very neat handwriting. Jack was grateful he didn’t have to write back. Half the time he couldn’t decipher his own. “Why?”

      Too many eyes.

      “One can’t help looking at you. You are, um, beautiful.”

      He realized it was true, a quiet sort of beauty. Jack ordinarily had no trouble complimenting women, but he felt somewhat shy with Nicola. She gazed at him with such blue directness, he didn’t want to disappoint her. He felt a responsibility to carry the banner for all males of the species.

      Don’t be silly. I’m writing to my parents the day after tomorrow. Will your letter be ready?

      He’d almost forgotten his shoe scheme. And there was something else he’d thought of, a surprise. “I’ll make sure of it. I don’t dare to deliver it to your cottage, though. Mrs. Grace will burn it along with me.” He had visions of being doused with lamp oil and turning into a Guy Fawkes effigy. “It’s one thing that we’ve bumped into each other on the street. I don’t think the powers that be want me to visit you ever again.”

      Bring it here. Wrap it in something waterproof. Put it under this bench with a rock or whatever’s handy by eleven tomorrow morning. I’ll take my walk after and “find” it, then mail it the next day. Are you really in bad trouble because of me?

      “I’m afraid so. I’d do it again, though,” Jack said honestly. “Kiss you, that is. Or you can kiss me. It makes no difference. The end result is delightful.”

      She didn’t meet his eyes. I don’t know what came over me. It’s most unlike me to be so brazen.

      “Be as brazen as you wish. It was, um, refreshing.” Refreshing was not the correct word, but Jack didn’t want to frighten her. She’d inflamed all his dormant desire. With Nicola’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips firmly in mind, he’d taken matters into his own hand once Mrs. Feather left for the evening yesterday. He’d felt almost liberated. Normal. Not that his joy lasted the night—the dreams returned on schedule.

      Do you want to kiss me again?

      He most certainly did. Jack

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