A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(25)
Author: Tessa Dare

Those wide, sensual lips, currently mumbling their way through the litany? Yesterday, those lips had been kissing her. Passionately. Breathing her name in a hot, needy whisper. Susanna. Susanna fair.

When the call to prayer finally came, she clamped her eyes shut.

God preserve me. Deliver me from this most horrible affliction.

No mistake, she’d contracted a most virulent strain of infatuation.

Why him, of all men? Why couldn’t she develop a silly tendre for the vicar, as so many of the innocent misses did? Mr. Keane was young and well-spoken, and he dressed very smart. Or if brute strength and heat were what enticed her, why didn’t she dawdle around the blacksmith’s forge?

She knew the answer, deep inside. Those other men never challenged her. If they had nothing else in common, she and Rycliff had a clash of strong wills. As a gunsmith’s daughter, Susanna knew it took a good, hard strike of flint against metal to produce that many sparks.

When the service ended, she gathered her things and made ready to escape home. Papa rarely came into the village for church, but sometimes he would join her for the Sunday meal. Especially if they had guests.

“Mr. Keane,” she called, moving against the current of people as she made her way toward the pulpit. The crowd shifted, and she glimpsed his back to her. “My father and I would be delighted if you would join us for dinner today.”

The vicar turned, revealing his conversation partner. Lord Rycliff.

Drat. Too late to change course now. The vicar bowed, and Susanna found it in herself to curtsy. “Can we count on you for dinner, Mr. Keane?” Sliding her gaze to the left, she said coolly, “Lord Rycliff, you would be welcome, too.”

Mr. Keane smiled. “I thank you for the kind invitation, Miss Finch. But what with the call for volunteers today . . .”

“Today?” Susanna was taken aback. “I didn’t realize Lord Rycliff meant to do that today.”

Keane cleared his throat. “Er . . . I did announce it from the pulpit. Just now.”

“You did?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Rycliff’s amused expression. “Oh. Oh, that. Yes, of course, Mr. Keane. I did hear you say that.”

Rycliff spoke. “So you see, Miss Finch, the good vicar can’t accept your kind invitation. He’s going to volunteer.”

“I am?” This seemed to be news to Mr. Keane. He flushed red. “Well, I . . . I am willing and able, of course. But I don’t know that it’s seemly for a clergyman to join a militia. I shall have to give it some reflection.” He frowned and studied his linked hands. Then he brightened. “I know. Let’s ask Miss Finch.”

Rycliff’s annoyance at hearing those three words could not have been more obvious. Or more satisfying.

Susanna smiled. “I believe Lord Rycliff has the right idea,” she told the vicar truthfully. “In volunteering, you would make an excellent example. And indirectly you would be doing my father a favor. I would be most grateful.”

“Then I’ll volunteer,” Keane said. “If you think it best, Miss Finch.”

“I do.” She turned to Rycliff. “Aren’t you pleased to hear it, my lord?”

His eyes narrowed. “Ecstatic.”

When they exited the church, Susanna was amazed. She hadn’t seen this many people assembled on the green since last year’s Feast of St. Ursula fair. As the church bell tolled, more and more villagers trickled out from the church. Yet more farming and herding folk funneled in from the countryside. She wasn’t certain whether they were gathering to join the militia or simply to view the spectacle. She would imagine many of them didn’t know yet, either.

She turned for home, but as she made her way across the green, Sally Bright gave a frantic tug on her sleeve. “Miss Finch, please. I need your help. Mother’s beside herself.”

“What is it? Has little Daisy taken ill?”

“No, no. It’s Rufus and Finn, the scoundrels. They’re determined to volunteer for Lord Rycliff’s militia.”

“But they’re too young,” Susanna said. “Not even fifteen.”

“I know it. You know it. But they’re planning to lie and say they meet the requirements, and who’s going to stop them?” She shook her head, and her white-blond curls bounced with dismay. “Imagine Rufus and Finn, issued muskets. There’s an omen of doomsday. But Mother doesn’t know what to do.”

“Never you worry, Sally. I’ll have a word with Lord Rycliff.”

She searched for him in the crowd. Big as he was, and dressed in red, he couldn’t be difficult to find. There he was—occupied, overseeing two men arranging tables. She recognized them as the wagon drivers from the other day. Leaving Sally at the edge of the green, Susanna approached.

“Lord Rycliff?”

Gathering a sheaf of papers, he drew her aside. “Miss Finch, don’t you have someplace else to be? Isn’t there a schedule to keep?”

“It’s Sunday. We have no schedule on Sunday. But I’ll be happy to let you be, just as soon as I have a word with you.”

He pierced her with a look. “I thought we had an agreement. I keep my men away from your ladies, and you keep your distance from me. You’re not holding your end of the bargain.”

“It’s but a momentary interruption. Just this once.”

“Just this once?” He made a dismissive noise, rifling through papers. “What about just now in the church?”

“Very well, twice.”

“Try again.” He stacked his papers and looked up, devouring her with his intent green gaze. “You invaded my dreams at least a half-dozen times last night. When I’m awake, you keep traipsing through my thoughts. Sometimes you’re barely clothed. What excuse can you make for that?”

She stammered to form a response, her tongue tripping against her teeth. “I . . . I would never traipse.”

Idiotic reply.

“Hm.” He tilted his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “Would you saunter?”

Susanna tempered a growl. Here he went again, trying to dismiss her with boorish innuendo. Caution would tell her to walk away, but her conscience wouldn’t let her back down. The Bright women were depending on her.

“I need to speak to you about the Bright twins,” she said. “Rufus and Finn. Their sister tells me they mean to volunteer, but you mustn’t allow them.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. “Oh, mustn’t I?”