‘Good morning,’ Lina said brightly. ‘Have you met Lord Dreycott yet? He is most anxious that his late uncle’s legacy to restore the cracked bell is dealt with urgently. Won’t it be a joy to have a musical peal?’
‘Er, no.’ Mr Willets looked harassed. ‘I mean, yes, it will. Good morning, my lord.’ He bowed and Quinn inclined his head in response.
‘Mr Willets. Madam. May I introduce Mr Vasiliev?’
Gregor bowed, Mrs Willets glared at Lina, the girls giggled. Lina gritted her teeth into a smile and swept on to the next group with much the same result: wary politeness from the men, thinly veiled hostility from the women and no attempt to introduce daughters.
By the time she reached the church door she was seething and her nervousness had become lost in her anger for Quinn. How could they be so rude and unwelcoming to a man they had never met, just on the basis of ancient gossip?
Perhaps he hasn’t noticed, she thought. Perhaps he thinks this is just typical English village society. Then as she reached the porch she turned and saw Quinn’s face. He was smiling, but his eyes were like chips of green ice.
Chapter Seven
Well, no-one has actually spat on my boots yet, Quinn conceded as he walked up the path in Celina’s wake. It was like following a small, very fierce frigate, wheeling to turn its guns on any enemy shipping it passed. He was touched by her anger on his behalf but he had expected, and to an extent merited, this reception. She did not deserve to be treated like this by those sanctimonious prigs who had shunned his uncle. He certainly did not want to have her fall out with her acquaintance over him and he was not happy about it.
He caught up with her in the porch and bent to murmur in her ear, ‘Not so fierce!’
‘I had not expected them to be like this,’ she whispered back. ‘I am so sorry. They are decent people—I thought.’ She was not normally so confrontational, he sensed. If asked, he would have said her instinct was to avoid trouble, not face it. It was touching that she was so strong in his defence, like a kitten defending a mastiff, tiny claws out, tail bristling.
‘And they think I am not decent. Most perceptive of them,’ he said and was taken aback by the look of reproof she flashed him.
‘Do not say that! They must respect you, even if they do not like you. You have responsibilities here—these are your people now.’
‘Not for long,’ he retorted. ‘I’ll be as pleased to get rid of them as they will be to get shot of me.’ He showed his teeth in what should have been a smile and the verger who was hastening forward to escort them to their pew flinched visibly.
‘Good morning, Mr Bavin,’ Lina said. She stepped towards the man and Quinn saw him relax. ‘How is the rheumatism this morning? You look very sprightly, if I may say so.’
She is good with people, Quinn thought as the verger positively beamed.
‘Much better, thanks to the tincture you sent down, Miss Haddon. Done me the world of good, it has.’ He preceded them down the aisle and stood to one side while they filed into the front right-hand pew. Quinn could feel the tingle in the back of his neck that told him he was being watched as the congregation came in behind them. Let them stare if it amused them.
Celina was on her knees, head bent, hands folded. He watched her from the corner of his eye; so, she had taken on the duties of the lady of the house, looking after the local sick. Her aunt had been pious, she said. Was that where she had acquired her instinct for parish works?
He sat back in the hard pew, Gregor silent beside him, and thought about the incident at breakfast with the newspaper and the coffee. An accident? But Celina was not clumsy; he watched her more closely than he hoped she realised and she moved with a natural grace. Nor had she been favouring that arm and he did not believe it hurt her so much she could not control a coffee pot.
The organ wheezed into life and the congregation rose, searching their books for the first hymn. Quinn had no intention of singing, but he realised Celina was fumbling with her hymnal. Her hands were unsteady. Damn it, he thought, it was nerves about coming to church that had made her shaky at breakfast and now, with her fears about their reception confirmed, she was trembling.
Quinn reached out, removed the hymn book from her unresisting fingers, glanced up at the board hanging on the pillar and turned to the right number. ‘There you are.’
She shot him a grateful smile and began to sing in a clear contralto while Quinn tried to recall the last time he had stood in an English church finding hymns for a lady. It must have been that Sunday when Angela Hunton, the Earl of Sheringham’s eldest daughter, the young lady with whom he had believed himself deeply in love, proposed that they anticipate the marriage bed by making love in the summer house.
It was probably the first—and last—time that innocence and romantic idealism had saved his skin. If he had not refused, shocked to the core at the very suggestion that he sully the purity of the lady he worshipped, then he would now be married to a promiscuous little liar and bringing up another man’s child.
Beside him Gregor, having heard the first verse through, was joining in with the singing, his rumbling bass putting up a good fight with the organ. Celina glanced acr
oss in surprise, caught Quinn’s eye and bit her lip to suppress a smile. He smiled back and bent to pick up her prayer book to find the place in that for her.
That kiss in the gazebo had been a mistake in timing, if nothing else, he concluded. An armful of Miss Haddon had been delightful and the taste of those lips gave him moments of pleasurable recollection even days later, but he had handled it badly. He had not understood her, and, he was all too aware, he still did not.
In his experience women fell into four categories, so far as carnal pleasure went: the professionals; married women and widows who were more than willing to be persuaded to share their beds; respectable married women and widows who needed more subtle persuasion; servants and innocent young ladies who were most certainly neither fair game nor satisfying flirts.
The hymn ended and they sat. Celina took the prayer book from him with a murmured, ‘Thank you.’ Their fingers tangled for a moment and Quinn made no effort to remove his hand, enjoying the feeling of Celina’s slim fingers enmeshed with his. She retrieved hand and prayer book and faced the front, her cheeks pink. She had stopped shaking, he noticed.
Which of his categories did Celina Haddon fit into? Was she a fallen woman making a very good attempt at an appearance of virtue? A married woman or widow—virtuous or otherwise—in hiding for some reason? He found he was suspicious of this aunt who was so vaguely unable to look after her. Or perhaps she was exactly what she purported to be, a respectable innocent. But if an innocent, she was certainly an unusual one who knew slang terms for brothels, who melted into his arms, who had so many of the little tricks of an accomplished flirt.
The Reverend Perrin’s sermon was, as Celina had promised, intelligent and even mildly witty in a dry kind of way. But their reception as they emerged into the sunlight again was not noticeably improved by the congregation’s spiritual experience. Shoulders were turned, people they had not met on their way in walked away as though to ensure they did not have to speak.
Gregor, as he always did when he thought Quinn was threatened in some way, moved in very close behind them, making Celina glance over her shoulder. If you were not used to him, it must be like being followed by a large bear, Quinn thought. He was even growling, although Quinn doubted he realised it.