had forgotten about it as soon as they returned to the party. But he did not think so. She had blushed and looked quite unlike her usual bright self on the two occasions on which he had seen her since. She remembered too. And she was as uncomfortable as he.
But what could he do? David thought now at Singleton Hall, knowing that soon she would be arriving at Oakland and that he would no longer be able to avoid frequent meetings with her. Apologize? But how could one apologize for something that had not happened? Openly discuss his unease with her? Impossible. He could only hope that the embarrassment would have passed with time. After all, she would be busy with her houseguests, and he would be occupied with his new parish work.
The trouble was that he liked the girl. That was the hard part. He would find it far easier to fight this attraction he felt for her if only he could continue to see her as a frivolous, silly, selfish young girl. An attraction that was merely physical could not survive long. But he could no longer see Lady Rachel that way. There was far more to her than those qualities. He was not sure how much more, but of one thing he was sure. She was a complex character, an interesting character who would be well worth getting to know.
But how could he risk getting to know her? He certainly could not allow any deeper infatuation to grow. He could not allow himself to fall in love with her. He was an impoverished clergyman, pledged to be a servant of the poor. She was the daughter of a wealthy earl. He had his quiet life of service all planned out. She had a dazzling future ahead, perhaps as the bride of the Marquess of Stanford, perhaps as Algie's wife. There could be no question of any connection whatsoever between him and Lady Rachel Palmer, except that of vicar and parishioner.
He must concentrate his mind on finding himself a wife. And he still felt that he could do no better than to court Miss Barnes. He had seen nothing to censure in her character during his encounters with her in London. He was not at all sure that she would be pleased by a marriage proposal from him. Perhaps she hoped for something better. But there was no hurry anyway. She was to be at Oakland for several weeks. He would take the whole business slowly. He would want both of them to be very sure before taking any irrevocable step.
If only it were not at Oakland that she was to be a guest! If only he did not have to see Lady Rachel every time he saw Miss Barnes.
***
Rachel was chattering brightly to Mr. Holland and Mr. Robertson, two gentlemen farmers who had been flirting with her ever since she had left the schoolroom three years before, though Mr. Robertson was now betrothed to Clara Higgins. All the evening's guests were now assembled in the drawing room at Singleton Hall. Algie's butler would be summoning them to dinner at any moment.
It was fortunate that they had arrived home before Vicar Ferney retired and left the neighborhood altogether. Rachel was remarkably fond of the old man, as they all were, even though they were in the habit of complaining and joking about the length of his sermons and his tendency to hide away in his study from one week's end to another if no one happened to bring to his attention a serious illness or an imminent death. Papa had deliberately arranged their homecoming so that they would be in time to attend this farewell dinner that Algie had planned.
Rachel was feeling very happy. Just half an hour before, she had met Algie for the first time in five days, and she had been so delighted to see him that she had had to restrain herself from rushing into his arms and hugging him until she broke every bone in her arms. She had only to see his unruly fair hair, his large, distinguished nose, his absurdly high shirt points, and his broad, well-set shoulders to know that she still felt as great an affection for him as ever. She had been dreadfully afraid that it would no longer be so. She would have felt as if the ground had been pulled from beneath her feet if she could no longer think of Algie in terms of her future.
She had not either cried or hugged him. She had merely offered her hand in such a way that he was obliged to carry it to his lips, even assuming that he had not intended to do so anyway, and told him so eagerly of all she had done in the days since they saw each other last, including a detailed account of their journey from town, that her words tripped all over themselves and she was quite breathless when she finished. Algie had laughed and squeezed her hand and called her 'Rache' in that endearing way of his, and she had been entirely happy. She had been able to turn to Mr. Gower and offer him her hand without giving away to any observer the fact that her heart was beating right up into her throat. She had almost been able to meet his eyes. She had fixed her own quite firmly on the bridge of his nose, between his eyes. She did not think she had even blushed.
The last two weeks and more had been dreadful. She did not think she had ever been so unhappy or so out of charity with herself. Ever since Lady Wexford's garden party she had been feeling almost sick with love for David Gower. Just the thought of him as he had looked stooping down beside her at the edge of the stream in the not- quite-fashionable, not-quite-shabby clothes he had worn several times since she had known him, their less-than- new state doing nothing to disguise the splendidness of his frame and certainly nothing to distract one from the loveliness of his face: just the thought of him was enough to make her stomach lurch uncomfortably. She had wanted to touch him. She had wanted him to touch her. Not just to touch her but to… to touch her!
She had indulged her longings for the remainder of their stay in London. At night before going to sleep she had imagined herself holding long conversations with him, and because it was imagination and she could control what they said, she was witty and wise. And he was respectful and admiring. And she had imagined him touching her, his fingers light and soothing in her hair, his shoulders and chest firm and warm beneath her fingers. She had imagined a kiss that was warm and very, very tender. And love words that they murmured to each other.
And yet on the two occasions when she had met him before he left for the country with Algie, she had found it almost impossible to meet his eyes, and quite impossible to behave and converse naturally. And she had realized just how wild and unrealistic her dreams were. David Gower had been his usual quiet, charming self on both of those occasions, no trace left of the magnetism she had thought was between them at the garden party. She had imagined it all. He felt nothing at all for her.
Her days were otherwise troubling. She had seen a great deal of the Marquess of Stanford. As the Season drew to an end, he had seemed to throw off the caution that had kept him at something of a distance for the previous weeks. He had called on her frequently, taken her driving, invited her to join parties at the opera and at Kew Gardens.
And she had been thrown into turmoil, sensing that he was about to declare himself, not knowing how she was to respond. She liked him. She was flattered and excited by his attentions. She knew that marriage to him would represent success beyond her wildest dreams. She would have wealth and social prominence for the rest of her life. She would be mad to refuse him. She would never have a more advantageous offer.
But how could she concentrate on preparing for his declaration when her dreams were taken up with David Gower? How could she bear to accept him when she knew that to do so would take her away from Oakland and David? What should she do?
And during the final days, when the marquess had already called on her papa, and she knew the day and hour when he would pay his addresses to her, she had longed for Algie. Her dear, undemanding, kind, safe friend! She had neglected him so much. She had come to London convinced that she would marry him one day. And what had happened? She had grown to contemplate marriage with another man, and she had fallen in love with a third man. She had all but forgotten about her faithful neighbor.
She had not refused the marquess. She had not accepted him either. She had told him only that she did not know, that she was quite unable to make a decision at that time. He must consider her answer to be no, she had said, because she could not expect him to accept such an indefinite answer. But he had smiled at her in his charming way, raised her hand to his lips, and assured her that such an answer suited him admirably, since he had promised to spend the summer at Tunbridge Wells with his sister and would prefer to leave the celebration of his betrothal until the autumn.
She was fortunate, Rachel thought. She might still make that advantageous marriage, but she had the summer during which to sort out her feelings, to put behind her a foolish and pointless infatuation, and to find out exactly what her feelings for Algie were.
All she knew now, at the start of her first evening back home, was that she was happy. She was back with Algie again, and safe. And she had met Mr. Gower once more without the earth shattering at her feet.
Chapter 5
It had been a successful evening, Rachel judged a few hours later. Algie's cook, unused to catering to large
