Page 86 of The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere
“Lying to a vicar, and in a church, too. I noticed the falsehood rolled rather easily off your tongue. Shame on you, Georgiana. I think you must be far more wicked than I initially suspected.”
Georgiana noticed the teasing glint in his eyes, and her lips quirked. “Well, someone had to tell him something. If I’d left it to you, the poor man would be calling our wedding banns this Sunday.”
She’d expected him to laugh out loud at such a preposterous idea, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes met hers, and he gazed at her with such intensity heat climbed into her cheeks, and she had to force herself to look away before she was tempted to give in to foolish flights of fancy.
Fortunately, the sound of a door closing broke the silence between them. Vicar Henshawe came down the center aisle, a thick, heavy book in his hands. “Here we are. I have some business to attend to in the back, so I’ll just leave this here with you for a bit. Do let me know if I can be of any assistance, however.” He handed the book to Benedict, then toddled off back down the aisle and vanished throughthe door again.
“Well, that was easier than I imagined it would be.” Benedict gestured Georgiana toward a seat in one of the pews, then slid in beside her and spread the book open over both their laps.
It was on the tip of Georgiana’s tongue to say it wastooeasy, and disappointment would be sure to follow, but she bit the words back. There was no reason to infect him with her gloomy portents, and after all, perhaps itwouldbe that easy. If not, they’d find it out soon enough without her dire predictions.
She opened the book to the middle and bent over it, squinting down at the dates. “Let me see. If Mrs. Payne had the right of it, Clara and Kenilworth would have been married sometime between seventeen-ninety and ninety-one.”
“Start a year earlier, just to be safe.” Benedict held the book steady while Georgiana turned the thin pages until she’d reached January of seventeen eighty-nine.
“Here we are. My goodness, either the previous vicar had dreadful handwriting, or he was very old when he died.” The letters were uneven and shaky, and the ink faint, as if the writer had trouble managing a quill. “It looks as if a bird hopped across the page. It’ll be quite a task, makingsense of this.”
“Here.” Benedict moved closer, so the length of his thigh was tucked against hers. “I’ll read this page, and you read the other. It will go more quickly that way.”
No, it wouldn’t, because now she was distracted by the sensation of his warm, muscled thigh. She couldn’t say so, however, so she drew in a deep breath and ran her finger down the page, reading off the names in her head as she went down the row.
It wasn’t a long list, Lee Old Church being a small church in a small parish, but the ink was so faded by the time she reached the end of her row the names were swimming across the page. One thing was certain, however. “No Clara Beauchamp.”
“Not on my side, either. Go on to the following year.”
She turned the page, and they both fell silent as they each read through their list of names. October, November, December…Georgiana’s heart sank as she read the names of the last couple married in December of seventeen ninety. “She’s not here either.”
“No.” Benedict let out a sigh, and rubbed his fingers over his forehead, as if he had a headache. “Keep going.”
Georgiana did as she was bid, but even as she began reading down the row of names, her hopes were fading. There were dozens of churches in Oxfordshire alone, and dozens more of them close to here, in Buckinghamshire and in Kent. Kenilworth could have taken Clara to any one of them—
Georgiana paused, her finger stopping partway down the page. “Benedict, look.” She pointed to the first name on the top. “The date here is February of seventeen ninety-two. What happened to theprevious year?”
Benedict slid the book onto his lap to get a closer look, then flipped back to the previous page. “It’s missing. The dates go from December of seventeen ninety to February of seventeen ninety-two. Seventeen ninety-one is missing!”
Georgiana stared down at the book spread across Benedict’s lap, and that was when she saw it, pushed deeply into the inside of the spine.
The ragged edge of amissing page.
Someone had been here before them. Someone who had something to hide.
And they’d torn the page out of the marriage register.
Chapter Twenty-one
Neither Benedict nor Georgiana spoke on the carriage ride from Great Missenden back to Dunsmore. They collected Madame Célestine’s horses at the Silver Stagg, but Benedict insisted they ride together and bring the second horse on a lead. “I can’t promise we’ll be comfortable, but at least we’ll be…”
Together.
“Warm.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze holding hers as he pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss on her palm. “Your throne, princess,” he said with a courtly bow, sweeping his arm toward the horse.
He half-expected her to protest, but instead she dipped into a dainty curtsy. “Why, how gentlemanly, my lord.”
He chuckled. “You’re too kind. It’s rather a poor throne, I’m afraid. Not a single cushion.”
“I’ll just have to recline on you, then. I daresay you’ll make a proper cushion.” A blush stained her cheeks, but she offered him a smile that went straight to the most secret depths of Benedict’s heart.
He removed his coat, draped it over her shoulders, then handed her up and swung into the saddle behind her. “Lean back on me.” He drew her into the space between his legs and shifted so she could rest her back against his chest. “Yes, just like that,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around her waist.
