He looked down at himself, realizing he wore no jacket or vest…or cravat, for that matter. Indeed, he had on nothing but a white shirt of good quality lawn that he hoped had not been ruined by the dousing she had just given him, and buff breeches that were relatively dry since she had dumped most of the water on his head.
The soaked shirt was plastered to his body and made athwackingsound as he peeled it away from his skin. “No rain,” he said with a fierce frown, “and yet I seem to have gotten drenched anyway.”
“And I will do it again if I catch you inebriated in front of the church again. Do not be glib about this situation. You were stretched out in the road and might have been run over by a passing coach. Would serve you right…meaning no disrespect, my lord.”
He burst out laughing. “No disrespect? You have insulted me in every way possible.”
“Hardly. There is a lot more I would say to you if I were given leave to do so.”
He ought to have been furious, but Viola Ruskin had a way with people. Everyone liked her, even though she was the most buttoned up, self righteous little thing, and always the first to comment on his bad behavior.
So what if he was drinking himself into oblivion nightly?
Did he not have good cause?
He stared at her for no reason other than she had the most beautifully vibrant face. An alive face is what he would call it, for this is how he thought of everything now…as either alive or dead.
She was the sweet breath of life.
He was dead inside.
And yet, not quite as dead as he thought since he could not seem to tear his gaze away from her.
The little apple in her throat bobbed. “Let me help you inside,” she said more gently. “I’ll put the kettle on to boil.”
“For tea? Do not trouble yourself. I’ll take a brandy.”
“You will do no such thing. You already reek of it, and your eyes are so bloodshot it is a wonder you can see anything out of them. Indeed, you are so soaked in spirits, I’m afraid to light a flame anywhere near you for fear you will burst into flames yourself. It shall be tea for you and nothing stronger.”
“Do you dare contradict me?” He was a bloody viscount, after all. He could bloody well do any bloody thing he wanted, especially to himself.
“If by ‘contradict’ you mean save your life…then yes, I dare it.” She tipped her chin up in defiance, but he could tell by the little bob of the apple of her throat that she was not as confident as she wished to appear.
He had a sudden urge to kiss her slender throat, but he would never do it. Was it not enough of a betrayal that he was lately having these lustful feelings for this girl?
Viola Ruskin was an infuriating mix of prim and sultry, and this seemed to hold an insane appeal for him. He could not understand why, especially since it was the last thing he wanted to feel. In truth, he meant to spend the rest of his days completely numb to all sensation. He wanted nothing but ice in his veins and steel in his heart. Indeed, he needed to be rid of this raw and incessant ache in his heart before it drove him to ruin.
Viola pursed her plump, pink lips in disapproval, then sighed and led him into the vicarage kitchen. The vicar’s residence, a small but stately manse, was built of ancient stone and situated beside the church which was also built of this same ancient stone and had magnificent stained glass windows and a soaring spire.
The kitchen was not very large, but there was sufficient light coming in through its windows and the open door at this hour of the morning to give the room a golden glow. She motioned for him to sit on a stool beside the long table.
He stumbled to it and sat heavily, letting out a breath. When he inhaled, he caught the scent of freshly baked bread…or pie…or something delicious that made his stomach growl. Perhaps it was her delicate, fruity scent that was so tempting. But he said nothing and merely watched as she added water to the kettle and then put it on to boil.
She cast surreptitious glances at him while she worked, next frying up eggs and slices of ham with practiced ease. They sizzled in the pan, releasing a heavenly aroma that made his mouth salivate and caused his stomach to growl again. “Do you not have a cook to attend to this chore for you?”
“Mrs. Bligh will be here shortly, but you need nourishment now. Besides, I am not ashamed to know my way around a kitchen. It is quite a useful talent.”
“What do you mean?”
She turned to him with a wry arch of her eyebrow. “You really have no idea, do you?”
“No idea about what?”
She turned her back to him a moment to put the eggs and ham onto a plate for him. “What do you think will become of me once my father passes? You know his health is failing. I am doing my best to tend him, but nothing seems to help. He will be gone soon,” she said with a soft tremor to her voice, “and another vicar will be appointed to take his place. He is all I have in the world. When he is gone, I shall have no one. Nor will I have a roof over my head, for the new vicar’s family will certainly push me out when they move in.”
He inhaled with a gut-felt ache. “Forgive me. I was callous and did not think.”
“Why should you concern yourself with me?” She set the plate before him, and then added a scone from the basket sitting on the table and covered in a cheerful cloth. A heavenly aroma drifted toward him as she lifted the cloth. Those scones were obviously freshly baked. She must have been up quite early to have already prepared this batch.
