“What sort of support would that be?” she asked. A look—part questioning, part challenging—occupied her face.
“Spiritual support of course, through St Paul’s Church. And should any of the young ladies find themselves in need of support following er…a matter of the heart, I am a director of the London Welfare League Home at Wapping, which can assist.” It was his job to care for the souls of these women and assist them to a better life. His attraction to Miss Bartlett, made him want to succeed more than usual.
“Following a liaison, you mean?” she queried, her mouth quirking up on one side.
“Ah…yes, I do.”
“What circumstances? And what support would be needed?” Her eyes were lit with merriment.
He coughed discretely. “Any unforeseen consequences of that liaison. The home is for unwed women and provides long-term support.”
Behind his shoulder, her aunt tittered.
Miss Bartlett’s eyes fixed on his, but not in a friendly way. “Reverend Frank…May I call you that?” Raising her hands to her hips, she didn’t wait for him to answer. “Let me be blunt. I have no intention of seeking out your support or your mission. I do not believe I will require the services of either.” She dropped her arms and began to turn away.
Francis straightened. Clearly this conversation was not being received with any enthusiasm. “I’m not suggesting thatyou will.” He smiled warmly at her despite the frosty look on her face. “However, it is my duty to advise all women in this theatre that there is support for them, should they choose to seek it.”
She turned her gaze to his and raised a sleek eyebrow. “I intendneverto need your services, sir.”
He was delighted to hear the determination in her voice, if it meant that she would not engage in theaffaires de Coeurinto which actresses fell so frequently, for either monetary or emotional reasons. Acting was not a well-paid profession for most. “Good. It will please me to never have to assist you in such a matter.”
Although she was not receptive to his message, he was determined she would hold the key to receiving help. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card. “Contact me if you ever change your mind. I would be honored to assist you. In the event you might ever need my help in any way, please take my card. You may trust me completely.” He pressed his calling card into her limp hand and bowed over it. “I remain your devoted admirer and wish you great success in your career on the stage. Good night.”
He looked up into her crystal-clear eyes, losing himself in their blue depths for a moment. A frown line appeared between her brows before she tugged her hand free.
A sharp rap on the door sounded.Probably one of Miss Bartlett’s devotees eager to praise her.He opened the door to find Lord Marchmere standing there, impatient for entry. Viscount Travener, whom he recognized, although he had no acquaintance, stood at his shoulder.
From behind Francis came Mrs. Jenkins’s warm welcome. “Lord Marchmere,” she purred.
Surely, Miss Bartlett could do better than Marchmere or Travener, if she must form a liaison with a wealthy admirer.Marchmere was an uninspiring choice. Travener, at least was young and good-looking.
Outside, Francis sighed and scanned the room of gentlemen admirers. He didn’t expect to see Clarissa again except on the stage. Especially after her mocking rejection of his assistance.
How foolish he was to allow her attitude towards him to drive a small dagger of hurt under his ribcage. It shouldn’t disturb. He had received similar responses in the past from actresses.
What would his father, the first Reverend Brody, have said about such foolishness, were he alive?
After all, Miss Bartlett was an up-and-coming actress receiving acclaim from all fashionable London and he was an almost-engaged clergyman. Never the twain would meet and nor should they. Their careers and lives were diametrically opposed.
He had no just reason to be drawn to her. And his attraction could not lead anywhere. But Miss Clarissa Bartlett was temptation personified.
Chapter Two
Clarissa turned away from the door, and began removing the remainder of her costume jewelry, placing it in a box on her dressing table. The Reverend Francis Brody was an enigma. A fascinating compilation of contradictions.
Her breathing had faltered at the first sight of him…until she realized he was a man of the cloth. He wore the somber clothes of his profession—black coat, breeches and vest—combined with a simply tied, snowy-white cravat. She wrinkled her nose at the recollection of his restrained outfit.
But those sober clothes had failed to hide the tall and erect, well-muscled body that belied his profession. None of the stoop, rounded shoulders, paleness, or spindliness she associated with the clergymen she had encountered while growing up in the Duke Street Orphanage.
And his face! A decisive nose—not too small, not too large; straight eyebrows; and prominent cheekbones in a square-chinned face. Perfection! A few stray waves of brown hair fell onto his forehead and temples, softening his looks. Long side levers crept towards his chin, defining his face. But it was his mouth that truly fascinated her—its width perfectly fit his face, while his lips possessed just the right amount of fullness for kissing.
Her first thought after her perusal of him was that it a crime against womankind that such looks had been allocated to a staid man of the church. One come to preach to her about her life choices, no less!
As if he knew anything about her choices. She was perfectly capable of flirting with a handsome man without acting upon her attraction. That was precisely how she intended to live—her career must come first until she achieved the success she craved.
But he hadn’t condemned her…instead, in his deep melodic voice, he had offered assistance…should she need it in the future. No lecture given. No words of scorn. No condescension.
Yet I sent him on his way, nonetheless.
