Desmond wore a pale green bonnet with dark green ribbons, under which her wayward hair must have been throttled into submission, for not one disobedient strand escaped. Her high-waisted frock was the same cool colour, embroidered with sprigs which matched the ribbons on her bonnet. She was a cool bouquet of mint, and he wanted to crush her and inhale the fragrance of her… which was not , he angrily reproached himself, the sort of thought to be having at all, let alone on the Sabbath, in church.
Mr. Langdon was so busy rebuking himself and trying to tear his gaze away that he never noticed how the whispering had swelled into a communal gasp. He saw only that Miss Desmond had turned to look over her shoulder, and that for three full seconds her gaze locked with his before jerking unsteadily to the rear of the church.
He turned as well, and instantly joined in the general astonishment. Lord Berne had entered.
The viscount serenely returned the parishioners' bold survey, then catching Jack's eye, made for him.
"Couldn't keep away either, I see," Tony whispered as he slid in next to his friend.
"I only came to find out whether old Blenkly is as rambling as ever," Jack said stiffly.
"And to assure yourself she isn't a figment of your overheated imagination. I see your case is nearly as bad as my own. Gad, how cool she looks — and how I should like to warm her."
Mr. Blenkly's entrance spared Lord Berne the throttling his friend was instantly most eager to administer. Mr. Langdon was forced to make do with a murderous glance and the fervent wish that lightning would, as the congregation seemed to expect, strike the spot where the provoking viscount stood.
The service was thoroughly incomprehensible from beginning to end. Mr. Blenkly had wanted only one glimpse of the two gentlemen in a pew which had stood empty for most of the past decade before what little poise he possessed flew up to the heavens. He had planned to enlighten his parishioners regarding the Parable of the Sower. Unfortunately, the sight in the Langdon family pew — especially the taller, golden-haired spectacle — was too much for him. He became hopelessly entangled between the Parable of the Prodigal Son and vaguely related proverbs dealing with loving parents, sparing the rod, wise and foolish offspring, and some deranged reference to loaves and fishes.
Even if he had managed a more logical discourse, it would have been utterly wasted on its object. Lord Berne had long since mastered the art of appearing devotedly attentive while his mind fixed on other topics altogether. Since the minister did not expound upon the Song of Solomon, the viscount's present meditations could scarcely be deemed appropriate.
Mr. Blenkly knew nothing of this. He saw a notorious libertine gravely attending his speech and wondered if the end of the world had come. He was dumbfounded when, after the service, that same young libertine engaged him in a brief conversation, at the end of which Mr. Blenkly possessed a pledge for repairs of the church roof.
In ten minutes, all the parishioners who'd lingered to stare at Lord Berne and exchanged speculative whispers were also possessed of the information. Thus the news reached Lady Potterby's ears.
She had fully intended to keep Lord Berne at a safe distance from her grand-niece, but his appearance at the service elicited certain interesting speculations of her own. His astounding act of philanthropy gave her further reason to ponder. Thus, when he approached, Lady Potterby was too curious to be as unwelcoming as she'd intended. She even went so far as to applaud his generosity.
"I wish, My Lady, I could say I fully deserved your kind words, but the credit does not belong to me. I only acted upon inspiration — and it was your young relative who inspired me."
The young relative looked blank.
"Delilah told you the roof leaked?" Lady Potterby asked, her dignified countenance belying certain agreeable surmises within. "But she
Mr. Langdon was so busy rebuking himself and trying to tear his gaze away that he never noticed how the whispering had swelled into a communal gasp. He saw only that Miss Desmond had turned to look over her shoulder, and that for three full seconds her gaze locked with his before jerking unsteadily to the rear of the church.
He turned as well, and instantly joined in the general astonishment. Lord Berne had entered.
The viscount serenely returned the parishioners' bold survey, then catching Jack's eye, made for him.
"Couldn't keep away either, I see," Tony whispered as he slid in next to his friend.
"I only came to find out whether old Blenkly is as rambling as ever," Jack said stiffly.
"And to assure yourself she isn't a figment of your overheated imagination. I see your case is nearly as bad as my own. Gad, how cool she looks — and how I should like to warm her."
Mr. Blenkly's entrance spared Lord Berne the throttling his friend was instantly most eager to administer. Mr. Langdon was forced to make do with a murderous glance and the fervent wish that lightning would, as the congregation seemed to expect, strike the spot where the provoking viscount stood.
The service was thoroughly incomprehensible from beginning to end. Mr. Blenkly had wanted only one glimpse of the two gentlemen in a pew which had stood empty for most of the past decade before what little poise he possessed flew up to the heavens. He had planned to enlighten his parishioners regarding the Parable of the Sower. Unfortunately, the sight in the Langdon family pew — especially the taller, golden-haired spectacle — was too much for him. He became hopelessly entangled between the Parable of the Prodigal Son and vaguely related proverbs dealing with loving parents, sparing the rod, wise and foolish offspring, and some deranged reference to loaves and fishes.
Even if he had managed a more logical discourse, it would have been utterly wasted on its object. Lord Berne had long since mastered the art of appearing devotedly attentive while his mind fixed on other topics altogether. Since the minister did not expound upon the Song of Solomon, the viscount's present meditations could scarcely be deemed appropriate.
Mr. Blenkly knew nothing of this. He saw a notorious libertine gravely attending his speech and wondered if the end of the world had come. He was dumbfounded when, after the service, that same young libertine engaged him in a brief conversation, at the end of which Mr. Blenkly possessed a pledge for repairs of the church roof.
In ten minutes, all the parishioners who'd lingered to stare at Lord Berne and exchanged speculative whispers were also possessed of the information. Thus the news reached Lady Potterby's ears.
She had fully intended to keep Lord Berne at a safe distance from her grand-niece, but his appearance at the service elicited certain interesting speculations of her own. His astounding act of philanthropy gave her further reason to ponder. Thus, when he approached, Lady Potterby was too curious to be as unwelcoming as she'd intended. She even went so far as to applaud his generosity.
"I wish, My Lady, I could say I fully deserved your kind words, but the credit does not belong to me. I only acted upon inspiration — and it was your young relative who inspired me."
The young relative looked blank.
"Delilah told you the roof leaked?" Lady Potterby asked, her dignified countenance belying certain agreeable surmises within. "But she
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