why had he come to her?
Had it truly been out of fear that her father would demand proof of their consummation like some medieval villain? It seemed ridiculous. And besides, his seduction had not felt like a duty.
Even now, a month after arriving at her new home, she still lay in bed at night, recalling each branding kiss and every skillful touch.
Not that his reasons truly mattered, she told herself for the hundredth time, giving a shake of her head as she strolled along the narrow dirt path that led from the thatched cottage to Carrick Park.
For all the hours he had devoted to pleasuring her into mindless abandon, he had been swift enough to walk away from her bed, not even bothering to make an appearance as she was loaded into the carriage and taken from his home.
His message was painfully clear.
She was still his frumpy, ill-bred, unwanted wife who he intended to bury in the country.
The knowledge might very well have been the last blow needed to crush what remained of her fragile spirit, but her arrival in Devonshire had proven to be more a blessing than a punishment.
From the moment she’d set foot at Carrick Park her heart had lightened, and her fear of the future had mysteriously eased.
Perhaps it was her first sight of the grand manor house.
Constructed near the limestone cliff overlooking the English Channel, the house had once been a monastery of pale brown stone. The newer additions blended nicely with the original structure with rows of Elizabethan windows and slanted roofs. Ivy climbed along the front bays, softening the angular lines and allowing the structure to meld with the untamed parkland that surrounded the estate. The same ivy could be found on the rambling stables and outbuildings that were spread beyond the gardens.
It was not as large or as tidily manicured as some country estates, but Talia found herself immediately drawn to the rugged, natural beauty.
It felt like…home.
Far more so than her father’s gaudy house in Sloane Square. Or Gabriel’s frigidly elegant townhouse.
But, more likely it was the unexpected realization that so far away from the incessant criticism of her father and the smoldering fury of her husband, she could breathe freely. She was finally given the opportunity to make decisions for herself, which filled her with a strength she never dreamed possible.
Over the past month she’d slowly managed to earn the trust of the wary servants and tenants who had clearly been leery of meeting the latest Countess of Ashcombe.
They did not care that she was the daughter of Silas Dobson or that her ancestors could not be traced back to the Garden of Eden. For them, all that mattered was her genuine interest in their lives and her willingness to do what was within her power to ease their troubles.
Passing by the small redbrick church with a slate roof and an enclosed porch that framed the entrance, Talia came to a halt at the sight of a slender, dark-haired gentleman. He stepped through the high hedge that separated the church from the vicarage.
A smile curved her lips. Vicar Jack Gerard did not resemble any man of God that Talia had ever met.
He was very young, not more than a few years older than Talia, and so exquisitely handsome that there was little wonder the pews were overflowing on Sunday morning. What woman could resist the perfect male features and velvet brown eyes that held a hint of devilish humor? And while he was careful to wear simple black coats and breeches with a modestly tied cravat, he possessed such an innate sense of style and grace that he made even the finest noblemen appear more like preening peacocks than gentlemen of fashion.
Of course, he would not cast Gabriel in the shade, a treacherous voice whispered in the back of her mind. For all his faults, her breathtakingly handsome husband possessed a dominating presence that commanded attention no matter where he might be.
It was a voice that Talia was swift to dismiss.
Gabriel clearly desired to pretend she did not exist. For her own peace of mind it would be wise for her to do the same.
Grimly turning her thoughts away from Gabriel, Talia studiously concentrated on the approaching vicar. Which allowed her to catch sight of his subtle change of expression when he realized he was not alone.
Was that…dismay?
There seemed no other word to describe his response.
But his momentary reaction was swiftly hidden behind a brilliant smile of welcome, and Talia assured herself that it was nothing more than a trick of the growing dusk.
As if to prove her point, the vicar took her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips, his kiss lingering just a hint too long.
“Good evening, my lady,” he murmured, his low voice edged by an elusive accent.
It was rumored that his parents had fled the French revolution to settle in England, although Talia was painfully aware that gossip rarely held any truth. And so far as Talia was concerned his past did not matter.
From their first meeting he had treated her with a beguiling charm that she had greedily encouraged, allowing his flirtations to ease the wounds of Gabriel’s sharp rejection.
Not to mention the icy lack of welcome from her more aristocratic neighbors who had yet to issue an invitation to their exclusive gatherings.
She already considered him a dear friend.
“Vicar.”
Lifting his head, he slowly inspected her apple-green walking dress edged with silver lace along the scooped bodice. A matching ribbon encircled her waist. Her bonnet was a jaunty yellow that had been dyed to match her half boots that peeked from beneath the hem of her gown.
Until arriving in Devonshire she would never have chosen a dress in such a vivid color, and certainly she would never have dared to reveal so much of her full bosom.
But with the vicar’s gentle encouragement she had sought out the local dressmaker and ordered a complete new wardrobe. She had even started to wear her hair in a casual style that allowed several glossy strands to frame her face.
Now, the sight of the appreciation simmering in his eyes made each tedious hour spent being poked, prodded and measured worthwhile.
“I must say you are appearing particularly fine today,” he said, continuing to hold her fingers in a gentle grip. “That gown suits you.”
She shyly preened beneath the warmth of his gaze. “Do you think so?”
“I do. The shade brings out the emerald of your eyes.” A wicked smile tugged at his lips. “May I indulge my vanity and tell myself that I can take a small measure of credit for your lovely ensemble?”
She chuckled. “You can take full credit, sir.”
“Please, I really must insist that you call me Jack,” he interrupted, giving her fingers a squeeze. “We are friends, are we not?”
She paused, a warning that her husband would not be pleased to discover his new bride speaking so intimately with another
