life alone in the country wouldn’t satisfy a young and lively woman for long, no matter Lady Vivian’s claims. She would desire seasons in London, the opera, and gentlemanly attentions.
His spine stiffened. Gentlemanly attentions, my arse.
The thought of bloody rakehells providing her with comfort rubbed him raw. He turned to glare at the other men in the church for good measure and realized everyone was standing.
He bolted from his seat as the first bars of “Amazing Grace” piped from the organ. Lady Vivian offered to share her hymnal. Luke gazed warily at the book before taking hold of his half.
Her strong, sensual voice surprised him. After sitting through countless musicales featuring his three younger sisters and various family friends, he had come to believe only actresses could carry a tune.
Lady Vivian’s fingers brushed his as she adjusted her position and sent a jolt up his arm. He glanced to see if she had touched him on purpose, but her attention stayed focused on the notes and lyrics.
Luke couldn’t sing any better than his sisters, so he mouthed the words. An impertinent actress had once compared his singing to the caterwauling of an alley cat. He didn’t believe his musical talent to be quite as lacking, but no one would mistake him for a nightingale.
Lady Vivian’s hip lightly bumped against his. Again, she gave no indication of being aware of what she had done. On the third stanza, he swayed to the side and bumped her back. She lifted her face, mischief dancing in her eyes. She had touched him on purpose. Holding his gaze, she finished the verse, a corner of her mouth curling up. Luke’s throat constricted as her voice washed over him, casting a spell unbroken even when she looked away. Was this her attempt at revenge for his unabashed staring earlier?
When the toe of her half boot angled to touch his foot, desire flooded through him. How could he become aroused by such innocent contact? In church, no less. Pretending to sing all seven verses of “Amazing Grace.”
Seven, for the love of God!
Curse Mr. Newton and his severely debauched life requiring seven verses to prove his rehabilitation.
As the last bars of music faded into the rafters, she took the hymnbook from him and smiled innocently up at him. “Your Grace.”
He wanted to wring her neck. Or kiss her until she babbled nonsense. Or bend her over the—
“Lady Vivian!” A shrill voice ripped into his fantasy and gave him a start.
A ruddy-cheeked older lady was frowning at them from the aisle, her heavy bosoms stressing the seams of her gown.
“Mrs. Honeywell, how nice to see you again. Did you have an enjoyable Season in London?” Lady Vivian’s polite greeting reminded him that she was a lady of good breeding. He had to stop daydreaming about compromising her.
“Where is Lady Brighthurst?” The woman’s nose wrinkled as she spoke of the viscountess. “Is your brother aware of her lax approach to chaperoning you?”
Lady Vivian stiffened beside him.
Mrs. Honeywell nailed her with a disdainful glower. “Surely, Lord Ashden would want to know of your behavior in today’s service. He would likely thank me for informing him.”
Luke eyed the woman in return. This was the harridan Lady Vivian had spoken of at dinner last night.
“Lady Vivian,” he said. “Please introduce me to your friend.”
He thought she might have snorted softly, but he kept his focus on Mrs. Honeywell.
“As you wish. Please allow me to present Mrs. Honeywell, the local—uh…”
The lady raised her severe eyebrows. “Mr. Honeywell is the largest landowner in Bedfordshire.” She paused as if waiting for Luke to say something.
“Indeed? Congratulations, Madame. You must be proud.”
“Yes, I am proud…” She blinked, bemusement fluttering across her round face.
Lady Vivian pressed her lips tightly together, struggling to school her features.
Mrs. Honeywell dismissed his comment with a flick of her wrist and regained speed, her glower focused on Lady Vivian. “When your brother hears of your brazen display today—”
“Forgive me, dear lady.” Luke smiled, aiming to charm her, although his tone left no room for mistake. She had no leave to chastise Lady Vivian, especially in his presence. “I must accept the blame. You see, I’m quite taken with my betrothed, but infatuation is no excuse for bad manners.”
“Betrothed?” Mrs. Honeywell almost choked on the word, her face blazing redder. “His lordship never mentioned finding a husband for her.”
Luke’s jaw twitched, but otherwise he hid his anger. He’d had years of practice. It would be unwise to lay claim to Lady Vivian. The