Mr. Pilkington cleared his throat, and her mother snapped back to attention.
“And thus sayeth the scripture,Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction...”
Sandrine only made it through the rest of the service by counting the stitches on the hem of herhandkerchief. Finally, they were released into the warm sun.
She searched the churchyard for any sight of Mr. Smith, but of course he’d said he was just passing through and could be already gone.
Why on earth was that prospect so thoroughly disappointing?
Later that afternoon Sandrine walked to the cottage of the widowed Mrs. McGovern and her companion Miss Dodie Hodwell to read to them as she did every Sunday. Her mother allowed such outings because reading to elderly parishioners was a charitable endeavor. She had no idea how much fun Sandrine had with the ladies, who kept her in stitches with their opinionated conversation.
As she entered through the garden gate, a deep male voice sounded from the open front door. She paused, listening intently. If Mr. Pilkington was paying them a visit, she’d have to miss today’s reading. But it wasn’t Mr. Pilkington’s voice. A maid ushered her into the parlor where Mrs. McGovern was holding court in her usual elegant fashion, with upright posture, her hair dressed in elaborate curls, a double strand of pearls about her neck, and a fresh white carnation pinned to the bodice of her gray gown.
Miss Hodwell sat next to her eating almond macaroons and sipping tea, with her unruly white hair sticking out from under her lace cap and her lace hem unraveling. Were her slippers mismatched? Dear old thing.
The man speaking with them had his back turned, but as Sandrine entered the room she froze, tempted to run back the way she came.
It couldn’t be. But it was.
Mr. Smith, balancing on a spindly white chair that looked far too dainty to support his tall, muscular frame.
“Miss Oliver, there you are! We’ve been waiting for you,” cried Miss Hodwell.
“Miss Oliver comes to read to us every Sunday afternoon,” Mrs. McGovern explained. “Mr. Smith, allow me to introduce Miss Sandrine Oliver.”
Mr. Smith rose and turned to face her. He was fully clothed, of course, but all Sandrine could see was a wet shirt clinging to a sculpted chest. The glimpse of dark hair disappearing into his trousers. His thumb brushing her lower lip and that trembling sensation deep within her.
“Miss Oliver,” he said with a glint in his eyes that said he knew exactly what she was picturing. “Whom I have never met before and have only laid eyes on just this very moment.”
Miss Hodwell quirked her head.
Sandrine willed herself not to blush, but telltale heat crept up her neck. “Mr. Smith, whom I have likewise never met. How do you do?”
He captured her hand and bowed over it, winking at her. “Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Sandrine’s pulse quickened. How could he destroy her composure so thoroughly with just one word?Pleasure.Yes, please and thank you.
The maid brought in another tea setting for Sandrine, gawking at Mr. Smith all the while. He was quite a sight. Dark hair gleaming, an almost too-handsome face, broad shoulders, narrow hips encased in tight buff-colored breeches, and shiny black leather riding boots.
Sandrine gulped her tea. “What brings you to our village, Mr. Smith?”
“I’m only passing through, Miss Oliver. Seeing the sights. Enjoying the seashore. Collecting shells and such. Sometimes the most astonishingly beautiful things wash up from the sea, do they not?” The words he spoke were innocent enough and addressed to all three ladies, but Sandrine knew they were aimed at her.
“Do you know, I was walking along the shore yesterday, and I could have sworn I saw a mermaid.”
Miss Hodwell laughed. “Probably a piece of driftwood.”
“Oh no, this was no driftwood. This was something shapely, curvaceous even, with hair streaming down around a heart-shaped face and—”
“You must have been out too long in the hot sun, Mr. Smith,” Sandrine said curtly. He’d promised not to speak of their encounter.
“Perhaps. But I prefer to believe that mermaids are real. And this one quite stole my breath away.”
“Mr. Smith is staying at the Squire while his horse is being reshod.” Mrs. McGovern took a small, measured bite of a macaroon, while Miss Hodwell popped a whole one into her mouth.
“We’ve been extolling the healthful virtues oflife by the seashore and the beauties of Squalton,” said Miss Hodwell, when she could speak again.
The beauties of Squalton. Did Miss Oliver have a sister? Dane didn’t think his heart could stand such a thing.