Mary Balogh: A gift of daisies

On this particular morning Celia had protested that there was absolutely nothing she needed to purchase, and even Rachel had admitted that she could do little more than look, since she had already overspent her allowance once and Papa would be in a rage if she asked him for a second advance on her next month's pin money. But go to Bond Street they must. No one interesting ever went to the park in the morning, and if they stayed at home, what would they do to fill in the empty hours until luncheon time? Celia had protested no further, but had gone in search of their pelisses while Rachel ordered the carriage to be sent around.

And so they had met Algie, as Rachel had been secretly hoping they would. She simply had to make certain that he would be at the Simpson ball that night, since he was the only gentleman of her acquaintance who really knew how to waltz. Algie twirled her and twirled her until she was dizzy. She always loved the sensation of being utterly dependent for support on the shoulder beneath one hand and the large masculine hand that clasped her other. She had forgotten to ask him two evenings before at the Ripleys' soiree if he were to attend the ball.

But Algie had not been alone. Rachel had hardly noticed his companion at first, so delighted was she to see the familiar, imposing figure of her neighbor and friend. But then she did look at the other man, and a strange thing happened. Nothing like it had ever happened to Rachel before. She had never expected or looked for such a thing. She was a very sensible young lady who enjoyed the adoration of men and who was contemplating marriage at some future date with someone of suitable rank and fortune.

She fell in love with Algie's companion.

That was an absurd way to describe her reactions, of course, she told herself later in the carriage. She did not believe in falling in love. That was for those giddy girls who always stood in groups in the ballroom, giggling behind their fans and ogling the more handsome men, who almost invariably paid them the compliment of ignoring them. And to speak of falling in love with a man whom one had just that moment set one's eyes upon for the first time was too preposterous even to be absurd.

What exactly had happened, then? She had moved her eyes to look at the man with Algie, only to find that he was studying her. There was nothing unusual about that. Rachel was quite accustomed to drawing the glances of young men-and some not so young too. In that first glance, she did not notice his tall, athletic body. She could not swear that she had even seen his thick, dark hair at first. She could not have seen it in all its shining glory, anyway, until he removed his hat when Algie introduced him. What had caused that feeling, then, of a merciless fist punching the air out of her stomach?

His mouth. Had she noticed his mouth in that first glance? Yes, she rather thought she had. A wide, good-humored mouth, which looked as if it were in the habit of smiling. A mouth that looked as if it would be interesting to kiss. And that was a shocking thought. Rachel had kissed a man only once in her life and that had been Algie in broad daylight in the middle of a field of sheep and sheep droppings when she had asked him to kiss her. She had found it somewhat disappointing, not with a stirring of a sinful feeling to make it exciting. She had very sensibly given up kissing as a desirable pastime from that moment on.

And his eyes. Oh, yes, his eyes! Definitely. Yes, they were what she had seen first. It was his eyes with which she had fallen in love. Blue eyes. Many men had blue eyes. She could recall three from among her regular followers without any effort of thought. But eyes that looked at one very directly as if they had nothing whatever to hide? Eyes that held no anxiety, no uncertainty? Eyes that somehow smiled at one even when his face was grave? No, she did not know anyone else with eyes like his.

Yes, it was when she had looked into his eyes that she had fallen in love with David Gower. The Reverend David Gower. Algie might have knocked her flat with a feather when he had said that, with some emphasis on the Reverend. Goodness, this was the man who was to take old Vicar Ferney's place? His was the face she would gaze at each Sunday for almost the rest of her life or at least until she married and was removed to a different home.

It was almost impossible to imagine. She could not picture him reading the Bible for a pastime, even on Sundays as Papa did. She could not imagine him composing and delivering lengthy sermons from the high stone pulpit of the village church. She certainly could not see him established in the solid but inelegant vicarage beside the church. The man was handsome and athletic, framed for elegant and idle pastimes.

He was a younger son, of course. Rachel had always pitied gentlemen who had had the misfortue to be born second or third in the family. Unless there was some independent fortune for them to inherit, they really had little choice but to seek careers for themselves in the church or the army. She wondered why David Gower had not chosen the latter. He seemed physically more suited to life as a soldier. Of course, as a soldier one also had to exert oneself and even face danger not infrequently. Life in the church offered more luxury and ease, especially if one had a generous patron.

Algie was his cousin. And Algie had the church living in his possession, Singleton Hall being his principal residence, whereas Oakland was not Papa's main seat, though it was his favorite and most frequent place of residence. The Reverend David Gower would have an easy life. Algie was always generous and could be expected to be even more so with his own cousin. The vicar would doubtless be a very frequent visitor at the Hall. Perhaps he would even live there.

Rachel had not intended to fall in love with a clergyman. Indeed she had not intended to fall in love with anyone. She had prattled horribly there on the pavement. She had even asked the new vicar if he would have the second waltz with her that evening. Had she really done that? Yes, she really had. Mortifying thought. She had never asked a man to dance with her or walk with her or drive with her. Where was the need, when gentlemen fell all over themselves and one another to be granted the privilege of engaging her in one of those activities? She sometimes asked Algie, of course, but that was a different matter entirely. They had been friends for as far back as she could remember. She had asked the Reverend Gower to dance with her!

David! What a beautiful name. She had always imagined the hero of the David-and-Goliath story as just such a handsome man. This man, of course, would hardly fit into that story with his height. But then the biblical David had grown into King David, had he not?

By the time the Edgeley carriage drew to a halt outside the house on Grosvenor Square and set down the two young ladies, Celia Barnes was wondering if all the late nights and fairly early mornings were finally catching up on her friend. Rachel had gone for almost ten whole minutes without uttering a single word. She had been sitting in the carriage, holding on to the leather strap, a glazed look in her eyes and an almost foolish half-smile on her lips.

"Do you think the Brussels lace will be just a little too fussy for this evening, Celia?" she asked anxiously as she turned to wait for the footman to help her friend out of the carriage. "I do not wish to appear overdressed."

Celia knew that Rachel was back in the land of the conscious again.

David Gower was seated in Lord Rivers' very comfortable carriage later that evening on his way to the Simpson ball, his cousin opposite him. He was still feeling rather amused at the way Algie's feelings had been ruffled when he had teased him about the magnificent folds of his neckcloth.