The vicar acknowledged her point with an incline of his head. “We are here now, however. We will not stay long, simply offer our welcome and depart.”
They had been waiting in the sparse room for nearly twenty-five minutes before she heard a tapping out in the corridor. It drew closer and Sara turned her head to the door, wondering what was causing the sound. A gold tip struck the floor at the threshold and Sara’s eyes followed a black shaft upward to a matching gold head shaped into the form of a wolf’s head. The head was loosely grasped by lean fingers, confident of their ability to control the cane.
Her eyes continued to rise, taking in the brown coat, striped waistcoat and snowy white cravat before reaching the gentleman’s face. Her eyes widened in recognition and her breath caught in her throat when she realized that the man was none other than the stranded traveler from a few days prior.
Up close and stationary, his icy blue eyes were even paler and at this moment, the bloodshot orbs exuded barely concealed disdain that made her even more aware of their lack of invitation to visit. She barely registered the ants in her throat, for she was too riveted on his face.
Her eyes ran over his Norman features, taking in his sharp cheekbones and straight nose. His mouth was an uncompromising line over a powerful chin. Hair the color of wheat lay in masculine disarray on his head, with slightly darker sideburns threatening to encroach farther down his prominent jawline.
His eyes mesmerized her. They were the color of a clear winter’s sky, the complete circles of white surrounding his pupils solidifying the impression of ice lining his gaze. Small creases stretched out from the corner of his eyes, matched by ones bracketing his mouth, flexing with every little grimace he made. Sara wondered if Mr. Pomeroy noticed the amount of strain the man was experiencing.
Unconsciously, Sara rose from the sofa with the desire to run her hand over his face and smooth those lines away, comforting him. Where that thought came from, she did not know.
Mr. Pomeroy’s voice broke the spell. “Good afternoon, sir. Are you Mr. Grant?”
Sara saw Mr. Grant’s eyes flicker over the young vicar, assessing him in at a glance. He looked at Mr. Pomeroy for several moments in silence. “I am Grant,” he finally replied, his voice even and impersonal.
The vicar bowed in greeting. “Welcome to Taft, sir. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Charles Pomeroy, the vicar.”
“I am not a churchgoing man, Mr. Pomeroy.” Despite the rudeness of his statement, his intonations were deep and well-bred, sending a foreign sensation down Sara’s spine.
The only reaction Mr. Pomeroy displayed was a slow blink. He continued to smile. “While that saddens me, this is more of a social call than a spiritual one. The only connection this visit has to the church is that I am the vicar. I merely wished to welcome you to Taft.”
Mr. Grant inclined his head once. “Thank you. You may leave now.” He turned on his heel and his cane struck the floor as he moved to exit the room.
The vicar spoke quickly. “Permit me to introduce Miss Collins. She lives on the neighboring estate, Ridgestone, with her friends and is an active member of the parish. She is always willing to help out wherever she is needed.”
Mr. Pomeroy beamed at her and Sara curtseyed, still not shifting her gaze from the newcomer.
Mr. Grant stilled and slowly turned on his heel again to face his visitors. His eyes focused on her, this time examining her closely. His focus dropped to her slippers peeking out from under skirts before moving insolently up her body, pausing to linger on her generous hips and bosom before coming to rest on her face.
The shock of his perusal jolted Sara out of her trance. The usual self-consciousness reared its head and she flushed, dropping her head to study the floor. The ants in her throat were noticeable this time.
“Miss Collins.” His deep voice floated over to her, cold and devoid of emotion.
“Mr. Grant.” Her reply was little more than a strangled whisper.
His next words were directed at Mr. Pomeroy. “Is the church in need of anything? A new steeple or hymnals, by any chance?”
“Of course the church will accept any generosity offered,” the vicar replied. “There are always needs to be met in the community.”