After a while, Rory realized Simpson intended to say no more about the Reverend John Farrar. He was suddenly curious about the man he hoped would become his father-in-law. Perhaps he might attend church on Sunday after all. “Mr. Simpson, my intentions regarding Miss Farrar are none of your business.”
“That’s a pity,” Simpson said placidly, continuing with his work.
“Why?”
“Because getting Bess to yourself might go more smoothly if you had some help.”
Rory’s eyes narrowed on the man. “You don’t know anything about me—apart from the wild talk I’ve got wind of in the last few days.”
“You’re the most exciting thing to happen in Penton Wyck since Daisy broke loose at the Christmas play five years ago and knocked the Bishop of Durham into the mud.”
Despite himself, Rory laughed. “Well, that puts me in my place.”
“We tend to take people as we find them here, my lord.” Bess had said something similar. The man kept placidly arranging the shelves. “Bess would make you a fine wife.”
“Undoubtedly. But would I make her a fine husband?”
Simpson fixed a critical eye on him. “That’s up to you. Don’t think you’ll sway her with your title and riches. It didn’t work for your brother. It won’t work for you.”
Rory frowned, surprised and not altogether pleased, although it made sense. Had his brother kissed her? If he had, he’d taught her deuced little. “My brother wanted to marry Bess?”
“He did. But she wouldn’t have him.”
Now, that was interesting. “Most women would leap at a countess’s title.”
Simpson shook his head in disappointment. “There you go, thinking her one of your flighty misses. Our Bess will only marry where her affections lie. And don’t imagine your brother was her only chance either.”
“There were others?” Of course there were. Rory wasn’t the only man in England with eyes in his head.
“Sir Gavin Spiers in the next valley, for one. And Henry Browne, your brother’s lawyer, wasn’t blind to what a grand wife she’d make either. And that’s only in the last year.”
“Yet she’s unmarried.”
“The vicar has a respectable fortune, although you wouldn’t know it to look at the poor muddleheaded loon. And Bess’s grandmother left her a goodly portion when she passed on three years ago. Our girl can afford to be choosy.”
Rory wasn’t sure if this was good news or not. Damn it, Ned was right. He’d always trusted to his way with the ladies. Now when it mattered, he couldn’t help wondering what he had that Bess’s other suitors lacked.
Still, faint heart never won fair lady. If he could sail into an ice storm in the Bering Strait, surely he could woo this redoubtable lassie. “So let me get this straight. You’re willing to promote my courtship as long as I behave myself?”
The spark in Simpson’s eyes made him look younger—and mischievous. “You only need to behave yourself up to a point. A chap who’s been a pirate must know what lines to cross.”
“I wasn’t—”
“This is where you two are hiding,” Bess said, bustling into the library with a broom clutched in one hand.
Rory’s heart lurched at the sight of her. A strange sensation, not altogether welcome.
“You’re halfway there already, my lord,” Simpson muttered for Rory’s ears alone.
Halfway there? Rory had a sinking feeling that the wind had blown him way beyond his destination and now pushed him toward the next port.
“We were afraid you meant to give us another job,” he said, ignoring the smug old man who thought he knew everything.
“We need to go and work on the play.” Her gray dress was creased and grubby, and a streak of dirt adorned one high cheekbone. His breath hitched at how earthy and real she was. She was so alive that she made the air rustle. He wanted to catch her up against him and never let her go.
He managed a theatrical sigh. She didn’t need to know how fatally she undermined his defenses. Or at least not yet. “Work seems to be your favorite word, Miss Farrar.”
“You’ll be glad it is when the house is fit for you to live in.”