Below I've posted the description and first chapter from my lighthearted Regency romance, The Curious Curate and the Opera Singer. This is book 4 in my Seductive Regency Romance Series, but can be read as a standalone.
The Curious Curate
(and
the Opera Singer)
Book
Description
When is a curate not a curate? When he is a dashing rogue sent to assist his Reverend uncle as penance for his unruly behavior.
When the Marquess of Tyden learned of his youngest son, Lord
Aiden Renford’s, roguish behavior in Town—duels, fist fights, and gambling—he
knew there was only one solution for it. To send him to his uncle for a year.
Under the Reverend Matthew Renford’s gentle guidance, Aiden would learn
humility and to behave like a gentleman. The penalty if he refused? He would be
cut off, not only from his funds, but from his family and all access to the
family’s estates.
While the locals are happy to embrace the new temporary
curate and welcome him into their homes, Aiden soon discovers that although he
is counting the days until he regains his freedom, a year in Harelton is not
such a bad bargain, especially when an unexpected guest arrives at the vicarage
only a week before he is free to leave.
Miss Amelie Rouen is an opera singer, something many Londoners unfortunately appeared to equate with being a Cyprian. While being pursued by an ardent admirer, she takes refuge at the Harelton Parish Vicarage, and finds herself in the care of an unusual curate with twinkling eyes and a mischievous sense of humor, who looks like he belongs anywhere but there.
Please note that this is a steamy love story
Chapter One
Aiden Renford walked into the small Harelton village church
of St. Augustine’s, and looked around. He breathed a sigh of relief, looking up
into the eaves at the ancient wooden beams stretching across the aisle, the
gilded domed ceiling, the colorful stained-glass windows and exquisitely
embroidered altar cloths. Beneath his feet on the ancient stones were inscribed
the names of many of the ancestors of local families who had resided here many
generations ago, the church was centuries old. It had all become so very
familiar to him now.
Was it only one year ago when his father, the Marquess of
Tyden, had arrived at his townhouse in London with two of the Tyden estate’s
burliest footmen? At his father’s direction the two men had thrown him into a
chair, pinning him there and forcing him to sit still and listen. No matter how
hard he fought, he’d soon realized he wasn’t leaving that room without hearing
his father out. So finally, though infuriated he had succumbed, intending to
leave the moment that he was released.
It was all still so vividly clear to him, his complete and
utter fury at being manhandled, and eventually being given an ultimatum that
he’d deemed absolutely horrific at the time—join his uncle, the Reverend
Matthew Renford, as a curate for a year, or he would be cut off from the
family, his inheritance, his allowance and all access to the family estates.
Reluctantly, even though incensed, he’d understood his
father’s annoyance with his recent behavior. He’d been in a scuffle or two
after imbibing a little too freely at his club, fought three duels, and had
racked up a few gambling debts. But what his father hadn’t known, was that he
had won a considerable fortune on the last game, which he had since invested,
and therefore would not need his father’s funds.
The only reason he had initially agreed to his father’s insane
request that he become a temporary and yet unofficial curate to his uncle, had
been to give his father time to calm down and see reason. But that hadn’t
happened. He had in fact, been bundled into a carriage and delivered to his
uncle’s door the following day by his own groom and valet, who had been
instructed to report to his father when their task was completed. They would be
employed at the Tyden estate until his year was up when he could resume his
normal life. He was expected to fend for himself during that year, without the
benefit of personal servants, other than the delightful Mrs. Comfrey, the cook
sent down from the Tyden estate to keep house for him and his uncle.
Hearing the creak of the heavy oak and iron studded door,
Aiden turned as the door swung open and daylight flooded the small church.
“Collins!” He hurried forward to greet his valet, reaching
out with both hands to grasp the older man’s work worn hands between his own.
Collins looked a little surprised, not only at the effusive greeting, but at
seeing his employer dressed as a conservative curate all in black and looking
quite the part.
“Sir?”
Aiden looked down at his attire and threw back his head and
laughed. “You think it suits me, Collins?”
“Black always did favor your complexion, sir!” Collins
answered dryly.
Aiden slapped him on the back. “You are here with a
message?”
“Yes, sir. Your father, his lordship, has sent me to inform
you that you have only one week left of your…um…stay in Harelton
Village, and you may now instruct your staff to open up your London townhouse
in readiness for your return a week from today…unless…”
“Unless?” Aiden waited, clenching his hands at his sides,
hoping the hesitation and the blush staining Collins’ cheeks did not have
foreboding consequences for him, involving new rules and requirements. Much to
everyone surprise, including his own, he had fulfilled everything his father
had asked of him.
“Unless you have found your calling and wish to stay, sir!”
Collins finished.
“Stay?” Aiden’s eyes grew wide and he sat down hard
in the nearest pew. Collins’ lips were twitching as he tried hard not to grin.
“No, Collins, I think not, though I have to admit it has not been quite
the unpleasant experience I had expected.”
“Due to Mrs. Comfrey, sir?” Collins asked with a quirk of
one of his thick black eyebrows.
“Indeed, Collins. A very welcome and most unexpected
concession from my father.” Mrs. Comfrey had been the long time cook at the
Tyden estate since he was a small boy. His father had sent her to work as
cook/housekeeper at the vicarage during his stay. And although he knew she was
there to keep an eye on him—having been sworn to secrecy about the true reason
for his stay, as was his uncle—she was a motherly and comforting sort, who had
always welcomed him to the kitchen as a child with hugs and a smile.
“We have all missed her cooking at Tyden Hall, sir.”
“I don’t doubt it! In fact, I am certain it is about lunch
time, Collins, shall we?” Aiden rose and swept his arm to the open door.
Collins grinned. “There’s no chance we could take her back
with us to your London townhouse, is there, sir?” Collins asked hopefully.
“Sadly, no, she has been instructed she must return to Tyden
Hall. However, I will leave it to you to engage a decent cook for us, you have
good taste and as much a desire for a decent meal as I do myself.”
“Will do, sir!” Collins grinned.
“And the rest of the staff, Collins? Are they still in
place?”
“Just the skeleton staff as requested, sir. With a new
housekeeper and cook, you will be set. Gibbins will arrive with your mount
tomorrow morning…”
“A week early, too?”
“Another small concession from your father, the marquess,
sir.”
His father had refused to allow him to take his
Thoroughbred, Nero, to Harelton with him, informing him that a simple curate
would not own such a horse and therefore he would have to either walk or use
his uncle’s cart and horses.
He’d missed Nero, but he knew that Gibbins would have taken
good care of him. A race through the open countryside, leaping the low stone
walls and hedgerows on Nero’s competent back sounded like pure bliss to him
now. A year of abstinence had been grueling. And it wasn’t the only thing he’d
been forced to abstain from. He’d also had no choice but to remain celibate for
a year. The new curate could hardly be seen visiting local taverns or keeping
company with a mistress. Not that he had a mistress! He sighed, getting
back to his normal life would be seventh heaven.
Mrs. Comfrey greeted Collins like a long-lost son, making
the pair of them smile. She was a slightly rotund, rosy-cheeked, middle-aged
woman who loved to cook. She wasn’t shy about bossing them about in her kitchen
either. It was her domain and she ensured everyone knew it. They laughed when
she shooed them out to wash their hands before she served them lunch. The
relaxed environment of the vicarage was one of the unexpected perks of his
year-long banishment. His uncle was an affable and well-read man who could
converse on any subject, so the long winters’ nights had been spent in comfortable
conversation. He cringed when he thought how foreign that idea would have been
to him a little over a year ago. Should he tell his father he’d been right, at
least about some of it?
Many other evenings had been spent visiting the
parishioners, and he’d been gratified by their easy acceptance of him. Most had
no knowledge of his life before he came to Harelton. He’d found himself helping
with organizing parish events, but for the most part, he’d volunteered to
assist when actual physical labor was required, when a husband was injured and
his wife could not do the manual labor, or a roof needed repair, anything that
helped to keep him in shape as he no longer had a horse to ride, or Gentleman
Jackson’s Bond St. boxing saloon to attend.
He’d even organized a small archery group. There had been
numerous village fetes, and musicales at local manor houses, not to mention a
few local girls who had frequently thrown themselves into his path. But he had
easily resisted. Being leg-shackled to a local girl for the rest of his life
held no appeal, and he’d done his best to ensure he did not allow himself to be
placed in a difficult position where he felt honor bound to offer. But most of
the villagers were easy-going and welcoming, happy to take whatever he was
willing to give without pressing for anything more of him, but then, he was
only the curate.
He’d developed an interest in one local woman, Verity
Sommerville, of Harelton Grange, when he’d first arrived, she was cheerful,
pretty, and a total bookworm with an impressive library, but she had recently
married. Her future husband had given him a few warning looks when they had
first met. At first he’d thought he may have been recognized from some of his
more nefarious London pursuits, but no, it turned out the man had merely been
jealous. Though from all he heard, Viscount Allum had been about as pleased to
be forced into an arranged marriage in Harelton, as he himself had been when
he’d initially been compelled to come here. Though on meeting Verity, Allum’s
opinion had quickly changed. The oddly matched pair had pretty much fallen for
each other from the moment they’d met. His uncle had performed the wedding
ceremony for the beaming pair only days after the man had arrived.
Aiden had assisted his uncle in organizing many wedding
ceremonies, though he had no right to officiate, that was purely his uncle’s
domain. Marriage was not something he currently wanted to contemplate. He would
have his freedom back in a week, and he intended to make the most of it.
Mrs. Comfrey nudged him. “Day dreaming, Mr. Renford?” she
teased. “The gates of freedom will be open in a week. What do you plan to do
first? Or should I not ask? My ears are delicate, as you know!”
Collins almost choked on his food. Mrs. Comfrey was a lovely
woman but perfectly capable of delivering a blistering set-down when it was
required. She’d had three husbands and four children, it was doubtful anything
would shock her.
“I plan to do all the things you are no doubt imagining I
will do,” he told her with a grin.
Mrs. Comfrey crooked an eyebrow and turned to Collins, “Do
not enable his bad behavior! I’ve no wish to spend another year out here at the
vicarage, pleasant as it has been!”
“Have no fear, Mrs. Comfrey, if my father should ‘suggest’
it again, I will forcefully decline,” Aiden told her wryly.
She grunted as she took their empty plates from the table
and pulled a large pot from the boil, carefully lifting out a covered dish.
“You made steamed pudding?” Collins’ eyes were round with hope.
“Indeed I did.”
“My favorite!” Aiden grinned.
“Mine too,” Collins agreed.
She scooped the sticky pudding into bowls and topped it with
steaming custard, the pair dug in hungrily.
“I would follow you up north for this, Mrs. Comfrey,” Aiden
admitted. “Unless I can persuade you to come to work for me in London?”
“Stealing your father’s favorite cook might not be the best
start to your upcoming freedom!” she cautioned with a grin.
“You are worth the risk!” he teased.
“You need a wife.”
“One who can cook? Unlikely in the beau monde.”
“Then look elsewhere,” she advised. “Surely your year here
has opened your eyes to other types of women?”
“True, an heiress is not the only option.” One of the
benefits this year had brought was the numerous invitations to dine with local
families and experience some truly magnificent but simple fare. And as a third
son, his choices in a bride were a little less restricting than those of his
older brothers. He was unlikely to ever inherit the Marquisate.
The clatter of galloping hoof beats in the stable yard had
Aiden leaping to his feet. “Nero!” he exclaimed with a grin. “He’s a day
early!” But it was not Gibbins and Nero that flew past the window, but a white
horse bearing a rider in a flowing red habit.
“Unless Nero has changed color and Gibbins is wearing a red
riding habit…you have an unexpected guest!” Mrs. Comfrey said with a grin, her
arms up to the elbows in flour.
Collins and Aiden exchanged a quick glance, and as one they dashed for the door.
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