The Telling Touch by Keira Dominguez

Author:Keira Dominguez
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical fiction, regency romance, secrets and lies, an usual gift, he was away for 6 years, his heart belongs to her, she breaks her silence on the family secret, she suffers for her sisters indiscretions, shell do anything to protect him, unspeakable plans
Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group

Chapter Seventeen

Nick held the pew door for Brooks, stepping in after him.

The village church had once been grand when Pevensey Bay had been a busy seaport but, as its fortunes had dwindled, the chancel had been walled off from the nave, converting the main space into a preaching box. Lovely things were hidden by an uncompromising brick wall, which cut the church in two. The delicate lancet windows above the high altar could no longer be seen, nor could the cradle roof above the chancel—built sound by shipbuilders. No more than a rough stable now, whose architectural wonders were appreciated by the sheep and goats that grazed the churchyard.

Six hundred years this parish church had been here, and it hardly seemed to take note of Nick’s absence, folding him back into the flock as though he had wandered away for a night and been lost on the downs.

As he looked about him, his neighbors dipped their chins in greeting and he felt a faint echo of cynicism. Months of living here had not been enough to accustom himself to the way he had become a favor to be dispensed, a wealthy neighbor to be cultivated or a title to be wed. Comfortable as an old coat, it’d kept him together body and soul from the time his wealthy uncle ran away with his bride. But these months with Meg made him see that this cynicism would create chasms between himself and his neighbors that he could not hope to bridge.

Nick thumbed through his prayer book, tattered from his travels, and felt a rustle of interest animate the congregation. He lifted his head, looking to the top of the nave where light spilled through the dim church like a fire. A figure in black made her way up the aisle, her pace decorous and measured like a nun at her prayers. Isabelle. Each Sunday she made such an entrance, a veil over her face, appearing to pay no heed to her audience.

Mrs Greenley whispered to Mrs Fletcher from the pew behind him. “What a proper lady ought to be.”

Nick only saw something studied in the extreme smoothness of her walk that bristled the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Agatha, look.” Mrs Fletcher gasped. “She’s finally done it. Her ladyship got that girl into some proper mourning clothes.”

Nick’s gaze slid from Isabelle with her downcast eyes, farther up the aisle, to encounter Meg. Head to toe in black. Her thick raven hair was drawn into a demure knot exposing the nape of her neck. Tiny black curls escaped from her bun and a plain black chip straw bonnet tilted unremarkably on her head, secured by a miserly ribbon tied at a rakish angle under her chin. Her dress, too, was extremely simple. Made of coarse cotton, it fell straight to her toes without the diversion of a ruffle or a gather anywhere. She ought to have looked like a crow. Most women did when they wore mourning.

Meg did not.

Instead, the deep

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