1 Chapter 1

1

Prior to his journey, Micah Yardley would never have considered anticipation as the ultimate aphrodisiac. The coach was uncomfortable for extended periods of time, regardless of the crisp autumn air filtering through the open window, and it jostled far too much to allow any sort of activity for hours on end. Conversation was normally the only respite, except Micah traveled alone. There was nothing left to do but sit and think about the destination to come.

More correctly, to think about the man he was journeying to see.

The trip from Boston to Wroxham lasted only a few hours by coach, even less by horse, but Micah felt every moment like a whisper uttered in the dark of night. He had left before dawn, too anxious to wait for the sun to break over the horizon. It meant he would arrive midmorning, and have all day to seek out the object of his attentions. He knew little of the man except for the fact that he resided in the tiny village, far from the beaten path. The university at which he’d given the lecture and presentation where Micah had witnessed his brilliance refused to divulge information of a more personal nature.

But Wroxham was a small community. Only a hundred or so residents. If Micah had been a betting man, he would have considered it a sure thing that the innkeeper where he’d made note to stay would know exactly where to find one Jefferson Barclay Dering. In fact, he was counting on it.

The coach rolled to a stop. Micah’s hand was on the door before the carriage had finished swaying, and he stepped out into the soft morning sunshine with his heart pounding in his throat. He was barely aware of the gentle breeze rustling his dark curls, or the rash of color already staining the trees. Only one thing interested him right now, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the local weather.

The village was even smaller than he expected. Ewan had come to a stop before the small inn, but from what Micah could see, there was little else to Wroxham. A mercantile, a livery, a private residence or two. At the end of the street was the largest building of all, and it was from there Micah heard the faint sound of voices.

He checked his pocket watch. In his rush to travel so early, he’d completely forgotten about Sunday services. The entire village was congregated in the large white church dominating the street.

His head snapped up to stare at its double doors. Jefferson Dering would be in there too.

As he headed off for the church at a fast clip, Ewan called after him in questioning.

“Just wait with the coach,” Micah replied without looking back. “Mrs. Ruark will be with her fellow folk, attempting to save her soul. No point in us intruding when there won’t be anyone in residence.”

In private company, Ewan might have a smart reply for him. Their friendship went back to the cradle, in spite of the difference in their stations. But here, where a wayward ear might catch any inappropriate utterances, Ewan held his tongue. Micah merely caught a glimpse of him shaking his head before he pulled open the church door and slipped inside.

The voices had gone silent in the time it took him to reach them, with only one remaining, lifting its words to the rafters. Micah stepped silently across the wooden floor and slid into the rearmost pew, his gaze sweeping over the paltry congregation. Though he was certain everyone in Wroxham was in attendance, there couldn’t have been more than a few dozen people scattered amongst the polished wooden pews. Families sat together, the occasional elderly man or woman on their own. His vantage made it impossible to detect more than hair or coat colors, perhaps the occasional profile, but he found who he was looking for within seconds of sitting down.

Across the aisle, Jefferson Dering sat midway back, his gaze focused on the minister in the pulpit. His posture was straight, his chin high. It was much the same pose Micah had watched him maintain when he’d been awaiting his turn to speak at Harvard a month previous. Distance kept him from seeing details of the man’s face, but he’d seen enough in the lecture hall. A second row seat guaranteed that.

The long, narrow face. The high brow, half-hidden by his closely cropped ginger hair. Slate-blue eyes, clear and piercing. Micah had been transfixed by those the entire time Jefferson had recited, unaware of the passing time until the small chime had designated the end of the session. The man was tall too, taller than Micah and most definitely slimmer. He had sought to find the perfect metaphor for the man in the time since seeing him, but had yet to discover it.