Page 139 of Oddity of the Ton
“There what is?”
“The consideration for another with little regard to your own gratification. The purest form of love.”
Her throat constricted at the thought of…him. Her eyes stung with tears, and she lifted a hand to wipe them away. The reverend caught her wrist and held it in a firm but tender grip.
“You still love him, don’t you?”
She longed to deny it, but her defenses crumbled at his gentle touch and tender gaze, and she bowed her head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then he placed a hand on her cheek and wiped the tears away with his thumb.
Then she looked up and let out a low cry.
“Mrs. Riley?”
Harriet stood in the doorway.
He withdrew his hand and stepped back, his blush deepening.
“Begging your pardon,” Harriet said. “Mrs. Palmer’s expecting you—for the sitting, for her portrait?” She stepped into the parlor, and her eyes widened. “Reverend, what have you done to my mistress?” She rushed toward Eleanor. “Oh, miss! Look at you—you’re trembling all over. You—” She broke off as she realized her mistake. “I-I mean, Mrs. Riley, ma’am.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I know.”
“Y-youknow?”
“Yes, Harriet. I commend you for taking such excellent care of your mistress after what happened.”
“He knows everything, miss?”
Eleanor nodded. “You needn’t worry, Harriet. Mr. Staines is a friend.” She took his hand. “Agoodfriend. He’ll not tell a soul, will you?”
“No—Eleanor.”
Harriet flinched at the familiar address. “Miss Eleanor deserves a friend after what that sister of hers did.”
“And she does have a friend,” he said. “Eleanor, I’ll ask nothing of you other than that one day—in your own time—you might find it in yourself to trust me withyourfriendship.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Now, don’t let me detain you if Mrs. Palmer’s expecting you. Do you wish to leave your easel and canvas here? I can keep it safe for when you resume your painting of the church.”
“Yes, thank you,” Eleanor said.
With Harriet’s assistance, they gathered the rest of her materials, then he ushered her out of the vicarage, pressing a wrapped slice of cake into Harriet’s hands.
“Oh, reverend—I couldn’t possibly.”
“Please,” he said, giving Eleanor a wink. “If you don’t take it, I’ll be expected to eat it all myself, and though my tailor wouldappreciate the custom, I am not minded to purchase a new wardrobe just yet.”
“Then we shall accept both the cake, and your friendship, with pleasure,” Eleanor said.
Arm in arm with Harriet, she took her leave. Halfway along the road, she turned back to see him standing in the doorway, watching her.
“He loves you, miss,” Harriet said. “There’s none kinder than him. You could do worse.”
For a moment, the image flashed before Eleanor—of a comfortable life with a kind man whose company she enjoyed, and, one day, a family of her own. The image was perfect, save for one thing.
She didn’t love him.
Her heart belonged, irrevocably, to another.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
