Page 152 of Oddity of the Ton
“I’m warm enough—Andrew. But, to alleviate your concerns, we can take tea inside when Harriet returns from her walk. You said yourself on Sunday that spring’s come early this year, and I can see that for myself—the blooms are visible already.”
“That’s because the climate here is particularly temperate.”
“And in your sermon last week, you said that fresh air was beneficial to one’s spiritual wellbeing, even on a frosty morning.”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling in the morning light. “Do you pay attention to every sermon I write?”
“Isn’t that what parishioners are supposed to do? Listen to your sermons and apply the principles of the underlying message to their lives?”
“Most parishioners believe that an hour or two spent in church each week is sufficient to absolve them of their sins. They may hear what I have to say, but they fail tolisten.”
He stood beside her and placed a light hand on her shoulder.
“Something’s distressing you, and it’s not the cold.”
She tilted her head up and forced a smile. Andrew may not be the one she dreamed of at night, but in the months since her arrival at Sandcombe, he’d proven to be a good friend.
What more could a woman ask for in a world ruled by men where she had little choice in life?
“I’m content with my life,” she said.
“That’s not what I asked. You shouldn’t aspire to be merelycontent. I would see you blissfully happy, if it were in my power.”
A flicker of desire shone in his eyes, and Eleanor’s stomach twisted. She had no desire to see their friendship marred by a declaration of love that she must inevitably reject. But how could she articulate her feelings to such a dear, kind man, whose heart she had no wish to break?
Before she could reply, she heard the sound of scraping crockery, followed by a smash.
Was someone eavesdropping? Mrs. Fulford was such a busybody, always poking her nose in everybody’s business—and she’d taken a marked dislike to Eleanor.
She rose to her feet, turned toward the noise, then froze.
Montague…
He was standing beside the cottage, a broken flowerpot at his feet. His hair had grown since she’d last seen him, framing his face in thick, dark waves. His eyes—his beautiful eyes—were as blue as they were in her dreams each night, when her bodythrummed with life as she fought the urge to touch that secret place where the memory of pleasure still lingered…
Sweet Lord!Had he come to remonstrate her over the scandal? What of Papa—had he bullied him into revealing her whereabouts?
Nausea clawed at her. Would she have to flee once more, to avoid scandal?
“Eleanor? Who is this man?” Mr. Staines asked.
“M-Montague…” she whispered.
“Montague? You know him intimately?”
She winced at the anger in his voice. “H-he’s the one I…” She shook her head. “Sweet heaven, I’m sorry!”
The world slipped sideways, and she closed her eyes and pitched forward, chasing oblivion.
But oblivion never came. Two strong arms caught her.
“Eleanor—I’m here.”
She clung to him, focusing her mind on the gentle, whispered voice. Then she opened her eyes.
The arms holding her were not those of the vicar—but a stronger, more muscular pair, bedecked with a jacket of finely spun dark blue wool. She inhaled, and the familiar aroma assaulted her senses—the heady scent of wood, spices, and man. For a heartbeat, she clung to the memory of that glorious moment when he’d opened his soul to her as she had opened her body to him.
Then the memory faded, replaced by the harsh reality of the world. She tried to break free, but he held firm.
