Page 144 of Harpy of the Ton
He opened the door to the range and reached for the pie.
Pain shot through his fingers as he grasped the pie dish, and he jerked back, falling to the floor.
Bloody hell, that hurt.
For a moment, he lay on his back staring at the ceiling, besieged by the memory of the day she’d slipped in the garden and fallen on her back—when he’d fallen on top of her, and they almost kissed.
He closed his eyes, willing the memory to linger—the soft scent of rose, the taste of honey on her lips, her beautiful sapphire eyes filled with love…
Then he opened his eyes to a ceiling smeared with smoke stains.
He’d promised to clean those stains for her, but he’d forgotten, dismissing the task as a frivolity. But that frivolity would have made her happy. Made her smile. More than anything, he wanted to see her smile. But he’d never see her smile again.
Would she smile for Dunton?
He shuddered at the thought of that vile man’s hands on her. But in the end, she’d chosen Dunton. She had tilted her haughty little nose at Lawrence—and the children—before climbing into Dunton’s carriage, sentencing herself to life in a golden cage.
He inhaled, and the rich, sweet aroma of spiced apples caressed his senses. Not beef pie, then. He must have picked up the wrong one. It smelled delicious, nonetheless.
He sat up and glanced at the range. The door was open, revealing a dark, gaping hole, like a toothless mouth. And beside it was the pie—upside down, surrounded by shards of pastry, its contents oozing over the floor.
“Fuck!” he cried. “Fuck, fuck,fuck!”
He struggled to his feet, glanced up, and froze.
Three faces peered through the kitchen window, silhouetted against the evening sky.
“Lawrence—are you all right?”
“Of course he’s not, Uncle Ned!”
They disappeared, then the door opened and Ned walked in, followed by Sophie and Sam.
Sophie rushed toward him. “Are you hurt, Mr. Baxter?”
“I’ve had an accident with supper.”
She glanced at the floor. “Yes, I can see that.”
“Sophie, love, don’t be tryin’ to help him up,” Sam said. “Not in your condition.”
“I’m with child—not dying,” she huffed.
Lawrence withdrew from her touch. “I can manage myself, Mrs. Cole.”
“Sophie, please,” she said. “We’re among friends, are we not?” She glanced about the kitchen. “Where’s Bella?”
“She’s not here.”
“I can see that also,” she said. “Well, if we’re quick, we can clear the mess before she comes down. Have you any bread or cheese? That’ll do for us—save her the bother of cooking.”
Lawrence shook his head. “I-I don’t understand.”
“You invited us for supper,” she said. “Don’t you remember?” She let out a laugh. “My Sam’s always accusin’ me of being forgetful because of my condition, but I swear a man’s memory is worse than a woman’s.”
“Sophie, don’t talk nonsense,” Sam said affectionately.
“I speak the truth and well you know it, Sammy, love,” she replied. “When Bella comes, she’ll agree, I’m sure. Is she upstairs? I’m anxious to see her.”
