Page 11 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
God’s house is not for screaming brats.
The crying had come from the back of the church, where Andrew had spotted a golden head illuminated in the sunlight.His breath had caught, and for a moment, the sermon forgotten, he’d lost himself in a pair of soulful eyes the color of cornflowers gazing at him from across the nave.
It was the woman from the cliff top, cradling a child in her arms. She’d wrapped a shawl around herself to secure the child to her body, which in itself was nothing of note, except for the shawl. It was not the rough, homespun garments in muted greens and browns that most villagers used. It was a rich blue, the color of pale sapphires, that caught the sunlight and shimmered as she moved, emphasizing her eyes—the most beautiful pair of eyes he’d ever seen.
He’d wager his tithes that the shawl was silk. It wouldn’t look out of place in the finest establishments of London’s premier modistes. Not that he had any experience of modistes—or of women.
Unlike Robert. But then, Andrew’s brother, being the eldest, and therefore the heir, had amassed, in the years since leaving Oxford, considerably more experience of modistes—and life in general, particularlywomen—than Andrew could hope to achieve in a lifetime.
Robert would have known what to say to her, the beautiful creature sitting alone at the back of the church. He possessed that easy grace that could charm their nanny into giving him an extra sweet bun, his tutors into forgiving his lack of prowess at Latin and mathematics—and each woman he met into welcoming him into her bed.
Or, if Robert’s tales were to be believed, not just their beds, but all manner of locations—a secluded corner of a garden, over the desk in a library, up against the wall in a hallway…
And even on the beach, which, were it not for the sand he’d spotted on his brother’s breeches after returning from an afternoon stroll with his latest paramour, Andrew would not have believed possible.
To think—what must it be like to make love to a woman and revel in the glorious release, unencumbered by guilt or remorse? What must it be like to make love to a woman on abeach?
Andrew shifted position as his breeches grew a little too tight at the image of a pair of vivid blue eyes widening in pleasure at his touch.
Oh, heavens!That was another item to add to his nightly prayer for forgiveness.
It’s no sin to make love to a woman, Drew. You only need hear her cries of pleasure to understand that.
Perhaps Robert was right about love not being a sin. But envywas. Sometimes Andrew struggled to conquer his envy of his older brother, no matter how much he loved him. What might it be like to have Robert’s lust for life and pleasure, unencumbered by conscience?
And what of the countless women he bedded? Granted, Robert ensured each woman was willing and well compensated for her trouble, but what of the consequences that Robert never bothered himself with?
Such as unwanted children.
Andrew glanced across the churchyard to where Mr. Gadd stood with his wife and children. The farmer stared at Sir John Fulford, his usually mild expression twisted into dislike. Then, after the squire and his wife passed through the lychgate, the farmer resumed his attention on his family and shepherded them toward Andrew.
“A fine sermon there, vicar,” he said. “My Peg was remarking on it just now, weren’t you, love?”
Mrs. Gadd wiped her eyes. “Aye, that’s right, vicar,” she added, nodding to her son. “You thought so, didn’t you, Jimmy?”
The lad nodded unsmilingly. What had happened to his usual cheery demeanor? Most days when he came to the vicarage witha delivery, he could be heard whistling a merry tune even before he approached the door.
“That’s very kind Mr. Gadd,” Andrew replied, “and Mrs. Gadd, of course.” He lowered his gaze to the young girl holding the farmer’s hand. “And how are we today, Frances?”
The girl colored and gave him a shy smile.
“Answer the vicar, Frannie, love,” Mrs. Gadd said.
“There’s no need to rush her, Mrs. Gadd,” Andrew said. “There’s plenty of time. After all, it’s a day of rest, is it not? No need to be making haste or saying more than we care to.”
The girl looked up at him, unblinking. “It’s my birthday today. I’m twelve.”
Andrew’s gut twisted with shame, and he drew in a sharp breath.
August the thirteenth.
Sweet Lord—how could he have forgotten the date?
He exchanged a glance with the farmer and his wife—Mr. Gadd’s expression bearing the veneer of stoicism, Mrs. Gadd’s eyes bright with unshed tears. Then he patted the girl’s head.
“Oh!” he said, overly brightly. “A-are you doing anything special?”
“Mrs. Ham’s bringing a fruitcake round later,” Mrs. Gadd said. “Isn’t she, Frannie, love? That’s right kind of her, seeing as she’s always so busy with those lads of hers—they’re such a handful, especially that Tom.”
