Page 123 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
Roberta was right, of course, but what she didn’t know was that Etty had deliberately set out to hurt a lot of people, including someone Andrew loved.
Which was a sin that no man could be expected to forgive.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Ah,thereyouare, Radham!” Mr. Baxter approached Andrew as he entered the drawing room and held out his hand. “I trust your room is to your satisfaction.”
“Perfectly so, I thank you,” Andrew replied, taking his host’s hand. He cast his glance about the room, but other than his host and the rest of the gentlemen he’d spent the afternoon fishing with—a pleasant enough afternoon during which he’d bagged a trout—none of the other guests were present.
Mr. Baxter steered him toward a table where two footmen stood guard beside a row of decanters, and gestured toward them.
“Madeira?” he said. “Or we have sherry that my Bella tells me is a drink for ladies, but I’ll confess having taken a likin’ to it.”
“Are the ladies joining us soon?” Andrew asked.
“Ha!” Baxter slapped Andrew on the back, and he almost lost his balance. “Eager to meet the marriage prospect, are you, my friend? What do you think of that, Marable?”
The tall, raven-haired Scot in the corner turned to face them, a smile on his face. “A bonny lass she is,” he said, nodding, “though don’t say that in front of my Carin or she’ll chew my ballocks off.”
Andrew flinched at the man’s turn of phrase, but the rest of the party merely laughed. Longford House was unlike any London townhouse he’d visited—and any country estate, forthat matter—with the easygoing manners of its inhabitants and guests. So unlike the stuffiness of Sandcombe Place, where Sir John Fulford had lorded it over his inferiors—until his latest seizure had rendered him an invalid. Now, the bitter old man resided in the gatehouse with his equally bitter wife and resentful daughters, while a merchant had purchased the main house. But it was no longer Andrew’s problem to deal with—the present incumbent at Sandcombe vicarage could tend to the moral welfare of the village.
“I wouldnae touch the sherry, though,” Marable continued. “Tastes like horse’s piss.”
He ambled over to Andrew, his burly frame towering over even their host, and slapped him on the back again. Andrew staggered forward. Since when had gentlemen taken to striking each other as a form of greeting?
“I’d recommend a good whisky,” Marable said.
“Now thatdoestaste like horse’s piss.” The slender man whom Baxter had introduced to Andrew as Major Axley, Marable’s brother-in-law, approached, his scarred face puckering as he smiled. “I’d stick to madeira if I were you, Radham. It’ll save you from being compared to a woman without rotting your insides.”
“I thought you liked whisky,” another guest, a tall, lean, dark-haired man, said.
Axley laughed. “It has its uses, Trelawney. Our housekeeper has employed it when polishing the silverware—gives it a proper shine, it does.”
Marable rolled his eyes. “Take no notice of these weaklings, Radham,” he said. “There’s nothing to be compared to a good single malt. I’ll send you a crate on occasion of your marriage if you like.”
Heavens—were all the guests engaged in a conspiracy to have Andrew marched up the aisle? Hadsheengaged them tochampion her cause and trick an unsuspecting titled man into matrimony?
Well,hewouldn’t be purchased—and he’d told her as much when she accosted him on the road, fluttering her eyelashes, acting the savior as she tried to help him up after his damned horse had unseated him.
For a moment, the image of her face floated in the forefront of his mind—the concern in her expression as she rushed toward him, and the flicker of compassion in her eyes as she reached out to help him up.
But the compassion had morphed into sorrow when he rebuffed her offer of help.
You’re a cad, Andrew Stiles.
Silencing his conscience, he gestured toward one of the decanters. “Maderia, if you please,” he said.
“And a very fine one it is, too,” Trelawney said, “though I say so myself.”
“Cost me a pretty packet, it did,” Baxter said, “but my wife has a fondness for it. As does Miss Howard.”
Andrew’s breath caught at the mention of her name.
Baxter had uttered it without a trace of anger or dislike. Did he know what she’d done—her crimes against her sister, her ruination?
“Have a care, Radham,” Baxter said. “Trelawney here will have you spending a fortune filling your cellar with his wares.”
“A married man needs a well-stocked cellar,” Trelawney said.
