Page 106 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Can you not guess?”
Eleanor shook her head, then understanding flowed into her eyes. “You stayed at Sandcombe,” she whispered. “So you met…”
Unable to speak, Etty nodded.
Andrew.
“And…?” Eleanor said.
“He rejected me when he discovered that I was your sister.”
“Oh, Juliette!” Eleanor held her close. “My poor, darling sister! How can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Etty said, shaking.
“There’severythingto forgive! I should not have told him what you’d done. I did so out of selfishness, seeking the sympathy of others. But I had thought better ofhim.”
“Don’t judge him too harshly, Eleanor,” Etty said. “He, like your husband, acted out of his love for you. And therefore he couldn’t have truly loved me.”
“Then he did not deserve you,” Eleanor said, her voice hardening. “Nor does any man who professes to do the good thing, yet lets himself be ruled by his own self-importance. ’Tis a wonder why the world does not turn to ruin, ruled by men as it is.”
Etty glanced at Mr. Baxter, who had chosen that moment to take a great deal of interest in a vase on a plinth by the window.
“Perhaps we should retire,” Lady Arabella said. “Etty, my dear, shall we seek out Frances and Loveday so they can be ready to leave in the morning?”
Etty glanced at her sister, then nodded. “Yes, I’m certain. I must begin a new life unencumbered by my sins.”
“Then I wish you well, sister,” Eleanor said. “And I pray that, one day, you will find the forgiveness you seek.”
“I don’t deserve his forgiveness.”
“I didn’t mean Andrew,” Eleanor said. “I meant the one person who judges you more harshly than any other. And before you can begin to accept the forgiveness of anyone else, you must seek forgiveness from them.”
“From whom?”
Eleanor brushed her lips against Etty’s forehead in a soft kiss.
“You, dearest Juliette. The time has come to look into your heart and forgive yourself.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
London, October 1817
The front façadeof the building reeked of ostentation. A flight of stone steps led to the main entrance—a thick, dark door with a polished handle. Andrew tilted his head to cast his gaze over the rest of the building—three stories that gleamed bone-white in the afternoon sun, with tall, arched windows that reflected the light. On the first story, to the left of the main doors, an enormous, bowed window looked out over St James’s Street, in which a foppish young man sat, his jacket an eye-wateringly bright shade of pink, one hand raised in a gesture that might have implied he was on the brink of sneezing, while he held an embroidered lace handkerchief aloft.
Sweet Lord—if this was what gentlemen were supposed to do with their time, it was a wonder they had not all gone insane.
“Welcome to White’s,” Andrew’s companion said.
Andrew fidgeted with his jacket, then fumbled at the top button. Why did the tailor have to make the thing so damnably tight?
“No, Radham, leave it,” his companion said. “You want to create a good first impression as you enter the club.”
Andrew eyed his companion. Adam Hawke, the Duke of Foxton, was an old schoolfellow—if a boy he’d known fleetingly at Eton could be called aschoolfellow. Foxton had been three years above Andrew and head of Godolphin House,issuing sanctions for transgressions among the more boisterous inmates, most of whom had grown up to be rakes such as Robert.
Robert…
“I don’t understand why the first thing I had to do upon entering London was purchase a new suit,” Andrew said.
