Page 38 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“I was merely wondering when I had last laughed before today.” She shook her head. “I cannot recall it. Not a genuine laugh, at least.”
“That settles it,” he said. “If only to hear your laugh, I insist you accompany me.”
“Very well,” she replied. “A vicar bent on tending to his flock is, I believe, even more persistent than a debutante’s mama. But you must wait until I am satisfied Gabriel is fully recovered from his fever. I wouldn’t want to leave him, and much as I trust Frances to take care of him, I’m unwilling to burden her more than necessary.”
“Then it’s settled,” he said. “Perhaps next week.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth. She made no attempt to resist, and he brushed his lips against her skin.
Mrs. Ward carried a secret herself—a burden that had crushed her confidence and the value she’d placed on her self-worth. Or, perhaps, she had never been valued by those around her, like Eleanor before her.
But, unlike Eleanor, Etty had stirred a deep longing in his soul. He had loved Eleanor Howard—or, at least,believedthat he loved her. But the woman sitting before him now, whom he’dknown barely a fortnight, had touched his soul in a manner he’d never imagined possible, despite having read countless stories about miracles and revelations.
Etty Ward was not alone in having only recently realized the true meaning of love. The woman sitting before him, whose tiny hand he cradled in his, cherishing the privilege of being near her…
She had opened Andrew’s eyes to what it meant to fall in love with another—a feeling he’d never experienced.
Until today.
Chapter Eleven
Etty’s gut twistedin fear as the sound of horses’ hooves drew near, then stopped outside the cottage. By the time the knock came on the door, she was already in the hallway, smoothing down the skirts of her dress for what felt like the twentieth time.
Frances took her hand. “Wait in the parlor, ma’am, and I’ll let your guest in.”
Dear Frances—such a sweet, kind child! And courageous, given that Etty had been unable to stem the tremors in her body from the moment she’d read her father’s letter announcing his intention to visit.
She let the girl usher her into the parlor, then waited, her heart hammering as she heard the knock on the front door, followed by the murmur of voices—Frances’s light tones, together with the familiar rich timbre.
Then the parlor door opened to reveal Frances, her slight frame dwarfed by the man beside her.
A brown leather satchel in his hand, he looked resplendent in a dark-blue jacket and an understated silk-embroidered waistcoat that reeked of prosperity despite its muted colors. He was much the same as when Etty’s had last seen him, though his mane of once-dark hair sported a little more gray. His skin was tanned, most likely from his travels, and the portliness had gone. He looked healthier, happier. And more prosperous.
Clearly Etty’s actions had not completely ruined him, given that his knighthood had now been elevated to a baronetcy.
He stepped toward her, and her senses were overcome by the familiar scent of smoke and spice—the scent that transported her back to a time when she lived her life in blissful ignorance of the world. It was a scent she’d yearned to relive, yet feared it at the same time, for it came hand in hand with the man who wore it.
Etty rose to her feet, fisting her hands to disguise her trembling. Then she dipped into a curtsey. “Papa.”
“Daughter.”
She flinched at his tone. Why must he always sound so disappointed? Would he ever forgive her transgression against her sister, his undoubted favorite?
“Frances, sweetheart, would you mind seeing to the tea?” Etty asked.
The girl bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, Mrs. Ward.” She turned to Etty’s father. “Please, sir, take a seat. I’m sorry I don’t know your name. I only know you’re Mrs. Ward’s father. We’ve been expecting you. Mrs. Ward showed me your letter.”
Etty flinched at the girl’s lack of decorum, steeling herself to defend Frances from her father’s admonishment, but he gave her an indulgent smile.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “My name is Sir Leonard.”
Frances’s eyes widened. “Oh! So Gabriel was named after you.”
“Gabriel?”
“Gabriel Leonard, Mrs. Ward’s child.”
He drew in a sharp breath, and Etty flinched at the reference to her son—the child her mother had referred to as “the bastard that sealed our family’s disgrace” before Etty fled London.
