Page 3 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“You’re disgusting!” she cried. “To think I’d take money for—”
“Ah, of course,” he said, nodding as he reached into his waistcoat pocket. “How remiss of me.”
He fished out a coin and tossed it to her. It struck her arm, then fell to the floor.
“For services rendered,” he said. “Pick it up.”
“I wouldn’t sully my hands with—”
“I said. Pick. It. Up.” His voice came out in a low growl as he stepped toward her. A ripple of fear coursed through her veins as he raised his hands. Those hands—those fat, fleshy hands—had already violated and ruined her. What else might they be capable of?
Trembling, she crouched and reached for the sovereign. Before she rose again, he tossed another coin at her.
“Consider that a little extra,” he said, gesturing toward her belly. “To rid yourself of the bastard.”
She palmed the second coin then rose to her feet. The world slipped sideways, and her vision blurred for a moment, then she righted herself.
“Of course,” he added, “it’s not my place to recommend anyone to deal with your…little accident—but I can instruct Thomas to take you to a bawdy house where there’ll be plenty of whores who have availed themselves of such a service.”
She caught her breath at another wave of nausea.
“Careful, Miss Howard, we wouldn’t want you soiling my Aubusson rug, would we?”
Before she could reply, the door opened, and the thick-set footman entered.
“Ah, Thomas,” Dunton said. “Do escort this”—he wrinkled his nose—“doxy out. Make sure she never returns.”
“But…” Etty began, but the footman grasped her arm.
“Come along now, miss,” he said. “There’s no need to pester the duke anymore.”
“The back entrance, if you please, Thomas,” Dunton said. “I have my reputation to think of.”
Waves of shame engulfed Etty as the footman steered her out of the parlor. Her life was ruined.
What would Mother say? Would she turn Etty out due to her failure to secure Dunton’s hand? As for Papa…
Etty’s heart clenched at the thought of the disappointment in her father’s face. The chances of his being proud of her had always been slim, but nevertheless she’d harbored the secret desire that, one day, he might turn the same tender expression of love that he gave her sister each day onto her. But now, all hope of being loved—much lessliked—by her father was gone.
The glittering future set out before her had crumbled to dust. In reality, that future had been an illusion. The rumors about Dunton had been true—that he relished debauching women, taking their maidenheads as trophies. In all likelihood, he kept the soiled bedsheets to mark his prowess.
Her stomach lurched at the notion—and at the metallic stench of blood that had beset her after Dunton took her for the first time, his chest puffing with pride as his lustful gaze settled on the smear of blood on her thighs.
As the footman shoved her out of the back entrance, she lurched forward, almost tripping on the steps. Her stomachfinally succumbed to the nausea and she vomited over the pavement.
“Filthy whore!” the footman growled. “I s’pose I’ll have to clean that up.”
Etty pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her mouth. Then she straightened her stance and, with as much courage as she could muster, fixed him with a cold stare.
“Who else but you should clear up the evidence of your master’s sins?” she said. “I daresay I wasn’t the first, and I doubt I’ll be the last woman he’s ruined. I hope you take pride in your work,Thomas.”
Then, biting her lip to stem the tears, she turned her back on him and fled.
Chapter Two
Sandcombe, Lincolnshire, August 1817
The life ofa vicar was not, as many believed, one of peaceful contemplation. Instead, it was filled with the noise of people—so many people, with so many problems. And those people believed that most of their problems could be solved either by the application of an occasional prayer to the Almighty muttered at their bedside, or by weekly attendance at church. Better still if they declared their faith by singing a few bars of a hymn. Orcawing, in the case of Lady Fulford.
