Page 65 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Leave me be!” she cried.
Another rumble of thunder filled the air, and she winced at the sharp crack overhead, as if the sky were tearing in two.
“I can’t leave you out in the storm!” he said over the thunder. “Come inside.”
“No—I must get home.”
“You’ll catch a chill if you remain outside much longer,” he said. “You’re soaked already, and the storm’s right overhead.”
“Andrew,” she sobbed, “I—”
“No,” he said, “I’llnotsee your life in danger a second time. I care not what you say, I’ll brook no argument. Etty, trust me to take care of you.”
His kindness had more power to breach her defenses than his sanctimoniousness, and she yielded, clinging to his greatcoat. He swept her into his arms as if she weighed no more than Gabriel and carried her toward the vicarage, yelling for his housekeeper.
With gentle hands and soft words, he tended to her, wrapping her in a blanket and placing her by the fire, issuing orders to his housekeeper, then absenting himself from the room while the older woman helped Etty remove her wet clothes and helped her into one of her gowns before settling her into a chair. Finally, he returned with a tray bearing a steaming bowl of soup, a plate of sandwiches, cheese and cold meats, and a pot of tea.
“Oh, vicar, you should have left me to do that!” the housekeeper scolded him.
“Mrs. Clegg, a bachelor is quite capable of taking care of himself,” Andrew said, placing the tray on a table.
She let out a huff. “Not in my experience. But seeing as you’ll not listen to reason, I’ll leave you to it.” She straightened the blanket around Etty’s knees. “Is there anything else before I leave, sir?”
“Yes,” Andrew replied. “Send Samuel to Shore Cottage to tell Frannie Gadd that her mistress is safe.”
“There’s no need,” Etty said.
“There’severyneed,” he replied, taking her hand.
The housekeeper arched her eyebrows, then nodded. “I’ll see to it,” she said before exiting the parlor.
Andrew released Etty’s hand, then picked up the soup bowl.
“Andrew…”
“Indulge me,” he said, ignoring her protest. “You’re cold, yes?”
She nodded.
“Then this is the best medicine to ward off a chill. My cook would be most put out if I returned with an untouched soup bowl.”
“Then why don’t you drink it yourself?”
He frowned, and she swallowed her guilt at her sharp tone.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I seem incapable of saying the right thing. When I strive not to hurt those dearest to me, I only succeed in causing more pain.”
He dipped the spoon into the soup and lifted it, a plea in his eyes. A simple act of appeasement.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
She reached toward his hand, and his eyes narrowed, as if he expected her to slap it away. Instead, she took his hand, guided the spoon into her mouth, and swallowed.
The flavor of beef, rich and warm, burst on her tongue.
“Do you like it?”
Her heart melted at the eagerness in his voice—reminiscent of a child who’d brought a gift to an adult whom he was desperate to please.
