Page 6 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
And Dunton would not have seduced her.
“But then, I’d not haveyou, would I?” she whispered, kissing her child once more. She turned the child so he faced the window. “What do you think of our new home, Gabriel?”
The little boy reached toward the window and placed his hand on it. “Doh-doh.”
She smiled. “Window, my love. It’s awindow.”
“Doh-doh.”
He removed his hand, leaving a palm print in the thin layer of grime on the glass, and she caught his hand before he put it in his mouth.
“No,” she said. “Dirty.”
“Dir-dir.”
“That’s right—and you’ll be sick if you eat it. We’d better get you cleaned up.” She glanced over her shoulder at the parlor. “Youandthis cottage.”
She had arrived last night under cover of darkness, having fled London with the aid of Mr. Stockton, the solicitor who, while he tutted his disapproval, did nothing to prevent her flight. Most likely he expected her to return to London within a sennight, penitent and subdued, given that her stipend was only three hundred a year. Like all men who viewed her as a frivolous young lady who cared for nothing but fine gowns and glittering parties, he’d expect her to succumb to the temptation of taking a husband to release her dowry. But a fortune of twenty thousand wasn’t enough compensation for sacrificing her freedom. As Mother had made plain, Etty’s chances of a glittering match were now gone. It would take an extraordinary man indeed to take on a ruined woman with a bastard clinging to her skirts, even for such a sum. The best she could hope for was a fortune hunter who’d most likely drink and whore his way through her fortune—gone was the prospect of finding a man extraordinary enough toloveher.
But extraordinary men did not exist, other than in fiction.
Men didn’t marry for love. They married for three reasons—to best their rivals by securing the prettiest girl in the room, to increase their coffers, and to enhance their status in Society.
No—a life of solitude in a dusty, abandoned cottage was preferable to a life of imprisonment and misery, and preferable to the rivalry and vindictiveness of theton, thinly disguised under a veneer of elegance. And dust could always be wiped away. Some stains—if not all—could be removed.
“We’ll be happy here, my love,” she said. “Just you wait and see. And you’ll grow up to be a better man than your…”
Unable to voice the words, she let out a sigh, her breath misting on the window. She had no time for despair—there was simply too much to be done. Occupation, and her responsibility for another life, would stave off any selfish melancholy at her situation.
As she continued to look out of the window, her breath hitched as a man appeared on the path, rising from the cliff edge. He paused for a moment, glanced over his shoulder toward the sea, then continued along the path.
“Who’s that, Gabriel?” she whispered.
It was the same man she had seen on the beach earlier, ambling along the shoreline, moving toward the water, then leaping back to avoid the waves. Until he’d glanced up and turned his face toward her.
Dressed in an olive-green jacket, cream breeches, and polished brown boots, he looked every inch the gentleman. A thick white cravat covered his neck, giving him a distinguished air.
She shrank back, her heart rate increasing. Mr. Stockton had said there were no gentlemen living in the village—other than the squire, who, in his sixties and with three grown-up daughters, was unlikely to pose a threat. It was what had attracted her to Sandcombe—that and Eleanor’s account of the village in her letters.
The irony was not lost on Etty, that she was now residing in the same cottage her sister had fled to after Etty attempted to destroy her. But perhaps that was part of the symmetry of fate. The perpetrator of sin was reaping the consequences to better understand the suffering of her victim.
“We don’t want him to see us, do we, my love?” she whispered, kissing the child. “Your mama’s not receiving visitors today.”
The path came past the cottage before veering toward the village. Soon, the man would be within six feet of her. Cradling her son, Etty stepped to the side of the window, to watch him unobserved. His gait was determined, swallowing up the path in long, even strides. The church clock pealed in the distance, and he quickened his pace.
Perhaps he was a visitor, taking a vacation, staying at the inn with the sign depicting a ruddy-faced sailor she’d spotted from the carriage last night. Perhaps, like her, he craved a moment’s peace from the world and had taken a solitary constitutional before breakfasting with his family.
He neared the cottage, and as his pace slowed he glanced toward the window as if he sensed he was being watched. Etty’s breath hitched as she caught sight of his face—a high, domed forehead, straight nose, and full lips. And his eyes—a warm chocolate brown, wide and expressive. He ran a hand through his hair—thick, dark-blond locks that curled at the ends.
Then the child in her arms let out a wail, and the man stopped.
“Hush!” Etty whispered. “Mama needs you to be quiet.”
She stepped away and held her breath, rocking her son to and fro. The boy quieted, issuing little mewls of contentment, and she moved forward again, then froze.
The man was staring directly at her.
He tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. Then he shook his head and resumed his journey toward the village, and her stomach fluttered with relief.
