Page 86 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Youwere willing enough,” he said. “Nay, youofferedyourself to me, parting your thighs like…”
He hesitated, then shook his head.
“Like what?” she asked. “A whore? A doxy? Or a slut? Fear not the words, sir—for the whole of your sex takes great pleasure from claiming the bodies of the women you revile. You blame us for the sins of the world, yet you are incapable of turning your own judgmental eyes on yourselves. I should have known better than to seek forgiveness from one such as you—a man incapable of forgiving another living soul.”
“Iamcapable of forgiveness! Even for those deserving of none!”
Her anger burst and she lunged forward, striking his cheek with her hand.
“Howdareyou! Do not lie to me—did you not say there were to be no secrets between us?”
He stepped back, rubbing his cheek, then let out a cold laugh.
“I was wrong in that, was I not?” he sneered. “Iharbored no secrets—it’s a pity you cannot say the same yourself. But do you know what the most pitiful thing is—that which I hate myself for the most?”
“Do tell, vicar,” she snarled. “One final sermon—for after today, I intend never to set foot in this godforsaken village again, where the principal inhabitants have no more morals than rutting dogs, and the only man I believed worthy of goodness himself turns out to be the embodiment of thedevil!”
He recoiled at her words, his eyes filled with pain. He closed them, and her heart swelled with compassion.
Heaven help her—she still loved him. Even though he’d condemned her and uttered his disgust, still she loved him and could not bear the notion of his pain.
Then he opened his eyes once more, and she recoiled at his expression. All trace of emotion had gone.
“The one thing I hate myself for the most,” he said, “is that I would have forgiven you for what you did to Eleanor.The woman who tried to destroy that pure, innocent soul—the woman who sought to bring an angel down to her level in the dirt…” He curled his hands into fists. “I would have forgiven you, Juliette Howard—if only you had trusted me enough to tell me the truth from the beginning.”
Etty’s heart shuddered at the toneless manner of his delivery.
“You’re fooling yourself, vicar,” she said. “You made your hatred of—of Juliette plain.”
“Aye, I did,” he said, “and I prayed nightly for forgiveness. But I would have grown to love her—to loveyou—regardless of your past sins.” He let out a sigh and shook his head. “I did love you.”
Did…
A knot of pain tightened in her body.
He stooped to retrieve his jacket, which he put on, securing the buttons with a measured, methodical movement. Then he tied his cravat and smoothed back his hair, adjusting his jacket and making a show of removing a speck of dust from his sleeve.
“Andrew…” she began, her voice a hoarse whisper, but he raised his hand.
A wail rose from elsewhere in the cottage.
“Your child is crying,” he said.
“My—”
“Dunton’schild.”
She swallowed the spike of pain at his words, and for a moment, regret crossed his expression.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I have taken up too much of your time.”
“Yes,” she said coldly. “You most certainly have. I am a fool for not having realized that weeks ago.”
“Then we are both fools.”
“Fool no more,” she said. “Get out.”
“With pleasure,” he replied.
