Page 87 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
She retreated to the front door and opened it. He approached and brushed past her at the entrance. He drew in a sharp breath, and the expression in his eyes softened. Then he wiped them and the softness was gone.
“Good day, madam.”
“Good riddance—sir,” she snarled.
He issued a stiff bow, then turned his back and strode along the path. Etty watched his retreating back as he headed toward the village. Only when he’d disappeared out of sight did she close the door and surrender to her sorrow.
Choking with sobs, she stumbled along the hallway until the sharp cries of her son pierced the air. She rushed up the stairs and into his chamber, where she came upon Gabriel in his bed, his little body racked with sobs.
“Ma-ma!”
“Mama’s here, my love,” she said, sweeping him into her arms. She held him to her breast while he sobbed, soaking her gown, his little hands curling into fists as he clung to her with a ferocity born of a son’s need for his mother.
“My darling,” she whispered, rocking him to and fro. His cries subsided as he nestled against her and placed his soft head on her shoulder. “My sweet love—I’m here, and I promise I will never leave you. Mama loves you so much.”
And she did. Her love for her son was not born of her own needs or desires, or her selfishness. It came without condition, without a need for forgiveness. She loved him no matter what he might do, or say, or keep hidden from her.
It was a love that no man could measure up to.
Clinging to her son, she approached the window and looked out across the landscape, the path leading toward the village hidden by trees, save the church spire, which towered over everything. A seemingly tranquil world where she had once believed that she might find peace.
But there was no peace to be found—not here.
Sandcombe was not her home. It never had been. Gabriel was her home—and wherever she went, as long as she had her son, her life would be complete.
“It’s just you and me now, my darling,” she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-One
It is therefore toward men where we must cast the eye of judgment before condemning the sins of a woman.
Andrew dipped his quill into the inkpot, then dabbed the nib against the side before continuing.
Power without accountability is the root of all evil. All of us are guilty. Even myself. Even
He paused, his hand shaking. Dare he speak of the one who considered himself above sin?
Sir John Fulford…a voice said in his mind—as if his conscience compelled him to speak.
Then he set the quill aside. He had not the courage.
Only one soul in the village possessed the courage to speak of the sins being committed locally—sins permitted by the law and the church and given free rein to exist due to the parishioners’ worship of the upper classes. But Andrew hadn’t even the courage to speak to her after their last encounter.
At first his anger had prevented him from returning to Shore Cottage. Then, as he’d recalled the hateful words he’d said against Juliette Howard—not once thinking the very woman he’d voiced his loathing for had been standing before him all the time—shame replaced the anger. In accusing her of betraying his trust, he had committed an act of greater treachery.
She had opened her heart to him, given him the chance to prove his quality.
And he had failed at every level.
“Sir John!” a voice cried.
Andrew turned as footsteps approached. The study door flew open and the familiar, loathsome figure strode into the study brandishing a silver-topped cane, followed by the red-faced housekeeper.
“Oh, Mr. Staines, sir, forgive me, I couldn’t stop—”
“Cease your prattle, woman!” Sir John cried, exuding a mist of spittle. “It’s not you I’m here to see. It’s him.” He pointed the cane at Andrew as if brandishing a sword.
Andrew rose from his seat. “Thank you, Mrs. Clegg. Some tea, perhaps?”
