Page 97 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
He lifted the glass to his lips, then set it aside. An empty glass was a sign of a man who lacked self-control. Whereas a man capable of leaving a glass half full demonstrated that he did not need liquor to survive the day.
He needed nothing to survive the day.
Not evenher.
Curse it!Could he not have a single waking thought unviolated by her? His dreams he’d long since surrendered to, with her soft voice whispering to him while he slept, tempting him, deceiving him…
But she had left him, abandoned him, taking Frannie Gadd and Loveday Smith with her, leaving the Gadds without their daughter—and leaving Andrew to deal with the fury of Ralph Smith and the outrage of Sir John Fulford, who had suffered a seizure shortly after he visited Andrew, for which Lady Fulford and most of her acquaintance placed the blame on Andrew’s shoulders.
Any moment now, a letter would come from the bishop ousting him from his position.
Let it come.
He reached for his quill and knocked over the decanter, which fell to the floor with a crash.
“Shit!”
He winced at the profanity. Another sin to pray forgiveness for at night. Not that any of his prayers were ever answered. Had his prayers been answered, thenshewould not have…
Curse it!There she was again. And now his head hurt.
The door opened, and he jerked upright, wincing at the pain in his head, to see the blurred outline of his housekeeper standing in the entrance, holding a cup in her hand. Her keys jangled on her belt, and the grating metallic sound pulsed in his head.
“What is it, Mrs. Clegg?”
She tilted her head sideways.
“Mustyou do that?” he snapped.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like I’m a belligerent child and you’re my nursemaid.”
He blinked, focusing on her, his head throbbing. She lowered her gaze to the remnants of the decanter, then resumed her attention on him, her expression that of a disappointed parent.
“Why should I not look at you as one might abelligerent child?” she said. “I see not the actions of a man.” She gestured to his half-empty glass. “A man who loses himself in liquor is no man at all.”
“Got that from the Bible, did you?” Andrew sneered, wincing with regret almost as soon as the words left his mouth.
“From my father, actually,” she replied tartly. “He spoke a good deal of sense, he did. You’ve only to look about the village to see the creatures who call themselves men who have turned to liquor. Men such as Ralph Smith, Sir John Fulford. But you, vicar—I thoughtyoubetter than that.”
“Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You don’t sound sorry,” she replied. “At least not forthat.”
Another spike of pain pulsed behind his eyes, and he lifted his hand to his head, pressing the fingertips against his temples.
She approached the chair opposite his desk and sat—without asking for leave, but he hadn’t the strength to admonish her.
“You’re hurting, vicar,” she said. “And I’m not referring to your headache—for which, truth be told, I have no sympathy, given that it’s self-inflicted.”
“I’m fine.”
“If you say so. There’s no shame in regret, you know.”
“Regret?” he asked. “I’ve no regrets.”
The lie clung to the air, and she let out a sigh. “To heal our pain, we must first accept the truth.”
