Chapter Twenty
W hat must he think of her? What must they all think of her, revealing secrets that weren’t hers to tell?
But as Etty glanced at the man cradling her son in his arms as if he were the most precious being in the world, she saw nothing but kindness, compassion—and love.
As they reached Shore Cottage, she pushed open the door and ushered him in. By rights she should have sent him on his way—she was only giving the gossipmongers in the village more material with which to tell tales about her.
The village whore…
That was what Ralph Smith had called her.
Gabriel stirred in Andrew’s arms, then let out a yawn before nestling against his chest.
“Well, young sir, I think it’s time you had your rest.” Andrew glanced toward Etty. “Shall I take him to his chamber?”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued.
“You’re exhausted,” he said. “And don’t try to deny it; you could barely walk. Make yourself comfortable in the parlor and I’ll see to your son.”
He reached for her hand, and a delicious warmth licked across her belly as his fingers curled around hers.
“Trust me, Etty.”
He met her gaze, his warm brown eyes filled with tenderness, and she nodded as her soul slid into place.
Yes—she could trust him, as she could trust no other.
“Let me take care of your son,” he whispered, “as I wish to take care of you both.”
He dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers.
Gabriel stirred and opened his eyes. “Da.” He let out another yawn. “Da—da.”
Merely the babbling of a child still learning to speak, but Etty caught her breath at the syllable, and all its implications.
The man cradling her child closed his eyes and lowered his head to bury his nose in the boy’s hair. When he opened them again, Etty was met with the full force of his gaze, and her heart swelled at the raw, unbridled love in his eyes.
She’d seen such an expression only once before—when her father had visited to make his peace with her at last.
It was the love that only the best of adults had for a child…
A father’s love.
Her son—and, finally, herself—in safe hands, she let Andrew steer her into the parlor, where she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and sank back into a chair, succumbing to fatigue and slipping into oblivion.
*
When Etty woke, a fire was crackling, casting a warm orange glow about the parlor. Andrew was nowhere to be seen.
Casting the blanket aside, she rose to her feet and approached the fire. She still shook with fatigue and teetered sideways before kneeling beside the fireplace, plucking a log from the pile and adding it to the fire. The flames flared and crackled, sending out a spark that landed on the carpet in a tiny burst of orange before it died.
Footsteps approached and the door opened to reveal the vicar.
“I thought I heard movement,” he said. “Are you warm enough?”
Nodding, she struggled to her feet, and he rushed toward her, taking her arm and steering her back to the sofa.
“You’re still here,” she said as he placed the blanket over her knees.
“I’m here for as long as you wish it, but you only need say the word and I shall leave.”
She reached for his hand. “I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered. “Not ever.”
Hope flared in his eyes, and he leaned toward her. She let her gaze fall to his mouth—his soft, full lips, always curved in a gentle smile.
She parted her lips in invitation, and he moved closer, his breath a warm caress on her skin.
Then he withdrew, and she swallowed her disappointment at the sense of loss.
“Tea,” he said.
Then he stood and exited the parlor, returning with a tray laden with tea things.
“You made tea?”
He smiled, setting the tray on a table. “I thought you might be in need of some.”
“B-but it’s not…”
“Not what?” he asked. “Not a task for a man? I am not such a man as to be incapable of making tea. Please do not think any less of me for knowing how to navigate my way around your kitchen.”
“On the contrary, I assure you, vicar,” she said. “It makes you more of a man in my eyes—the best of men.”
“Then my life is complete.”
“How so?”
He approached her and kneeled beside the sofa, taking her hands. “For you to consider me the best of men—I can ask for nothing more, except…”
He colored and lowered his gaze.
“Vicar?” she said, then curled her fingers around his. “Andrew?”
“I-I dare not hope to ask, for it is my heart’s desire.”
Her own heart swelled with hope, and she dipped her head to kiss his knuckles. He winced as she ran her lips over his bruised flesh—the evidence of his courage in defending her.
“Have you not said in your sermons, vicar, that those who are prepared to risk a loss to themselves must always consider the merits of such risks if the rewards are bountiful?”
He let out a soft laugh and shook his head. “Do you recall everything I’ve said from my pulpit, Etty? Am I so fortunate as to have secured your attention and interest? Might I dare to ask that I have secured your heart also?”
She caught her breath at the intensity in his eyes. “Why yes, vicar,” she whispered. “I believe that you may dare.”
Doubt clouded his expression, as if he still feared her refusal. So unlike he was to the hard, impenetrable men of her previous acquaintance—the bright, shining lords who ruled over the ton , who thought nothing of crushing hearts and ruining reputations, who considered the women desperate for marriage to be their playthings.
But in being the very last man at whom the ton would look, he was the only man with whom she could entrust her heart—and her life.
“Etty, I…” He hesitated, and she placed her finger on his lips.
“Hush, my love,” she said. “There’s no need to ask—nor is there need for me to give you my answer in words. Why tell you that I return your feelings when I can show you?”
She ran the tip of her thumb across his lips, and he parted them to capture it in his mouth. His tongue, soft and gentle, caressed her thumb, and she let out a low groan as a lick of desire curled in her belly.
He withdrew, uncertainty clouding his gaze. “Etty, are you well?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I am very well. Can you not tell?”
“I-I’m afraid… I have never—” He broke off, his cheeks flaming.
Sweet Lord —he was nervous!
She placed her hand on his cheek, and a fizz of pleasure ran through her veins at the feel of the stubble on his chin against her skin.
“I trust you,” she whispered.
“But I have seen the fear in your eyes,” he said.
“I have never had occasion to fear you , Andrew.”
“That time we kissed, in this very room,” he said, “I saw your fear—only for a moment, but it was long enough. I c-cannot touch you if I make you afraid.”
She shuddered at the memory that kiss had elicited—Dunton’s fleshy face leering at her while he claimed her body, while she parted her thighs like any whore, selling her maidenhead for the promise of a title…
He stiffened and retreated, but she caught his hand.
“No, Andrew,” she said. “It was not you I fear, but a memory.”
He blinked, slowly, then let out a sigh.
“I should have known,” he said. “When you confessed your secret. I only feel ashamed that even for the briefest moment I judged you for giving yourself to another. But in trusting me with your secret, you have shown yourself to be a better person than I could ever be. All that remains for me to do is a apologize on behalf of my sex for the blackguard who harmed you—and to promise that I shall spend every day, until I breathe my last, striving to ensure that none shall harm you again.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “I shall honor you now by leaving you in peace until we can make the necessary arrangements.”
The necessary arrangements…
She smiled at his words. Like a nervous pup, he was unable to refer to their marriage, to ask her outright. But it was not because he valued her any less—it was because he valued her too much that the fear of her rejection prevented him from risking his heart.
But it mattered not. As he’d pledged to spend the rest of his life keeping her safe from harm, she would spend the rest of her days teaching him to trust her, as she trusted him.
And what greater expression of trust was there than to give herself wholly to him? Not to secure her position, or to coerce him into marriage—but a true gift of herself.
The greatest gift a woman could bestow on the man she loved.
She took his hand and kissed his knuckles. Then, meeting his gaze, she placed his hand on her breast.
His nostrils flared as he drew in a sharp breath, and she caught the flare of desire in his eyes.
“Sweet heaven…” he whispered. Uncertainty filled his gaze, while she remained still, smiling her encouragement. Then he shifted his hand, and a spark of desire flared as her nipple beaded against his palm. He flicked his tongue out, running it across his lower lip as if in anticipation of the feast to come. “Wh-what do I…”
“Anything you like, my love,” she said, arching her back to press her breast against his palm.
He let out a low whimper, and, swallowing her shame at her wantonness, she grasped her neckline and lowered it to reveal the swell of her breast, the skin flushing a deep pink.
“Anything at all…”
Slowly, he dipped his head until she could feel his breath caressing the skin of her breasts. Then he placed a kiss on the top of one.
“Yes…” she breathed, tipping her head back.
He peppered her skin with tiny kisses while she murmured encouragement, then he flicked his tongue out again until the tip reached her nipple. He stiffened, as if uncertain, and she remained still, anticipation swelling within her. Then he curled his tongue around her nipple and drew it into his mouth.
She let out a soft cry at the wicked pulse of need in her center and shifted her legs to ease the rising ache between her thighs. He withdrew, and her skin tightened as cool air rippled across her breast.
“Am I not doing it right?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Does it not please you?”
She smiled up at him. “I have never felt such pleasure before.”
“B-but it’s not your first—”
She placed her finger on his lips once more. “Hush, my love,” she said. “Let us not speak of that. Today might be your first time, but in essence it’s mine also. We must find our pleasure together.”
“Then…” He lifted his eyebrows in question.
“You must do what gives you pleasure.”
“And your pleasure?” he asked.
“I will take pleasure in knowing that you are taking yours.”
She reached behind to unlace her sash, but he caught her hand.
“No, my love,” he whispered. “I believe I may take pleasure in undressing you myself.”
He rose to his feet and pulled her to hers. Then slowly, reverently, he unlaced her gown and peeled off her garments until she stood before him clad only in her stockings.
“Might I return the favor?” she whispered.
His answer was a low whimper, and she leaned toward him to remove his jacket, her breath hitching as her nipples hardened against the rough woolen fabric. She hesitated before fumbling at the buttons of his breeches. His hardened manhood strained against the material, then sprang free as his breeches fell to the floor, seeming to thicken under her gaze.
He took her hand and led her to the sofa, pushing her back until she lay before him.
He claimed her mouth, gently at first, slipping his tongue between her lips, then more insistently, a groan reverberating through his body as he curled his tongue around hers, drawing it into his mouth before sweeping across her mouth, as if he sought to devour her.
Then he withdrew and kissed the corner of her mouth, flicking his tongue along her skin until he reached her chin, where he left a trail of kisses along her throat, toward her collarbone, and, finally, the tops of her breasts.
“Does that give you pleasure?” he murmured.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh…yes!”
She let out a cry as he clamped his mouth over her nipple and suckled deeply, drawing it into his mouth. He grazed his teeth over the bud, and she cried out again, arching her back as the exquisite nip of pain sent a bolt of pleasure through her.
“No! Do not stop!” she cried as he moved to withdraw, and she buried her hands in his hair to hold his head to her breast.
He let out a groan, like a man starved. As he laved her nipple, his hand gave her other breast the same loving attention, flicking the bud to a throbbing peak, until the twin sensations drove all rational thoughts from her mind, leaving only pure, base instinct.
The ache in her center continued to build, forming a dull, thick pulse, and she shifted her legs to ease it, but to no avail.
He shifted position, and her body sighed as he eased himself on top of her.
“M-may I…?” His voice, though thick with lust, bore a note of shyness that cleaved her soul in two.
“Yes,” she cried. “Please!”
He relaxed, molding his body against hers, caressing her form with his hands, running his fingertips across her exquisitely sensitized nipples. Pleasure threaded through her as he swept his hands across her flesh, and her body tightened, as if it knew what it wanted. She shifted her thighs apart, her flesh slick with moisture, as his fingertips moved toward the center of her need, where the thick nest of curls concealed that secret place she’d dared not touch.
Then she felt him—iron hard and hot, pulsating against her thigh.
Shame threatened to overcome her at how she’d once bared herself to the man who disgusted her, for her own gain—for his title. But the beautiful man before her now, who was worshipping her— loving her—did not merely seek his own gratification. He sought a union of their souls.
His breathing grew shallow as he slipped his fingertips into her curls, toward the center of her need, and her body clenched in anticipation, shuddering and trembling, as if holding back a huge wave of…
Of what?
She shook her head, seeking the words, but none came. Her mind on the brink of dissolution, she could only surrender to pure sensation—as if, on the brink, she ceased to be Etty and instead was nothing more than a female driven by pure need, a mare presenting herself before the stallion.
“Andrew…” she panted. “I need… I want…”
“What, my love?” he asked, his voice strained.
She shook her head. “I d-don’t know—but I need something. I—Oh!”
He dipped his finger through her curls and slicked it along her flesh. The ache sweetened and intensified, and she arched her back, opening her mouth to strain for air.
Then he withdrew his hand, and she let out a scream of frustration as the pleasure faded. “No!”
He grew still at her plea, and she opened her eyes to see him staring at her, his brow furrowed in pain, his eyes glistening, the tendons on his neck protruding, jaw taut.
“Etty…” he rasped through gritted teeth. “Etty—am I hurting you? I-I cannot stop…”
“No!” she cried. “Please—I need you!”
She thrust her hips upward, chasing the pleasure, and he closed his eyes, his breath stuttering. A low growl escaped his lips and he shook his head.
“I have no wish to hurt you,” he said. “I—”
“You cannot hurt me, Andrew,” she said. “I am no maiden.”
“But how will I—”
He broke off with a long, low groan as she reached down and circled him with her hand.
“You cannot hurt me, my love,” she whispered. “You can only give me pleasure—sweet, sweet pleasure.”
She caressed him, running her fingertips along the soft, silken flesh, relishing the potent strength within. Her breath hitched as she reached the tip of him, slick with moisture, to match the slickness between her thighs, and he let out a cry as she gave a gentle squeeze.
“Sweet heaven—what you do to me!” he said. “Can I be dreaming?”
“No, my love—this is real,” she replied. “The love we share is real.”
She parted her thighs and guided him toward her center. His eyes flew open, and she smiled up at him. They stilled for a moment, then she nodded, giving her consent.
He tensed for a moment, then, with a quick thrust, he entered her. Pleasure flared, and as he sheathed himself fully inside her, his eyes filled with wonder.
Etty shifted her hips back, withdrawing. His lips curved into a smile, and he eased himself out of her. Then he inhaled sharply before plunging into her once more, and she lifted her hips to meet him.
Pleasure flared again, and she let out a low mewl.
“Is that…” he said, his breathing hoarse, and she nodded.
“Yes, Andrew,” she said, “oh…yes!” She let out another cry as he withdrew and plunged in once more, setting a steady rhythm. He increased the pace, and the wave of pleasure swelled with each movement, pushing back and forth, a treacherous current that claimed her soul—to which she would gladly surrender.
With each thrust, her body swelled and pulsed, until, with a shattering explosion, she disintegrated, pulling him deeper inside and crying out his name.
“Andrew!”
He threw back his head and continued to pound inside her, while pleasure ripped her body apart. Then the wave crested. His thrusts grew more frenzied, until he let out a hoarse cry. Then he pulled her to him, shuddering and trembling while he clung to her as if his life depended on it.
The ripples in her flesh subsided while he sighed and murmured her name, his thrusts weakening until he lay on top of her, holding her close, his breath coming in quick, hard puffs beside her ear. At length, his breathing slowed. He lay still, his heartbeat a thick pulse against her chest, beating in unison with hers, and, a smile on her lips, Etty drifted into a doze.
*
When Etty woke, the fire was almost out. Andrew still lay on top of her, their bodies molded into one.
How joyous to have him hold her and cherish her, rather than merely take his pleasure and leave without a backward glance. How different he was to…
No—do not think of him!
She stiffened, and he lifted his head. His eyes had darkened to a deep mahogany, with sparks of light in their depths, glistening with moisture.
“D-did I hurt you?” he asked.
She lifted a hand to his cheek and brushed away the moisture there. “No, my love,” she said. “It would be impossible for you to hurt me.”
“It was what I feared the most—hurting the woman I loved when I…”
He colored and eased himself off her, then crossed the floor to the pile of clothes on the rug. Etty relished the sight of him—his lithe body glowing in the firelight, which cast shadows across the planes of his muscles.
He pulled his breeches on, then stood, buttoning his shirt.
“Robert told me that a woman’s first time was always painful,” he said. “I could never understand why a woman must feel pain, when a man…”
Her cheeks warmed and she reached for her undergarments. “Forgive me,” she said, slipping on her chemise.
“What for?”
“For not being a maiden. For another taking me first.”
“Oh, sweet love!” He caught her hand. “Do you think that matters? I care not about him . He wanted neither you nor Gabriel, and that is his greatest misfortune. Let us never think of him again.”
“He’s the Duke of Dunton,” she said quietly.
He pulled her close and claimed her mouth. “I care not whether he’s the regent himself,” he said. “I care nothing for him. He has no claim on you—or on that sweet child. You are what matters, Etty, my love. What happened in your past is exactly that—your past. There are no secrets between us now. Let us therefore forget the past, move on, and build our future. Together.”
He kneeled before her and took her hands. Then he lifted his head, his eyes filled with love and trust.
There are no secrets between us now.
“Let me, at last, voice the question I have wanted to ask you almost from the moment I set eyes on you in the back of my church.”
“Andrew…”
“No, my darling Etty, I must ask you properly.”
“I know, my love, but you must permit me to make my final confession.”
“Your final…?”
“There must be no secrets between us.”
“And there are none,” he said, then gave a wry smile. “Unless the man Mrs. Fulford saw here was not your father after all—but I am more inclined to believe you than her.”
“He is my father,” she said.
“Then what secret do you carry still?”
She dipped her head and kissed his hands. “Have you never wondered what Etty was short for?”
“Henrietta, I presume?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “It’s Juliette.”
He nodded slowly. “Very well. Juliette.” Her conscience pricked at her as he continued to smile. “It’s a pretty enough name, but I must say, Etty suits you better.”
“My father—his name…” She cast her gaze down, summoning the courage, then looked back up again to see doubt in his eyes. “His name is Sir Leonard Howard.”
He frowned, the doubt turning into confusion. Then a spark of recognition glimmered in his eyes.
He shook his head. “Then…”
“My name is Juliette Howard,” she said. “M-my elder sister is…”
He jerked back, rising to his feet, the recognition turning into horror.
“Eleanor,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Dear God—Eleanor! So you’re the sister who…”
She took his hands, curling her fingers around his. “Yes, Andrew,” she said. “I am she. I am the one who, out of jealousy and spite, sought to ruin my sister by humiliating her and exposing her debauchery in public. I wanted the man she was engaged to for myself.”
He withdrew his hands. “The Duke of Whitcombe,” he said flatly.
“Yes.”
“It seems you have a penchant for dukes. May I remind you that I am merely the second son of an earl?”
“How can you speak so?”
“With great conviction,” he said. “Did you attempt to ruin Eleanor before, or after, you gave yourself to the Duke of Dunton?”
She flinched at the coldness in his voice.
“During.”
“ During? ”
“I-I had already given myself to Dunton—but he rejected me.” Her gut twisted at the memory of his words, and the revulsion she had suppressed at the notion of his hands on her flesh. “S-so I sought to teach Eleanor what it felt like t-to be…”
She caught her breath as the sob welled in her throat.
“Humiliated?” he offered, his expression hardening. “Demeaned?
“I’m sorry for it, Andrew,” she said, “truly I am.”
He shook his head. “ Truly I am, ” he muttered, a faintly mocking note in his voice. “The words of a sinner who seeks forgiveness even though she can never repent.”
He retreated and rose to his feet, then glanced down at his shirt hanging loose. His lip curled in disgust and a flicker of shame crossed his expression—as if he’d recently engaged in a sin so unsavory that he deserved to burn.
“What have I done?” he whispered.
“Andrew, please…” She reached toward him, but he jerked back.
“No, madam!” he cried. “Say no more. I know not who you are.”
The anger in his eyes fueled her indignation. “And who are you , vicar? A man who claims to be so righteous that he is incapable of sin?”
“I have never claimed to be free of sin, madam,” he said. “I pray each night for forgiveness—”
“Only to commit those very same sins the next day? Or do you assuage your own guilt by convincing yourself that you have been led astray by a temptress? A whore?”
He flinched and lowered his gaze.
“What, vicar?” she said. “Are you so missish that you cannot bear to hear the word? And yet you are willing enough to rut—”
“ You were willing enough,” he said. “Nay, you offered yourself 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.”
“I am capable of forgiveness! Even for those deserving of none!”
Her anger burst and she lunged forward, striking his cheek with her hand.
“How dare you! 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. “ I harbored 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 the devil !”
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 love you —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’s child.”
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.
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.