Page 2 of Heartbreaker of the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #6)

Sandcombe, Lincolnshire, August 1817

T he life of a vicar was not, as many believed, one of peaceful contemplation. Instead, it was filled with the noise of people—so many people, with so many problems. And those people believed that most of their problems could be solved either by the application of an occasional prayer to the Almighty muttered at their bedside, or by weekly attendance at church. Better still if they declared their faith by singing a few bars of a hymn. Or cawing , in the case of Lady Fulford.

Andrew cringed at the memory of his patron’s wife’s voice. Why was it that those who lacked any talent for singing were always disposed to sing the loudest? But Lady Fulford was perhaps to be praised for her tenacity, if nothing else—spurred on by her friends, who described her voice as having a unique style of its own.

My friends tell me I have a unique style of my own, Mr. Staines, Lady Fulford had said on many an occasion when pushing herself and her equally talentless daughters to the forefront of a dinner party to entertain the guests and showcase their accomplishments—accomplishments that were expected to snare them a suitable husband.

A husband such as a vicar who also happened to be the younger son of an earl.

Yes, Lady Fulford believed that by inflicting her voice—and her condescension—on the less fortunate souls in the village, she was affirming her superiority in the eyes of the Almighty, thereby effecting her own salvation.

The task of solving everyone else’s problems—and the salvation of their souls—fell to Andrew himself. Like any vicar, he was considered the rightful property of his flock. Yet those members of the flock who needed him the most were the ones least inclined to demand his attendance. But he always allowed himself the indulgence of ensuring that the length of each visit he made was in direct proportion to need.

Which, by a lucky coincidence, meant that his visits to Lady Fulford were often very short indeed.

But, on occasion, he allowed himself to indulge in a morning to himself, to savor a moment’s respite from the clamors of the people and their incessant problems—many of which could be solved by being a little kinder toward each other—and enjoy the solitude to be had from a stroll on the beach.

His favorite stretch of the coastline was at the south end of the village. That the rest of the population tended to avoid the area—due to the occasional riptide that rendered the water treacherous—was nothing but a coincidence.

At least, that was what he tried to tell the Almighty while engaging in his own nightly prayers when he begged forgiveness for wanting, and taking, respite from all the vestigial noise that people seemed to create.

He gazed across the sea—the shimmering blue adorned with ripples of light—and inhaled deeply. There was much to be said for the restorative properties of the sea air, which was why people flocked to resorts in their droves to take the waters, or enjoy a week or two’s sanctuary from their otherwise unfulfilled lives.

It was why she had come to Sandcombe.

Eleanor—the purest, gentlest soul who walked upon the earth. A victim of her venomous sister’s spite and a judgmental Society, Eleanor had fled London seeking solace in the country. And Andrew had fallen utterly and completely in love with her.

But Eleanor had been in love with another—the Duke of Whitcombe—who had followed her to Sandcombe, baring his heart and soul on bended knee to win her back.

Andrew ought to hate the man. Whitcombe was everything Andrew wasn’t—handsome, powerful, and alluring, the sort of man who bedded his way through one half of London’s women and broke the hearts of the other half. A firstborn son with the title, privileges, and admiration of the world that he considered his birthright.

And, most of all, Whitcombe was the man who had secured Eleanor’s heart.

Lucky bastard.

Andrew flinched at the profanity and resolved to utter an extra-long prayer for forgiveness that night. Perhaps he might introduce a passage or two about the sins of envy—and cursing—in his next sermon.

Yes—he envied Whitcombe, and that envy had intensified the day Andrew read the notice of their marriage in the papers. But he could never hate the man, for he made Eleanor happy. Not because she was a duchess with, from what he’d gathered, a child already in the nursery and a second on the way. But because she was married to the man she loved—and who loved her.

No—Andrew’s hatred, for which he begged forgiveness in his nightly prayers—was reserved for those who had striven to destroy Eleanor. Most notably her spiteful sister.

Miss Juliette Howard.

He curled his hands into fists at the mere thought of the woman.

Then he admonished himself. Why waste his efforts and thoughts on a creature he’d never meet? Hating her served no purpose.

Devil take me—I’ll have to include a passage on hatred in a future sermon.

He drew in another lungful of air, his mind’s eye picturing the sweet, clean sea air purifying his heart to combat his ill feelings. Then he thrust his hands in his pockets and turned inland. He glanced toward the cliffs that formed a horizon, and froze.

A lone woman was standing on the cliff edge.

The sunlight illuminated her hair—soft honey-blonde strands, loosened by the wind, glistened like gold. Her gown, a plain white muslin, billowed about her body in the wind, catching against her legs to reveal their shape. Her frame was so slight that she was in danger of being caught up in the wind and tossed into the air like a stray handkerchief.

Was she aware of the danger? One gust of wind and she’d be thrown over the cliff edge, her frail body dashed against the rocks below.

Who was she?

Even from a distance, an aura of despair seemed to shimmer around her—a lost soul staring out to sea, as if it might give respite from her pain.

Then she took a step forward, and Andrew’s gut twisted with horror.

Sweet Lord —she was going to jump!

Before he could cry out a warning, her body stiffened. Then she turned and retreated, disappearing over the horizon.

Rather than take the longer path that wound through the sand dunes, Andrew sprinted toward the steps carved out of the cliffs and climbed them, pausing halfway to catch his breath. But by the time he reached the top, there was no sign of her. The landscape stretched before him—flat and empty save for the solitary cottage that had lain empty for almost a year since Eleanor left—and beyond it, the village, with its collection of red-bricked dwellings, overshadowed by the church spire.

Perhaps the woman on the cliff was a figment of his imagination, the archetypal lost soul he’d entered his profession to save.

As if to remind him of his duty, the church bell rang out seven times. Breakfast would be waiting for him at the rectory—as would those members of his flock he’d promised to call on today. There was no time to dwell on the apparition, no matter how lovely she was, or how much she’d touched his heart. In all likelihood, he’d never see her again.