Love and the Single Heiress

her alone.”

“I fight gentlemen in the pugilist’s ring,” Andrew said gently. “I don’t make a habit of going about popping dukes in the nose-even if they do send horrible flower arrangements.” Of course, I could change my policy on that…

Spencer didn’t respond with the smile Andrew had hoped for. “Uncle Philip said you are also an expert fencer.”

“I’m passable.”

“Uncle Philip said you’ve defeated him, and he is an expert.” Before Andrew could reply, Spencer rushed on, “Who taught you to fight with your fists?”

“My father gave me some instructions-after I arrived home one afternoon with a bleeding nose, swollen lip, and two blackened eyes. The rest I learned the hard way, I’m afraid.”

Spencer’s jaw dropped. “Someone hit you?”

“Hit is an understatement for the thorough thrashing I received.”

“Who would do such a thing? And why? Weren’t they afraid of you?”

Andrew laughed. “Hardly. I was only nine years old at the time, and as scrawny as they come. I was walking home after a successful afternoon of lake fishing when two local boys set upon me. They were both about my age, but far less scrawny than I. After they blackened my eyes, they relieved me of my fish.”

“I wager they wouldn’t attempt such a thing now,” Spencer predicted.

“I’d certainly give them a better showing than I did back then,” Andrew agreed.

“Did they ever do it again?”

“Oh, yes. They waited for me every week, the same spot, on my way home from the lake. I changed my return route, but they quickly caught on to that ploy. They made my life excessively miserable for several months.” Memories swept over him, of his shame at returning to his father without the fish he’d been sent to catch. The humiliation of shedding tears of pain and frustration, in spite of his best efforts not to, in front of his tormentors. His father looking at him through shrewd, yet calm eyes. How many more times you gonna let those whelps beat the tar out of you and steal our dinner, son? Wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand, fighting back tears. None, Pa. They ain’t gonna beat me next time. Show me again how to fight them…

“And then what happened?”

Andrew blinked and the memory dissipated as if blown away on a gentle breeze. “I learned how to fight. How to protect myself. Then I bloodied their noses. Only had to do it once.”

Spencer’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “I’d wager your fattier was proud of you when you succeeded in subduing those ruffians.”

There was no missing the pain in those words, and Andrew’s heart squeezed for this young man whose hurts obviously ran so deep, and who, in spite of having all his mother’s love, still longed for a father’s love and acceptance as well. “My father was proud,” Andrew agreed softly, refusing to acknowledge the lump of emotion threatening to clog his throat. “And very relieved that we wouldn’t be losing our fish any longer.”

“Why didn’t your father go with you to the lake so the boys wouldn’t set upon you?”

“You know, at the time, I asked myself, and him, that very question. And I’ve never forgotten what he said. He told me, ‘Son, a man doesn’t let anyone else fight his battles for him. If someone else has to fight for your pride, then it isn’t yours at all. ’” He smiled. “My father was a very wise man.”

“Was?”

Andrew nodded. “He died the year I turned sixteen.”

Spencer’s solemn expression indicated he understood losing a father. “Do you… think of him often?”

It was clear by his tone that the question was serious to Spencer, so Andrew thought carefully before answering. “After he died, I thought of him all the time. I tried not to, I pushed myself, worked harder, trying to exhaust my body and mind so I wouldn’t think of him because every time I did, it… hurt. He’d been my best friend, and for my entire fife, we were all we had.”

“Where was your mum?”

“Died birthing me.”

“So you and your father were alone,” Spencer murmured. “Like me and my mum.”

“Yes, I suppose we were. As the years passed, the pain of his death became less sharp. Rather like a knife whose blade loses it edge-it can still cut, but not as keenly. I still think of him every day-it just doesn’t hurt as much now.”

“How did he die?”

Another image flashed in Andrew’s mind, filling him with acute pain, and he realized that he hadn’t been entirely honest with Spencer about the grief dulling over time. “He drowned. A heavy fog rolled in one night while he was at the wharf, and he lost his bearings. Stepped off the dock.” Emotion tightened his throat. “He was a strong, hearty man who could do a thousand things, but he couldn’t swim.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As am I.”

Spencer’s gaze again drifted down to his damaged foot and for nearly a minute, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the mantel clock. Finally, he looked up. “Isn’t it odd that the one thing your robust father couldn’t do is the only thing I can do.”

“You can do more than swim, Spencer.”

He shook his head. “No. I cannot fence. Or fight. Or ride.” His voice took on a bitter, resigned edge that broke Andrew’s heart. “I can’t do any of those things. It’s why my father hated me, you know.”

Andrew pushed off from the mantel and sat beside Spencer. Leaning forward, Andrew rested his elbows on his spread knees and clasped his hands, searching for the right words. He wanted to refute the boy’s statement, assure him his father had cared for him, but Spencer was no longer a child, and far too intelligent to accept such empty platitudes.

Turning to look at him, Andrew said, “I’m sorry that your relationship with your father was estranged and that he didn’t know what a fine young man you are. That was truly his loss, and his decision- one that in no way reflects poorly on you.”

Surprise, and gratitude, flashed in Spencer’s eyes before his expression went flat. “But he wouldn’t have hated me if I were like other boys.”

“Then learn from his mistake, Spencer. Outward appearances are a poor way to judge a person. Just because someone is beautiful or without physical imperfection does not mean he possesses integrity or a good character. Those are the things upon which a person should be judged.”

Spencer looked away and plucked at his jacket sleeve. “I wish everyone felt that way, Mr. Stanton.”

Andrew debated for several seconds, then gave in to his inclination and patted Spencer’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “So do I. But unfortunately we can’t control other people’s actions. Or words. Only our own. And you’re wrong, Spencer. You could do those things. If you really wanted to.”

Spencer gazed back at him with eyes too young to hold all the hurt and cynicism shimmering in their depths. “I can’t.”

“Have you ever tried?”

A humorless laugh escaped the boy’s lips. “No.”

“My father, who we’ve already established was a very wise man, was fond of telling me, ‘Son, if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always be where you’ve always been. ’” He kept his gaze steady on Spencer’s. “Is that what you want? To always say that you cannot do something that you want to do?”

“But how can I do them? Have you not noticed this?” He jabbed his finger toward his foot.

“Of course I noticed. But it hasn’t stopped you from walking. Or swimming. Your foot is damaged, but your mind is not. I’m not suggesting that you aspire to become the best fencer or pugilist or rider in England-only that you aspire to be the best you can be. Tell me, what is your favorite food-the thing you love above all else?”

The boy looked confused at the abrupt change of subject, but he answered. “Cook’s fresh-baked scones with strawberry jam.”

“How do you know they’re your favorite?”