Jacquie D'Alessandro by Loveand the Single Heiress Page A

because every time I did, it…hurt. He’d been my best friend, and for my entire life, 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