by Emily Royal
“Then you shall receive your next lesson when you permit me to read it. How else can I measure your progress?”
He cupped her cheek, and her lips parted. “You only need to say the word.”
She hesitated as if in thought. Sadness flickered in her eyes, and she pulled free.
“Are ye well, lass?”
“Perhaps we should return,” she said. “I had no idea how cold it would be at the summit.”
“Very well.”
On the journey back, she said little, giving him short answers to his questions. Most women he’d have believed to be tired, but she seemed energetic, taking the path with light, confident steps. Halfway down the drover’s road, the carriage stood waiting. The driver jumped to his feet and opened the door. She uttered a word of thanks and climbed in, and Fraser followed.
She had already arranged a blanket over her knees and placed herself in the center of the seat so he could not easily sit beside her. He took the seat opposite and rapped on the side of the carriage, and it set off with a jolt.
As they approached the castle, her mood darkened, and she seemed deep in thought. She avoided his gaze, focused outside.
The carriage turned a corner, and the mountain disappeared from view. With a sigh, she sat back and looked down at her hands.
He leaned forward and placed a hand over one of hers. She jumped and met his gaze.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I spoke out of turn.”
Her eyes widened in question.
“Your poem. I had no right to question your honesty over it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, “I…”
“No, let me finish,” he interrupted. “You’re my guest, and it’s my duty and pleasure to make you welcome. I want ye to trust me as I trust you.”
His words, intended to comfort, only distressed her more. A tear spilled onto her cheek, and he lifted his hand and brushed it aside.
“Your Grace…”
He squeezed her hand. “Why don’t you call me, Fraser?”
“It wouldn’t be proper.” Her voice wavered. What distressed her?
“Since when have you been ruled by propriety?” he asked. “My wee terrier says what she thinks and believes in herself. I would not have her change.”
“Fraser…” she whispered. She lifted her gaze to him.
A ray of sunlight illuminated her eyes. Their rich amber color glowed with warmth and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, as if they were the only two people in existence.
The carriage drew to a halt, shattering the intimacy. He took her hand, and they climbed out.
“It’s about time,” a female voice said.
Ma stood by the carriage. “Fraser, I’ve been worried,” she said. “You’ve been out for hours up the mountain. Poor Miss Hart must be exhausted.”
“I’m quite all right, Mrs. MacGregor, I assure you,” she said. “I wanted to climb Beinn mo Chridhe.”
Fraser smiled at her pronunciation but made no attempt to correct her.
“That’ll be all,” he said to the coachman. “But make sure the carriage is ready tomorrow morning. We need to leave just after dawn to reach Edinburgh in time for the London coach.”
“Aye, sir.”
The carriage moved off, and Fraser led her inside. The sun dropped behind the mountain, and a shadow stretched across the ground. He shivered as the skin on the back of his neck tightened. But it was not just the cold. It was the expression in Lilah’s eyes. An expression he’d rarely seen in a woman, for too often it was tainted by greed. But he recognized its purity, for it mirrored his own. It was an expression that would only lead to heartbreak.
In her eyes, as she looked back at him, he saw love.
Chapter Eighteen
After arriving home in London, her poem was finally complete.
Lilah placed her pen down and picked up the paper and blew on it. The ink glistened in the light, then dissolved into the paper as it dried. She read the lines, her eye following the shapes of the words she’d penned without thinking.
He had been right. At last, she had something worth saying, something from the heart, driven by passion. She had begun to question her beliefs almost as soon as she’d arrived in Scotland. Though he was an aristocrat, a Molineux, he shouldn’t be defined by the blood which ran through his veins. Blood and ancestry meant nothing. What mattered was what he did—his beliefs, his love of the Highlands, and his care for the people who depended on him.
Even his admission of his feelings, though it hurt, was, at least, honest.
Lilah only had herself to blame for having fallen in love with him.
Yet her admission of that love had unlocked her heart, and the evidence lay stacked on the desk beside her. A love poem, written from her very soul.
Was that why poets led such melancholy lives? Did they need to experience heartbreak before they could express themselves? Or perhaps they needed to harden their hearts to survive. Lord Byron attracted scandal and left broken hearts wherever he went, but perhaps such notorious behavior had been necessary, to enable him to write such beautiful verse.
Was that what Lilah would have to become in order to survive?
A clock struck in the distance, three chimes. Tea would be waiting in the parlor. And Mr. Stock would be waiting for her in his offices in an hour—waiting for her final essay. Perhaps once she’d delivered the final piece, she might be able to look at him with a clear conscience.
She packed the poems into her pelisse, together with her essay, and slipped out of her chamber. She made her way down the staircase and past the longcase clock by the front parlor. The door was open.
“Why don’t you come in?” a male voice said.
Sir Thomas sat, reclined in an armchair, his legs crossed.
“That’s Dexter’s armchair,” she said.
He rose to his feet. “And I’m his guest.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“Your sister does. She’ll be here in a moment.”
“Then, shall I pour the tea?”
She picked up a cup, and it rattled against the saucer as her hand shook.
“Are you all right, Miss Hart?” he asked. “Delilah?”
She wanted to admonish him for his familiarity, but concern was etched across his brow—the concern of a friend, and one who, despite his rank, understood her passion for equality.
“Sir Thomas, I…”
He placed his hand over hers. “You seem unhappy,” he said, “and you have been ever since you returned from Scotland. Did you not enjoy your visit?”
“I did,” she said. “The land was beautiful. Fresh air and mountains.”
“Then why do you look so tired?” he asked. “If that’s what fresh air does for you, I’d advise you to remain here in London. Perhaps I should send for Doctor Lucas.”
She shook her head. “Doctor Lucas is a pompous fool.”
Sir Thomas laughed. “He wouldn’t welcome such a description, though he has a reputation for being overly obsessed with the use of leeches. But I do think you should take care of yourself. Or…” he squeezed her hand, “…let someone take care of you.”
She closed her eyes, but the memory of him invaded her mind, of his eyes which had shone with desire when he’d given her pleasure, and full, sensual lips which had kissed and caressed her to unimaginable ecstasy.
Sir Thomas sighed. “I care about you, Delilah,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“There’s no need,” she replied.
He stroked her hand and turned it over.
“What’s this?”
He tightened his grip and inspected her fingers. “Ink stains? What have you been doing?”
“Writing.”
“Again?” He smiled. “Your industry is to be applauded. I do believe a woman needs an occupation to keep herself satisfied and stimulate her mind…” He hesitated and cleared his throat. “…Particularly a married woman.”
“I…”
>
“No, don’t say anything,” he said. “But let me assure you that I would never do anything to make you unhappy. Quite the contrary.”
A series of notes rang out from the clock on the mantelshelf, and she rose to her feet.
“What are you doing?” he asked, rising with her.
“It’s half-past three,” she said. “I must be going.”
“Where?”
“It’s not important.”
“May I accompany you?”
“I’d rather be on my own.”
He withdrew his hand. “Then your wish is my command,” he said. “I cannot ask you to honor and obey me—at least not yet. But I hope, one day, you’ll always turn to me for help and support.”
She dipped a curtsey, then left him alone in the parlor.
*
“This is wonderful, Miss Hart. Your best yet.”
The editor of the City Chronicle nodded his approval.
“This essay will cause a stir,” he said. “Society will really question the worth of the aristocracy.”
“But I’ve written a balanced article, Mr. Stock,” Lilah said. “See the conclusion? It argues that the world we live in can never be completely fair. The fortunes and misfortunes of birth are something we must accept, and we should be defined by what we do with our lives. I trust you won’t edit too savagely.”
“You must trust me to know my readership best,” he said. “But the words will be yours—or, at least, Jeremiah’s. I’ll merely make the necessary adjustments to fit the tone of my publication. You wouldn’t believe the difference that can be made by changing just a few words in every hundred.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.
“You trust me, don’t you? Nothing I publish is at risk of being branded as libelous. You’re safe on that count. I wouldn’t want Molineux to lodge a lawsuit against me.”
“It’s not a lawsuit I’m concerned about. It’s your readers and what they might do.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about from my readers,” he said. “They’re respectable, hard-working men, unlike the Frenchies, who’d think nothing of decapitating a nobleman.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Our readership is six hundred, Miss Hart,” he said. “Less than half will read my paper from cover to cover, and an even smaller proportion will be sufficiently moved by what you write to take any action. Compare that to the population of London, which is substantially more than one million. Consider how unlikely it is that even two of my readers will pass each other on the street.
“I suppose the chances are small.”
“There!” he said. “I knew you’d see sense.”
She rose to her feet, and he showed her out. As the clerk ushered her through the door, she spotted a familiar figure ahead of her in the street.
“Sir Thomas! Are you following me?”
His expression betrayed him every time. He’d never be able to cheat at cards.
“Permit me to escort you home,” he said.
“I can manage on my own.”
“Very well, if you insist, I shall leave you in peace.”
Only when Lilah reached the end of the street, did she realize that, for the first time, Sir Thomas had accepted her first refusal.
Perhaps he was beginning to respect her wishes.
Chapter Nineteen
Fraser watched as Hart flicked through the sheaf of papers.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Hart,” he said.
The banker’s attention remained fixed on the documents in front of him. Save a slight tic in his jaw, Fraser might have believed he hadn’t heard.
No wonder Hart had amassed a fortune. The man possessed two qualities needed to succeed in business. The first was the ability to read what others were thinking while concealing his own thoughts behind an impassive, cold demeanor.
The second was a dispassionate ruthlessness. Hart would think nothing of using the letter of the law to ruin a rival.
But perhaps he could be forgiven. Despite his wealth, Hart was still shunned by most of the ton. Only few exceptions, such as Earl Stiles, saw fit to recognize the Harts in public as acceptable acquaintances.
And Fraser himself, of course. However, Hart was not a man to soften his approach to a business deal on account of an acquaintance.
Or a friendship.
In all likelihood, Hart lacked friends. Any friendship with him would exist purely for the benefit of Dexter Hart. And Fraser doubted whether such a man was in need of anyone.
A pity. Fraser found himself respecting the man, even if he couldn’t bring himself to actually like him.
Hart set the papers aside. “Your projected profit figures seem impressive,” he said.
“So, you’ll agree to a loan?” Fraser asked.
Hart shook his head. “Unfortunately, your financial position stands on a knife-edge.”
“I’m experiencing a temporary dip in cashflow until the orders come in,” Fraser said. “The term of the loan need not be longer than a year. Two, at most.”
“No banker of sound mind would lend you a farthing without collateral.”
“I have my London property.”
“Which is already mortgaged.” Hart rolled his eyes. “Even a man of the meanest intelligence would understand that I’d be a fool to lend you funds on a property to which your other creditors have a prior claim.”
“The loan on the house is less than the value of the house itself.”
“That’s immaterial,” Hart said. “The value of a house which you’re forced to sell to avoid bankruptcy is substantially less than it would be had you no intention of selling.”
“Bankruptcy is a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“One of your creditors might agree with you in isolation,” Hart said, “but I must consider your debts as a whole.” He picked up a piece of paper. “This one, for instance, attracts interest of thirty percent, which falls due next month. How do you intend to service it? Have you persuaded the trustees of the Molineux estate to release funds? There’s an entailed property in Hertfordshire, is there not?”
“Yes, Molineux Manor,” Fraser said. “How do you know that?”
“I make it my business, Your Grace, to understand the full extent of the risk,” Hart said, crisply. “Are you in a position to sell Molineux Manor?”
Fraser shook his head. “The trustees would rather see it crumble into ruin than suffer the indignity of being sold at auction. I can’t even sell the silverware inside it. Once the previous duke’s debts were cleared, there was no cash left—only the two properties, Molineux Manor and Clayton House.”
“And you saw fit to sink your own funds into renovating Clayton House,” Hart said.
“Clayton House is not entailed, so I can do what I want with it.”
“You should have sold it when you had the chance,” Hart said. “A mortgaged property is just one more fixed cost for you to service.”
Hart leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Much as I’d like to invest, the risk is too great. I cannot see how you’ll service the debts you already have, let alone further debt.”
He raised his eyebrows as if expecting Fraser to challenge. But the arrogance in his air told Fraser that his mind was made up. A man like Hart was impervious to persuasion, and Fraser wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him grovel.
“I can service the debts from my business,” he said. “I’ve received sufficient orders for whisky to cover the interest for the next two years, at which point we’ll be in a position to deliver and can repay the loans in full.”
“And if you aren’t?” Hart asked. “What if something happens to halt production? Or if you encounter unforeseen expenses?”
“Then my creditors will enjoy their thirty percent for a little longer,” Fraser said.
Hart narrowed his eyes. “I’m still not convinced the population of London will buy the stuff. Personally
, I prefer brandy.”
“A banker will always have a lower appetite for risk than a businessman,” Fraser said.
“Not at all,” Hart replied. “I’m merely more capable of weighing the risks against the potential for return.”
“And you believe the potential return from my business isn’t worth the risk?”
“Not when there’s a very real chance of that return manifesting itself as a total loss of one’s investment.”
A total loss?
Had Fraser suspected Hart to be in possession of emotions, he might have taken his words as an insult and slammed his fist into his jaw to wipe that arrogant sneer off his face. But as it was, Hart was a soulless financier stating what he believed to be a fact and nothing more.
A clock chimed in the distance, and someone knocked on the office door.
“Come in!” Hart called.
A young man entered. Blonde-haired with warm brown eyes and a demeanor to match, he looked the antithesis of the man sitting opposite Fraser.
“Your next client is waiting for you, Hart,” he said. “Shall I tell him you’ll be ready presently?”
Hart glanced at his pocket watch.
“Tell him I’ll be down directly, Peyton,” he said. “I think we’re done here.”
“Very good.” The man disappeared.
“My business partner,” Hart said, rising to his feet. “A little too kind for my liking, but he has the makings of an excellent financier.”
He held out his hand, and Fraser stood and took it.
“No hard feelings,” Hart said, “but business is business. I cannot invest in your enterprise, but I wish you success with it.”
“But without your help.”
“A man should help himself, Molineux,” Hart said. “A lesson the aristocracy will need to learn if it’s to survive. But permit me to give you some advice, if I may.”
“Which is?”
“I’d minimize your acts of philanthropy until you are more—solvent.”
“Philanthropy?”
“From what my sister tells me, you’ve been using substantial sums of money to support charitable causes. I understand Mrs. Forbes and her establishment have much to thank you for, but I doubt your creditors would agree.”
