The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1)

by Heather Chapman

  He took a steady step, calling to mind every lesson on composure he had received. He would follow his mother’s advice; he would take care. And yet, Colin could not suppress a smile. He needed to write to Mr. Ainsworth straight away to request an invitation for Miss Grant and her aunt. He needed to see Rose again.

  Chapter 5

  The anticipation of seeing the marquess again only increased in the two days that followed. Rose found herself, admittedly more often than not, contemplating their ride and conversation. A smile rose to her cheeks each time she thought of his sea-colored eyes or the way a smile transformed Colin into an entirely different person.

  She stared at the blank wall, while her maid worked on the task at hand—managing Rose’s tangle of dark waves. From the exasperated sounds behind her, Rose gathered the chore was not going as planned. She tapped her fingers on the dressing table and looked at the bouquet of flowers.

  She adored flowers. Her mother had often gone by the nickname ‘Lilly’. So when Rose, at only four years old, realized her good fortune of also taking the name of a flower, she had been eager to tell her mother. “You and I are a pair of flowers, Mama,” she had said. Rose’s mother had giggled in response, “Yes, but the loveliest addition to that of any bouquet is that of a rose, my dear.”

  Rose cleared her throat. “Would you be so kind as to put a few flowers in my hair, Kate?”

  The maid’s fingers fell to Rose’s shoulders. “A lovely choice, Miss Grant. Shall I place a few of the white ones, or would you prefer the purple?”

  Rose fumbled through the arrangement, plucking out an assortment. “Here, take what you consider best.”

  Kate worked a few of the flowers into Rose’s hair, pinning and prodding, in utter silence.

  Aunt Prudence had been clear of how the staff were to be handled; they were not to be treated with the familiarity that many masters mistakenly offered. Compliance proved a struggle. Rose wished to ask Kate, and the other servants, questions; she longed for a confidante and friend.

  However, Rose reluctantly obeyed her aunt, clamping her mouth shut with every impulsive wish.

  Laura, another servant, stood at the doorway, carrying the newly pressed evening gown. The pale green and silk sleeves glistened under the lantern light, and the delicate sheer fabric overlay of the skirt swished from the movement. “Your dress, Miss Grant.”

  Rose smiled. Her grandfather had gifted her the dress—left to the dressmaker’s artistry—for her most recent birthday. The garment had hung in her armoire for nearly five months untouched; she had not had occasion to wear it. “You may set it on the bed. Thank you, Laura.”

  Aunt Prudence appeared in the doorway, watching as Laura set down the gown. Her lips twitched. “Your grandfather will be pleased to know you are wearing the new dress. I also wish to bestow a gift.”

  Rose’s head shot up. Her aunt had never given anything other than a scolding. “For me?”

  Prudence nodded. She pulled out something from behind her back. The undergarment was far longer than the normal stay, with more intricate lacing and ribbing. “To keep you in perfect form and posture, my dear.”

  Dread stabbed at Rose’s stomach. She had seen such contraptions, though few women still suffered such torture. The current fashion of dresses, with empire waists, hardly called for such measures. And to think of singing in such an uncomfortable state. “But I am to perform at the musicale.”

  “And you shall.” Prudence’s gaze narrowed. She flicked her head at Kate. “I think Miss Grant’s hair is more than ready. You may return to your room. I will assist her in dressing.” She directed Rose to stand and wrapped the corset around her middle. “Your first musicale—and in the presence of the duke and duchess! You must feel very honored, as I do to be accompanying you this evening. Now, do not utter a word unless spoken to.”

  Rose gasped just as Prudence pulled the strings. With her aunt’s force, Rose’s ribs were liable to crack. She winced in pain. “Please, I can scarcely breathe.”

  “Just so. It is much better to be seen than to breathe.”

  To Rose’s dismay, the strings were pulled again and again, until her waist had decreased to the size of a child’s. Rose shoulders drew backward. Settling her shallow breaths took all her concentration. She needed no advice on speaking; Rose could scarcely utter a word under such confines. Singing would be near impossible.

  Prudence whipped the laces back and forth, tying them with surprising enthusiasm. “There, now you are fit to be seen. Now, for the dress—”

  Rose lifted her arms, allowing Prudence to put on the dress.

  “Why so pale, child?”

  Rose shook her head and attempted at a smile. Attending a musicale, even in uncomfortable attire, was infinitely preferable to the isolation of her home. Seeing Colin again was worth enduring any discomfort. “I am well. Thank you.”

  Prudence’s left brow lifted slightly. “Well then, let us go down to the carriage.”

  The ride took over an hour, and Rose felt every excruciating bump along the road. The ribbing of the corset jabbed into her sides and hips, and with each bounce of the carriage, Rose was sent one way or another, unable to control her center of balance.

  If not for the view out the window, the journey would have been insufferable. As they approached the Ainsworth residence, Milton Manor, the golden sun of evening illuminated each flower and stray blade of glass along the drive. Rose stifled a smile; her aunt detested excited displays. Yet, with each stride of the horses, the restraint of the corset lessened. Her breathing steadied. She would see the marquess again, and something about that fact brought immense joy—as if the golden sun shone straight through the carriage and into her heart.

  The driver slowed the horses, and the wheels creaked to a stop in front of the stone estate.

  Rose gasped. The house, built two centuries ago in the Tudor style, stretched at least four stories high. Layers of gray stone, each meticulously carved and cut into place by craftsmen, complimented the lush green gardens in front. Arched windows, set in iron casings, ornamented each tower and structure. Even the patches of ivy and moss added appeal. The scene was a dream—charming and elegant, yet distinguished and noble.

  “I have it on good authority the duke and his family dine here regularly, though I do not understand why. The house is shabby at best.” Aunt Prudence ran her gloves down the front of her skirts. “Grant Estate is far superior, in more ways than one. I never favored Mrs. Ainsworth. She was always trying to best everyone at the pianoforte and cards.”

  Rose bit her cheek. Her aunt’s complaints would not diminish her excitement; nothing could. Musicales were as common occurrences as dinner parties, but Rose had yet to be permitted to attend either. She had long imagined the joy of listening to a room full of friends sharing in music. She had the smallest inkling that something in her life was about to change, if only she could persevere her aunt. She allowed a smile to pass over her lips. “You look well, Aunt.”

  Prudence’s frown twisted into a pucker. “Posh. You know nothing of what looks well or not. Now, remember, keep quiet unless spoken to. Understand?”

  The footmen opened the carriage door, escorting both women to the stone path.

  Rose was grateful for the strength of solid ground. Voices emanated from the open doors. She strained her ears, searching for one particular voice.

  “Mrs. Prudence Grant and her niece, Miss Grant,” Prudence said to the butler at the entry threshold.

  The man was tall and slender, and his gray eyes were rather deep set. His lips settled in a straight line. “This way, Mrs. Grant, Miss Grant,” he said, leading them through the domed entry and into the reception hall.

  Rose’s eyes studied the curve of the stone and the stain glass at the far end of the room. Prudence’s description of the Milton Manor as shabby could not have been further from the truth. Rose’s slippers slid across the stones—each one worn away by the footprints of those that had gone before. She imagined the hous
e had enough history to fill volumes in the library.

  Clusters of people stood along the walls and corners of the open room. The candle chandelier was adorned with crystals, and was lit to its exquisite magnificence, sending splinters of light all across the area.

  Rose’s eyes flickered across the party, until they landed upon Colin. He stood on the far end of the room, conversing with a group of women. She took a shaky breath, clasping her hands together. He wore a dark coat with light blue trousers. His brown waves had been miraculously tamed. Even with his masked expression, he was handsome.

  “Mrs. Grant and her niece, Miss Grant,” the butler announced to the crowd.

  Conversation fell to silence as the assembled guests turned toward the pair of women. Rose curtsied, bowing her head, and lifted her gaze to the onlooking faces. Curiosity shone from all directions.

  “Mrs. Grant, Miss Grant,” the hostess, Miss Ainsworth, said, curtsying in reply. Her silver hair was pinned with precision underneath a large and feathery headpiece. Her honey brown eyes were warm, and she took Rose’s hand. “When the marquess suggested we extend an invitation, I was overjoyed. It’s been too long since I have chanced to see you, dear.”

  Rose grasped Mrs. Ainsworth’s hand and tried to ignore the pinching of the corset. “Yes, decidedly too long, Mrs. Ainsworth.”

  The hostess was another of Rose’s mother’s friends. Mrs. Ainsworth and Rose had met periodically throughout the years—a chance meeting on a rare shopping trip or momentary glances from across the Sunday service—but Prudence had never allowed Rose extensive time to visit.

  Prudence cleared her throat. “Adriana.”

  Mrs. Ainsworth sighed. “Prudence, do come in. I would be glad to make any necessary introductions.”

  Prudence sneered. Her brows pulled into sharp arches. “I am quite acquainted with the social circles of Andover and London, Adriana, but thank you all the same.”

  “Rose?” Mrs. Ainsworth asked, flicking her head to a group of women behind her. “Will you allow me?”

  Rose’s mouth turned dry. Since her governess had left three years prior, Rose had little opportunity for socializing. Despite Rose’s desire to cultivate friendships, a nervousness fluttered inside her stomach. “Thank you. I would be much obliged.”

  Like a heavy curtain, the women descended upon Rose, blocking all view of the marquess. The ladies curtsied and offered “how do you do’s”. They admired her dress and hair. One woman even asked for the name of her lady’s maid. Rose hardly knew how to answer the questions—they came at a startling speed and variety.

  When at last the curtain parted and Rose met the glance of Colin, relief—like a warm fire on a cold evening—settled over her trembling limbs. His masked expression softened, and his ever-changing colored eyes—emerald in the candlelight—swept over her with notable consideration.

  Her pulse quickened to a startling degree.

  “And will you be favoring us with a musical selection, Miss Grant?”

  She flinched, turning at the sound of the voice. A pair of light eyes peered at her with marked attention. There was something strikingly familiar about those eyes; in fact, Rose had just witnessed their likeness in the marquess only a moment earlier. Rose studied the woman’s dress, made from what appeared to be imported silk and trimmings. Only one woman at this party could emit such effortless dignity. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Mrs. Ainsworth smiled. “Forgive me, Duchess. I failed to introduce you to the new addition—Miss Rose Grant, granddaughter of the Honorable Lord Josiah Grant. Rose, meet my dear friend, the Honorable Duchess of Andover.”

  “Yes, I hear I have you to thank for the return of my husband, Miss Grant,” the duchess said with a slight smile. Her cheeks were a lovely shade of pink, and her soft voice put Rose’s worries at ease. “Thank you.”

  “I was happy to assist the duke, Your Grace.” Rose’s gaze flickered toward the marquess. She could sense the weight of Colin’s watch. “And will you be participating tonight?”

  The duchess dipped her chin in affirmation. “Adriana insists, and so I have brought my violin.”

  Mrs. Ainsworth beamed, linking her arm in Rose’s. “Speaking of music, I do believe the appointed time has come. Rose, you must sit between me and the duchess. I insist.”

  “I would be glad to.” Rose looked at Prudence, wishing for the warmth and familiarity that was expected of an aunt. Yet, there was no such feeling around Prudence. Rose was more inclined to sit between an acquaintance and stranger.

  The windows of the music room faced the setting sun, brightening the already vivid tapestries and portraits lining the long and narrow space. Open doors led to an adjoining balcony. Rose peered out the nearest one, inhaling the fresh air.

  She had always supposed Grant Estate to be perfectly situated. The lands were impressive—yes. But what if Rose’s attachment to her childhood home persisted simply because she had not been to other places? Milton Manor was certainly challenging her adoration for her home; how many other places might?

  The party situated themselves amongst the sofas and chairs, all directed at the pianoforte.

  Aunt Prudence scowled at Rose from across the room. She was seated by Mr. Higgins.

  Suddenly, the corset felt indisputably tighter. Rose inhaled, setting her hands against her middle. Was the glare of her aunt enough to undo her in such a ridiculous way? Her breath turned shallow, and she felt her chest spasm from the efforts.

  “Rose, are you well?” Mrs. Ainsworth asked, clasping her hand.

  Rose looked to her aunt for comfort. Surely she must sense her discomfort.

  Prudence fanned herself with a hand, returning Rose’s questioning glance with a smirk. Rose blinked furiously. Surely she had imagined the disdain of her aunt. Surely Prudence was not so unfeeling.

  Rose gasped once more. The corset tightened again with the effort, nearly crushing her lungs.

  “Miss Grant?” the duchess asked, leaning closer. “You look unwell. May I assist you in some way?”

  Rose clutched the hand of the duchess and whispered, but desperation dripped from her words. “My corset. I cannot breathe.”

  The duchess stood instantly, alongside Mrs. Ainsworth, and the pair of them whisked Rose from the room. She clung to their arms, moving her legs as quickly as she could. However, fear grasped at her, trembling in her legs and spreading to her arms.

  Mrs. Ainsworth ushered Rose into an adjoining room and closed the door. The hostess, along with the duchess, loosed the back of Rose’s dress without a single word, ripping apart the laced and tortuous contraption.

  With a snap, the undergarment fell to the floor. Rose crumpled down with it, spasming in relief. Warm tears rolled down her cheeks. Death had felt certain a moment ago.

  The duchess crouched beside her, stroking her wet cheeks. “There, you are free.”

  Mrs. Ainsworth picked up the pieces of ribbing, studying them carefully. Her cheerful demeanor had darkened considerably, and she pulled at laces, turning them over in her hand. “Who did this to you?”

  Rose winced, burying her face in her hands. Prudence’s smirk flashed in her mind once more, and Rose shook her head in denial. Her voice cracked in emotion, “My aunt requested I wear the garment. She worried about my form and posture. I am sure she never thought to injure me.”

  Mrs. Ainsworth exchanged glances with the duchess. After a full minute of silence, the hostess sighed. “My darling Rose, I have failed you.”

  Rose shook her head. “Whatever do you mean? You have always been kind and good to me.”

  Mrs. Ainsworth frowned, and emotion glistened in her eyes. “Your mother would not have stood for such treatment. Do you have any idea what this contraption is?”

  “A corset.”

  “Yes, but an ancient and terribly tortuous one—a corset meant to be worn for only short moments of time, as the ribbing contracts with each movement. If we had not removed it in such a fashion, you might not be alive.” Mrs. Ainsworth
clasped her hands so tightly that her fingers ran white. “Your aunt would have known.”

  “No.” Rose shook her head, rising to her feet. She pulled her dress sleeves over her shoulders and drew in a sharp breath. “That is impossible. Aunt Prudence helped to raise me. She is not capable of such cruelty.”

  The duchess took Rose’s hand. “Let us do up your dress, dear. We will return to the musicale as if nothing has happened. Not a word of this incident. Tomorrow, I will send this contraption to an investigator and see what he can discover.”

  Rose wiped at her eyes. She wanted to believe the entire ordeal was a misunderstanding, a disastrous mistake. But a smirking Prudence once more flashed across her memory. Rose pushed away the nudging sensation in her gut. No. Prudence was disapproving and harsh—at times, irrefutably cold. But wishing to cause Rose harm at her first social outing? The idea was preposterous. She could not believe it—she would not.

  Her insides coiled, and a chill ran down her spine as she looked at the remnants of the corset. A simple truth shone back at her, as clearly as a reflection. Her aunt’s disdain for her ran far deeper than jealousy or irritation; Aunt Prudence despised Rose.

  * * *

  Colin paced the room, peering onto the balcony. The sun was just setting; red, purples, and oranges flared across the sky.

  Being around Rose again only confirmed his suspicions; he wished to know her better, and standing in the back of the music room offered him the best view of her, without appearing too obvious. Only…where had she gone? Colin turned his back for a brief moment to converse with a Mr. Higgins, and Rose had disappeared—as had his mother and Mrs. Ainsworth.

  Colin tried to distract his thoughts. He studied the clouds—wisps against the colorful canvas, patches of blue and white amidst the brilliancy. Had the world always presented such beauty—sunsets the colors of fairytales?