The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1)

by Heather Chapman

  “No need to push the animal to exhaustion, Lord Stratfordshire,” the groom said, taking the horse by the reins.

  Colin staggered forward, petting his stallion around the neck. “I did not push him at all. In fact, the only thing I did was lose my hold and permit him to run freely.”

  “Of course, Lord Stratfordshire.”

  The stiff reply served as a summons. Colin straightened and offered his gratitude before leaving the stable. He stopped just past the gate, surveying the estate.

  He longed for another ride, perhaps twenty if they might ease his mind. He could not return to the house, not yet. His father, in an attempt to preoccupy him, had charged Colin with overseeing two new investments, and the task involved never-ending correspondence with the involved parties. The duke meant well, but Colin only grew more restless under the distraction.

  Colin turned toward the gardens, determined to prolong his absence. He followed the paved path to the back garden. He passed the central fountain with its statues and the maze of hedges, continuing until he had walked more than half an hour into the flower gardens. He stopped at a patch of scented stocks, relishing in the sweet aroma. If only life were as simple as a garden—based upon simple rules of maintenance.

  The garden walls reached four feet high, and the neighboring cottage peeked from the other side. Colin sat against an outer edge, listening to the hum of the woman set over the barrel of wash. Her voice carried across the breeze—blissfully gentle.

  He sighed. He had come upon Rose in her kitchen garden on their second meeting and her voice had held a similar quality, only hers had held a haunting melancholy then.

  The woman rung out a garment and turned to pin it to the line. The sight of her dark ringlets against her cheek, previously hidden from her bent over position, nearly choked him. He recognized those crimson lips and the dark lashes lining her hazel eyes.

  Colin blinked furiously. He wiped at his eyes; they were playing a mean trick on him. He was overdone from his ride, and the heat of July threatened to suffocate his senses—or so he reasoned.

  But there she stood, only yards away, humming her gentle song.

  “Miss Grant,” he said, before properly considering how he might approach her.

  She jumped at his voice, dropping the garment to the grass. She bent to retrieve it. When she rose again, her cheeks blushed. “Lord Stratfordshire, I thought I might see you one of these days.”

  “One of these days?” He pushed himself over the wall, walking closer. “Have you been here all along?”

  Rose’s blush deepened, but she laughed amidst her embarrassment and offered a curtsy.

  Colin stopped a few feet from her side, still distrusting his senses. For weeks he had tried to find Rose, and all the while she was just beyond the flower gardens at the cottage of his head gardener? Colin’s brows drew together, and his heart raced at the reality. “Miss Grant, I tried to find you after the musicale, but you disappeared. I have spent some time searching for you.”

  She drew in a breath. “I am sorry. I had to leave my aunt, quite unexpectedly, to come and stay with my other aunt, Mrs. Amelia Rolland.”

  “Then you are related to my head gardener, Mr. Rolland?” Colin shook his head, trying to make sense of the scene before him.

  Rose dipped her chin. “Yes. Mrs. Rolland is my mother’s sister. Oliver is my cousin.”

  “Why did you not visit?”

  Rose bit the bottom of her lip, and her cheeks seem to color for a third time. “I wished to, but I—I am afraid I ran away from home, you see, and I am staying within your servant’s household. Seems an unlikely visitor for a future duke.”

  “Perhaps, but just as welcome, Miss Grant.” His eyes swept over her. The weeks since their last meeting had done her well—she looked happy. He paused at her hands; they were dirty and cracked near her knuckles. Colin took two steps closer. “Your hands.”

  Her hazel eyes rounded, and she hid her hands behind her back. “The effects of labor I suppose. I do not mind the work. My aunt and cousins are good to me, and so I enjoy helping in the household tasks. For the first time in my life, I feel rather useful.”

  “You look well.”

  “Do I?” She smiled, drying her hands against her apron. “What would you say if I told you that I quite wonder about my appearance?”

  He smiled. “I would tell you not to wonder. You seem to play the part of country maid with surprising skill and charm.”

  “Thank you. But then, you have always been kind. I have not forgotten the service you provided me the night of the musicale. You were a true gentleman. I must return your handkerchief now that you have found me out.”

  Colin shook his head. Nervousness crept into his voice. “Now that I have found you out, I will not allow you to hide—not when I have a great many horses that need riding. Perhaps I might take you riding this week and show you around the farther gardens?”

  “I would be glad to,” Rose said, smiling.

  Colin clasped his hands to keep from shaking. He was nearly certain his words sounded entirely too direct. “Does Friday suit you, Miss Grant? I can bring a horse and groom to the cottage.”

  She tilted her head, seeming to search his expression. “Yes, Friday would be lovely.”

  He took a wobbly step backward and bowed. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears. Friday could not come soon enough.

  Chapter 8

  The dirt road was narrow, surrounded by a thicket of trees on both sides. Overgrown brush encroached upon the path, and small purple flowers dotted the scene. Rose wiped at the small line of perspiration at the back of her neck and took in a deep breath.

  “This is the plot,” Colin said, patting the back of his horse. His navy coat contrasted drastically with his bright smile. His eyes had taken on the color of the wood—a gradient of different greens, shadows, and highlights. “My father has charged me with its improvement.”

  A pair of butterflies flitted across the path, and the soft breeze blew against the treetops, rustling the leaves. “I cannot imagine how you would.”

  His lips tugged, and he pulled his reins. “I quite agree. Stratfordshire has more than enough fountains, ponds, and manicured gardens. Sometimes I think this place is the only piece of property that remains untouched by time.”

  “Then you do not wish to clear the land?” Rose could not imagine trading such a space for an organized and manmade imitation. The land’s beauty lay in its wildness, its unruly and spontaneous nature—a broken log here, a patch of flowers there, the interlacing tree canopies, and the fragments of light shining to the forest floor. The area smelled of childhood—tree sap and flowers, mixed with the muskiness of the thicket.

  Colin shook his head. “Would you walk with me instead? The horses could use a rest, and the groom will not be far.”

  She clasped her hands to her chest and laughed. “I was hoping you might ask. Riding is among my favorites, Lord Stratfordshire, but exploring on such a day as today seems even lovelier.”

  They dismounted, and the groom came to collect their horses.

  “There is something I thought to show you,” Colin began, offering his arm.

  Rose stepped on the uneven ground, balancing against the marquess’s arm when needed. The terrain was filled with pockets and bumps, each one an obstacle in her stiff riding boots. Spraining an ankle would be a sure way to embarrass herself.

  He led her around a wall of shrubs, where a pile of wood had been placed in a lean-to arrangement. The log and sticks were dried and splintered, and ivy ran between the cracks and around the supporting tree trunk.

  A smile touched her lips. “Is this from—did you make this?”

  “Yes, years ago.” Colin drew his arm away and crouched near the small opening. He removed his hat and chuckled. His shoulders shook from the effort, and his brown waves glimmered with the spotted light from above. “Believe it or not, I use to play in this fort often. I imagined I was a part of the militia or sailing on exploratory as
signments from the queen herself.”

  Rose bit the edge of her bottom lip to keep from laughing. She could well imagine him as a boy, pretending. She supposed he seemed much the same as he did right then, carefree with disheveled dark waves.

  Colin stood, turning back to her. “I suppose that is why my father charged me with the keep of the land. He knew of my sentiment, and yet, I cannot seem to imagine anything else in this place. No number of hedges or stones can improve it.”

  “I understand quite well,” Rose said, leaning a hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. “But, as I have learned, places do not hold memories—people do.”

  His eyes flickered to hers with such admiration that her breath nearly caught in her chest. “Exactly so.”

  Rose’s pulse quickened. She tried to steady herself, tracing her finger around the knots in the tree. “However, you needn’t clear the land to please your father. Just as land cannot hold memories, neither should it be altered for the sake of being altered. Perhaps you could clear the dead trees and add paths for the horses, all the while maintaining the essence of this place.”

  “An excellent idea again.” Colin’s voice commanded her gaze.

  Their eyes met, and when a smile lit his cheeks, Rose’s knees threatened to give out.

  He bent and plucked a purple flower, handing it to her. His voice grew gentle. “These are my favorite flowers in all of Stratfordshire, even more than the scented stocks. These flowers grow wild, and some of the gardeners consider them a weed, but I do not.”

  She tucked the floret in her pocket. “I adore collecting flowers. They make any room brighter. My Aunt Prudence detests them. She says they are altogether too fragrant and dry up too quickly.”

  Colin searched her face. “You are nothing like your aunt, in looks nor temperament.”

  Rose’s brows furrowed. “The other day, when I told you that I wondered at my appearance…”

  “Yes?”

  She inhaled sharply. “Prudence forbade mirrors in my home. The only glimpses of my reflection came from a silver pitcher or the occasional puddle of water.”

  “You…” Colin’s eyes rounded, and his fingers tapped against his sides. “But surely you looked into a mirror before your mother passed?”

  “Perhaps, but I was young and more interested in the gardens and sitting on the lap of my mother. My grandfather, as you are already aware, is blind, but he had his own way of looking at me. He used to touch my face, and he told me how I resembled my father.” Rose let out a shaky breath. Her lungs almost felt as restricted as they had the night of the musicale. Speaking of Prudence and her mother and grandfather brought a stab of pain in her abdomen. “I used to walk the hall of family portraits, studying the lot of them, wondering how I might compare.”

  “But surely you have seen your reflection in a shop window…?”

  She bit her lip. Prudence had only allowed her chaperoned trips to town; she seemed bent on preventing Rose from seeing her reflection.

  His jaw dropped, but he quickly recovered. Colin shuffled forward. “Then you are unaware of how—you do not know?”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  Colin’s cheeks warmed, and his lips tugged at the corners. “Miss Grant, you are every bit as charming as any flower in this field. Your eye color seems to change with your mood—one moment green with flecks of gold and another gray at the edges and brown in the center. I am sure you have ascertained your complexion light, your hair dark as night. And your lips—crimson.”

  Rose felt frozen in place, mesmerized by his words but even more by the way he looked at her. She was certain no man had regarded her with so much warmth. She swallowed. “Thank you for the description, Lord Stratfordshire. I will have to find a mirror, now that I am no longer under Prudence’s roof.”

  “Yes, you must,” Colin said, tucking one of her curls behind her ear. His hand lingered near her cheek, and his gaze continued to sweep over her.

  Her cheeks burned impossibly hot. Was it normal to feel so lightheaded in the presence of a friend? Her rushed breathing and tight chest seemed to answer for her.

  “Your Grace,” the groom said, calling from across the wall of hedges. “You asked me to warn you when the time passed noon.”

  Colin lifted a hand in the air. “Thank you, Stephen.”

  Rose’s chest caved. The sensations flooding her senses frightened her, yet returning to the horses and retreating from his nearness sparked immediate disappointment too.

  “Miss Grant?” Colin asked.

  She swallowed and accepted his outstretched arm. Surely he could hear her heart knocking against her chest or the way her breath refused to steady itself. They reached the path and mounted their horses, and Rose wondered if Colin felt as she did.

  “I wondered if you might be up for a race?” Colin asked when the silence grew too thick.

  “A race?” Rose could not contain her surprise. Perhaps the marquess meant to diffuse the tension. “I am always game for sport, Lord Stratfordshire.”

  His eyes flashed with pride. “I hoped you would agree.”

  Rose kicked to a gallop and full on sprint, leaning toward the front of the saddle. She flew across the path, and a quick backward glance brought on a spell of laughter. Rose’s horse kicked up clumps of mud directly at the marquess. He, however, looked not the least deterred, pulling in line with her horse. They rode the entire route back to the cottage in similar suit. One moment Rose would pull ahead, but then Colin would take the lead.

  Her cheeks ached from smiling by the time he walked her to the front steps. His cheeks were splattered in dots of mud, and he looked much like the boy she had imagined in the thicket.

  “May I call on you again?” Colin asked, bowing over her. His voice was warm and deep.

  Rose offered her hand, still smiling. “I would like that very much, Lord Stratfordshire.”

  He grasped her fingers in his own, sending a wave of warmth up her arm. “Until then, and in the meantime, you are free to roam the gardens.”

  * * *

  Not even a day passed before Colin saw Rose again. On his morning ride, he paused near the orchard to adjust his stirrup, and between the thick rows of trees, each one covered in ripening fruit, stood the enchanting woman.

  Rose strolled the aisles, brushing her fingers through the tangle of branches and leaves and stopping every so often to inspect an apple. Unaware of his presence, she continued her walk. Colin smiled when he recognized her soft humming; that was at least the third time he had caught her singing.

  He climbed down from his horse and called to her. “Miss Grant.”

  She jumped, knocking a few apples from the tree and onto the ground. “Lord Stratfordshire,” she said, bending to retrieve the apples. “Do you make it a habit of startling young ladies?”

  “Only lately.” His laughter caused a blush to spread against her cheeks. He wrapped his reins around the trunk of the nearest tree. “I take it you have made a habit of walking the orchard. You seemed lost in thought. Are you well?”

  Her head bobbed up and down. “I was only thinking of my home. I left under difficult circumstances. I worry about my grandfather and my aunt…”

  A set of birds swooped between them and into the tangle of branches. Colin took the moment to bury the disappointment that threatened. He’d only just found her, and he did not want to lose her again. “Then you are considering returning home?”

  She lifted one of the apples in her hands and smelled it before answering. “I have, but I cannot leave Aunt Amelia and my cousins so soon after years of absence.”

  Colin’s lips tugged; she would not be leaving yet.

  Rose handed him an apple. “Tell me, Lord Stratfordshire, how do you know when the apple is ripe?”

  He bit into the fruit in response. His lips puckered; the tartness curled his tongue. He swallowed it whole, but the chunk lodged in his throat, nearly choking him. “Not ready,” he said in a raspy voice.


  Rose’s lips threatened laughter, but her eyes surveyed him carefully. “Are you well?”

  He laughed amidst his embarrassment, causing a bout of coughing. He admired her restraint; he was certain he appeared every bit as ridiculous as he felt. “Yes. Unfortunately, you cannot judge the fruit by appearance alone. That bite was enough to poison even the most devoted apple lover.”

  Her resolve seemed to crack, and she laughed. The sound was freedom itself—joyful, uninhibited, and magical. Colin had to catch his breath. He could not recall feeling so at ease and happy with another person.

  She studied the apple that remained in her hands. “True. This apple does look ready, and it even smells ready. I wonder…” She drew in a breath and took a bite. Her eyes, nearly brown this morning, widened, and the lines near her brows softened. “Practically perfect, Lord Stratfordshire.”

  “That is the fickleness of apples, Miss Grant. Two may grow beside each other, receiving the same sunlight and water and attention from the gardener. They make look similar, even smell similar, but inside? That is the mystery of both man and fruit.”

  Her laughter subsided. Her steps slowed. “I like to think every apple, or person, will sweeten in due time. Perhaps some just take longer?”

  There was hope in her words, maybe even pleading. New lines appeared at the side of each eye, and her lips fell downward.

  An ache pulsed in his throat, and he considered his response. Colin understood wishing to see the best in others, but he had the distinct impression that Rose spoke of Prudence. From his two encounters with Rose’s aunt and the stories he had heard, Prudence Grant would need miraculous ripening if she were ever to come close to sweet.

  He offered a weak smile, trying to ignore the piles of rotten apples at the foot of the tree. “Only time may tell.”

  Rose pushed back her bonnet, allowing the sun to light her face fully. The effect caused Colin’s heart to thump at an unhealthy speed. She still did not know her beauty; she still did not understand how lovely a person she was—physically or otherwise.