The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1)

by Heather Chapman

  She cleared her throat and her cheeks colored. She seemed aware of his silent admiration, or, at the very least, uncomfortable with the silence that had spread between them. She lifted her chin. “I am off to see Oliver. On unseasonably warm days like today, he appreciates the visits. I always bring some of my aunt’s jam tartlets. Would you care for one?”

  Heat radiated through his chest, and he glanced back at his horse, happily munching on the fallen fruit. “Thank you, but I have had enough tartness for today.”

  Rose laughed once more, though the sound was softer and more guarded.

  “Do thank your cousin for me. The orchard has never looked better.” Colin stared at her, hoping she felt his meaning. His attempt felt clumsy. “And I hope you will still allow me to call on you in a few days?”

  A cloud lifted, and a ray of sunshine hit her head on. Golden flecks lit her eyes. “I will look forward to it.”

  Colin bowed and returned to his horse with a smile. He had always felt drawn to the orchard with its sweet smell and solitude, but now, he marked it as his favorite place on the estate—even above his childhood wood.

  Chapter 9

  “You cannot tell me his interest is only out of friendship. No young man asks to call at the cottage of his gardener. Such things are just not done, Rose.” Amelia threaded her embroidery needle and knotted the end. “Don’t you agree, Oliver?”

  The cottage parlor became the gathering place each evening. The green velvet sofa, the bookshelf scant with books, the cozy fire, and the warm voices—Rose had never felt safer.

  Simon and Eli read their books and practiced their arithmetic at the kitchen table religiously, just outside the front room’s opening, and Oliver sprawled against the back of the sofa and begged Rose to play the pianoforte. The instrument had seen better days—the notes did not hold and often fell flat—but Rose was happy to indulge him most evenings.

  But tonight, Aunt Amelia had decided to provide conversation—conversation that concerned Rose and the marquess. The attention discomfited Rose, but she also could not help adoring it. Never had she shared such intimate conversations with family; never had she felt so cared for.

  “The situation is complicated, Mother.” Oliver stroked his chin. His stubble had multiplied in the past week, and he was on his way to acquiring a handsome beard. “Rose is the daughter of a gentleman, the granddaughter of a baron, but she is residing here. I have heard much talk of honor and duty while at Stratfordshire. I cannot believe the duke would risk gossip for the opportunity to court Rose—no matter how handsome she is.”

  Rose’s chest hitched. Oliver was right. The marquess might have considered her, had she not fled from Prudence. He might have courted her. But now? The situation had grown problematic. She stared at her dry and cracked hands, trying to scrape the bits of dirt from beneath her nails. Her situation, though infinitely preferable to that of Prudence’s guardianship, had taken a turn for the worse when it came to the marriage market.

  “Nonsense.” Amelia dropped her embroidery to the side. “Rose is just as proper a choice as before. You may be a gardener, Oliver, but I am a widow of a soldier. That means something to anyone that cares about this country.”

  Eli’s chair scooted across the floorboards. “I can hardly study with your chattering. Might as well share in the discussion.”

  Rose laughed, but she shook her head. “I won’t hear any more of this. I did not come here to become the topic of the evening. Now, continue with your studies, Eli and Simon.”

  Oliver readjusted his position, jabbing Rose with his elbow. “A song might be enough to quiet my mother and me, at least for now.”

  A rap at the door startled them both. Oliver rose, crinkling his brows. “Saved only by a mysterious visitor.” He swung open the door. Oliver’s shoulders suddenly went rigid, and he bowed. “Lord Stratfordshire, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Amelia’s eyes bulged and she stood, swiping a hand over her hair.

  The marquess’s baritone voice carried across the room. “I apologize for disturbing you, Mr. Rolland.”

  “Lord Stratfordshire, do come in,” Amelia said, walking to the door. She shot Rose a look of urgency. “Rose was just putting on the kettle for tea.”

  Rose stood, offering a stiff curtsy at Colin in the doorway. She felt the weight of her cousins’ stares. The entire room seemed to close in, and she felt insufferably hot. She could not help feeling their gossip had summoned Colin.

  Colin fiddled with the hat in his hands. He stared at Rose, though his words were directed to Amelia. “I would not mean to inconvenience you, Mrs. Rolland, but tea does sound wonderful after the ride.”

  Rose dipped her chin. “I’ll get the tea started.”

  She disappeared around the corner and nearly collapsed against the hearth. Her heart threatened to tear through her chest. She could not decide which factor led to her condition—the surprise of seeing Colin at the cottage or her cousins’ wide eyes and grins. Her hands shook as she poured the water into the kettle, spilling the liquid over top and onto the front of her dress. She dropped the pitcher of water, and shrieked.

  “Rose, is everything all right in there?” Amelia said from the parlor.

  Rose swatted at the water on her skirt. She bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling. There was only one reason she should be so jumpy at his arrival. She fanned her cheeks, allowing herself to breath freely. “I am coming, Aunt—just now.”

  She returned to the parlor, only ten steps from the kitchen archway. The marquess still stood near the front door, and he looked unsure of the protocol. “Miss Grant, I was just explaining to your aunt. I found your cousin’s hat in the orchard just now and thought to return it to him.”

  “Tonight?” Simon asked from the kitchen. His dark hair covered his eyes, but Rose recognized the teasing glint in them. “Ollie often loses track of his hats. He has at least five he rotates.”

  Eli snickered. “But how would the marquess know, Simon? He’s simply being a good neighbor.”

  Colin extended the hat to Oliver rigidly. “Mr. Rolland, I apologize for interrupting your evening.” He turned to Rose and bowed. “Forgive me, Miss Grant, Mrs. Rolland. Continue with your evening.”

  “Wait.” Rose clasped her hands. Now that she had seen him, she did not want him to leave.

  “Yes?” he asked, straightening.

  She smiled. “The tea won’t be long. Please, sit with us.”

  The marquess arched a brow, looking to the twins at the table. He rocked on his back leg. “I would not wish to impose—”

  “Goodness, no.” Oliver offered a hand. “I was just pleading with my cousin to favor us with some music. Have you had a chance to hear her sing or play yet, Lord Stratfordshire?”

  “Miss Grant?” Colin’s shoulders pulled back, and his confidence seemed to return. “I have not, Mr. Rolland, but not for lack of trying. I attended a musicale with your cousin over a month ago. She was to perform but left early due to a headache. I have wondered about her talent ever since.”

  Aunt Amelia scowled at Rose. “You never told me you had met the marquess before—”

  “The musicale at Milton Manor, Aunt—the one I spoke to you about at my arrival.” Rose bit her lip. She had told Amelia about Prudence and the corset, but not about Colin. She feared doing so would betray her interest in the marquess. Rose gestured to the chair. “Lord Stratfordshire.”

  Amusement flickered across his eyes, but he obediently sat.

  “Rose, you may play for Lord Stratfordshire, and I will finish the tea.” Amelia smiled widely at Colin. “My niece does play beautifully.”

  Rose strode past Colin and sat the pianoforte. Playing music was infinitely preferable to that of the twins’ teasing glances or the flutters she felt whenever Colin glanced her direction. She stretched her fingers and straightened her back and allowed her hands to sink into the starting chord of Ignaz Pleyel’s Sinfonia Concertante Ben. 112.

  When she ended, the smal
l room erupted with cheers.

  “Marvelous,” Oliver said, offering to assist her from the bench.

  Rose grinned, in part relief the song had finished and in part to her cousin’s compliment. She accepted his outstretched hand. “Thank you, Oliver. Now that you have had your song, perhaps you will allow me to drink my tea in peace.”

  Her cousin nodded. “That is only fair.”

  “Miss Grant, you play beautifully—” Colin’s statement hung, and Rose was sure there was something more he wished to say.

  “But?” she said, smiling.

  Colin laughed. “But I had hoped to hear you sing.”

  “That,” Rose said, sitting at her usual place on the sofa, “will have to come another day.”

  “Then I shall have to fetch your cousin’s hat again.” Colin crossed his legs, and his lips seemed to hint at a smile.

  Amelia entered the room with the tray, the cups and saucers tinkling together. Her cheeks held an uncharacteristic rosiness. She settled the tea against the small table and poured the first cup. “Now, what have I missed?”

  Oliver chuckled and ran his fingers through his auburn waves. “The marquess and Rose were just discussing how we must do this again.”

  Rose’s cheeks pinched. She dipped her chin. “Yes, I rather think we should.”

  * * *

  What had started as an occasional visit turned into daily routine. More than once, Colin had set out for a solitary walk, only to find himself standing at the steps of the Rolland cottage. At times he searched for an excuse, any excuse—a misplaced gardening cap, a pair of sheers kept from the shed—to join the Rolland’s evening meetings in the cottage parlor.

  On his third visit to the cottage, Colin heard Rose sing. Just as he expected, her voice lacked the customary embellishments and pretense. Rather, Rose’s voice carried across the notes as easily and effortlessly as everything else she did.

  Their walks, their rides, their every conversation continued to convince Colin; he was quite in love with Rose.

  Colin studied her now, watching as the sun lit her cheeks. Their current turn around the flower garden had been as enjoyable as their other meetings.

  He knew what others would say—he had attached himself to a lady staying in one of his servant’s household! But Rose was a proper lady in every sense of the word. She was mannered and well spoken; she was kind, almost to a fault. And like a flower, she had grown unaware of the beauty she emitted. The longer she stayed with the Rolland household, the more at ease she seemed to become. Her laughter came easier with each of their meetings.

  “Sunflowers,” Colin said, breaking into a smile. “That is the plant I would compare you to.”

  Rose sat on a bench and laughed. “I imagine your answer has something to do with this bonnet.”

  Her bonnet was indeed yellow, a pale but cheerful color that complimented her dark hair and eyes perfectly. But Colin shook his head. “I suppose I might have answered too hastily. Haven’t you noticed how the flowers turn toward the sun? I believe you see more good than bad in every person you meet. Do you even notice the darkness?”

  She winced. “I do notice the darkness, more than I let on, I’m afraid. Often, I ignore it for far too long…as was the case with Prudence.”

  “It is difficult to see darkness in those that we wish to see light.” Colin sat beside her, nodding at the groom a few feet away.

  “A tree.”

  “Pardon?” A broad grin stretched across his face. “You are comparing me to a tree?”

  Rose’s nose crinkled, and laughter slipped from her perfect lips. “You are rather tall, Lord Stratfordshire. Besides, a tree is as good as any plant. Have you ever stepped into the shade of a tree on a particularly hot day?”

  Colin grasped at his side. He could not resist teasing her when she laughed. “Then I am good for shade?”

  One of her brow’s lifted. “You are rooted and upright and surprisingly comfortable to be around.”

  “Comfortable?” He inched closer.

  Her cheeks colored, as they did each time he drew nearer.

  He pulled out a parcel from his coat pocket. He had been carrying it for their walk, waiting for the right moment to give it to her. After only a brief meeting and a couple weeks of visits, Colin was sure of his affection. The rapidity of his feelings startled him. He never would have supposed he might know a prospective partner’s character on such short notice. Was it possible that Rose felt the same for him in such a short duration?

  “What is that?” Rose asked.

  Colin laid it in her upturned hands. “For you. I thought you should have this after our talk a couple weeks ago.”

  She gave a tentative smile, seeming to contemplate. “Lord Stratfordshire—”

  “Please.” His pulse pounded in his ears in anticipation.

  Rose drew back the paper and pulled out the handheld mirror. Her eyes filled with emotion. “A mirror.”

  He touched her hand, clearing his throat. “I thought you should see your reflection properly, any day you wish to.”

  She traced her fingers around the golden handle, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Well? Aren’t you going to look in it?”

  She laughed amidst her misty eyes, wiping a hand against her moistened cheeks. “I have longed to see my reflection for years, but now that I am holding a mirror—this remarkably beautiful one, I should add—I hesitate. What if I do not like what I see?”

  “You will never know until you look,” Colin said, taking the mirror from her hands. He lifted it higher, until it sat level with her gaze.

  She gasped, and her fingers flew to her face, tracing the features of her reflection.

  His mouth went dry, and his voice cracked. “As I said, your eyes change with your mood. They are greener with your tears. I failed to mention your lashes, though you can see how thick and long they are now. And your lips…”

  She pressed her hand to his shoulder, shaking with a watery sob. Her eyes clamped shut.

  Colin lowered the mirror. Had he done something wrong? Did she fail to see the beauty that was so obvious to him? “Miss Grant, if I have done something to cause offense—”

  “No.” She met his eyes. Her lips curved upward despite her tears. “It is only—I had not expected… I look like her. I look like my mother. I cannot tell you how many times I have stared at her portrait, wishing I carried a piece of her with me. But in my wildest imaginings, I had not thought I resembled her so closely.”

  Relief washed over his anxiety, and he exhaled, touching her damp cheek. “Your mother must have been very lovely indeed.”

  Rose visibly swallowed. Her lips trembled. “Thank you. You cannot know how much this means to me.”

  Colin shrugged. “I gave you nothing but a mirror.”

  “You restored a part of her—my mother,” Rose said, rising to her feet. Her eyes still shone with emotion, but her tears slowed. “You have my gratitude forever.”

  Chapter 10

  To Miss Rose Grant and Mrs. Amelia Rolland,

  You are cordially invited to a ball on Friday, the 12th of August at Stratfordshire. Festivities begin at 8 o’ clock in the evening. Please send word of your attendance at your earliest convenience.

  Warmest Regards,

  The Duke and Duchess of Andover

  “Reading over the invitation again?” Amelia asked, kneading the bread against the tabletop. She laughed and shook her head. “Can you imagine a duke inviting the mother of his gardener to a ball? I thought I had lived to see all ridiculousness.”

  Rose set the invitation back to the mantle. As a child, she had dreamed of dancing and balls and gentlemen, but those hopes had vanished with the arrival of Prudence. Her aunt had closeted Rose until she had no longer received invitations. But now? She smiled, trying to recall the dance steps her governess had taught her years ago in the Grant Estate ballroom.

  “Does the duke imagine me capable of buying a ballgown?” Ameli
a said, laughing. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, leaving a trail of flour in its place.

  Despite Amelia’s best efforts, Rose saw through the protests; her aunt was thrilled, elated even, to be included on the invitation list of the Duke of Andover. Rose’s cheeks pinched. “Perhaps you are right. Shall I dictate our regrets?”

  “Now, wait,” Amelia said, sticking her tongue into the side of her cheek. Her forehead scrunched together, and she tapped a finger to her chin. “I would so hate to disappoint the duke, particularly after his kindness in hiring Oliver. The marquess would be heartbroken if you were not there…Allowances are made with matters of the heart, you know.”

  Rose placed her hands on her hips. “Now, Aunt!”

  Amelia’s lips twitched. “I may not be able to afford a dress, but there may be something we can do.”

  “I have more than enough to buy you fabric,” Rose offered. “And you are the daughter of a dressmaker. Surely you remember something of sewing and patterns and the like? I would offer you one of my gowns if I thought one might fit.”

  “Surely.” Amelia hands sunk into the dough once more, but this time she stayed there, frozen in thought. “Did I fail to mention I have some old dresses? With some embellishment and alterations, one of those might do nicely.”

  A surge of warmth encompassed Rose. She had been nervous to leave her childhood home, nervous to lose the little memory she had of her mother. Without her mother’s portrait, how would Rose remember?

  However, coming to Andover continued to restore pieces—more than Rose could have anticipated. First with Amelia’s kindness and laughter, then her cousin’s adventurous spirit, and, most touching, the marquess’s gifted mirror. Each portion combined into a greater picture than the one hanging at the Grant Estate, for this new portrait of her mother was not one of oil and canvas but of a living, breathing memory, a feeling and spirit more tangible than sight.

  “Then you will come?” Rose asked, teetering forward.