The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1)

by Heather Chapman

  Amelia laughed. “Certainly, my dear.”

  Rose flew across the room to embrace her aunt. She pulled Amelia closer, resting her cheek against hers. “Do you suppose happiness such as mine can last? I can scarcely breathe for fear of it fading away.”

  Her aunt pulled back, placing a floured hand at Rose’s cheek. Her dark eyes seemed to sparkle. “For the daughter of Lillian—yes. For one with your fair heart, most assuredly.”

  The cottage door swung open, and Rose retreated from her aunt’s arms.

  Oliver stood at the front of the room. His brawny shoulders pulled back, and he took off his hat. His freckled cheeks lifted. “Mother, I have news to share.”

  Amelia resumed kneading the dough. “I would expect so, considering you are here at this hour. Aren’t you needed in the gardens?”

  “Not today.” Oliver combed through his disheveled auburn locks. His dark eyes seemed to dance. “The marquess paid me a visit today. He inquired about your attendance at the ball in a week.”

  “And?” Amelia interrupted. “What did you say?”

  Oliver sighed, shaking a finger. “Mother, would you allow me to finish the story?”

  She shrugged. “Carry on.”

  “I said I knew nothing of such things, and he called me to his study in the house. There, he granted me a nearly two weeks bonus and the day off. He insisted I take the pair of you shopping in town today for the ball.”

  Rose clutched her hands to her chest. “Lord Stratfordshire is too kind. I hope you did not accept such a payment. Oliver?”

  Her cousin tossed his hat to the hook. “The marquess left me no choice. Of course I rejected the offer at first. I have country pride,” Oliver said, casting a teasing gleam in Rose’s direction. “But then, Lord Stratfordshire pled. He remarked that your attendance is especially hoped for, Rose. I countered that we would find a way to have you there without his charity, but…”

  The room fell silent.

  “But?” Amelia asked.

  Rose blinked rapidly. Colin had been kind to her, kinder than she deserved. He had searched for her for weeks when she had fled to Andover; he continued to call and beg her company.

  Hopes rolled together like a giant snowball—building and building—until Rose’s expectations of her future with Colin were impossibly large. She knew better than to expect an offer. He was the future Duke of Andover; Rose, despite being the granddaughter of a baron, was staying in the cottage of a head gardener. But this news of the ball—Colin’s interest in her attendance—sparked the prospect once again.

  Oliver stared at Rose, and his eyes seemed to shine with pride. “But I could not refuse him, Mother. The way he spoke about Rose left little doubt in my mind.”

  Oh dear. Rose’s heart banged against her chest, and her throat started to close in. Oliver was wiser than his years—he had to be to secure his position at Stratfordshire—and if he thought that Colin would make an offer…

  Rose shook her head. She could not afford to believe such a thing. Happiness like hers could not endure, did not; Prudence had squashed that dream long ago.

  “I think I shall take a walk,” Rose said, pushing past Oliver to retrieve her bonnet from the side of the door.

  Oliver touched her arm. “But we are to go to town to go shopping, Rose. I have strict orders.”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes, of course, but only after I take a moment to collect my thoughts.”

  * * *

  The duchess did not lift the fork from the table. Her cheeks looked uncommonly pale, and the line of perspiration near her hairline worried Colin. His mother had been far too extended—caring for the Smith family and preparing for the ball in the coming week.

  “Mother, you are unwell.” Colin set his napkin to the side of his plate and stood. With his mother’s condition of the lungs, every sickness—even a slight cold—made room for worry.

  The duchess shook her head. “Nothing to trouble yourself with, son. I was in contact with Mrs. Smith’s boy far too often, but it was only a cold, pneumonia at worst.”

  “At worst?” Colin frowned. “Mother, pneumonia could be your undoing. You must return to bed. I will call the doctor straight away. Where is father?”

  She clutched the edge of the table, avoiding his gaze. “He went out on business yesterday. I expect him back today. Colin, I have much to do in preparation. Summer End’s ball is the highlight of my year at Stratfordshire.”

  He returned to his seat. His mother refused to rest whenever illness came, and usually her will power was enough to carry her through. Still, her coughing only worsened, and the state of her lungs were in constant jeopardy.

  “Has Miss Grant responded to her invitation to the ball?” The duchess asked, taking a sip of her tea.

  Colin scratched the fork at his plate. “I believe she will, though I have not heard directly.”

  The duchess coughed into her napkin. She offered a smile once she recovered. “Then you will ask her for her hand?”

  “I had hoped to do so, informally at least… You do not object, do you?”

  Colin had been nervous to tell his mother. He was sure of his attachment, sure of Rose’s character, but his mother acted strange each time he left to call on Rose—fidgeting endlessly, avoiding his gaze, and never inquiring about his visits upon his return.

  “I have no objections, as long as you are sure, Colin.”

  He swallowed hard, setting his fork against the plate. The delicate swirls on the porcelain china seemed the perfect illustration for his thoughts. “And your hesitance to answer does not have to do with whatever happened at the musicale, does it? You still have refused to tell me.”

  The duchess winced. “What happened at the musicale—you are still fixated on it? Miss Grant had a headache, nothing more. I spoke with her briefly in an adjoining room and urged her to return home if it did not improve.”

  Colin’s jaw jutted forward. Her attempts at deception had not improved; she was hiding something. He wanted to pound his fist on the table and ask, but he refrained. His mother had too many demands weighing on her health. He would not add to her suffering by persisting in asking for an answer.

  “But I have not been able to place my comb from that night.” The duchess scowled. “First Miss Grant’s headache and then the loss of my most precious possession—Mrs. Ainsworth presents quite the program.”

  Colin sighed. “And Mrs. Ainsworth still has not found it?”

  His mother had received the comb as a wedding present from Colin’s father. The golden comb was adorned with rubies and engravings in the shape of apple trees—meant to symbolize the orchard at Stratfordshire, where the duke had asked for her hand in marriage some twenty-seven years previous.

  “No, but things are not always as they seem. I believe it still might turn up.” The duchess offered a weak smile.

  Colin returned her smile, if only to appease her. The comb was worth more than most received annually. If someone had taken it, the comb was not likely to be returned any time soon.

  Chapter 11

  Rose held back the mirror, admiring the blue silk of her new gown. She still had not grown accustomed to her reflection or the image of her mother shining back at her. Her brows furrowed, and she studied the effect.

  Mirrors had not always been forbidden. There was a time, before Prudence’s arrival at Grant Estate, when reflections were nothing to be talked—or ashamed—about. Maybe that was why Rose had never thought to study her own. What she had remembered from her childhood likeness was sparse and discouraging—mousy brown hair, eyes and legs she had not grown into yet, and freckles. Time had transformed Rose. She had already known her hair had turned darker, but the spots along her upper cheeks had faded, and her face had morphed into that of her mother’s.

  She caught a glimpse of Simon in the mirror. He laughed. “You look just the part of a future duchess, cousin.”

  Rose’s cheeks burned red. She still had not allowed herself to hope. The possible disappoi
ntment seemed insurmountable. She had never wished for something more than she wished for a future with Colin. “Simon—”

  “Enough,” Amelia said, pushing the final pins in Rose’s elaborate twists and curls. “Do not tease her so. She will not catch anyone’s eye if she is to turn into a blushing and blubbering girl. Now, tell your cousin how well she looks.”

  Simon conceded, and his head lowered. “Rose, you look very well.”

  “Thank you. Now was that so difficult?” Amelia asked, shooing him from the room. She rested her hands atop Rose’s shoulders. “A fifteen-year-old boy knows nothing of compliments. You look more than well, Rose. You are enchanting. And there is only one more thing to be done.”

  Rose looked up at her aunt in question.

  “Oliver?” Amelia called across the house. When her oldest son appeared in the doorway, she nodded. “Would you be so kind to bring me the package I found on the doorstep two days ago?”

  He folded his arms, and his rounded shoulders flexed. “Are you sure that is wise? It came without tag or any note. After what happened with the corset, I wonder if it is another trick…”

  Rose’s aunt sighed. “There is only one person, besides the king himself, that I know can afford such a trinket, and considering how handsomely he paid you to take us shopping, I have little doubt for whom the gift was intended. Oliver, the box.”

  “As you wish, Mother.” He stalked from the room, returning with a wooden box. He shifted his weight, seeming to deliberate.

  Amelia’s eyes narrowed.

  “Right, here you are, Rose,” Oliver said, handing it over.

  The wood was smooth to the touch. Rose flipped open the hinged top and gasped. Inside lay the most enchanting piece of art she had ever seen—a golden comb with engravings of tree branches and red jewels as the apples. Her heart sped. The orchard. Colin knew how she loved that place. They had spoken about it on their last walk.

  “Rose, do you think it is from Lord Stratfordshire?” Oliver asked.

  “Yes.” She nodded her head and smiled. “He knows how I loved the orchard, and he has spoken about how the place—your employment—has brought us together once again.”

  Oliver craned his neck. “Then he has intentions to ask for your hand.”

  She clutched the comb to her chest. Colin’s affection suddenly seemed obvious—the way his eyes lit up each time he saw her, their daily visits in the gardens or on horseback, the mirror, the new ball gown, his kind compliments. Even more convincing were her own sensations. Colin’s slightest touch could induce a record pounding of her heart, a wave of warmth, and a happiness she had not known existed. She loved him, and she could no longer believe the attachment was one sided. Logic would not allow.

  “He might.” Rose turned to her aunt. Emotion glistened in her eyes.

  Amelia wrapped an arm around Rose’s shoulder and kissed her forehead. “I urge you to trust in your heart. Lord Stratfordshire cares for you. His attention cannot be mistaken. You will be the future duchess of Andover, if you so desire.”

  Oliver’s lips pursed, and a line near his brows appeared. Rose recognized his contemplation. “You should expect a proposal, Rose. Lord Stratfordshire would never have sent such a gift otherwise.”

  “Then…” Rose’s lips parted, and a shaky sigh escaped. She caved into her aunt’s arms. Doubt slipped away with each contented tear. After years of isolation, Providence had granted her a new future. “Nothing would make me happier than marrying Lord Stratfordshire. He is the most honorable man I have ever met.”

  Amelia pulled away. “Then dry those tears. We must leave for the ball, but only after I put the comb in your hair.”

  Rose nodded her approval, and Amelia worked the gift into the side of her hair.

  The duke himself sent his finest carriage to collect the two women. The red velvet seating and golden trimmed interior sent Amelia into ramblings. “When you are duchess…” “Can you imagine your wedding?” “You do look lovely when you smile.” “I have always thought the marquess the most handsome man in Andover.”

  Rose cheeks ached by the time they approached the drive to Stratfordshire. With each breath, her confidence grew, and when the footmen delivered her down the carriage and onto the front drive, Rose’s complexion glowed, and her eyes lit with excitement.

  She nearly toppled over. For all her and Colin’s meetings, Rose had not seen the house so closely. Colin had not prepared her for the sight.

  Stratfordshire was the jewel of the entire county, and likely much of England. The house, which had been the palace for many past kings, was built of white stone and composed of multiple towers. The copper roofs varied in shape—domes and points and elongated trapezoidal prisms—each with castle spires reaching into the sky. The sunset only added to the grandness. Pinks and oranges burned behind the house, and the final rays of sunlight cast a glow around it.

  Not even St. James’ Palace in Westminster or Queens House in London could compare in Rose’s estimation. She fiddled with her pendant necklace.

  Amelia’s hand slipped through Rose’s arm. Her aunt visibly swallowed. “I have only seen the house from afar. I think I shall faint.”

  Her aunt’s dramatics brought a hint of relief. Rose smiled. “You will be at ease when you meet the duke and duchess and marquess. They are warm and welcoming, I assure you.”

  They entered the large hall and were ushered into the grand ballroom.

  “Rose, have you ever seen such grandness?” Amelia asked when they stepped into the domed room.

  Columns lined the round area, and gold-leaf covered each embellishment along the ceiling and walls. Chandeliers with candles cast charming shadows across the ceiling, lighting below. And the flowers. The groups of pastel bouquets near each window and door served to scent the entire room.

  Words escaped Rose. She stood, mouth agape, watching as the couples swirled around the dance floor. Colin had always treated her as an equal, a friend, but seeing his home and the luxury it offered… Rose pulled at her gloves, thankful they covered her cracked and dried skin. Running back to the cottage seemed entirely tempting.

  No wonder Prudence had been perpetually dissatisfied with their home; little surprise she had schemed so desperately for a place alongside the duke. For someone set on the vain things of the world, Stratfordshire was the ultimate prize. In fact, even a sincere woman would find rejecting such an offer difficult.

  Rose’s mother must have loved her father dearly.

  The duke met Rose’s gaze from a few yards away, and he smiled, waving her closer.

  She met him with a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  He took her hand in his, kissing it lightly. He wore a blue sash around his coat, and medals adorned his chest. “Miss Grant, I have been looking forward to seeing you again. I still hear talk of your rescuing me that day in the shepherd’s field. I am not sure which creature was more helpless—me or that lamb you carried.”

  She laughed. “Certainly the lamb, Your Grace. Have you met my aunt? Please allow me the honor of introducing Mrs. Amelia Rolland.”

  Amelia blushed and offered a clumsy attempt at a curtsy. For all her easy conversation, she seemed quite awestruck. She dipped her head. “Your Grace.”

  The duke, seemingly aware of her nerves, swooped Amelia’s hand and placed a kiss on it as he had for Rose. “Mrs. Rolland, I consider it a pleasure to meet any friend of your niece. Welcome to Stratfordshire. I do hope you enjoy your evening.”

  Rose searched the line for the duchess. As hostess, she would not miss greeting her guests.

  “My wife is currently taking a rest near the refreshments.” The duke flicked his chin in the direction of the food table. “Please seek her out. I am sure she wishes to see you again.”

  “Yes, of course, Your Grace.” Rose felt the weight of another’s glance. She turned, and her heart skipped frantically.

  Colin, looking devastatingly handsome, bowed. His dark coat was paired with a golden vest and white cravat, and
his dark waves were neatly styled. “Miss Grant.”

  “My Lord.” She smiled, meeting his green-eyed gaze.

  He greeted Amelia and then returned his attention to Rose. “Will you dance with me?”

  “You waste little time, son,” the duke said, grinning.

  Rose bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling and accepted the marquess’s hand.

  * * *

  Colin’s heart thudded in his chest with each spin and step of the dance; he tried to steady it along with his nerves. Rose was undeniably the most beautiful woman in the room and equally superior when it came to matters of character. Was it possible he had won her affection?

  They promenaded across the center of the room, and Colin caught the jealous glances of both men and women. The ladies, no doubt, had heard of Rose’s residence at the gardener’s cottage, and the men, clear from their intent stares, were captivated by Rose’s beauty and grace.

  He had hoped to wait until the ball was nearly over to speak with her, but the adrenaline rushing through his body urged him toward impatience.

  The last chord of the song rang, and Rose curtsied from across the aisle. Her eyes were notably green. Had she been crying earlier? Or, was it only the light of candles playing tricks on him—perhaps even the blue of her dress causing the effect?

  He took her hand, wrapping it around his arm. “Thank you. Will you walk outside with me?”

  Rose’s brows drew up, and the smallest line of worry appeared above her top lip. Colin leaned closer to hear her words amidst the crowd. “I would be delighted to, but… Lord Stratfordshire—people are staring. I worry you are drawing too much attention to yourself and me. If you wish to avoid gossip—”

  “I do not care about gossip.” He blinked, pulling her toward the terrace gardens. “I would rather speak to you than dance with the number of ladies that wish to ensnare me.”

  “My Lord.” Rose leaned against his arm, slowing his pace, and Colin realized he had nearly dragged her to the terrace in his excitement. She laughed, and her eyes shone back at him with amusement. “What is so important that you must make me skip a step for each of yours?”