The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1)

by Heather Chapman

  He laughed and set his free hand against a stone barrier to the gardens. Couples walked along the lit paths below, while others sat at benches. “That room, with all its greedy people, is suffocating and nearly intolerable. The dresses and polite speech, the bowing and curtsying, the introductions and flirtatious glances—I have already passed through formalities with you, and I prefer our conversation and company to any of that.”

  “Even the flirtatious glances?” Rose asked, pulling her hand from his arm.

  He caught her gloved hand and pulled it to his chest. “Depending on where they originate.”

  Her eyes widened, and she stared at his hand over hers. “Then you mean to tease me.”

  “Not in the slightest.” Suddenly, his planned speech felt as stiff as the room they had just left. Rose deserved more than that. “Will you walk with me in the gardens?”

  “Yes, I would love to see these gardens, and that fountain…” Rose’s lips spread into a large smile.

  “My grandfather had the feature installed. The statue at the center of the fountain is of him, riding atop his stallion. My grandfather was the type that enjoyed such attention.” Colin led her down the steps. He did not know where or how to begin. He only knew that the time had come to tell her how he felt. “Miss Grant, you look particularly pretty this evening.”

  “Thank you.” They passed by the fountain and she stopped to get a better look at the statue. “I think you favor your mother’s line, for I cannot see your likeness.”

  He nodded. “Thankfully.”

  “And why should you wish to look different from your grandfather?”

  Colin’s mouth went dry, and his voice cracked. “For the same reason you were happy to see your resemblance to your mother. Children naturally wish to resemble those they admire.”

  The water from the fountain trickled to the pool below, filling a momentary silence.

  “I received your gift,” Rose said, smiling up at him.

  He had hoped Oliver would not mention the added pay or the order to take Rose and Amelia shopping. He blushed. “About that… I had hoped to remain anonymous.”

  She clasped her hands behind her back. Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight, and emotion seeped into her voice. “I figured, but a gift so lovely, with or without a card, deserves gratitude. Thank you. Your regard means very much to me.”

  Colin’s stomach lodged in his throat. Rose was kindhearted and pleasant but also undeniably guarded. She struggled to speak freely, to laugh unreservedly, to explain the past that troubled her so often. Though time had improved upon her, Rose continued to hold part of herself back.

  But when she looked at him like that, all doubt fled. Her walls crumbled, and in place of them laid a simple truth; she cared for him. Perhaps as much as he cared for her. He placed his hand on her arm, guiding her toward a more private row of hedges.

  “Rose.” His head buzzed with the possibilities, but his heart clamored in a fit of nerves. “I had thought to wait to speak with you until after the ball, but I cannot. I think you well know my intentions. Since our first ride in the country, I recognized certain qualities in you—qualities that I admire. Though you are much too modest to admit it, I am sure you have heard how I searched for you. I sent letters to every possible connection, hoping they might know of your location. Some might have charged it to responsibility after your condition at the musicale, but that is not the full truth.”

  “No?” Rose’s eyes glistened, and Colin noted the tears balancing against the brim of her lower lashes. “Then why did you search for me?”

  Colin placed a hand at her cheek. “I needed to find you, almost as much as I have grown to…to adore you. I cannot go a day without wishing to hear your voice, wishing to see your smile, wishing to hear your laughter.”

  Her breath grew shallow, and she pressed her forehead against his shoulder in what seemed to be an attempt to steady herself. “Nothing could make me happier than to hear you speak those words.”

  “There is so much more I wish to tell you, to ask you.”

  She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Then do.”

  He brushed his other hand over a ringlet, tucking it behind her ear. His hand knocked against something metal. Prongs poked at his fingers, but he ignored them. “I have been hoping, no—praying, that you would wish to hear my question. Rose, I have to ask you…”

  She turned, and the moonlight lit the side of her head, illuminating a golden comb decorated with rubies.

  Colin stiffened. He studied the hairpiece, determined to detect discrepancies. However, as Rose turned toward the light, the moonlight struck it straight on, illuminating the etched outline of the orchard. His chest seemed to collapse against his heart, pressing until he gasped for breath.

  “Rose, that comb…”

  She laughed. “I simply adore it. When I first saw it, I knew it was intended for me—”

  Colin pulled away in disbelief. The musicale, Rose’s tears, the duchess’s refusal to speak of what happened—everything blurred together. Was it possible Rose had taken it? He shook his head, not wanting to believe such a revolting idea. “Rose, I need you to answer honestly. Do you know what that comb signifies?”

  Her brows knit together, and her cheeks grew darker. “If you must hear it from my own lips, I will say it, but only to satisfy you.” She swallowed and her gaze fell to the ground before she met his eyes again. “I imagine wearing this would be a sign that I’m to be…that this gift means you would wish me the future duchess of Andover…”

  “No. No, Rose. You could not—you would not… it cannot be.” Colin lifted his hands to his head, shaking back and forth. “You claim that comb as your own?”

  She retreated from his touch, pulling the comb from her hair. The stolen symbol of his parents’ union rested in her hands.

  “What can you mean? You have given me every indication that you cared for me. You sent me this gift, and now, when I have come to your ball wearing it, you are… angry?” A broken sob tore from her lips.

  “Lord Stratfordshire,” called a servant a few feet away. “Your mother is asking for you. She requests a dance with her son.”

  Colin’s head reeled. His mother, his ill and dear mother. He swallowed, lowering his glance to Rose’s gloved hands. Nothing made sense—not the comb, not Rose’s words, nor the ache in his chest that made breathing near impossible. How had he been so mistaken? How had he fallen into a trap? All this while, he had thought Rose different than her scheming aunt…but Rose had gone so far as to relocate herself onto his grounds! Rose, as beautiful and charming as she appeared, was no different than her sour apple of an aunt. With the sudden realization, came humiliation.

  He plucked the comb from her hand. “Goodnight, Miss Grant. I am to dance with my mother, and you are free to return to the ballroom or to the cottage, but I should not wish to speak with you again.”

  Chapter 12

  Tears clouded Rose’s vision. The darkness threatened to close in on her. She watched as the outline of the marquess disappeared up the stairs and into the ballroom.

  She collapsed against a bench, allowing the tears to fall. In all her life, Rose had never felt more broken. Not the death of her mother, not the loss of the father she had never known, not even her aunt’s attempt at suffocating Rose in a corset—nothing came close to the stabbing knives against her chest and throat.

  The death of her parents had come as consequences of accidents and illnesses; Prudence’s mistreatment stemmed from her narcissistic inability to look past jealousy and past misfortunes. But, Colin—Rose had allowed him in her heart. She cared for him, tried her best to allow herself to open up to him.

  Her chest seemed to sever once more, and her heart crawled dangerously slow. Why had she allowed herself to hope for a future with the marquess? Why had she put her heart in the open? Oliver had been right. Colin would not offer for a lady staying with a servant.

  A gentleman, a few feet away, whispered something to the lady
on his arm, and they laughed.

  Rose drew in five breaths, hardly bothering to exhale. She had been as contented as the couple before her only moments ago. Rose wiped a gloved finger beneath each eye and stood. She would not stay; Colin had been clear about his disgust in regard to her assumption.

  She was a fool. Perhaps Prudence was right to lock her away. She marched to the ballroom and filed through the dancers, determined to find Amelia before she shed another tear. But with each step, her heart seemed to crack afresh. Colin was at the center of the room, dancing with the duchess.

  His gaze met hers for a brief second, and his lips parted in surprise.

  A thread of anger coursed through her, surprising her entirely. She was unaccustomed to the boiling in her stomach or the sharp words resting on the tip of her tongue. But how could she not feel something akin to anger? The marquess had strung her along, only to crush her in a vulnerable moment.

  “Rose, what on earth?” Amelia asked, meeting Rose near the line of chairs. Amelia’s lips lowered to a frown. “You look as if you’ve had a dreadful evening. Are you ill?”

  Rose pressed a hand to her stomach and nodded. She did feel ill; that was no lie. “Please take me home.”

  Although appearing reluctant to leave the glittering ballroom, Amelia conceded and followed Rose to the row of carriages. They walked in silence, but tears began again once they were seated inside the dark conveyance.

  The cottage was only a fifteen-minute ride from Stratfordshire, but each second seemed excruciatingly prolonged. She released slow breaths and leaned against the window in an attempt to stifle conversation.

  Aunt Amelia was an attentive aunt. She would have listened, perhaps even offered comfort. However, Rose could not bring herself to speak the words aloud—not yet. Colin did not want a future with Rose, and from his final words, she doubted he ever had.

  She muffled a sob in her glove.

  When they reached the cottage, Rose nearly sprinted from the carriage. She burst through the door, knocking into Oliver.

  Her cousin caught her by the shoulders, surveying her tears and listening to her broken sobs. “Rose?”

  She collapsed against him, crying into his chest. “I thought…Oh, Oliver. I was terribly mistaken. I thought Lord Stratfordshire cared for me, and I said as much, but now he does not wish to speak to me ever again.”

  Oliver sighed, brushing a hand through her curls. “Oh, Rose.”

  Amelia entered the home and placed a hand against Rose’s back. “I knew it was more than illness that had her wishing to leave. Rose, did Lord Stratfordshire truly refuse to offer for you after that gift of the golden comb?”

  Rose’s cries were answer enough, and she gasped for breath amidst her weeping. She could almost hear the sound of Prudence scolding her. You were foolish to think he cared for you, child. You were naïve and silly. You deserve every bit of your humiliation.

  “Rose, I am so sorry.” Oliver pulled her to the sofa. “You must rest. Mother, get her tea.”

  She sunk into the sofa, feeling as helpless as an infant child. Why could she not get a grip on her emotions? Why wouldn’t the tears stop?

  Oliver set a pillow under her head and wrapped a blanket over her trembling shoulders. “Perhaps news from home will do the trick? I saw this letter on the hall table from this morning. Did you not see it? It is from your friend, Mr. Paul Garvey. Shall I read it to you?”

  Rose numbly shook her head, though she doubted a single word would hold any meaning.

  “Right,” Oliver said, shuffling to retrieve the letter. He opened it in haste and returned to Rose’s side. “Dear Rose, I thank you for your previous letter. I am glad to hear you are well, and I hope my next news will not cause you too much distress. I did as you said and paid a visit to your grandfather while your aunt was out. Only, she returned before I had left, intercepting the letter—”

  Rose shot up. She tore the paper from Oliver’s hands, scanning the words for affirmation of the sinking feeling in her stomach.

  Dear Rose,

  I thank you for your previous letter. I am glad to hear you are well, and I hope my next news will not cause you too much distress. I did as you said and paid a visit to your grandfather while your aunt was out, two days ago. Only, your aunt returned before I had left, intercepting the letter I took to read to him, and, consequently, she has learned of your whereabouts.

  Rose, Prudence has gone mad. I neglected to tell you the extent in my last letter, but your departure has seemed to ignite an even more vile woman. She spit upon me and sent me away. I am quite sure she is set upon your undoing, though I do not pretend to understand her method.

  Since that fateful day, my father has heard gossip of some attempt to bring you out of favor with the duke and his family. And just now, as I write this letter, my father tells me of a package that you must not open.

  Rose, after the incident at the musicale, I fear for your safety. Please, take care, and send me word as soon as you are able. Tell me I am not too late.

  Paul

  Rose fell back to the sofa. Her tears turned to disbelief. “You say this letter arrived earlier today? Why didn’t anyone give it to me?”

  Oliver shrugged. “You were preoccupied with preparations for the duke’s ball. I set it on the hall table, thinking you would retrieve it in a moment of convenience.”

  Rose buried her face in the pillow. When she had seen the comb, with its apple tree and rubies, she was sure Colin had it made for her. Clearly, Prudence had planted the comb, but why? How could a comb alter Colin’s affection? And how could she ask him now, when he never wished to speak to her again?

  * * *

  Colin adjusted the papers on the desk in front of him. He squinted, trying to make out the figures of his secretary’s penmanship. Goodness, why was the room so dark and hot? He rose to the window and pulled back the drapes.

  He leaned against the window frame for a moment. His head pounded from the ball’s festivities and, more surely, his dismissal of Rose. He still did not understand how she had gotten the comb or why she had been so brazen to wear it. Her behavior went against everything he had come to know and love about her.

  Or, what he thought he knew and loved about her.

  He pushed open the window, and the cool morning air blew in, catching his papers on the desk and carrying them in a spiral across the room, scattering in every direction. He darted in an attempt to catch them, cursing all the while.

  “Colin!” The duchess stood across the study. She scowled. “Control your tongue, won’t you? I have not seen you lose your temper like this since you were a child.”

  “Mother.” Colin’s cheeks darkened in shame. He was not one to curse, nor to lose his temper often. He stood, with an armful of papers, and faced her. “Good morning, I did not hear you come in.”

  She lifted a hand to her hip and tilted her head. Dark bags hung beneath each eye, wrinkling as she coughed into her shoulder. “How could you? With all that rattling of papers and obscenities, I am surprised you are here at all. How unlike you.”

  “Yes, but then the investments father has charged me with are far outside my realm of comfort.” Colin’s shoulders fell forward, and he set about sorting the papers at the desk. He could not look at her; he was never skilled at hiding his emotions and thoughts from the duchess.

  She said nothing in return, but Colin felt her critical eye from where she stood.

  The duchess had inquired about Rose multiple times throughout the ball, wondering when she might have the honor of meeting her again or if Colin would ask her to dance a second set. He had done his best to avoid her questions, and thankfully, there were more than enough partners and acquaintances that battled for his attention.

  “How long will you make me wait?”

  Colin’s chin snapped higher. “Wait? For what?”

  His attempt was futile. She crossed her arms, and a look of sadness lit her features. “I know you better than you like to admit. Before the bal
l, your face beamed with excitement. You could hardly stop smiling. In fact, your entire attitude gave me the impression you wished to offer for Miss Grant. You said as much too.”

  Colin shook his head. “Beamed with excitement? I doubt that.”

  Her silence grew thick, and she waited for a long moment to speak. “And then you changed, only half an hour into the ball. Do not mistake me. You were quite dutiful in your attentions to our guests, you danced, and you were as charming as any lady might hope for. But, I could see your mind had wandered far away, as did your heart. You may have been present last night, but that was only a technicality. You were somewhere else entirely.”

  The duchess knew what so many did not; if one wished to draw a subject out, astute observations were much more effective than questions. Colin’s throat grew scratchy, and he swallowed hard. “I will not deny what you say. Miss Grant, it seems—she is not what I thought, what I hoped.”

  “Oh?” The duchess strode across the room and rested her hands on his desk. “And what have you discovered?”

  He dropped his head into his heads. He hardly knew what Rose was or was not. His thoughts circumnavigated his head like a horse track, competing with one another in a hopeless struggle.

  “Colin?”

  He opened his top drawer and tossed the comb against the desktop.

  The duchess gasped. “Where did you find this?”

  His shoulders quaked, and his eyes pooled. “Rose wore it last night.” He paused, drawing in a breath. “When I spotted it, I tried to ask her about it, but her answers only furthered my conclusion. I believe she stole it from you the night of the musicale. I believe she sought me out purposely in an attempt to gain my affection and title.”

  The duchess picked up the comb, inspecting every detail. Her brows drew together, and she chewed on the inside of her cheek.

  “Well? Can you blame me for turning away from her? Can you blame me for my melancholy mood? I have lost what I supposed to be the only woman I might love.” Colin’s voice cracked, and he cupped his hands to his cheeks once more.