The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1)

by Heather Chapman

  “I do not blame you, not at all. You have been the object of many women’s attempts at status and fortune. Trusting is difficult, even for a man as good as you.”

  He lifted a brow. “You think I am wrong? Mother, how else can you explain her having the comb? She had the nerve to claim I gifted it to her.”

  The duchess clasped the comb to her chest and sighed. “I have not told you what happened on the night of the musicale for two reasons—to protect Miss Grant’s privacy and to investigate the events. However, if you are ready to reject the affection of such a dear girl, I feel I must inform you. Her aunt nearly took Miss Grant’s life that night.”

  Colin’s head jerked backward. He rubbed at his eyes. His mind flashed to the day at the orchard when he caught Rose in a moment of contemplation. “I left under difficult circumstances,” she had said. Colin swallowed again. “How so?”

  The duchess moved to his side of the desk and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Prudence always had her ways—she was the master of disguising her scandalous attempts. She was no different with her niece. She used a trick-corset, one made for short periods of wear, to nearly suffocate Miss Grant. I will spare you the details, but I have had the garment examined, and my lawyers tell me there is reason enough to charge Prudence with assault. Did you not notice Prudence’s indifference to Rose’s suffering on the night of the musicale, the way she dismissed her niece so callously?”

  Colin winced.

  “Let me assure you—Prudence could not have been more unfeeling. Now, I must tell you something more. My comb was quite intact when Miss Grant left. I took it out after the second set of songs, for my head did ache with worry for Miss Grant. I placed it in my reticule, but by the time we left, it was gone.”

  “Then you…” His stomach sunk to his knees. The things he had said to Rose, the way he had looked at her… Colin rose from the chair and walked to the open window. The breeze did little to calm the tightness in his chest or the regret lodging into the back of his throat. “You mean to say that Rose did not take the comb, and you are sure of it?”

  “Yes.”

  The word stabbed at him. Tears slipped down his cheeks, and he took a shaky breath. How could he have doubted Rose? How could he have left her without a moment to explain? He trembled against the frame of the window, catching a glimmer of his reflection in the glass.

  He turned away; he had never been more disgusted with the image glaring back at him.

  Chapter 13

  Dear Niece,

  After much distress, I have learned your whereabouts. Tell me, did you intend to go on living there forever without sending me a single word? You must know what trouble you caused. My head has throbbed from worry, and my joints have turned stiff. Have you forgotten all my efforts to procure you a future? Are you so ungrateful?

  In other news, I think you would be happy to hear that I received a visit from Mr. Higgins last week. He has offered for your hand, despite your leaving (and the scandal it has presented to those that know).

  I shall come to Andover myself to collect you in a day. I urge you to consider Mr. Higgins, for after your taking residence in a servant’s cottage, I am quite sure no man of standing would wish to offer for your hand.

  Prudence

  * * *

  There are moments when words fall short—Rose had learned that long ago, when her mother had died, and a disapproving aunt had assumed the role of her guardian. Now, Oliver and Amelia continued to inquire after her wellbeing, but Rose lacked answers.

  Nearly three days had passed since the ball. Rose felt no closer to understanding what had happened. The world made as little sense as a spinning kaleidoscope; her own aunt was determined to ruin her, Colin had forsaken her at the sight of a comb, and she had nowhere to go but felt unable to remain near Stratfordshire.

  She walked the Orchards; they seemed the only place left with order and peace. The harvest had come early, and Oliver had ordered additional gardeners for the picking of apples. Rose set out to volunteer, eager to busy her hands.

  “Rose, you have come.” Oliver carried a pile of stacked baskets. He set them on the grass and lifted his hat. “Have you worked a day in an orchard before?”

  Rose smiled, but the effort was forced, empty. She pulled her straw bonnet on, tying the ribbon beneath her chin. “Not once.”

  Her cousin laughed. “The task is simple enough. Take the apple and twist upward. Do not pull the apple downward—that can damage the branches.”

  “Sounds simple enough.” She took a basket. “Any other commands, Head Gardener?”

  “Yes.” Oliver put his arm on Rose’s shoulder. “Do try to enjoy yourself, and take care on the step ladder.”

  “As you wish.”

  Rose wandered the rows of apples until she settled on a silent row near the southeast edge of the plot. The views across the duke’s land were lovely, yet she was still surrounded by the straight aisles of beautiful fruit. The trees reached about ten feet high, and the bright blue sky loomed overhead.

  The beauty of the day contrasted drastically with her despondent heart. Sadness had become her inevitable companion. Yet, with the sun shining against the trees, the rushing of wind against her cheek, and the occasional songs of the birds, Rose could not help but feel lighter.

  Her future could not be so desperate as to warrant returning to Prudence or accepting Mr. Higgins. Marrying Mr. Higgins was a cowardly escape. She did not love him and did not think herself capable. He was more than twice her age.

  Perhaps Rose only needed more sunlight and time. Perhaps there was still hope coloring her future. Her baskets filled quickly, and she made a game of discovering the hidden gems, the ones that were just right for picking—firm, crisp, ruby-red colored apples.

  Rose gasped. A memory, one she had forgotten until now, came with such force that Rose nearly fell from her step ladder.

  Her mother leaned over the counter beside Mrs. Blackburn, studying the recipe in front of them.

  “What shall I add next?” Rose stood at her mother’s side, hanging on Lillian’s floral-patterned apron. “Shall I get the rolling pin, Mama?”

  Her mother laughed, and the sound was magic—warm, tender, but equally amused. “We have apples to wash and slice, darling. The filling must be finished before the crust.”

  Rose clutched the branches to steady herself, for with the flashes of faces and smells came sounds. Her mother’s laughter. Rose closed her eyes and leaned against the trunk of the tree. If only Rose could replay that sound over and over in her ears, she would do so until she grew dizzy with joy.

  The memory was so simple; there was nothing spectacular about it—in terms of significance or impact. Yet, Rose could not bite back the smile and the unexpected tears blurring her vision.

  Lillian Grant had chosen joy over anything else. Wishing for a child for almost nine years, becoming a widow once pregnant, and caring for a blind father-in-law—Rose’s mother had not been dealt ease. Not to mention a sister-in-law that seethed with jealousy…

  Yet, Rose’s mother had chosen joy.

  Prudence had poisoned Colin’s opinion of Rose. Just the thought caused her posture to stiffen and she teetered once more. How could Rose choose joy? How could she forgive Colin for his distrust and her subsequent heartbreak? How could she forgive herself for believing the marquess would offer for her?

  Where was Rose’s mother to teach her? Recollections acted as a poor substitute.

  She climbed down from the ladder and set the basket in the shade. She sprinted across the row of apple trees, stopping only when she reached the brick wall surrounding the orchard. Running was a temporary fix to pain, but the need to counter her ache had propelled her. She leaned against the wall, struggling to catch her breath. Would her heart ever heal from Colin’s rejection? Did love like that ever leave?

  “Miss Grant.”

  She jumped at the sound. She knew that voice almost as much as her own. “Lord Stratfordshire,” she said, not
daring to meet his glance. “Do you make it a habit of startling young ladies?” Her voice trembled, and her attempt at lightheartedness was weak.

  Colin stood only yards away, wearing his riding boots. His horse trailed behind him, feeding on the grass. Colin shifted his weight. “I suppose I have.”

  Rose turned from him, gazing across the fields around the orchard. “You told me that you wished to never speak to me again.”

  “Yes, but I was wrong to do so.”

  She winced, and her heart rose to her throat, beating wildly until she could scarcely breathe.

  “Rose, I once compared you to a sunflower. Do you remember?”

  Rose nodded.

  “You have the fairest heart of anyone I have ever met, and I cannot believe how I behaved. I can only say that my shock at seeing something my mother treasures, in your hands…” Colin shuffled closer, and his boots crunched a patch of dry grass. “I’m not attempting to win you over with excuses. I am asking—no, begging. If you saw any good in me before, will you try to once more? I have made a horrible mistake. I just came from speaking with my mother. She told me about Prudence and the musicale…”

  Rose released a cracked sob, quickly covering her mouth.

  Colin continued, “That comb—I only knew it had been stolen from my mother the night of the musicale. I mistook your words the night of the ball, and I have made a wretched mess of things. I cannot rationalize my actions, but I can explain why I acted the way I did and said the things I said. Will you allow me to try?”

  Her shoulders shook. She longed to hear his words, but her broken and angered heart still felt the deep wounds of betrayal. Humiliation, confusion, sadness—could words patch such brokenness?

  Colin stepped in front of her, lifting her chin. “Rose, please.” His storm-colored eyes looked every bit as troubled as the sea. Emotion gleamed back at her, and his lips pressed into a frown. “Please?”

  Compassion clawed at the back of her throat, and her anger softened. “You may try.”

  He inhaled sharply. “Your aunt wishes to tear us apart, by any means necessary. She nearly suffocated you, and she played upon my greatest fear—being tricked into loving a woman more interested in my title than my heart.”

  The heaviness in her heart lifted.

  “That comb belongs to my mother, given to her by my father on their wedding. He proposed in the orchard, you see. It disappeared the night of the musicale. When I saw you wearing it and you said you knew it was intended for you, I mistakenly pieced things together. I am a fool for thinking you capable of such scheming. I am ashamed.”

  Rose released a slow breath. “I was also a fool to think I was free of Prudence. Her jealousy extends far, and she punishes me for every injustice she has received. I should not have ever accepted a gift without tag. I only thought it was you because…” Her eyes clamped shut. “The apple tree etchings and rubies.”

  His hands cupped each side of her cheeks.

  She blinked back tears. His touch was warm and gentle, and she did not wish her pride to keep her from him. Happiness was worth more than anger and misplaced justice. “Do you think you could love me after what has passed between us?”

  His lips parted, and a puff of air escaped, brushing against her cheek. “Do I think…?” He shook his head, and laughter mixed with his tears. “Rose, I adore you. I have spent the last hours, and night, in a fearful state. After not even allowing you a chance to explain, I worried I had lost you forever. I love you wholly, and I will continue loving you until my last breath. Please, say you will marry me?”

  Heat burned in her chest, radiating to her fingertips and toes. Forgiveness no longer seemed a question—instead a passing ship along shining waters. Her breath shook in relief.

  “Please?” he asked, sniffling and smiling all at one. “I cannot imagine a more beautiful soul to spend forever with.”

  Rose placed a hand against his cheek, staring back at him. Happiness muffled her answer to an almost inaudible “yes”.

  And then his lips met hers—urgently and unabashedly thorough. With each movement, he drew away a piece of her doubt, a portion of the poison that Prudence had placed between them.

  Colin pulled her closer, lifting her into his arms and spinning her around.

  She laughed, and the sudden realization struck her—she carried more than her mother’s resemblance. She carried Lillian’s laugh too. Her heart swelled. Such happiness had not seemed possible moments before. Yet, there she was—spinning in the arms of her future husband, with a future as bright as the afternoon sun. Like her mother, Rose would choose joy.

  * * *

  Rose peeked from the edge of the parlor window.

  The carriage swayed against the broken path, stopping with a jolt. The door opened, and Prudence stepped onto the walk. Her nose pinched, and she paused to scowl at the sight of the cottage.

  “Are you ready to face her?” Colin whispered in her ear, clutching her hand.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Prudence knocked with the force of a hammer, repeating the gesture when Rose did not answer straight away. “It is Prudence, Rose. Open this door immediately.”

  Rose swallowed hard. After much thought, she pitied her aunt; Prudence was bound to be even unhappier than she already was. “Coming,” she called, lifting the latch.

  “Gracious, child. Did you not receive my letter? I have come to collect you. Mr. Higgins has been as patient as can be hoped for, considering the circumstances, and you—”

  “Why did you send the comb?” Rose folded her arms.

  “Send the—what nonsense are you speaking? Now, collect your belongings and come.” Prudence wafted a hand in front of her. “How have you abided this place? It smells of smoke and sweat and filthy young men.”

  Rose smiled. “My cousins are home, Aunt. Please lower your voice.”

  “And why should I? I would have thought you happy to receive my letter and return home after the disasters you’ve encountered at both the musicale and the ball.”

  Rose nodded. “All thanks to you.”

  “Well, course I couldn’t allow you to make a complete fool of yourself—I – ”

  Colin stepped from the parlor, meeting Prudence. He towered over her. “Mrs. Grant, we meet again.”

  “Lord Stratfordshire… you…” Her mouth fell open. “What do I owe this pleasure? Have you come to chastise my niece as I have? I heard she was spotted wearing the very comb the duchess lost that fateful night—”

  “Not another word, Mrs. Grant. I have decided to show you compassion, if only because of your kindhearted niece.”

  Prudence almost lost her balance. “Pardon?”

  “I have asked for Rose’s hand in marriage, Mrs. Grant.” Colin wrapped his arm around Rose’s back. His eyes seemed to brighten. “And so, I have found a lovely home in Bath for you. Rose and I will settle at Grant Estate and care for Lord Grant after the wedding, and you—you will stay far away.”

  Prudence gasped. Her cheeks flamed red, and her eyes bulged. “And why on earth would I agree to such absurd terms?”

  Colin’s eyes narrowed. “You will agree to such conditions in exchange for my silence. After your schemes—the corset and the comb—I have plenty of proof to send you away to the stocks, Mrs. Grant. Or, perhaps even worse, enough ammunition to ruin your reputation once again. So, what will it be?”

  “You know,” Prudence said, clenching her teeth. “I hear Bath is lovely this time of year. Besides, I rather do detest sharing my home.”

  She turned on her heel, returning to the carriage almost as quickly as she came. With her angry shriek, the driver snapped his whip and the carriage bounced inside a cloud of dust.

  Rose leaned against Colin’s chest and released the breath she had been holding. Prudence was gone, with all her disapproval, scoldings, punishments, and gloom. And now Rose was encompassed in safety, peace, and unimaginable joy. The contrast nearly stole her breath all over again.

  “Well,” C
olin said, cracking a smile. “I suppose that could have gone worse.”

  He led her out the door toward the gardens.

  “Indeed.” Rose moved to her toes, planting a kiss against his cheek. “Thank you. I do not think I could have been the one to bear the news. Despite all her horridness, I do not wish her unhappy.”

  Colin’s eyes widened, and he leaned closer. “Rose, with you at my side, I might make a decent man after all.”

  He pulled her into an embrace, kissing her softly but thoroughly once again.

  Her heart thudded, and happiness threatened to overwhelm her. All the days and adventures she’d shared with Colin spun through her thoughts. She had finally found her home, and no amount of poisonous dealings would ever taint her happiness again.

  The End

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  For a complete list of Heather Chapman’s books or to sign up for her newsletter, visit http://www.heatherchapmanauthor.com

  The Fairest Heart is a stand-alone sweet regency romance novella, part of the Once Upon a Regency Series. Make sure to read the other books in the series:

  The Midnight Heiress by Ashtyn Newbold (Coming March 2019)

  Spun of Gold by Jen Geigle Johnson (Coming April 2019)

  Beauty’s Rose by Rebecca J. Greenwood (Coming May 2019)

  Proving Miss Price by Jessilyn Stewart Peaslee (Coming June 2019)

  About the Author

  Being the youngest of four sisters and one very tolerant older brother, Heather grew up on a steady diet of chocolate, Jane Austen, Anne of Green Gables, Audrey Hepburn, and the other staples of female moviedom and literature. These stories, along with good teachers, encouraged Heather throughout high school and college to read many of the classics in literature, and later, to begin writing her own stories of romance and adventure. After meeting and marrying her husband Mark, Heather graduated magna cum laude from Brigham Young University and settled down in a small farming community in southeastern Idaho with her husband and four children. In her spare time, Heather enjoys time spent with family, volleyball, piano, the outdoors, and almost anything creative. She is the author of The Second Season, The Forgotten Girl, and Forever Elle. You can find out more about Heather and her writing by visiting the website heatherchapmanauthor.com.