Seeing Miss Heartstone

by Nichole Van

  “Yes, Miss Heartstone.” Blake remained stony faced, but his tone was gentle. “You need rest. Let us care for you.”

  The door closed and Stratton rapped on the carriage, signaling the driver to move on.

  Belle met Blake’s gaze one last time as they pulled away, the intensity of his blue gaze scouring her soul.

  Had he meant to include himself in his final statement, she wondered? Let us care for you?

  It was a testament to her shattered state that she only fretted and analyzed his words for the ten minutes it took for the rocking motion of the carriage to lull her to sleep.

  22

  . . . You have been angry with me for days, and I find myself crying incessantly. When will you forgive me? Mamma says you are like a tea kettle when overset, prone to outbursts of words until you have let off your steam. Then common sense reigns again. So I ask you, brother mine, how steamy are you feeling today?

  —letter from Cecily to her brother, Colin, on the occasion of having ruined his favorite coat

  Colin sat at dinner the following evening, contemplating the nearly comical turn of events of his week.

  No, the past month, really.

  He took a sip of wine. A burst of giggling laughter carried down the table. He set down his wine glass, forcibly not turning his head toward the sound.

  The Desperate Debutantes were still in situ at Stratton Hall.

  The Gold Miners and Lord Odysseus—who was unable to return due to the washed-out bridge—were not.

  Colin met the gaze of Miss Rutger across the table, sitting beside the vicar, sternly telling himself to ignore the presence of Miss Heartstone seated at his right elbow.

  The women were well, he was relieved to say.

  However, the road to London was impassable, the bridge washed out and the rest a flooded bog.

  Which left Colin stranded at Stratton Hall with five increasingly desperate debutantes, one woman’s companion, and one duplicitous lady who had been, at times, an unsuccessful suitor, a business partner, his best friend and confidant, a damsel in distress, and a potential love interest . . .

  . . . but was now no one to him.

  His life had become a runaway carriage, and he worried he was now in a wild vehicle headed straight for disaster—

  He winced at the metaphor. It was too soon to be casually thinking of runaway carriages.

  Colin knew from past experience that it only took a little rain to turn a docile stream into a raging torrent. Though England was well used to rain, it usually came and went as gentle pattering, giving the ground and surrounding landscape ample time to lap it up. Violent cloudbursts where water poured from the heavens were a rarity, ironically.

  The past storm, however, had swelled the river that ran through the town to monster proportions in a matter of hours, culminating in the moment when Miss Heartstone’s carriage had attempted to cross the bridge, causing the entire structure to collapse. The swift current had quickly overflowed its banks, drowning the village green in three feet of water.

  That first look at Belle Heartstone’s face, ashen and desolate, peeking out from the interior of the sunken carriage, eyes desperate but hands still holding on to the leather strap, refusing to give in . . .

  Her defiant insistence on helping Miss Rutger first, heedless of herself . . .

  Then, the feel of her in his arms . . .

  He ignored the involuntary vise that grasped his lungs at the thought.

  It was just—

  Her body had been so slight. How had he not realized that her personality loomed larger than her actual person? But holding her against his chest, he had understood, first hand, how fragile she truly was. Her trembling arms clinging to his neck, her wet hair pressed against his cheek . . .

  He swallowed back the surge of . . . feeling that wanted to swamp him.

  Enough.

  Yes, he was still attracted to Belle Heartstone. Despite her perfidy, she remained a beautiful woman. That’s all this emotion communicated.

  He would be damned if he allowed animal instinct to rule him in this.

  Belle and Miss Rutger had stayed in their rooms the previous day. The doctor had visited and proclaimed that both women were in decent shape. They both simply needed warmth and rest.

  He and Stratton managed to keep to the billiards room for most of the afternoon, but one could only play so many games of billiards in a day. The rain at least had let up, but the saturated ground was a boggy mess, making riding or walking a muddy chore.

  However once he and Stratton left the protection of the billiards room to join the ladies for tea, the Desperate Debutantes had showed their true skill.

  “Lord Blake, I have dropped my thimble. Could you help me find it?”

  “Do you prefer the waltz or country dances, my lord? Perhaps, we should practice a bit.”

  “Lord Blake, I do believe I have an eyelash in my eye. No one appears to have keen enough eyesight to see it. Perhaps you could look as well?”

  That inspired a whole host of similar problems.

  “My wrist seems to be twinging. Can you feel it?”

  “I fear I have twisted my ankle. Could you possibly carry me, Lord Blake?”

  That last request had sent Colin scurrying for a footman and pleading a headache.

  Damn and blast.

  He was well familiar with the concept of karma from his time in India. A part of Hindu thought, karma referred to sowing the rewards of one’s past deeds. Usually good deeds led to good rewards and vice versa. But given his current situation—stranded with a woman who had betrayed him and a bevy of misses who would delight in trapping him into marriage—he had to wonder what heinous thing he had done in the past to merit such a present.

  Belle and Miss Rutger had both emerged this evening for dinner. Colin told himself that it was irrelevant, but his thundering heart seemed to disagree. He told himself she wasn’t that beautiful. That her actions made him immune to her physical charms.

  He was a terrible liar.

  ‘Tis attraction, nothing more, he sternly reminded himself.

  “Belle dear,” Lady Stratton was saying, “have you told Lord Blake about your orphanage near Swindon? I must say, your stories about the plight of the children there have touched me to no end.”

  Lady Stratton obviously wished to act as matchmaker.

  Hah!

  If she only knew—

  “Yes, Miss Heartstone,” Colin said turning to her, “pray tell me about the orphanage.”

  His tone might have had a slightly mocking edge to it.

  Belle raised her head. That first glance of her eyes gutted him, a quick blow to his mid-section. So many emotions swam in her gaze, it was hard to isolate just one.

  Hurt, sorrow, remorse, resignation.

  And why was he the one suddenly feeling like a cad?

  No. He was the wronged party here. He refused to feel guilt for his actions.

  “What do you wish to know, my lord?” Belle’s voice remained steady, her smile brittle.

  “Tell me how the orphanage came about,” he managed to say.

  He knew exactly how the orphanage had come to be. He had approved the plans himself.

  Colin knew he was behaving poorly. Perhaps this was his karma.

  To her credit, Belle merely straightened her spine and stared him down, that same brittle smile remaining firmly in place. Only the tightness around her eyes and the slight shake of her hand betrayed her unease.

  Her clear distress did something odd to his breathing, like a vise wrapping around his heart and squeezing.

  Colin gritted his teeth.

  He disliked the sensation.

  How could her pretty face also be that of LHF? How could his friend’s voice be hers?

  No matter how much he contemplated it, he struggled to put her into the role of LHF.

  “It was inspired by a—” She broke off, clearly trying to reframe her thoughts. “—a friend.” She swallowed and turned her head t
oward Lady Stratton. “A good friend, someone who I greatly admire and respect. Together we formulated the structure of the orphanage . . .”

  Belle continued talking for several minutes, describing how the children were placed in family groups with ‘parents’ to watch over them. She praised his clever ideas and wisdom several times.

  Not that anyone else in the room knew she was speaking of him.

  Even more, her description reminded him of all the thought and effort they had both put into Hopewell Manor and Fyfe Hall. All of LHF’s clever suggestions and ideas wrapped into a project with such noble heart—

  Stop! He didn’t want her words to soften his heart. To see the goodness and care showing through with every turn of phrase.

  He didn’t want to be charmed.

  No, this little charade was theirs alone.

  But as she spoke, Colin found himself disquieted.

  It was just . . .

  . . . he could hear LHF’s ideas and turns of phrase in her speech. How had he missed it before? It seemed obvious now.

  And what, if anything, was he to do about it?

  The next day dawned bright and sunny, the air heavy with humidity from the evaporating damp.

  Colin took advantage of the change in weather and spent several hours touring the estate with Stratton on horseback. They rode out to assess the damage from the storm, but aside from several water-logged fields, Stratton’s lands had fared well.

  The village, with its missing bridge and flooded streets, had not survived as neatly.

  Also, as was typical, the waters were slow to subside. A gentleman had tried to ford the river on his horse earlier in the day and had nearly been swept to his death. Until further notice, the magistrate had banned all attempts to cross the river as, “We haven’t the manpower to rescue every bloody fool who thinks he must return to London immediately.”

  Colin clearly wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  After returning to the hall, Stratton retreated to his study, meeting with his steward, the magistrate, and the local mayor. The men wished to formulate a plan to repair the damaged bridge, at least temporarily. Until then, the town was effectively cut-off from London.

  Colin had offered his help, but Stratton had waved him away with a not-so-subtle wink and a comment to, “Please spend some time with the ladies.”

  Which meant Colin was left to his own devices, ensconced at the dining table, eating lunch.

  Belle and Miss Rutger were seated opposite him, murmuring things to each other. Colin pondered how the sunlight tangled in Belle’s hair, catching highlights of gold and copper—

  Damn and blast!

  Enough!

  No poetic thoughts about hair, of all things.

  Belle Heartstone was a lying little minx who had abused his good nature with her clever wit and self-sacrificing ways and . . . ehr . . . generous charity work—

  Gah!

  Colin turned his head away from the pair.

  Unfortunately, the Desperate Debutantes occupied the rest of the room. They were in fine form, chattering loudly, every third comment referring to the warm weather of the day and how they should best enjoy it.

  Seeing his gaze turned their way, they pounced.

  “My lord, we were so hoping you would join us for a game of boules on the back lawn after lunch,” one of the Miss Jones-Buttons said, leaning forward. “I have heard it said that you are a prime bowler, and I am in desperate need of help.”

  The desperate part . . . he did not doubt.

  As for the rest . . .

  “What a brilliant idea! I shall speak with the footmen after lunch,” another girl said, all but bouncing in her chair.

  “Here, here,” a third girl chimed.

  Heaven preserve him. Visions of a decidedly uncomfortable afternoon swam before his vision.

  Belle lifted her gaze to his, clearly not missing the alarm there.

  Later, Colin would wonder why he said it. Surely, he hadn’t simply panicked.

  Or perhaps it was another rogue impression of Belle’s charming beauty.

  Or just his wayward heart catching his mouth at the wrong moment.

  Regardless, he had to admit the idea had been his.

  “I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, ladies.” He smiled at the debutantes, before shifting his gaze back to Belle. “But Miss Heartstone has already agreed to a long stroll this afternoon.” He gave Belle a look that hopefully said, You owe me this much. “But please enjoy your game of boules, ladies. It is a lovely day for it.”

  To her credit, beyond a small flaring of her eyes in surprise, Belle nodded.

  She was intelligent; that he had never doubted.

  “A walk! We would enjoy a walk, as well—” Miss Jones-Button began, voice eager and rushing.

  “No, I won’t hear of you cutting your enjoyment short on my account. You have spoken of nothing else but boules these past ten minutes. ’Tis clearly close to your hearts. Miss Heartstone and I will enjoy a more sedate afternoon, won’t we, madam?”

  A small, wistful smile tugged at Belle’s lips. “Quite right, my lord.” She turned to the ladies. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting the activities you already have planned.”

  Relief flooded Colin.

  Why relief . . . he couldn’t say.

  Shouldn’t he dread spending an afternoon with Belle? Why hadn’t he made up some nonsense about Stratton needing his help after all?

  Mmmmm.

  Yes . . . why hadn’t he said that? That would have been the better choice.

  He could send Belle a note, begging off.

  Or . . . he would tell her he had decided to walk alone.

  But he knew those were all lies.

  When faced with the choice, it appeared he would choose Belle every time.

  And what was he to make of that?

  23

  . . . I cannot say the exact hour or moment when I realized I loved you in truth. All I know is that you are utterly threaded through my soul. My heart will always be tethered to yours . . .

  —note from Miss Heartstone to Lord Blake, written and sealed with a kiss, then tossed on the fire.

  It is simply a walk. Nothing more.

  Belle sternly talked to herself, ordering her heart to, Stop thundering this instant! as she finished tying her sensible walking boots and tightened her bonnet on her head.

  She knew Blake well enough to understand that he saw her as the lesser of two evils. That when faced with a choice between herself and a pack of title-hungry misses, he would choose her.

  It wasn’t a particularly flattering point.

  Unfortunately, her miserable heart didn’t care about the logic involved. It sang and skipped and raced with glee over the prospect of spending time with him—

  Ugh.

  It had been a most trying couple of days.

  First, having to watch her friendship with Blake crumble.

  Then, the carriage accident and becoming stranded here.

  Moving on to watching Blake with the other women.

  The worst part was seeing the distaste and anger in Blake’s eyes every time he looked at her. She had looked upon spiders with less disgust.

  For the record, Belle truly disliked spiders.

  But . . . this was her penance. A vile physic that she needed to take and allow to run its course.

  Blake’s anger was well-justified.

  She did not expect forgiveness.

  She simply hoped that at some point she would be able to think about this entire interlude without devolving into noisy tears.

  Anne bustled into the room.

  “I intend to walk with you as a chaperone,” she said, “but I will hold back.”

  “Are you quite up for it?” Anne had been slower to recover than Belle.

  “Yes, I feel nearly back to normal today.”

  “I’m not sure I even need a chaperone at this point.” Belle turned to her friend. “There is no need for such discretion, Anne. Lord Bla
ke is not interested in spending time with me, per se—”

  “I think you sell your own charms short, my dear.”

  “Anne, I grievously abused the poor man’s trust—”

  “Perhaps he wishes to mend fences?”

  Belle gave a decidedly un-ladylike snort. “No. He wishes to avoid the Desperate Debutantes.”

  “I am not entirely convinced.” Anne had on her skeptical eyebrows. “He could have avoided asking you on a stroll today.”

  “Perhaps, but—”

  “I believe some discourse between you would be beneficial. You two need to clear the air.”

  “Anne—”

  “Trust me.”

  Belle pursed her lips and snatched her gloves off the bed. She was quite certain Blake had no desire to ‘mend fences’ or ‘clear the air.’

  She half-expected him to cry off at the last moment.

  But no. Lord Blake was waiting for her at the bottom of the grand staircase, top hat in hand, tapping his walking stick on the marble flooring. He looked painfully dashing in his fitted blue-green coat, Hessian boots gleaming.

  He looked up as she approached, his expression . . . guarded? Beleaguered? Displeased?

  How odd it was, Belle thought for not the first time, to know someone so well and yet know them so little at the same time.

  “Shall we?” Blake swept a hand forward, toward the front door.

  He did not, however, offer Belle his arm, as he had in times past.

  Ah.

  She bit her lip, sternly telling the sting in her eyes to go away.

  His social chilliness was to be expected, intent on putting her in her place.

  Again, not undeserved.

  Belle swallowed and nodded.

  They strode out the door and progressed along the gravel drive leading to the wood and lake beyond, the silence heavy between them. Anne walked behind, keeping a discreet distance.

  Belle pinched her lips shut, angling her head to block the bright sun with the brim of her bonnet. If Blake didn’t want to speak, she would not force him to do so.

  They moved off the gravel drive and onto a smaller path that cut through the trees.