Seeing Miss Heartstone

by Nichole Van

  Colin only barely resisted the urge to shake her.

  And then her words truly sank in.

  You are not my father or my brother or my husband . . .

  That lack of any real claim over her bothered him.

  Belle Heartstone was his. A strange sense of possessiveness filled him. Not in a covetous, bilious way, but more of that sense of rightness.

  Of course, she chose that moment to finally lift her head. She fixed him with her watery gaze. Pools of rich chocolate. Her palms seared him where they touched his shoulders, scorching brands.

  Abruptly, all his anger morphed and changed, metamorphosing into something infinitely more warm-blooded.

  Damn but she was beautiful. Color flooding her cheekbones, her eyes sparking with fire—

  No!

  No more poetry.

  She bit her lip, defiantly meeting his gaze, her voice quiet. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  “I know.” Was that deep husky tone his own?

  “I do not belong to you. I belong to no one.”

  “I know.” His voice fell to a whisper.

  But . . . what if she did belong to him? Not an ownership sort of thing, but what if he continued to pursue her?

  The thought filtered through the addled mush of his brain.

  No! He instantly rejected the thought. She lied to me. She deceived me.

  But the idea remained, persistently stuck in the forefront of his mind.

  LHF was his best friend.

  Belle was LHF.

  Ergo . . .

  It didn’t escape his notice that Belle wasn’t precisely eager to escape his embrace either. She stood still in the circle of his arms, gaze guarded.

  How could this woman be LHF in the end?

  The elderly business partner who had led him to success with keen insights. The gentle humor and kind intelligence and heart of a lion—all in the form of a young slip of a woman.

  Who said women couldn’t do anything they put their minds to? Here was the ultimate proof. Somewhere in his anger and betrayal, profound admiration lurked.

  “You are better than this anger over my actions with Mr. Brown and all the rest,” she said, tone tight. “You should be cheering me on, not castigating me. You have not been like this in your interactions with other women. Why are you singing a different tune now?”

  Colin clenched his teeth. The truth of her words grated.

  Why did he care now? Was it because she had betrayed him?

  Or was it more that he had begun to think of her as his lady that changed the dynamic?

  Belle wasn’t done. She stepped out of his arms, putting space between them, hugging her waist. “That morning in Hyde Park . . . you altered the course of my life for the better in a matter of minutes. You opened my eyes to what my life could be. Given the situation, you did not need to be so kind. I was grateful. Investing in your trip to India was simply the only way I could think of to adequately thank you. I only ever wanted your happiness.” She sniffed, voice barely a whisper. “I truthfully didn’t mean for the entire situation to be carried so far.”

  Silence hung between them.

  “Why LHF?” he asked.

  She smiled. Not a true smile. More like a distant cousin of one.

  “It was you who named me. That morning.”

  He angled his head. Go on.

  “I will forever remember your words: ‘God has granted you wings. ’Twould be a shame if you never learned how to fly.’ And so that has been my aim all these years. I have been learning how to fly.”

  “LHF.”

  The simplicity of her statement moved him, deeply.

  “Precisely. I chose to heed your advice.” Belle brushed past him on the dock, intent on the path opposite, lifting her skirts as she went. “You don’t get to decide now that you don’t like how I have chosen to go about fly—AHH!”

  Belle’s muddy, slippery boots slid out from underneath her, sending her pitching sideways, tumbling into the lake.

  Desperately, Colin lunged for her, reaching for her arm.

  Her eyes met his, wide and startled.

  Their hands connected, but his strength was no match for her weight and momentum.

  He followed her head-first into the water.

  24

  . . . My lord, I humbly implore you to reply. I do not know if you are receiving my letters. The magistrate is now threatening transportation for the orphans, which is absurd, but I do not have the authority to do anything about it . . .

  —letter from Mr. Sloan to Lord Blake, languishing with all the others, undelivered

  The cold water shocked the air out of Belle’s lungs. She floundered, stroking her arms, trying to right herself. She broke the surface, gasping.

  A strong hand wrapped around her elbow, pulling her upright, water pouring off her pelisse. Coughing, she floundered and then got her feet underneath herself.

  The water was actually only waist deep.

  Still coughing, Belle staggered sideways and would have fallen over again had Blake not had a firm grip on her. His fine coat and boots were drenched, his hat bobbing away on the surface of the lake.

  “Are you quite all right?” Blake asked, his blue eyes wide with concern, hair plastered to his head, water streaming off his body.

  Belle brought her gaze back to his, nodding her head as she continued to violently cough.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She nodded again.

  Frowning, he carefully helped her step through the muddy lake bottom and stagger ashore.

  Wheezing, Belle glanced down the path to see Anne. Her friend was doubled over with laughter, sitting on a bench. The wretch.

  Belle collapsed onto a sunlit spot of grass along the shoreline. Pulling her bonnet off her head, she began to wring the water out of her sodden skirts.

  For his part, Blake waded back out into the lake to retrieve his hat. After a few minutes slog, he rejoined Belle on the bank, water sluicing off him as he walked out of the water. He hung his hat on an obliging tree branch.

  He struggled out of his drenched coat, peeling it down his arms, leaving him in waistcoat and shirtsleeves. His fine linen shirt had plastered to his chest, rendering the garment utterly transparent. He turned away from Belle and twisted the water out of his coat.

  Belle sternly ordered her eyes to look away from the clearly defined muscles she could see working in his shoulders.

  But as it was a fairly glorious sight, her eyes stubbornly refused to obey her.

  So Belle stared, transfixed, as she removed the pins from her hair and began to wring the water out of it.

  Blake finished getting as much water as possible out of his jacket and turned back to her. His gaze racked her up and down, eyes searching.

  Was it her imagination or did his eyes linger on her hair and the dripping skirts clinging to her legs?

  Belle’s teeth began to clatter. Even with the warm sun, being dripping wet was cold business.

  “Here.” Blake sat down beside her, wrapping his coat over her shoulders. “It’s wet but it will provide some warmth.”

  “T-thank you,” she chattered, pulling through her hair with trembling fingers, meeting his gaze.

  He sat close to her. So close she could see herself reflected in his pupils and feel the heat of his body. All of her longed to cuddle closer to him.

  She wisely stayed put.

  The poor man was simply struggling to accept her actions as a human being. He most certainly was not interested in anything more from her.

  “You have some, uhm . . .” He made a wiping motion down the side of his face.

  “Pardon?” Belle asked.

  “You have mud on your cheek,” he said more clearly.

  Oh!

  On a positive note, the scalding blush currently scouring every inch of her body was effectively warming her up.

  Belle used the dripping hem of her pelisse to wipe her cheek.

  Blake surveyed he
r. “You missed a spot.”

  Without asking permission, Blake took her pelisse from her hands and, very gently, wiped a section of her face near her ear. His fingers brushed her skin in the process, leaving a burning brand in its wake. He tucked a wayward curl around her ear before handing the pelisse edge back to her.

  Belle swallowed.

  His eyes dipped to her mouth.

  Later, she would wonder if she had imagined Blake canting toward her. The tilt in his head, the dilation of his pupils—

  Was he truly leaning in for a kiss?

  But he pulled back abruptly and relaxed back onto his hands, shaking his head.

  The moment lost.

  “We make a fine pair, you and I?” He motioned down his legs, indicating their sodden state.

  “I’m so sorry I dragged you in with me.”

  He shrugged. “I have always tended to be the one following you into schemes, not the other way around.”

  A beat.

  “That is true,” she said. “I was the one who suggested we invest in Kashmir goats.”

  “Even though they smelled horrid and the price was exorbitant.”

  “Yes, but it paid off. Our cashmere shawls have been the Season’s must-have for years now.”

  “You were the one who always went on and on about bonnet ribbons.”

  “They are monumentally important.”

  Colin groaned. “In hindsight, I was an idiot not to realize you were a woman.”

  Silence hung between them.

  Abruptly, Blake chuckled. “The look on your face as you fell into the water—”

  Belle smiled, a giggle escaping. “You mean this?”

  She flared her eyes wide and pulled her mouth into a round ‘O’ while windmilling her arms.

  Blake laughed harder. “Exactly! You screeched like a banshee.”

  “Your expression was so startled.” Belle mimicked his stunned surprise. “Like you could scarcely believe that the Marquess of Blake should have to suffer such an indignity!” She laughed with him.

  Blake mimed his flailing, panicked look. “I suppose I didn’t expect you to take my admonition to fly quite so literally.”

  Belle laughed harder, stuffing a hand over her mouth, trying to keep it in. But the harder she fought, the more vigorous her laughter, until both she and Blake were guffawing in great huffs, tears rolling down their cheeks. The laughter was quick-silver in her veins, lightening the grim desperation that had sat there for weeks.

  Eventually, Blake wiped his tears away, still chuckling. “Blast it all, Belle, I’m still furious with you for not telling me you were LHF. How can I be laughing with you, too?”

  Belle sighed, swiping at her own cheeks. She studiously ignored the thrill she felt at his use of her given name. “If it makes you feel better, I seem to inspire such feelings in others, as well.”

  He shook his head, resting his forearms on his knees. “What am I to do about this?” He motioned at the space between them.

  “I don’t know, my lord. Must something be done?”

  “I don’t know,” he parroted her words. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Colin was still pondering the conundrum of Belle Heartstone the following afternoon.

  The post had finally been able to reach Stratton Hall via Bristol, saddle bags, and a pair of stubborn donkeys. An avalanche of delayed correspondence followed. Stratton’s butler had resorted to bringing it to him in a punch bowl instead of the more customary silver tray.

  Colin ensconced himself in the library, reading letter after letter from Mr. Sloan and his own man of affairs, dismay growing. Phrases leapt out at him:

  Fyfe Hall has already seen the arrival of forty children . . .

  I have reached an impasse with the magistrate . . .

  I fear the orphaned children will be cast into the street and set adrift . . .

  He had scarcely finished the final one when the door snicked open.

  Belle hastily entered and cautiously pushed the door nearly closed.

  “I assume you’ve received the same news.” She waved a sheaf of papers at him.

  “Fyfe Hall and the magistrate?”

  “Oh! Well, yes. That, too, I suppose.” She bustled over to him, motioning for him to sit back down. “I was referring to the problem of transport out of Lisbon. As it’s a logistics issue, I wished to confer with you about it.”

  Belle shuffled through the papers, rereading bits here and there. Unwittingly, Colin acknowledged that she was quite adorable when she read correspondence. A dent appeared between her eyebrows and her lips moved, silently repeating the occasional word.

  Colin was puzzled, however.

  “I would have thought you would be more concerned about Fyfe Hall,” he said.

  She raised her gaze to his, brow drawn down. “I am most concerned about Fyfe Hall. I leave within the hour to address the issue; I simply wished to discuss the Lisbon matter with you before I departed.”

  It was Colin’s turn to frown. “You will journey to Fyfe Hall yourself?”

  She nodded, most matter-of-factly.

  Colin nearly sat back in . . . what? Dismay? Apprehension? Surprise? “How will you address the issue with the magistrate? Surely you don’t deal with such things yourself? It’s unlikely the magistrate will listen to an unmarried woman.”

  Though if the man would listen to a woman, Colin would put his money on Belle.

  Belle tipped her head. “Of course the magistrate will not listen to me. I will send word ahead to have my man of affairs in Bristol meet me at Fyfe Hall with several assistants. It may take a day longer, but—”

  “The matter has already been left too long.”

  She rolled her eyes in clear exasperation. “I understand that, Blake, but this is the only way I can accomplish the task. It’s what I always do—”

  “I had already determined to leave for Swindon immediately.”

  Belle paused, staring at him. She blinked, two slow sweeps of her eyelashes fluttering up and down.

  Silence.

  “Oh,” the breath escaped her.

  “You appear surprised.” Colin couldn’t keep the amusement from his tone. “Why should my journeying to Fyfe Hall surprise you?”

  More silence.

  Belle swallowed, expression still dazed. “To be honest, my lord, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.”

  “You hadn’t thought to ask your business partner to help deal with this problem? Fyfe Hall is just as dear to me as it is to you. We created these charitable organizations together—”

  “Yes . . . but . . . I never think to have help. I always do these things—” Belle broke off, blinking more rapidly now, looking quickly away.

  Alone. Colin finished her sentence in his head.

  I always do these things alone.

  What was it Belle had said yesterday?

  I belong to no one.

  Oh!

  He had been so blind to the obvious.

  In his head, LHF was a man. Colin had simply assumed that his business partner had a life that he never mentioned: a wife, children, parents, friends, etc.

  Belle had precisely . . . who? Miss Rutger, surely.

  But who else? Hadn’t LHF mentioned a mother once or twice? Something about helping his—no, her—mother build a large house, mostly to keep her mother occupied.

  Oh, Belle.

  A painful rawness settled into the back of his throat.

  “Who—” Colin began. “Who cares for you, Belle?”

  Belle shook her head.

  “Your greatest fear is being left alone,” he whispered.

  A tear tumbled onto her clenched hands. She did not wipe it away.

  “But you already are alone,” he continued.

  Understanding scoured through him, leaving a fragile sort of tenderness in its wake.

  Belle Heartstone was accustomed to having the enormous weight of their joint affairs entirely on her slim shoulders. She was used to confiding in no
one.

  Except, perhaps, her business partner and proclaimed close friend.

  And even that had been taken from her, in his anger and betrayal.

  “How long have you been alone, Belle?”

  She sniffed before letting out a long, slow breath. “A very long time.” She lifted her eyes to his, pools of damp earth. “Since my father’s death.”

  “Ah.”

  A pause.

  Belle notched her chin higher. “I do not need your pity, sirrah. My life is full of friends.”

  A beat.

  “Truly bosom friends?” He had to ask it. “Friends who know the extent of the business you run with me?”

  A pause. “No,” she whispered. “Besides yourself, only two others meet that criteria.”

  Anne and Mr. Sloan, he supposed.

  He was starting to see why she had clung to his friendship long past the point of propriety. And why did that thought cause the pang in his heart to fluff itself out and grow several sizes?

  She shook her head, as if banishing her tears. “Friends aside, I do much good. I find our charity work enormously satisfying.”

  “But not as satisfying as possibly having a family of your own?”

  She bit her lip, not denying his words.

  “Lord Odysseus?” He had to ask it.

  She did not misunderstand his question. “Among others,” she shrugged. “If I wish to have a family of my own, I must marry.”

  Colin nodded. The betting books at White’s had it right.

  She would marry this year. Some other man would have her at his side, would know her thoughts, would hear her laughter.

  The thought made him want to pummel something.

  “Why have you not married until now?” he asked. “You are somewhat notorious for refusing an entire army of men.”

  She laughed, a sad, breathy sound. “I suppose I have just been waiting for the right person.”

  As far as answers went, that one was lackluster. She looked back at the letters in her lap. “You will truly go to Swindon and help our poor orphaned children?”

  Colin knew that she had said the words without conscious thought, but her phrasing stuck with him.

  Our poor orphaned children. As if he and she were parents of a large brood. Which, he supposed, they were in a way.