by Nichole Van
“Yes, Belle. Count on me. We’ll sort this together,” he replied.
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you. I shall write when I have word.”
25
To LHF
Swindon, England
June 26, 1823
Dear Friend,
Silence your fears. All is set to rights with Fyfe Hall. I called upon the magistrate and was able to allay his concerns. As things turned out, I had served with his son in the Belgium action, so we had much to discuss. His son perished at Waterloo, so once I explained the full extent of our aims with Hopewell Manor and Fyfe Hall—how we help veterans, as well as children—he was more amenable to our schemes.
As for the matter of Mr. Brown and our factory, I have set out from Swindon to resolve the matter, as Bristol is close at hand here. I shall report when I have news.
I have attached several sheets of notes about the transport problem in Lisbon. Please let me know if you approve of my plans. I value your input.
Still yours in friendship,
Blake
P.S. Least you heap recriminations upon my head, I did think of you as I completed these tasks and the effort you must have gone through to address these problems over the past seven years. I would be ungrateful to not say thank you. So . . . thank you.
P.S.S. I miss our riddles. There is a word and six letters it contains. Take one away and twelve is what remains. What word is it?
P.S.S.S. No cheating with Miss Rutger this time.
To Lord Blake
London, England
June 29, 1823
Dear sir,
Thank you for your letter. I sincerely appreciate you addressing the issue with Mr. Brown. It has weighed heavily upon my mind.
As you can see, I am returned to London. Repairs were made to the bridge, and Anne and I were able to leave the Desperate Debutantes behind. I have enclosed some correspondence from Mr. Sloan regarding an opportunity outside Manchester. There is talk of building a steam railway. I would like to invest in this new technology, but I understand if you still wish to separate our business interests. Perhaps we can meet to discuss particulars when you return to Town.
I also must admit to some confusion. I had thought you would feel honor-bound to cease all correspondence with me. I enjoy our letters enormously, but do not wish to encroach on your sensibilities.
Your true friend,
LHF
P.S. I must admit that I have missed our riddles, as well. I shall place my fingers in my ears and sing, ‘la, la, la’ if Anne tries to intervene. (Secretly, I think she enjoys the riddles more than both of us).
To answer yours: Dozens
Mine: What has a face and hands but not a nose or arms?
P.S.S. Thank you for your kind words. Though it has taken some creativity over the years, I have tried my best to resolve all problems, no matter how thorny. Thank you for your trust in me.
To LHF
Bristol, England
July 3, 1823
Dear Friend,
The sun shines hot here. I hope your day in London is bright and sun-filled. I have enclosed documents regarding our latest shipment from Calcutta.
As for why I continue to write you, I have moved past my initial shock over your identity and have realized that true friendship should not simply be tossed aside when I discovered that my supposed elderly friend was in fact a pretty, young woman. I am still struggling to re-align the past seven years of my life, but for some reason, when I am writing you, it feels all set to rights again.
For now, I am content to continue as partners in our various business interests.
Take that statement as you will.
Sincerely,
Blake
P.S. A clock! Hah! You nearly stumped me with that one. Are you sure Miss Rutger isn’t helping you?
26
. . . It was an unexpected pleasure to see you in Hyde Park this afternoon. Lord Odysseus looked well. Though were those swans he was weeping over? Do you go out driving with him often? And does he always cry over poultry?
—letter sent from Lord Blake to Miss Heartstone, dated July 12, 1823
Colin stood aside, allowing the noise of the ballroom to wash over him. Lady Atterson’s annual ball was well underway. Couples moved through a stately minuet on the dance floor. Women gathered around the edges, whispering behind fans. A loud series of whoops and groans drifted out from the card room.
Colin wasn’t entirely sure why he had come. He was behind in tending to his business affairs. He had a mid-morning meeting with his solicitor the next day, and a late-night ball would not afford him much sleep.
But . . . Cecily had insisted he accompany her and George and—here he was even more honest with himself—he hoped Belle might be in attendance. He knew he simply needed to call upon her.
But calling upon her would be a marked attention. And did he want to be numbered among her swains now?
He had seen his odds listed in the betting book at White’s.
Apparently, the bloods of the ton did not hold him in high favor.
A burst of laughter drew his eye sideways. A group of men, each more dashingly dressed than the next, stood around a figure. The Gold Miners in their element.
No, wait. There she was in the middle of them.
Belle Heartstone.
She looked impossibly lovely this evening in soft rose satin, long evening gloves extending up her arm. Her hair piled high and studded with her usual pearls, another strand of pearls around her slender neck.
She smiled and nodded at something one of the men had said. Was her smile forced? Why was she allowing the Gold Miners to pay such attention to her—
And that’s when Colin realized. The men around her were not the Gold Miners, per se. That group of men were young fortune hunters.
No, the men around Belle tonight were slightly older—the more mature gentlemen that a man would prefer to see his daughter marry.
Lord Odysseus, of course, was closest to her, leaning in and whispering in her ear. She laughed.
Something lodged in the back of Colin’s throat. It tasted like panic, but surely that was the wrong emotion here.
Yes, she was his friend, but that didn’t mean he was interested in her as anything more than a friend.
A business partner was all well and good. Belle had always been an excellent business partner. A wife was something else entirely. He was not interested in Belle Heartstone as a wife. Not anymore, at least—
“If you watch her any more intently, my friend, you are liable to set tongues wagging.”
Colin startled at the wry voice at his elbow. Turning his head, he met the gaze of Lord Stratton, grinning impudently and holding a tumbler full of a mahogany-colored liquid.
“Stratton. You are returned to town, it appears.”
“Of course. Lady Stratton insisted on seeing how your little drama plays out.”
“My drama?”
Stratton lifted his glass in Belle’s direction, waggled his eyebrows, and then took a sip of his drink which looked suspiciously like Scotch.
Damn. Colin was quite sure he would give away an entire shipload of tea for a solid three fingers of Scotch right now.
“How did you come by that at a ball?” Colin’s eyes narrowed, pointing at the drink. “I thought there was only watered-down ratafia on hand.”
“I am accounted a close friend of Lord Atterson. It comes with certain . . . privileges.” Stratton took a deliberately loud sip. “He has a well-stocked liquor cabinet.”
Colin shook his head.
Stratton sipped again.
“You are a cruel, cruel man,” Colin said.
Stratton shrugged. “Perhaps, but I am hardly heartless.”
With a flourish, Stratton produced another tumbler from behind his back.
Colin was quite sure he heard angel song and hosannas.
“You looked like you needed it,” was all his friend said.
Colin
nodded in glum agreement.
Both men turned to study the gathered crowd, slowly sipping their Scotch whiskey.
Of course, Colin’s eyes went right back to studying Belle.
Did she have to lean toward Lord Odysseus as he spoke? And had she put gold dust in her hair? What else would cause her curls to sparkle so in the candle light?
And had he actually just compared her hair to gold dust?
Stratton chuckled.
“Pardon?” Colin turned toward him.
“Nothing.” Stratton sipped his Scotch, but a smile tugged at his lips.
Colin glowered at him.
“You really should just put everyone out of their collective misery and announce your intentions toward the lady,” Stratton continued. “Or should I say, your lady?”
“She is not my lady.” Colin said the words reflexively, but an ache in his heart belied them.
He told himself that for the next solid hour as he watched Belle flirt and laugh and make merry with what seemed to him like half of the male population of London.
Did no one else see what a spectacle she was making of herself?
Belle slipped out of the over-heated ballroom, intent on the lady’s withdrawing room.
The evening had been exhausting, and Lady Atterson’s ball was far from over. Lord Odysseus and the other gentlemen were tireless in their pursuit of her. Lord Odysseus, in particular, clearly already considered her to be his. He remained firmly attached to her side.
She wanted to escape from it all.
Or, at the very least, retire to the soothing quiet of her own townhouse.
For now, however, the withdrawing room would have to suit.
Belle thought she would be ecstatic to be so close to finally choosing a husband. Instead, the thought made her throat tight and her eyes sting and her limbs so very heavy.
She had a difficult time envisioning Lord Odysseus in that role. Whenever she thought of married life, all she could see was a cozy fire, a pot of tea, and Blake in the chair opposite her.
Blake had stalked the ballroom all evening, darting glances her way on occasion, but not braving the gauntlet of suitors to speak with her. She had allowed her stupid heart to hope, that perhaps his letters to her were a sign of him moving toward forgiving her.
That perhaps he might care for her as more than simply a friend.
Hah! How wrong she had been.
She passed through the large entrance hall and along a side corridor. A rustling noise caused her to turn her head. She let out a barely repressed yelp as a hand wrapped around her elbow, pulling her through an open doorway.
Everything came at Belle’s senses in a rush. The dark room lined with books. The snick of the door behind her. The fire flickering in the hearth. Blake’s finger pressed to her lips, urging her to be quiet.
She blinked.
Blake’s finger on her lips . . .
“Hush,” he whispered before removing said finger. But the burning brand of his touch remained, leaving her mouth bee-stung.
The room cast him into shadowy shapes, his white waistcoat and cravat, his dark tailcoat, the intent glare in his eye.
Belle knew she should be giddy to see him. She should feel grateful that Blake was tossing her what scraps of friendship he felt he could.
And a part of her hummed in joy to be so close to him.
But a larger part of her was . . . angry.
Yes, that was the precise emotion.
She was angry. Furious even.
He could have called on her at any time if he wished to speak with her. Why was he doing so now? And in such a clandestine fashion?
Had the man no respect?
“Why have you dragged me in here?” she all but hissed at him. “Have you no thought for our reputations?”
“I needed to speak with you.”
“And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“No!”
Alarm bells sounded in Belle’s mind. “What happened? Was there some tragedy?”
“Pardon?” Now it was Blake’s turn to look confused. “No, nothing like that.”
Silence.
“So . . . what then?” she asked.
He folded his arms across his chest. “You cannot be serious about Lord Odysseus?”
“Pardon me?”
“First driving with him in Hyde Park and now allowing him to squire you to a ball—”
“You dragged me in here to speak about Lord Odysseus?” Belle barely kept her voice low.
“Yes, and as I was saying—”
“You risk my reputation and standing in the ton to speak to me about Lord Odysseus?”
“Yes—”
“And this conversation had to happen right this instant?”
“Yes! I am concerned you haven’t thought through the consequences of your actions with him—”
“I haven’t thought through the consequences of my actions? Do you even hear yourself speaking?”
“There’s no need to be snippy. It’s a valid concern.”
“He’s courting me,” Belle whispered, hand waving. “That’s what men do when they’re courting. We’ve already had this conversation, remember—”
“Of course, I remember.” Blake took a step forward. “When are you going to give him your little speech?”
“My speech?”
“Yes,” he came another step closer. “The one where you tilt your head and say, ‘I have something I wish to speak with you about,’ and then give the man in question his congé?”
“I do not do that.”
“The bloods at White’s say otherwise.”
“Truly?”
“Well, are you? Going to send Lord Odysseus packing?” Another step closer.
“Not at present, no.”
Belle refused to budge. Instead, she folded her arms, mimicking his stance. She tilted her head upwards to meet his gaze.
“What will become of our business once you marry?” he asked.
“Hah!” Belle huffed. “That’s your concern here? That I will somehow sabotage our business through this?”
“Will you? Do you have a plan?”
“I-I will when I need to!” she spluttered. Truth be told, she didn’t have much of a plan. “I assume my new husband will be well-aware of the extent of my business dealings before our wedding day. We will simply have to sort through it all and ensure that the marriage contracts take everything into account—”
“And what about me?” He took another step toward her. Belle notched her chin higher.
“What about you?”
Another step. “I cannot imagine that your new husband will allow you to continue your association with me.”
A beat.
“That is likely true,” Belle whispered.
Mere inches separated them now. Belle could feel the heat of his chest, the scent of pine and woodsmoke eddying around her.
“I don’t like the thought of losing you as a partner.”
“You cannot keep changing your mind like this, Blake,” her voice breathless. “Such vacillation is unlike you.”
“It is.” His eyes darkened, face a morass of flickering shapes. “You seem to scatter my good sense.”
“Oh.”
The air between them sparked. Belle was unsure whether he reached for her first or if she leaned into him.
But his hands were suddenly on her waist, and Belle found herself pressed against him, her hands reaching for his shoulders. The one place she had dreamed of being more often than any other.
His head descended and she rose upward.
Their lips met in the middle.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected kissing Lord Blake would be like, if and when she allowed herself to even consider it.
Tentative? Tender? Reserved?
His devouring hunger was unexpected.
He kissed her like she was his lifeline. His sanity.
His very breath.
It only took the barest fraction of a
second for Belle to eagerly return in kind.
Part of her brain shrieked in amazement.
Blake.
She was finally kissing Blake.
The sheer relief of it was staggering.
But her second thought blew away the first:
How was she ever to recover her heart after this?
Colin hadn’t intended to kiss Belle.
Perhaps Stratton’s Scotch had been stronger than he thought.
Or perhaps his brain was simply addled.
It was just . . . watching Belle flounce around Lady Atterson’s ballroom, dancing away the night with one eligible bachelor after another . . . it had all been a form of acute torture.
Kissing her seemed the only logical place for this feeling to go.
But now that he had her in his arms, Colin had to wonder why he hadn’t been kissing her all along.
She returned his kiss enthusiastically, hands wrapping around his neck, lips pliantly soft.
Heaven help him.
He pulled her even closer, losing himself in the plush softness of her mouth. She felt vital to him, as necessary to life as breathing.
How could this be? How could he be kissing her?
The same sense of reason seemed to blow through Belle, too.
She stiffened and pulled away from him, staggering a step backward.
They stared at each other, his lungs a bellows.
Her own breathing was no less steady.
The sounds of women chattering drifted down the corridor outside.
“Why did you kiss me?” Belle pressed trembling fingers to her lips.
A pause.
“I don’t know.” He blew out a long breath, lifting his hands to his hips again.
That was his truth.
She shook her head. “You can’t kiss me because you dislike my decisions.”
