Chapter 9

Sir,

I pray you will forgive me for the ugly scene and my father's vile words. I write this in haste and hope that my maid will find a way to get it to you without discovery for I am to be banished from town, back to Hardacre Hall and I do not know when or if I shall ever speak to you again.

Please know that I do not share my father's views despite what you must think of me. I am foolish and frivolous and terribly spoiled, but not so shallow as all that. Please believe me. I could not bear it if you thought so ill of me as that. I had no intention of causing you distress or embarrassment, though I am horribly aware I am guilty on both counts.

I wish I could ask you to write to me, but I will be allowed no correspondence now, and you must see anything from your hand would be confiscated at once.

Now it is too late I wish I had acted differently, I wish I had not been such a little fool and given you a disgust of me, for you are the only man who I shall think of during my banishment. I hope this revelation is of some pleasure to you, if not a fitting revenge for my idiocy.

Forgive me.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lady Narcissa Ponsonby to an unknown correspondent.

1st March 1850, Hardacre Hall Estate, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Fidelia hurried back to her bedroom, the pages of the diary sat uncomfortably in her bodice, and she was desperate to take them out and read them. Yet as she passed her sister's door, she heard a crash, and a muttered oath, and she could not help but pause. Glancing around, Fidelia checked to see if any servants were in earshot, for many of them were loyal to the duke out of fear and would tattle to his grace if they saw her disobeying his command not to speak to Narcissa.

Fidelia knocked softly on the door. "Love? It's Fidelia. Are you all right?"

There was a pause and a muffled sound before Narcissa spoke. "Lia? Oh, I thought you weren't speaking to me either."

"Don't be a silly goose," Fidelia replied. "He's forbidden us from talking to you. Do you really think we wouldn't have come to see you otherwise?"

"No, I-I suppose not, only I'm so miserable, Lia. I've… I've made a dreadful mess of things."

Fidelia laughed softly, wondering what her sister would say when she discovered the mess Fidelia had made of her own life. "What happened, pet?"

"A man happened. Obviously," Narcissa wailed from the other side of the door. "And I don't care what his grace does to me, I only care that he thinks I'm awful… and I'm not, Lia, not really. Am I?" she added, sounding so despondent and unlike her usual confident self that Fidelia's heart went out to her.

"Of course not," Fidelia said at once. Her sister was headstrong and outspoken and far too reckless, but Fidelia was now seeing those as qualities to be admired when his grace tried so hard to squash any signs of independent thinking. She had always feared Narcissa would get herself into trouble, though. "But what exactly…? Hush, someone's coming. I'll come back when I can," she hissed through the door and hurried away as the sound of footsteps grew closer.

Fidelia went directly to her room and closed her door, locking it behind her, and let out a breath of relief. She'd done it. With trembling hands, she plucked the pages from her bodice and went to the window where the light was better. Her father's handwriting was small and spidery and hard to decipher, but she scanned his notes for each day in turn, shaking her head over the way he criticised everyone and everything he came into contact with. Nothing pleased him. Everything was less than satisfactory, there was nothing he could not complain about. Suddenly Fidelia felt a wave of pity for the man. Had he never known what it was to be happy? Her life had not been an easy one, but until her son had been so cruelly taken from her, she had found joy in her siblings, and in the pleasure of a new gown, or a sunny day. There was not one positive word to be found among the pages she read, and then she got to the day her son had been born.

Fidelia's heart grew cold as she read the scant few words and any pity she had felt for her father was replaced with a furious hatred that stole her breath. If he had stood before her in that moment, she thought she could have driven a knife into his heart and not regretted it for a second.

The unwanted creature arrived today. I shall get rid of it tonight at the Foundling Hospital in Camden. The sooner, the better.

Fidelia swayed, and she leant heavily against the window, her hand pressed against her pounding heart.

"Heartless brute," she said aloud, her voice choked with emotion.

Tears poured down her face, but at least she knew now where he had taken her boy. There was no time to lose, but how was she to escape Hardacre and make a journey to London? It was impossible, especially now her father was home. Ironic, really, that she had longed for him to return so she might get her hands on this information. There was only one person in the entire world who could help her, and though she had promised herself to stay away from him, she had no choice. She needed someone to get her away from Hardacre, to plan for her travel, for a place to stay. Where would she go once she had Ambrose with her at last? How would she live? For she had only the pin money her father gave her each quarter and no doubt that would cease the moment he discovered what she'd done. She had saved every penny since her confinement, so she had that and her jewellery, but how long would that last? How much did it cost to buy a little cottage somewhere with a garden? How much to pay for a maid, for a week's shopping? She had not the least idea and the realisation of how ill-prepared she was made her heart beat so fast her head swam with terror.

"It doesn't matter," she said resolutely. "I will learn, and I will do whatever I must."

With that one thought echoing in her mind, Fidelia knew there was nothing else to be done. She must speak to Mr De Beauvoir.

Hart trudged back to the cottage, thankful that the day was over. The usual satisfaction he found in a good day's work was missing, his mood worse than ever after a surprise visit by Beresford. The duke had been at his cantankerous best and had found fault with bloody everything. Hart had been within aims ace of telling the bastard to shove his bloody garden, but he'd held his tongue. The men who worked for him needed this job, and he would fulfil his ambition to create something that would cement his name as one of the best designers in the country. He told himself it had been for those reasons he'd held his tongue, but that wasn't entirely true. It wasn't even mostly true, not any longer. He'd held his temper in check so he could stay close to Fidelia and wasn't that the stupidest reason for doing anything that he'd ever had in his life before. He'd told himself from the start he must stay away from her, that she was trouble, and by God she was. She was trouble of the sort he really, really did not need or want, but… but…

"Bollocks," he muttered furiously, turning his collar up against the icy wind that swept about his neck. The temperature had dropped fast the moment the sun had gone down, and he was looking forward to getting back to the cottage. He looked up as it came into sight, and his heart leapt as he saw a slender figure waiting by the garden gate.

Christ, what now, he wondered, telling himself he was annoyed at her for doing precisely what she had promised not to do and seeking him out, but that was a damned lie. He was glad.

Hart knew at once that something was wrong. She held herself stiffly, her arms clutched around herself.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" he demanded.

She held out a hand to him, a small piece of paper clutched between her fingers.

The diary, he guessed, his heart thudding hard, and he wondered what she'd read, what that wretched bastard had done to hurt her now.

"Come inside," he said, taking the paper and putting a hand to her back, steering her to the door, for she seemed far away, too unhappy to even put one foot in front of the other.

Once inside, Hart sat her down by the hearth and set about making a fire and lighting the lamps. Then he went and fetched the bottle of whiskey he kept and poured her a measure. Crouching down before her, he pressed the glass into her hand.

"Drink it," he said. "All of it."

Fidelia lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, her face screwing up. She shook her head in disgust, trying to give the glass back to him.

"All of it," Hart said again, his voice brooking no argument.

Fidelia looked at the glass with disgust, but lifted it again, downing the lot. She coughed and spluttered and gasped as the whiskey stole her breath.

"I didn't mean in one go!" Hart exclaimed, reaching to pat her on the back. He took the glass from her before she dropped it, setting it aside.

"Good Lord," she said, glaring at him when she had breath enough to speak. "That's vile."

"That's a very fine whiskey," Hart replied with a smile. "Still, it will warm you up and it's put a bit of colour back in your cheeks. You looked like a little ghost. Now then, tell me what's wrong. You got the diary, I take it?"

She nodded. "Read it," she said curtly. "Read the words my father wrote about the birth of his first grandson."

Hart did as she said, looking at the page she'd given him, his breath catching as he read the callous words. His jaw set, a wave of anger so white-hot surging through his chest it was hard to breathe. The miserable, wicked son of a bitch.

That Fidelia had read those words made his heart break for her, a fierce, possessive tenderness rising inside him, consuming him and blotting out everything else. That this beautiful, gentle creature had been hurt so badly she had spent the past years lost in a world of melancholy made him want to howl with rage, but that she might suffer further hurt was more than he could bear.

"I'll get him back."

The words were out of his mouth before he could even think them through. Not that it would change anything. He knew what it was to grow up in the workhouse, and he doubted a foundling hospital would be any better. No child ought to suffer that but he could not save all the children in the world. No child of Fidelia's would suffer it, though, not while Hart had the means to change it. When she had told him about her son, he had assumed the duke would have found a good family for the child, would have paid them well to keep quiet about where he came from. That was the usual way of things with the upper classes. It had never occurred to Hart that the man could be so devoid of scruples as to leave his own flesh and blood in such a place.

"W-What?" Fidelia was gazing at him in astonishment.

Hart took her hands in his and held them tightly. "I'll get him back for you, Fidelia. My word upon it."

She blinked, her eyes sparkling, her breath coming very fast, and then she launched herself at him, throwing her arms about his neck so hard he fell backwards.

Hart hit the floor with a grunt, Fidelia sprawled over him, her mouth pressed firmly against his.

Alarm bells were ringing in his brain, so bloody loud it seemed like someone was using his head as a gong, but he didn't care, he didn't heed it. He blocked the noise out, too entranced by the feel of her soft body pressing against his, her lush mouth moving gently and inexpertly over his. Bad idea. Terrible idea. The words sounded alongside the alarm bells, but it was like there was liquid paraffin in his veins and she'd lit a match. He'd be the worst kind of idiot to allow her close to him when she'd already been badly burned by an ill-fated affair, but it seemed he was an idiot after all. Want and desire overcame good sense and obliterated every argument that told him to keep his distance.

Hart's arms went around her, and he turned her, laying her gently down on the floor and gazing down at her. "Little fool," he murmured fondly, and then lowered his mouth to hers. He wondered who the blackguard was who'd stolen her innocence so carelessly that he'd not even taught her the pleasure of kissing. Slowly, Hart remedied the error, moving his lips tenderly over hers, stealing a dozen small kisses before he persuaded her mouth to open to his. He taught her the delight of touching tongues, the exquisite slide of one against the other, his hand gliding over the curve of her waist to cup her breast. She made a little sound of surprise, and he drank it in, wanting to put his mouth on her everywhere, to make her cry out with pleasure, with the joy of his touch. She smiled as he trailed kisses over her cheek and nipped at her ear, clung to him as he nuzzled at her neck, whilst his free hand gathered the excesses of skirts and petticoats, dragging them up over her knees, her thighs.

Lord above, but she was so pliant and giving, trusting him not to act like every other man in her life and care nothing for her happiness.

He drew back, gazing down at her. Fidelia's eyes were closed, but they fluttered open now, gazing up at him as she saw the look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said with a rueful smile. "I know that was wicked of me but… but you cannot go about being so wonderful and not expect me to fall in love with you."

The word hit him like a hammer blow, slamming some sense into him, or if not sense then terror, or panic, any of the above seemed to fit. He sat up, swallowing down the desire to deny her words, for he knew she could not mean that. She was grateful to him, that was all. A woman like this was not about to fall in love with him. Impossible. Yet he did not wish to hurt her feelings or make her feel foolish. He'd done that before, and it was unkind when she was so… so… bloody hell.

Hart ran a hand through his hair.

"It's all right," she said, struggling to sit up.

Hell, he ought to have helped her instead of sitting there like a useless lump of clay, but he was too shocked to speak.

"I'm not expecting you to say it back. Indeed, I would rather you did not when I know it isn't true. I've heard enough pretty lies for one lifetime. But you… you would really get my boy for me?"

"Of course I will," he replied gruffly, sticking to the point rather than referring to the words she'd given him so easily, for he did not know what to say to her.

He was even uncertain of how to act. He wanted to take her in his arms again, wanted to make love to her so badly his arousal was throbbing with unsatisfied lust. Even more than that, he wished to give her the comfort and reassurance she obviously needed, but would that be leading her on, giving her the notion they'd marry and live happily ever after? The workhouse bastard and the duke's daughter? He snorted inwardly. Not in this lifetime. She'd despise him soon enough, when she saw the reality of his life. Besides which, he had no time for a wife and child. He was far too busy.

Yet the vision of it tantalised him for a breathtaking moment. Fidelia in his life, in his bed, waking every morning with her beside him, and—

"Mr De Beauvoir," she said hesitantly, and Hart cursed, shaking his head as if he could dispel the temptation of that unlikely fantasy.

"Hart," he said, not looking at her for fear of what he might do if he saw her beautiful face staring at him like he'd hung the moon. "You can't go about calling me Mr De Beauvoir after a kiss like that. My name is Hartley, my friends call me Hart."

"My Hart," she said, a smile in her voice that had his eyes flying to hers, and it had been the mistake he'd believed it would be.

Her eyes were soft, full of something that looked a good deal like love. Gratitude, he reminded himself sternly. Friendly affection. Nothing more.

She laughed then and laid a hand on his arm. "Oh, don't look so wretched. I know you're not really mine, only it sounded so perfect, when I have given you my heart, my Hart."

She smiled at him and the sight of it stole his wits and his breath, and he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly.

"I'll make you safe," he promised her, even though he'd no idea how to do that. "I'll find your son and a place for you to live. I'll make sure you've everything you need, Fidelia, you've my word upon it."

She pushed out of his embrace, staring up at him. "I cannot ask that of you," she exclaimed, shocked. "I'm not your responsibility and won't be a burden to you. No more than I must be at least," she added judiciously.

"You're no burden," he said, almost laughing at the idea.

"I will accept your offer to get my boy back, and… and I may need help in finding a small house and…" Her lip trembled, but she stiffened it, putting up her chin. "I know you think me utterly foolish, and you think that I shan't survive alone, and… and I know I am unprepared for the challenges ahead, but I will manage. I'm not entirely the fool everyone thinks me. I shall sell my paintings. You said I had talent, did you not?"

Hart nodded, considering this. "You do, and yes, I think you could. I could put them in front of people who would be interested, but Fidelia, you need not—"

"Yes, I do need," she said, pride glittering in her eyes. "You are too kind, Mr De Beauvoir, and you are getting yourself into just the kind of trouble I warned you about. You don't want a wife and children, remember? And to support me and my child would give you all the aggravation of the things you don't want and none of the benefits. Besides which, everyone will think I'm your mistress and the child is yours. You'll be the subject of gossip and you know very well how much you would hate that."

Despite himself, he smiled at her words. Lord, but she was fierce with pride, and he admired her for it, despite knowing she was ill-equipped to survive alone. Pride would get her so far, but it wasn't enough. The world was cruel to a woman alone and she would be a lamb to the slaughter. She was right, though. The gossip would be hard to bear. Society would certainly lay the blame at his door if they discovered he was supporting her, and that would put paid to any plans he had to work for the great houses of England as a designer.

"Then we'll just have to be careful," he said with a nonchalant shrug, even though the idea of taking such a risk made him nauseous.

Fidelia stared at him and then let out a breath, shaking her head. "I won't let you ruin yourself on my behalf. I don't deserve such a sacrifice."

"Yes," Hart said simply. "You do, but I'm not about to lie down on the altar and let society trample me, either. If we're careful, no one need know. And in the short term, I've a place you can go, somewhere you'll both be safe until the dust settles. It's discreet and no one there will judge you or be unkind to you, I promise."

"You'll just rearrange the world and make everything all right for me, won't you," she said, gazing at him in wonder.

Hart returned a sad smile. "I wish I could, Fidelia, but you've a hard road ahead, even with my help. You understand that?"

"I do," she replied, holding his gaze.

Hart doubted that very much and, as he considered all the difficulties she would face, his chest grew tight with anxiety. His heart hurt to wonder how she would fare if he wasn't around to look out for her. One thing at a time, he told himself firmly. There was a good deal to arrange, and the first thing was for him to go to the foundling hospital and get her son.

"I'll go tomorrow," he said, understanding she would never be at ease until she knew her child was safe.

"Very well, but how will I get away?"

"No, love," he said gently, taking hold of her hand. "Not yet. There's too much to arrange and you are far from ready. I'll get your son and take him to the place I mentioned. There are lovely people there who will take good care of him until you are ready to take him, I promise you that."

"But, Hart," she protested, and the way she said his name so naturally made something in his chest shift, rearranging itself into a new shape.

"I'll make it right, Fidelia. Do you trust me?"

She gazed into his eyes, searching his expression. "You know I do," she said with a sigh.

"And you can," he told her, reaching out and stroking her cheek. She turned into his touch, pressing his hand against her face and a soft kiss against his palm. "You can trust me. I won't let you down."

"I believe you," she said simply, and Hart knew he was caught.

One way or another, he had to find a way for her to be happy and safe with her son. He would be worthy of that look in her eyes, of her belief in him, if it was the last thing he did.