Chapter 6

To Lady Fidelia,

I pray you will forgive me for writing to you out of the blue and hope perhaps you remember me. We met some years ago and enjoyed a comfortable chat at one of the Countess of St Clair's balls. I believe we were both hiding behind a potted palm, hoping we would not need to dance again.

I go little into society, so it has taken me far too long to realise that I have not seen you for a considerable time and to gather the courage to write to you. I understand that you have been unwell these past years and am vexed with myself for not asking after you sooner. I hope you are in better health now and that this dreary month has not worn upon your spirits as it has on mine. I have often thought I should like to pursue what I hoped was the beginnings of a friendship and so now I am taking this opportunity and the excuse of an acquaintance in common.

I believe you have a Mr De Beauvoir designing gardens at Hardacre. His mother and my adopted mama are dear friends, and I know the gentleman and his sister well. I am certain you will be delighted with the design he makes for you, for he is exceptionally talented. Have you ever been to De Beauvoir Nurseries and Landscaping? It is a marvellous place for a visit and showcases his skills wonderfully.

I hope you will accept the small token I have sent you as a gesture of friendship, and I look forward to continuing our correspondence if you care to do so.

With kind regards and amities,

―Excerpt of a letter from the Hon'ble Miss Violetta Spencer (cousin and adopted daughter to The Right Hon'ble Kitty and Luke Baxter, Countess and Earl of Trevick) to The Lady Fidelia Ponsonby.

11th February 1850, Hardacre Hall Estate, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Fidelia stared down at the letter, uncertain of what to feel about it. On the one hand, she was delighted to hear from Miss Spencer. They had indeed enjoyed a very pleasant evening in each other's company, but then Fidelia had become entangled in her disastrous love affair, and everything had gone horribly wrong. In normal circumstances she would have leapt at the chance to make a friend who had seemed to be in such sympathy with everything that Fidelia felt, both about life and the demands of society. Yet the wordsI know the gentleman and his sister wellsat uncomfortably in Fidelia's chest.

Not that she was jealous. No. That would be ridiculous, naturally. Mr De Beauvoir was her friend, nothing more, and he was at liberty to have as many friends as he wished. Yet Miss Spencer's beautiful face swam into focus, her poise and serenity too. She was elegant and immensely talented. She played the pianoforte exceptionally well, and sang too, and… Fidelia looked down at the exquisitely embroidered handkerchief Miss Spencer had sent her and compared it to her own sorry effort on the tambour in her lap. Fidelia had never had much of a hand with a needle. She wondered if the lady could paint, though, and then scolded herself soundly. She and Miss Spencer were likely of the same age, and she must know that Fidelia was still unmarried. Old maids, both of them, she thought bitterly.

Fidelia wondered why Miss Spencer had never married. Surely, she'd had offers enough. Was there some scandal there, of the kind Fidelia had suffered? It was futile to speculate. Perhaps, if Fidelia pursued the friendship, the lady would confide in her. It would be lovely to have a female friend, someone to share confidences with, though no doubt Miss Spencer would run a mile if she ever discovered Fidelia's secret. Well, she would discover it, and sooner rather than later, if Fidelia got her way and found her son.

Chewing her lip, Fidelia wondered if it would be best not to reply. She had no friends to lose at present, save Mr De Beauvoir, and he already knew her shame. To make a friend of Miss Spencer, only to lose her again and perhaps suffer recriminations too, that would hurt. And what if Miss Spencer and Mr De Beauvoir were more than friends, what if they had an understanding? What if Miss Spencer was writing to Fidelia to gain news of her beloved?

No. Mr De Beauvoir had made it very plain that he had no intention of ever marrying. Fidelia sighed, finding that no comfort at all.

Well, she would reply to the letter. Once she had figured out what to say, at least. She would only mention Mr De Beauvoir in passing, though. Still, it had been kind of Miss Spencer to write, and Fidelia could not slight the woman so cruelly by ignoring that. If Miss Spencer wished to cut all ties once the scandal broke, then so be it. Fidelia was prepared for the worst.

Setting the embroidery aside, for she had quite lost her enthusiasm for it, Fidelia went to her desk and regarded the tiger lily she had painted. If she said so herself, it was rather good. She wondered what Mr De Beauvoir would think of it and daydreamed a little about seeing his stern face softened into a smile, those dark blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. His voice, so deep and usually so gruff, would be gentle with words of praise as he exclaimed over her talent and—

"Lia, ought you be dressing for dinner by now?"

Fidelia gave a little shriek, having been far, far away. She turned to see her brother looking at her with an expression of bemusement. "Lord, sis, you're mighty jumpy these days."

"No, I'm not," Fidelia retorted hotly, wishing her face wasn't burning.

Alex shook his head and sighed. "Well, get ready in any case. You know how long you take, and I don't want you to keep Mr De Beauvoir waiting for an age."

"I wouldn't do that," Fidelia said, stung by the accusation.

"No," Alex admitted, relenting. "You've never put on airs like some women do, playing with a chap's feelings."

"Good heavens, Alex!" Fidelia exclaimed, flustered now. "Whatever are you saying? Mr De Beauvoir has no feelings for me, and what on earth would you know about such things?"

It was Alex's turn to blush, for he was only fifteen and his sister knew very well he had no experience of such teasing, womanly wiles, or the kind of females who employed them.

"I read," he said darkly, and stalked out of the room.

Fidelia let out a breath. Drat it. Now Alex would sulk, and she was already apprehensive enough about tonight's dinner without dealing with that. She had the strong suspicion that Mr De Beauvoir was dreading tonight and only wished to get it over and done with. After the event, she had realised they had manoeuvred him into a position where he could not refuse their invitation without seeming churlish. Whilst her father would insist the man was no gentleman, Mr De Beauvoir was far too kind and his manners too good to do such a thing. The poor man was probably preparing to grit his teeth and endure their company. It was a lowering thought.

In the end, Fidelia had to accept that Alex had been correct. She did take an age to get ready. Only it was such a difficult thing to decide what to wear. Though she did not wish to make Mr De Beauvoir uncomfortable by wearing her loveliest gowns, nor to look as if she were trying too hard, she was aware of a desire to appear at her best for him. So, it took an interminable amount of time to choose. Her maid, Sally, had only been with her for the past year and was a sweet, patient girl who had been kind to Fidelia despite her lack of interest in clothes or the outside world, but even she was showing signs of exasperation when Fidelia changed her mind for the fifth time.

"No, I shall wear the lilac after all," she said, having decided it trod the line between her most extravagant and flattering gowns, and looking as though she had not bothered.

"Very good, my lady," Sally said through her teeth.

"I beg your pardon, I've tried your patience tonight, haven't I?" Fidelia said to her with a smile.

Sally shook her head as she carried the lilac gown over to her and helped Fidelia step into it.

"Oh, no, my lady. Indeed, it is good to see you in such spirits. I had begun to despair of you, if you want the truth, only—"

Sally clamped her mouth shut and ducked her head, concentrating on tying the skirts into place.

"Only?" Fidelia pressed.

"Nothing, my lady. 'Tis not my place to say so."

Fidelia's heart sank. Were the servants gossiping already? "Go on, Sally. You may speak freely. I shall not scold you for it."

Sally returned a speculative look before she spoke again. "Well, it's just that his grace don't care much for Mr De Beauvoir, going on what's been said downstairs. You understand? And… And won't he be dreadfully cross with you for inviting him for dinner? He don't like guests at the best of times, so I'm told, but you doing it behind his back, when he's not even here, seems a dangerous thing to do. It's just it's so lovely to see you happy, my lady, and I'm afraid if he were to come back and lose his temper—"

"You think I might sink back into melancholy?" Fidelia guessed, touched by the young woman's concern, and equally relieved she had not suggested there were other reasons for worrying.

Sally nodded and, impulsively, Fidelia reached out and hugged her. "You are the kindest creature alive, Sally dear. I'm so happy you came to me, for you have borne with my melancholia with far more kindness than I deserved."

"Oh! No, my lady," Sally protested, colouring deeply but looking pleased too.

"Yes," Fidelia insisted. "But I shall not allow my spirits to sink so again, I promise you. Not even if the duke is crosser than he has ever been before." And that would be quite something to see, Fidelia thought with a wry smile, remembering the day he'd discovered her pregnancy. Her smile faltered as she realised she would lose Sally too when she reclaimed her baby, but she would simply have to endure that. If she could not bear to part with her maid, she had no business looking for her son, for there would be far greater challenges to face than that.

"I'm glad," Sally said, bringing Fidelia's attention back to the conversation, and looking as though she meant it. "And I must be honest and admit it's so lovely to see you making use of your lovely gowns at last. Though it's a shame to waste them on Mr De Beauvoir when you ought to be in town, dancing with the other lords and ladies, and you really ought to be ordering more for the spring, you know. You'll look sadly out of date if you don't do so."

Fidelia smiled, amused by the light of anticipation in the woman's eyes, though the idea she was wasting her time in pleasing Mr De Beauvoir made a surge of irritation flare in her chest. "Very well, Sally. You have my permission to take all my magazines and select anything you think would suit me. Then we shall see."

"Thank you, my lady!" Sally grinned.

"Lia!" Alex's impatient voice followed a knock on the door. "Lia, tell me you're ready, for heaven's sake. He'll be here any minute."

"Yes, yes, nearly," Fidelia replied, pulling a face at Sally. "Lud, help me," she whispered frantically, hurrying to the dressing table to put the final touches to her toilette.

With such haste that Sally exclaimed and scolded her, Fidelia rushed to put on her earbobs while Sally fastened the matching amethyst necklace. The muted sound of male voices reached her, together with the soft thud of the front door closing, and Fidelia cursed herself. She was late after all. Rushing to the door with Sally's protests ringing in her ears, Fidelia prayed that Mr De Beauvoir would not think she had delayed in order to make some grand entrance. The idea of pausing on the stairs while he gazed up at her and fell helplessly in love with her was a tempting one, but likely best confined to her romance novels. So instead, Fidelia belted for the staircase and hurried down, exclaiming as she went.

"Oh, do forgive me, Mr De Beauvoir. I'm afraid the day got away from me, I'm not usually so tardy and—"

And she missed the last step.

Hart looked up in alarm as a flurry of lilac silk appeared at the top of the stairs. His nerves were all on end as it was. He'd spent the entire day alternately cursing himself for accepting the blasted invitation and dreading the prospect of spending the best part of three hours in Fidelia's company, while desperately anticipating seeing her again. Seeing her almost run down the stairs, heedless of the huge skirts that must impede her progress, not to mention her vision, Hart's breath caught.

"My lady," he managed, as she kept up a stream of ridiculous apologies for being late when he'd only just stepped through the door. "Be careful, or—"

She tripped, or slipped, or… he did not know quite what she'd done, but the next minute she was falling, and Hart darted forward, catching her under the arms before she fell in a confusion of lilac skirts and petticoats. There was a delicious feminine rustling sound as the petticoats and lilac silk swirled around him. Then the sweet scent of violets rose, faint but lingering, drifted from her skin, teasing his senses with the desire to follow it to its source.

"Oh, good heavens," she said, cheeks scarlet with embarrassment. "How clumsy I am. Please forgive me. My word, as if you weren't already cursing us for forcing you to come tonight. I would not blame you for taking to your heels," she added, with obvious dejection.

Hart felt terrible that she had read him correctly. "Whatever do you mean?" he said, his voice lower and more intimate than it ought to be. He seemed unable to tear his eyes from her and found it impossible in the moment to regret the invitation. "I've been looking forward to it all day."

She gazed up at him thoughtfully, uncertain now, and her soft mouth quirked a little at one corner. "You're a terrible liar, Mr De Beauvoir, but I appreciate the effort. You may put me down now. I promise I shall not swoon."

With a muttered exclamation, Hart came back to his senses, registered the fact he was still holding her, and far closer to him than he ought. The snooty butler who had let him in was studiously looking the other way. Hart let her go so suddenly she staggered back, and he was forced to steady her once more.

"Good evening, sir!" Lord Alex said, beaming at Hart as he appeared in the entrance hall, rescuing them from the awkward situation. "Lia, what the devil are you thinking, keeping Mr De Beauvoir in this draughty hall? You're the one always scolding me for my bad manners too," he added, shaking his head.

"Forgive me, Alex, quite right. Let us go through to dinner at once," Fidelia said with a tight smile.

"Already? But—" Alex began, only to be silenced by the look his sister shot him. "Very well. I am rather hungry."

"You're always hungry," Fidelia replied fondly, as they filed into the dining room.

Hart was uncertain if he was relieved or dismayed to discover that they had chosen an informal setting in one of the smaller rooms of the house. A cheery fire was blazing in the hearth and if one set aside the slightly strained atmosphere, though only he and Fidelia seemed aware of it, the room was almost cosy.

Alex seated his sister and then sat down on her right, with Hart on her left. Fidelia instructed the butler to serve the first course. Wine was poured, and the soup brought in. To Hart's relief, it was not white soup, which he detested, but lentil, rich and lightly spiced. The moment they were done, Fidelia gestured for the fish course, and Hart saw the first three dishes come and go at a rattling pace. Throughout, the lady barely touched her food. Alex kept up a one-sided if good-natured conversation… for which Hart was exceedingly grateful.

"Lord, Fidelia, where's the fire?" Alex protested, as his plate was taken the moment he set down his knife and fork. "You're going to give us all indigestion at this rate."

Fidelia blushed and muttered an apology. Hart felt wretched for her. She was clearly doing her best to get dinner over and done so he might make his escape. Had he really made her so uncomfortable with his reluctance to come that she could not wait to be rid of him? He racked his brain for a safe subject of conversation, but that recalcitrant organ was not cooperating tonight, still befuddled by the scent of violets and the feel of her in his arms.

Happily, Fidelia's was in proper working order.

"I believe you know Miss Violetta Spencer," Lady Fidelia said, regarding with disfavour the plate of sautéed kidneys in red wine which a footman had set before her.

Hart leapt at the conversational lifeline with a bit too much enthusiasm. "I do," he said with forced cheerfulness. "She's a lovely woman and a good friend. I've known her since she was this high," he added, placing his hand somewhere in the region of his knee.

"Yes, she said she knew you well," Fidelia said, pushing the kidneys about disconsolately. "She's very beautiful."

"She is. And talented," Hart added. "Have you heard her play the piano? Far above the skill of most ladies. She sings beautifully too."

"I know," the lady said with a wistful sigh. "She's quite exceptional. I cannot fathom why she is not married. She must have had dozens of offers."

Not having an answer to this, Hart held his tongue. "How do you know the lady?" he asked instead.

"I don't really," Fidelia admitted. "At least, I used to see her around before—"

She glanced at her brother and took a hasty sip of wine, which went down the wrong way. Hart leapt to his feet and patted her gently on the back.

"Here," he said, offering her a glass of water.

"Thank you," she replied meekly, looking increasingly wretched. Once she could speak again, she carried on. "I met her at a party given by Lady St Clair, and we got on well, but then… well, we lost touch," she said briskly. "But today I received a lovely letter out of the blue, and she sent me a pretty handkerchief she'd embroidered. It's quite exquisite. She seems very kind."

Hart nodded. "She is one of the kindest people I know. You'll like her very much when you get to know her."

Fidelia nodded and smiled at him. "Yes, I'm certain I shall."

"Please do send her my best wishes when you write back."

Fidelia nodded politely, and somehow, they got through the rest of the dinner. Alex was oblivious to the underlying tension and in high spirits, likely because Fidelia had allowed him a glass of wine with his meal. By the time Hart had done justice to the cheese course, Alex was yawning with increasing enthusiasm until Fidelia scolded him for his manners and told him it was time to retire.

"But it's early yet, Lia," Alex protested.

"Not when one must work in the morning. It's been a lovely evening, Alex, but I'm sure Mr De Beauvoir wishes to go home now. No doubt he rises at a far earlier hour than we do."

"Ugh, no doubt," Alex replied, smothering another jaw-cracking yawn behind his hand. "Well, in that case, goodnight, Mr De Beauvoir. Thank you for coming. It's awfully dull with just the two of us."

"Thank you, Alex," Fidelia murmured wryly.

"Oh, you know what I mean, Lia," Alex protested. "And you've been looking forward to it all day too, don't tell me you haven't, for I shall call you a liar. Else you wouldn't have taken so long choosing what dress to wear. Oh, and don't forget to show Mr De Beauvoir the painting you did for him."

Blithely unaware of the small bomb he'd exploded at his sister's feet, Alex left the room. Hart glanced at Fidelia, whose cheeks were as pink as a new dawn. She bit her lip, giving him a glimpse of pearly white teeth and the sight sent something that felt like a small lightening strike glittering through his blood. Hart swallowed, telling himself not to get overwrought at the idea she had been thinking of him as she'd dressed. Visions of her standing in only her lace-trimmed petticoats and the memory of her pretty ankles assaulted his mind, stirring desire to life. Was that why she'd come pell mell down the stairs earlier? She'd been trying to wear something to please him. Had she done the painting for the same reason?

Hart told himself to behave and not to get in a lather. Women always made a fuss about wearing the right frock, no matter who was coming to dinner, and the painting probably wasn't for him, likely she just wished to show him. And what the devil did he care, anyway? The heat simmering beneath his skin was answer enough but he could not help but study her face, noticing now—as he had not allowed himself to do before—the lovely gown she wore and the delicate amethysts that decorated her slender neck and sparkled at her ears. Christ, but she was beautiful in the candlelight.

"A painting?" he queried, keeping his voice quiet, aware of the servants clearing the table around them but too curious not to ask despite knowing it was best left alone. "What did you paint?"

He would never understand how the upper classes could carry on a private conversation with servants buzzing about them and listening in.

Fidelia glanced at him uncertainly. "Would you like to see?"

Hart nodded, though he knew better than to encourage her, and followed her out of the room. She led him to a small parlour, quite the nicest room he had seen in the entire house. It was a little on the shabby side but comfortably furnished and decorated in varying shades of green, from light to dark, with small touches of yellow. It was cheerful and feminine, with embroidered cushions and rich fabrics, and reminded him of spring.

"This is your room," he guessed, careful to leave the door open behind him when he really wanted to shut it and give them some privacy. He wasn't that much of an idiot.

"Well, it belongs to the duke's children, to keep us out of his way, but I make the most use of it and I… I decorated it," she said, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. "A long time ago now, I suppose. Before everything changed. Here."

With no ceremony, she thrust a thick sheet of paper at him, and Hart took it, staring down at the painting in wonder. "You did this?"

"Well, you needn't sound so surprised. I'm not entirely without accomplishments."

The words were snappy, and quite unlike Fidelia. Hart looked up with a frown. Her eyes were sparkling, too bright, and she swallowed convulsively.

"Forgive me," she said, looking stricken. "I-I don't know what came over me."

"You've had a trying evening," he said, forcefully aware that she was on the edge of what her nerves could stand. Whatever had motivated her to invite him, tonight had been a mistake, and she knew it. Whilst the realisation that it was as obvious to her as to him made resentment burn in his chest, it was not her fault any more than it was his.

She made a quiet sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and pressed a hand to her mouth.

"Hey, now, what's all this?" Hart asked, setting the painting down and going to her.

"Nothing, nothing at all. I'm behaving like a complete and utter ninny. Oh, what must you think of me?" she said with a groan, covering her face with her hands.

Hart took hold of her shoulders. "Look at me," he commanded.

She did, lowering her hands, her eyes meeting his, and he wished suddenly he had not asked her to do so. Her eyes were so clear, the emotion shining there too easy to read, but she was so vulnerable, and so very alone. His gaze fell to her mouth, soft and plush, so sweet, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to kiss her. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

She did as he instructed, never taking her eyes from his.

"Again," he said, making her repeat the slow inhale and exhale until he was certain she was calm again. "There, now. And I think only the best of you, so stop getting yourself in such a tizzy. There's no need for it."

He gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze and took two hasty steps away from her before he could do anything idiotic. Instead, he returned his attention to the painting, for it was far safer than gazing at her beautiful face. His instincts were all on alert, his nerves leaping, the proximity of such a beautiful woman badly in need of comforting playing havoc with his equilibrium. The overwhelming need to take her in his arms and hold her close to him made his skin hurt with repressed desire, but that way lay disaster for them both. His intentions were honourable, his yearning to offer comfort and support undeniable and no more than he would do for any fellow creature, but he could not pretend he didn't want to bed her, or ignore how the temptation to comfort her in other ways would certainly lead him into foolishness if he did not take care.

"This is extraordinarily good," he said, meaning it. The tiger lily had been painted with skill and a light hand, the petals so lovingly captured he almost believed he could touch the paper and feel them beneath his fingertips.

"Truly?" she asked, brightening at his words.

"Absolutely. You copied this?"

She nodded, her expression falling a little. "Yes, I'm afraid so. From a book of botanical paintings."

"There's no shame in that. Many painters have learned their art by copying, but if you can copy this well, I see no reason you cannot paint from life with as much skill. Botanical drawings and paintings rely on the artist capturing the details faithfully, exactly as they appear in nature. You have an exceptional talent, my lady, and one you ought to develop. It would be a sin not to."

"Oh," she said, glowing in the light of the words he'd given her.

Lord, had no one ever praised her, ever told her quite how wonderful she was? He could see all too well how some bounder had led her on and made her believe he cared for her with a few sweet words. She was so thirsty for love and attention she bloomed with the slightest amount of kindness. Lady Fidelia had so much to give, and the man who became the recipient of all that love would be lucky indeed.

But that would not be him, he reminded himself sternly, ignoring the sharp stab of regret that accompanied the thought.

"I shall order some plants from my hothouses," he said, handing her back the painting. "And you can test your skills."

She gazed at him in wonder. "You would do that?"

"Of course. It's foolish not to encourage talent when you find it, and you, like your brother, have talent."

"You're very kind," she said. "But I know such things are frightfully expensive, I should not wish—"

"Well, I do wish. I will send you some flowers to paint," he said sternly.

Fidelia returned a hesitant smile. "Then you must take my painting as a thank you for your kindness."

Hart nodded, more pleased than he wished to admit at keeping it for himself. "I should be happy to do so. Now, I'm afraid I do have an early start in the morning. Thank you for a lovely evening."

"It was not the least bit lovely for you," she said, laughing ruefully now, and Hart was pleased to see she had recovered her spirits. "But it was kind of you to say so. Goodnight, Mr De Beauvoir."

She held out her hand to him and Hart took it gently, bowing over it. "Goodnight, Lady Fidelia."

He turned and walked away, making his way to the front door, and feeling her eyes on his back all the way.