Page 12 of A Landscape of Love

Her heart broke a little at that admission. Alex had become increasingly reserved as he’d grown older, but they’d always been close. She had let him down by shutting him out, forgetting she was not the only person in the world suffering life at Hardacre.

“I missed you too, Alex. But I’m back now, and… and everything is going to be so much better.”

“Bloody hell,” Hart muttered under his breath as he saw Lady Fidelia striding towards him. He’d been doing his utmost to keep his mind occupied so it would not linger on the lovely, melancholy girl who had insinuated herself into his world. Thoughts of her intruded whenever he let down his guard. Those clear blue eyes, the way she had reached for him, her softly curved body a warm weight in his arms… and how it might feel if she were not grieving, if perhaps he could make her smile. However, she did not look melancholy at this moment, he had to admit. Right now, she looked more inclined to do murder.

Giving Harris instructions to relay to the men working down by the lake, he sent the man off, hurrying to intercept Lady Fidelia, so they’d be out of earshot.

“It’s locked!” she exclaimed in frustration.

Her cheeks were becomingly flushed, whether from her annoyance or the brisk way she’d been walking on a chilly afternoon, he could not be certain. The last he’d seen of her before he’d left for work that morning, she’d been tucked up in his bed, wearing his shirt. The knowledge had been nagging at him ever since, no matter how he tried to ignore it.

“Keep your voice down,” Hart growled, glancing around to see if they were being observed. “And you knew the desk would be locked, you told me it would be.”

“Not the desk, the room!” she said, folding her arms. “And it will remain locked until his grace returns. In two weeks!”

Hart shrugged. “So what? You’ll have to wait a bit longer, that’s all. You’ve waited this long.”

“I don’t want to wait,” she said, eyes flashing. “I’m tired of living this miserable half-life. If last night showed me anything it proved to me that I want to live, not simply exist in this vast prison the duke keeps me locked in. I want to do something. I want to make something happen now!”

Hart stared at her, wondering what exactly she expected him to do about it. “Then find another key or learn to pick a lock.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, apparently pleased with that idea. “Do you know how?”

Hart glared at her, irritated by the assumption that anyone of a lower class than her would know such a trick. “No. I don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lady, I have work—”

“I’ll break the glass, then,” she said, a determined glint in her eyes that boded ill. “The door leading outside to the gardens is half window. If I break the glass, I need only to turn the key, and I’ll be inside. I’ll need to figure out how to do it quietly, though,” she mused, turning and walking away.

Alarmed, Hart reached for her without thinking and grasped her arm. “You bloody well won’t!”

“I beg your pardon?”

And there was the duke’s daughter, her chin up, generations of pride in every line of her body.

Hart let go of her like he’d been stung. “And just who will get the blame for breaking into the study?”

Fidelia considered this. “No one. Nothing will be taken, after all. I’ll just read the diaries and leave.”

“From a locked desk, to which you don’t have the key? So, you’ll break into that too? Everyone will assume the thief was looking for something. Perhaps they got disturbed and ran off before they had time to grab anything valuable. And do you know where they’ll go looking for a likely culprit?”

Fidelia shook her head, frowning.

“From among my men,” Hart said angrily. “And it won’t matter a jot that there’s no evidence, that they’re innocent. One of them will cop the blame for it, you mark my words. So, no, Lady Fidelia, you will not break into your father’s study, unless you’d like me to explain who did do it and why.”

“Oh!” she gasped, the colour leaving her face in a rush. “And I thought you meant to help me!”

“Not at the expense of an innocent man,” Hart shot back.

She stood staring at him, chest rising and falling hard. Her blonde hair was caught in a severe style, rolled at the back of her neck, and a pretty bonnet, lined with dusky pink, framed her face. She was all neat and tidy, except for a few wayward strands curling about her cheeks. Hart glowered harder, refusing to allow himself to admire the picture she made.

“I-I hadn’t considered that,” she admitted, her expression becoming sombre. She tangled her fingers together, and he heard the frustration in her words… and the honesty. “I would not want anyone to suffer for my actions. You were quite right to scold me. It was thoughtless. I’m sorry. I just feel so helpless when nothing goes my way.”

Surprised and utterly disarmed, Hart didn’t know quite what to say. “There’s no reason why you should think of others. Your kind don’t as a rule.” It was ungracious of him, and rather unkind, but she took the criticism on the chin.

“We’re taught not to do so,” she said, only a touch defensively. “Servants do not exist, other than to serve. We are taught not to acknowledge them, much less thank them.”

“I know,” Hart said, having got himself into trouble for demanding something resembling basic manners on a servant’s behalf in the past. Neither the servant nor the stuck-up lordling had thanked him for it.

“But I know that doesn’t make it right,” she added and then let out a huff of vexation. “Oh, but it’s so unfair! I am so tired of feeling powerless.”