Page 23 of A Landscape of Love

“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.