Page 27 of A Landscape of Love

She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, her head bowed. Though he knew better, Hart stepped closer and put his finger beneath her chin, raising it. “Your father will not be gone forever. A few more days, a week, it changes nothing.”

“But it does!” she cried, such passion behind the words, her eyes flashing, that his breath caught. “My son is without his mother for those few more days, for that week. Years have passed, and he is growing up not knowing who I am, if I ever loved or wanted him. How do I know he is being cared for? How do I know he’s happy, well fed, that he’s even alive?”

She burst into tears and Hart pulled her against him, for what other choice was there? Her arms went around him, her hands fisted in the fabric at the back of his waistcoat.

She sobbed uncontrollably for a while as Hart rubbed slow circles on her back. Lord, but she was slender, her slim frame fitting into his embrace with ease. Once again, the scent of violets drifted from her damp hair, teasing his senses, tempting him. If he took her to his bed, he could chase away such feelings of sorrow, at least for a little while. He could stop her feeling so very alone… but then what?

Her sobbing calmed and she let go of his waistcoat. Hart felt her hands lay flat against the small of his back. They seemed to burn through the fabric of his waistcoat, making him want things he could not have. He put his hands to her shoulders, pushing her gently, but firmly, away.

“That’s better,” he said, his tone still kind but stern too.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, avoiding his eye and accepting the handkerchief he gave her.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and Hart wondered how she could stand there, looking like a drowned cat, with a red nose and puffy eyes, and still be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He had missed her, he realised, missed the woman he was coming to know. She was revealing herself to him a little at a time, her care for her brother, for the seeds, her determination to find her son, even her newfound skill for painting. Each revelation drew him deeper into her world and made it increasingly difficult for him to resist the pull. Unsettled by the thought, his next words were cool.

“You’d best go into the bedroom and take those wet things off. I suppose you remember where it is,” he added, which was unkind, but he was annoyed now and not feeling terribly gentlemanly.

Fidelia put her chin up, and there was the duke’s daughter again, haughty and imperturbable.

“I do not wish to put you to any trouble. If you will give me my cloak, I am quite capable of walking home.”

“If you didn’t want to put me to any trouble, you’d not be here,” he shot back, aggrieved by frustration and regret and baulked lust. “But as you are, I’ll thank you not to go getting pneumonia and laying the blame at my door.”

“Oh! As if I would,” she exclaimed, incensed by the accusation.

“There are clean shirts in the drawer, and you can take the cover off the bed. I’ll go to the house and tell your brother you’re here. We’ll say you twisted your ankle, and I found you. He can send your maid with the carriage to collect you.”

“You’re just as wet and cold as I am,” she said, folding her arms. “You ought not go out again in this weather. I’ll thank you not to contract a lung fever on my behalf and lay the blame at my door.”

“I’m never ill,” Hart replied, terse now, though secretly rather amused by her sally.

“Oh, because you’re a big, powerful man and nothing gets in your way, not even a cold,” she said in disgust.

Hart threw up his hands. “Now you’re just being silly.”

“Silly?” Her eyes blazed, and she looked like she would throw something at him if she could lay her hands on a suitable object. Hart scanned the cottage, taking note of possible missiles. “Oh, if I had a farthing for every time a man has told me I’m being silly, I’d be a wealthy woman in my own right!”

Hart suspected that was something of an exaggeration, but wisely held his tongue. He got the point.

“A poor choice of words then,” he allowed. “But the fact is, I’m used to working in all weathers, to being cold and wet. You are not. Besides which, your brother will be frantic if you don’t arrive soon. Now, get out of those wet clothes at once. I’ll make you tea and leave it by the fire. I’ll send your maid back for you shortly.”

“As you command.” Her reply was chilly and curt, and Hart watched her go, letting out a breath of relief as the bedroom door closed behind her. All he had to do now was resist the urge to follow.

Muttering curses, he readied the tea things and found the parcel of crumpets his mother had sent. He stabbed a fork through one of them with rather more force than was required and held it close to the flames while he waited for the kettle to boil. Once he’d toasted four crumpets and slathered them with generous amounts of butter and jam, he made the tea and left everything to keep warm in front of the fire.

His coat was cold and damp and Hart grimaced as he shrugged it back on and reached for his boots. Despite telling it sternly to behave itself, his mind drifted to the bedroom door and what was going on behind it, imagining the soft flutter of petticoats falling in a heap of lacy femininity beside his bed, those pretty ankles revealed, and long, slender legs and… and he slammed the door hard on the images forming in his mind. That way lay madness and the destruction of all his ambitions. Lady Fidelia was a distraction he did not need, a temptation to reach for something that was never meant to be his. She was not his responsibility, nor did he wish for her to be, he reminded himself fiercely. He’d help her where he could, as he would anyone who came to him in need, but that was all.

Squaring his shoulders against the blast of cold that swept in as he opened the cottage door, Hart thrust his hat on his head and walked out into the rain once more.

“Mr De Beauvoir?” Fidelia clutched the blanket around herself and peered around the bedroom door. With a sigh of regret, she realised he’d done as he’d said and gone to the house. The poor man. He’d been working outside all day in this filthy weather, and now he must trudge all the way back to the Hall on her behalf. Guilt settled in her stomach, and she wished she’d not acted so foolishly. She had never considered herself frivolous or silly, but her behaviour of late did her little credit. Seeing herself through Mr De Beauvoir’s eyes, she understood too well why he might think her a spoiled, selfish creature, of the kind she had encountered all too often during her time in society.

Padding into the main room of the cottage, she smiled as she saw the tea things laid out for her. The large, steaming mug of tea held liquid of a deep golden brown, far stronger than anything she usually drank. Fidelia lifted it carefully and took a tentative sip. It was heavily laced with sugar and made her sigh with pleasure as warmth puddled in her stomach. Perking up somewhat, she reached for the crumpets, touched that he had troubled to toast and prepare them for her. He probably thought her incapable of such minor exertions. She bit into one, exclaiming as butter dripped down her chin. Fidelia licked her fingers, amused to think how unladylike she must appear as she settled into the chair, the plate balanced on her lap, the huge mug in one hand, a crumpet in the other. Both were utterly delicious.

Munching on crumpets and sipping tea from the mug, she reflected upon her row with Mr De Beauvoir. He’d been furious with her, and rightfully so. She had no business throwing herself at him in such a manner, and anyone else would certainly interpret it that way. Yet in that moment in the potting shed, seeing the first little green shoots, so tiny and fragile having pushed their way through the soil, she had needed to share the minor triumph with him. She smiled ruefully, for it seemed daft now, sillier still as the driving rain and cold had quickly extinguished her joy on the horrid walk to his cottage. All her previous frustration with her father, with herself, with life, had fallen heavily upon her, and by the time she’d reached the cottage she was dripping wet and miserable, and she had needed to see him more than ever.

That was the crux of the matter, she realised. She had wanted him. Fidelia had been unhappy and alone and she had wanted to turn to her friend for comfort. She had wanted to feel his arms go around her, to hear him tell her it would be all right in those gruff tones she found so reassuring. So, she had come to his cottage, alone, despite knowing it was wrong, despite knowing the trouble that could erupt if anyone saw her. Not that she had considered that. Fidelia had not gone out of her way to cause him trouble, she had simply not thought at all, not past the need to be with him.

“Oh, Fidelia, you fool,” she told herself, staring at the fire he had made for her. She had watched his big hands as he’d stirred the embers and added more coal, while his nearness had added more fuel to the feelings bursting inside her. Like the seedlings, and despite their fragile nature, they had broken through the ice and misery of the past years. Though she had not recognised them as such, they had given her hope, and yet she realised now she was riding for another fall. He did not want her any more than the father of her child had wanted her. What was wrong with her, that the men she chose rejected her?