Page 33 of A Landscape of Love

“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.