Page 51 of A Landscape of Love

Before he could stop her, Fidelia sprang to her feet again, meaning he and his father and Alex all had to do likewise. “I’m afraid there is going to be the most ghastly scandal, but it’s all my fault,” Fidelia said, bravely meeting his father’s eyes. “It’s nothing in the least to do with your son, Mr De Beauvoir, for despite being occasionally pig-headed, and foolish enough to bring me here, he is the kindest and most honourable man in the entire world, and he rescued me from a fate which I cannot think of without terror. Truly, sir, I beg you, don’t be angry with him, for it was all—”

“Hush, child,” his father said, his rather austere face softening in the light of her obvious distress. “I know my son better than you think and I don’t doubt he did the right thing, drat him. Now do sit down and have some breakfast. My wife believes powerful emotions ought not be expressed on an empty stomach and I must agree with her.”

Mollified by this gentle reproof, Fidelia did as he told her and accepted a cup of tea before his mother loaded all their plates with more food than any of them could possibly eat in one sitting.

It took his mother little time to encourage Alex to tell her the whole story, which the lad did with gusto, relishing the descriptions of the fight, and especially of Richmond brandishing his broadsword. He made Hart sound like some gallant knight of old, much to his discomfort.

“Well, we shall certainly be the centre of attention for a time,” his mother said with a sigh. “But I cannot see how you could have done otherwise, Hartley. I’m very proud of you. We both are,” she added, for his father was not looking entirely pleased.

Hart could hardly blame him. Though he had been a wonderful and loving parent, all his father really wanted was to work peacefully in his laboratory and have his wife all to himself. Anything that interfered with those desires was never greeted with enthusiasm.

“I’m so sorry,” Fidelia said.

Hart noticed she had eaten little of the breakfast his mother had given her and frowned.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he said fiercely, discovering too late he sounded cross when he’d not meant to. “Eat your breakfast, you’ve hardly touched a bite.”

“I’ve a good deal to be sorry for,” she said, glaring at him, but he heard the uncertainty behind the sharp words, saw the way her eyes glittered too brightly and reached for her hand.

“No, you don’t!” he said crossly, before modifying his voice, this time to something softer. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“How can you say that?” she demanded, her voice quavering with emotion. “I’ve ruined my own life and n-now I’ve ruined yours too!” she exclaimed, tugging her hand free of his before bursting into tears and running from the room.

Hart stood, intending to go after her but his mother stopped him. “Leave her to me, Hartley. She’s had a trying time, and she’s overwrought.”

Hart scowled, but reluctantly sat back down again.

His mother paused before she left the room, turning back to him with a curious look in her eyes.

“Has she ruined your life, Hart? For she’s certainly ruined your chances of finishing the garden at Hardacre. You may never get another chance like that one.”

“I know that,” Hart said tersely before he let out a breath and replied in a milder voice. “No, Mother. She couldn’t ruin anything if she tried.”

His mother smiled and gave a satisfied nod. “I thought not.”

“Women,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Whatever was that about?”

“Have another sausage. You’ve a few years before you need to figure out the complexities of the female race,” his father said dryly, gesturing for Alex to help himself. “I’d make the most of it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alex replied with a grin, tucking in with renewed appetite.

Hart poured himself another cup of coffee, uncomfortably aware of his father’s scrutiny.

“Come to my study if you would, Hartley,” he said, getting to his feet.

Grimacing, Hart swallowed his coffee and followed his father out of the parlour, closing the door behind him.

Inigo De Beauvoir was a tall man with severe and rather hawk-like features. Hart had always felt rather awed by the brilliance of his father’s mind. Intelligence shone from his narrowed eyes as he studied Hart with interest.

“You’ve a marriage licence, I suppose?” he asked casually.

Hart nodded. “I got it a few days ago. Figured I’d need it,” he said with equal nonchalance, though the admission made his heart thud.

“She’s a duke’s daughter,” Inigo said, regarding him with concern. “There’s marrying above yourself and then there’s—”

“I know it,” Hart said quickly. “But she’s got no choice, not now, and better me than that bastard Malmsey.”

“Malmsey is a vile creature, I agree, but it seems to me there is more to this story than you’re telling us.”