Page 53 of A Landscape of Love

“Hart,” his mother said sternly. “Don’t decide for her, and don’t go putting words in her mouth and thinking a woman like that could not have such feelings for you. She’d be lucky to have you and don’t you forget it.”

Hart rubbed the back of his neck, finding it hard to believe a woman who ought to have married a marquess or some such title could ever consider herself lucky to have married him instead. Not that he thought any marquess was better than him, but he knew how most women thought and, if the choice was between him and a title, he knew well enough which they’d choose.

Chapter 15

Dearest Fidelia,

Is everything all right? It’s been several days since I last heard from you.

Selfishly, I miss our correspondence, though it is very bad of me when you probably have far more interesting things to attend to.

As for myself, I am thoroughly blue devilled, and I don’t know why. Perhaps it is just the lack of correspondence, for even my feline friend has not written this week. I cannot seem to settle to my embroidery, which I usually find so absorbing and I have no patience for company. I am irritable and out of sorts. I wish someone would do something dreadful so I could get cross with them and get it out of my system, but everyone insists on being thoroughly charming and delightful. It’s most inconsiderate.

―Excerpt of a letter from the Hon’ble Miss Violetta Spencer (cousin and adopted daughter to The Right Hon’ble Kitty and Luke Baxter, Countess and Earl of Trevick) to Lady Fidelia Ponsonby.

11th March 1850, Isleworth, London.

“I’ll do my best, but she’s the Duke of Beresford’s daughter, Ma, and I was born in the workhouse.”

Fidelia frowned as she opened the bedroom door a crack upon hearing Hart raise his voice. She had not known that, and her heart immediately went out to him, imagining him as a little boy in such a place. Though she knew not how he had come to be adopted, she could only thank Mr and Mrs De Beauvoir with all her heart for having done so.

Fidelia turned her attention back to the conversation, for they were talking about her. Hart was determined to sacrifice his future, all his hopes and dreams, and resign himself to marrying her, as he felt was his duty. How good and kind and honourable he was, she thought despondently.

“What of it? Your father was also from the workhouse, and Lady Helena and Gabe have been happily married for years,” his mother countered.

“Yes, because she fell in love with him and went after him with determination. Gabe didn’t stand a chance. Neither did my father. This is different. It’s a practical arrangement, not a love match. She has to marry me. She’s got no choice. Not now, after everything that’s happened.”

Fidelia swallowed hard, not that it was news to her. She knew Hart didn’t love her. Why on earth should he? She had caused him nothing but trouble and, if she agreed to marry him, would bring nothing to the arrangement but herself and a child that wasn’t even his, not to mention her brother. Why should he welcome such an irksome and expensive responsibility? He had never wanted to marry, never wanted children, and yet he was proposing to throw away his own happiness to keep her safe.

“Oh, Hartley. Of course she has a choice.” Mrs De Beauvoir sounded impatient and rather sad.

“Yes, the one she’s taking at the moment—refusing to marry me, and courting disaster for herself and her son. Honestly, what the devil does she think she’s going to do with no money and an illegitimate child on her hands? She’s never had to fend for herself a day in her life. If I don’t marry her, she’ll end up in desperate straits and that’s a fact.”

“I shouldn’t make that part of your marriage proposal unless you want things thrown at you,” his mother said sharply.

“Why not? It’s true!” There was a taut silence before Hart added, “I’m no good at hearts and flowers, Ma. You know that.”

Fidelia closed the door, her spirits sinking. Oh, what had she done? For he was right, of course, and now with the cold light of day blazing through the window, she had no choice but to face the truth. As she had left so precipitously, she hadn’t had time to prepare. All her jewellery, the pin money she had saved, not to mention her belongings, were all still at Hardacre. She had nothing but the clothes she stood up in if her father cut her out, and she did not doubt that he would. The Duke of Beresford had a vindictive streak a mile wide and was utterly ruthless. She had defied him, not only spoiling his plans but bringing down the kind of scandal upon him that he would have done murder to avoid. He might forgive Alex in time, but if not, she must provide for him too and she very much doubted she could. She might make a living by selling her paintings with Hart’s help, but she hadn’t the least idea how much money that would make or how much she would need. Not enough to provide for the son of a duke in the style he ought to expect, that was for sure.

Fidelia had prepared her entire life to run a vast household of servants and be of service to her husband through her connections and the entertainments she organised. That she could do with her eyes closed, but she could not cook, she had never had to clean or wash clothes, and she had never been a mother for all she had given birth to a child. She was as helpless as a babe herself in this world she had chosen to live in, and Hart spoke only the truth.

She needed him, needed the protection of his name and a father for her son, but if it had been only that, she would have refused his offer. Fidelia might have been selfish, but she was honest enough to admit the truth to herself. She wanted him so badly it hurt and the idea of marrying him was so close to a dream come true she could not bring herself to say no to him. Though he would likely come to resent her, she would marry him because she could not bear to be parted from him. The realisation was a lowering one and made her feel no better about herself. Lord, but he must be vexed by her.

There was a sharp knock on the door before it opened, and suddenly he was standing there before her. Fidelia’s breath caught as his broad frame filled the doorway, her heart leaping with the desire to go to him, to bury her face in his chest and hold on tight and beg him never to let her go. Instead, she stayed where she was, rigid with misery, standing beside the window that looked down upon a neat garden.

For a moment he just studied her, his blue eyes resting on hers for so long she blushed and turned away, afraid he could guess what she had been thinking. Perhaps he had guessed she had been listening in.

“This was my room,” he remarked, looking away from her to regard the space with interest. “She’s not changed it,” he added, sounding surprised as he took in the stacks of books about plants and horticulture. There were botanical prints stuck to the walls, as well as some comical cartoons from various scandal sheets that Fidelia had deduced must have been aimed at him and his friends.

He closed the door, and she sensed his mood change, finding him strangely hesitant. She wondered if he wished he could just bolt, leaving her and her troubles far behind him. She could not blame him for it.

“Your mother is lovely,” Fidelia said, needing to say something to make him look more at ease. The poor man. Proposing to a woman you had no desire to marry could not be a pleasant task, especially when she’d already rejected him once, fool that she was. “She’s been so very kind.”

“She is kind. I thought she was an angel when I was a lad. I’d no idea anyone could be so kind and gentle as her. I… I’m adopted, you see,” he said, the words rather bald, a slightly defiant look in his eyes.

“Then you were lucky, and I’m so glad such a wonderful family took in you.”

He frowned at her. “You don’t mind? I was born in the workhouse, Fidelia. I’m about as lowborn as it’s possible to get. I’ve no idea who my parents were, but I doubt they were married.”