The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1) Page 3

  A smile stole across his cheeks, and wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. Rose imagined her father would have been close to the duke’s age. “I seemed to have lost my way, Miss Grant. I am ashamed to admit it, but my horse threw me, and I have been wandering the countryside for hours.”

  “You are lost?” Rose gasped. “Please, allow me to assist you. Where are you expected?”

  The duke’s laughter rolled across the space between them. “The situation is undeniably amusing, though I beg you would not utter a word of this meeting to a soul.” He leaned against a nearby boulder to catch his breath. “I am past expected at the home of a Mr. Bagshaw.”

  Mr. Matthew Bagshaw, a respected farmer, lived nearly ten miles from where they stood. “And you are without your horse? That is—you have lost him entirely?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “Would you be opposed if I offered to help, Your Grace? My home is only two miles away, and you could have your pick of horses to borrow. My grandfather would be honored to be of service.” Rose held in a breath. She did not know what was worse—offering assistance to the duke or leaving him to his own resources. Her hands grew cold and clammy, and she tore them apart and wiped them against the front of her dress.

  He surveyed her silently. There was caution in his gaze, and something else, though Rose could not decipher it. “Does your aunt reside on the property?”

  Understanding flickered to her eyes. If the stories Rose’s grandfather told were correct, the situation would be unbearably uncomfortable for both the duke and Prudence. No wonder Rose had not met him prior. “Yes, my aunt is at home, though I should think she would also be happy to assist you.”

  His eyes darted around the ground as if he were searching for something. He pressed a palm to his waistcoat, fluttering his fingers about until they landed on his handkerchief. He pressed the fabric to his brow. “Quite right, Miss Grant. I regret to trespass upon your hospitality, but I do not see another way out of my predicament.”

  Rose offered a timid smile. She understood the man’s anxiety all too well; her aunt had a knack for bringing about such worry.

  He extended his arm and sighed. “Then will you walk with me?”

  She took his arm and led him across the pasture. She blushed when she climbed the fence, acutely aware of how improper the movement was in such a dress.

  The duke only smiled, and his eyes seemed to brighten. “I shall not tell a soul, Miss Grant. It seems you and I both have secrets to bury.”

  Rose laughed in response.

  The path followed the property lines for some time, and the odd pair fell into easy conversation. At first, they discussed the spring blossoms on the neighboring hill and the impressive size of the trees lining the fence, but as time wore on, the duke began to speak of his son Colin and ask after Rose’s childhood, her grandfather, and the prospects for her future.

  The words caught in her throat at first. Rose had struggled to explain away so much of her past. Speaking to anyone about such topics would have been difficult—but the duke? However, once loosed, her tongue spun off memories and stories as quickly as their feet carried them across the distances. With each recollection, a weight lifted, and Rose felt surprisingly free in the man’s presence.

  Kindness shone from his expression. “I remember my first meeting with your mother.”

  She stopped, staring up at his face. The portrait hanging in the hall haunted her thoughts. Rose’s mother was strikingly beautiful, the memories of her even sweeter. Yet, Rose questioned whether time and longing had more to do with the recollections. “Truly? Will you tell me? I have only a handful of memories, and I worry I am painting an entirely abstract portrait of her.”

  The duke’s brows crinkled, and his lips parted. “I doubt so. Your mother was unforgettable.” He paused to smile. “I met her in Andover. I rarely was permitted to traipse around town unattended, but I had escaped that day—much to the chagrin of my mother. I took to the small shops and fancied I was indistinguishable among the other customers.”

  The image of him as a young man, pretending to be anything other than a duke was undeniably comical. Rose’s lips tugged. “Then you were not always so composed and grand?”

  Laughter split his lips apart. “I do believe you are teasing, Miss Grant, but I will not be derailed. Your mother was standing just outside the dress shop. I remember well her beauty. I determined I would introduce myself to her chaperone, but nerves overcame me. Later, perhaps months, I met her again at a ball. This time, I had deduced her identity and knew she was but the daughter of a dressmaker. Yet, I begged three dances of her that night.”

  Rose’s mouth gaped open. “You did not!”

  “I did.” He winked. “Though, my efforts were too little and too late. Another man, the son of the Honorable Josiah Grant, had already stolen her affection. I was left to mourn my own idiocy.”

  “You are kind to tell me the story,” Rose said, smiling up at him. “I believe you are right. My father stole her affection quite quickly, from their first encounter I am told. Her beauty and character must have been impressive. To garner so much attention…”

  The duke exhaled. “She was, and she did.”

  “Thank you.” Rose released his arm.

  He cleared his throat. “I do believe things worked out just as they were meant to be. Your mother may have slipped away from me, but then—I never would have met my duchess. Mary has been the ideal wife, and we share three children.”

  They stopped below the front steps of the estate. Rose could not recall a more enjoyable stroll. She climbed the steps. “I imagine you are happy then, Your Grace.”

  “I am.” He dipped his chin. “And for that I am thankful.”

  At their arrival, the footman opened the large mahogany door.

  Rose led the duke inside and gestured to the drawing room. “If you will, Your Grace. I will bring you paper and ink so that you might write—”

  “Rose Margaret Grant, I simply cannot forgive you,” Aunt Prudence’s ear-piercing voice echoed from above. She stood at the top of the staircase, hands against her hips. Her lips nearly disappeared in her tight expression. “Mr. Higgins waited for you for nearly an hour. To think I raised you better than that!”

  Rose nearly stumbled. Tension coiled inside her stomach. Prudence’s berating was expected, but the presence of the duke only heightened Rose’s humiliation. “I am sorry for my absence, but I—”

  “But nothing. You will stay to your room and go without supper.” Her aunt lifted her chin. “Perhaps then you will understand the difficult position you placed me in. Mr. Higgins will not want anything to do with you now, and he was quite the catch.”

  Rose’s stomach complained already, and she longed for a slice of Mrs. Blackburn’s cake. “As you wish, but I must attend to our guest, Aunt.”

  “Our guest?” Prudence descended a few steps, and her face flooded with color as she caught a glimpse of the duke.

  “Good day, Mrs. Grant. I fear it has been years since we last met.” The duke’s eyes narrowed. “I do ask you not punish your niece so severely. She has come to my aid, and I owe her my deepest gratitude.”

  Prudence’s eyes widened, and panic etched into her trembling limbs. She nearly slid down the steps, falling into a deep curtsy at the bottom stair. “Your Grace. Pardon my temper. It was concern that caused the scolding.”

  He smirked. “If you claim so. Now, Miss Grant,” he said. His eyes softened in an instant, and he stepped toward the drawing room. “A paper and ink would do splendidly. My son will be worried.”

  Rose nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.” She moved past her aunt, who was still bent at the bottom of the stairs. “Shall I also ask about a horse?”

  His gaze snapped back to Prudence’s crimson face. “I think not. On second thought, I shall send for my carriage to collect me. It seems your aunt and I have much to discuss.”

  * * *

  Rose’s
heart beat in an irregular fashion, pounding then slowing to an indeterminable speed. The duke remained in the drawing room with Aunt Prudence, discussing something rather serious by the sounds of it. Every so often, Rose heard the low rumble of the duke’s voice and her aunt’s particularly high-pitched and nasally responses. “You are not her guardian.” “I have only her best interest at heart.” “You cannot understand the difficulties such a child poses.”

  Rose winced. The duke seemed to have taken it upon himself to act as her protector. Unbeknownst to him, his efforts would only hurt Rose further. Aunt Prudence’s anger was not to be trifled with. Yet, her heart softened. The duke was too kind, especially considering their unusual and recent meeting.

  The latch of the drawing room sounded, and the door swung open. The duke stood in the entrance. He smiled when he met Rose’s bowed head. “Miss Grant, your aunt and I were just discussing how you must take a season in London.”

  “A season?” Rose’s eyes widened. “But my aunt cannot abide the air, Your Grace. She has forbidden it.”

  He nodded. “So she explained, though I insisted. Miss Grant, you cannot stay locked up in this home—however beautiful it is. Your chances of a suitable match are nonexistent here. No Mr. Higgins or Mr. Flock will do. You are young, and I have informed your aunt of my cousin, Mrs. Bridges. She would be more than willing to sponsor you. She has never had a daughter, you see.”

  The next season was nearly five months away, but possibilities danced across Rose’s mind with increasing speed. Her mouth parted into a smile. Emotion threatened. She could not remember the last time someone had been so considerate. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice shaking, “Thank you.”

  He took her hand. “A pleasure, I assure you, Miss Grant. Now—”

  A rap against the door sounded, and the footman opened it.

  “Pardon, I have come to collect my father, the Duke of Andover,” came a deep voice.

  “Colin, you are right on time,” the duke said in response. He chuckled. “But first you must meet the charming Miss Rose Grant. She saved me from an aimless wander.”

  The duke’s son, the Marquess of Stratfordshire, took a step into the foyer, and Rose’s heart stopped altogether. He dipped his chin in greeting. “An introduction would be marvelous, Father. I have spent the better half of the morning searching for you.”

  Rose was unprepared for such a sight. His chiseled jaw and large smile were only upstaged by his eyes. They were the color of a tempest-torn sea, with splashes of blue and green swirled into an intoxicating blend. Words escaped her, and she managed a wobbly curtsy. “My Lord.”

  The duke studied her expression, and a soft smile sprawled across it. “My son, Miss Grant—Lord Stratfordshire. He has the good fortune of taking after his mother in looks, though I claim a small victory in owning his stature.”

  Rose lifted her gaze to Colin once more.

  His widened gaze rested upon her with seemingly surprised admiration. He bowed. “Miss Grant, please allow me to thank you.”

  “My niece only did what was expected, My Lord.” Aunt Prudence had risen from the sofa and come to the foyer. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes puffy. No doubt, she had been crying from her discussion with the duke, but her expression had turned cold and rigid once more. She clicked her tongue. “But we are honored with your presence.”

  “Are you?” the duke asked, lips trembling.

  Curiosity piqued. Whatever had passed between them in their youth had soured over time. The duke hardly attempted at civility, though his attentions to Rose were unfalteringly warm.

  Rose turned to Colin. “Have you found the horse, Lord Stratfordshire?”

  Colin shook his head slightly, and his dark waves shifted. “Not yet, but my servants are endeavoring to do so as we speak.”

  Concern knit in Rose’s brows. The poor animal was undoubtedly frightened. “I take walks daily. If perchance—”

  “I shall inform you at once if we are to see the creature,” Prudence said, stepping between Rose and Colin. Her voice grew flat and unmistakably dry. “If you should need anything else, I am happy to comply. It is not every day we are honored with the presence of a duke and marquess.”

  The duke stole Rose’s hand once more, bowing over it. “Miss Grant.”

  She curtsied in response. “Your Grace.”

  Colin followed suit, and when Rose met his glance, she was once more taken aback by the magnificence of his stare. His eyes were like nothing she had seen before. She was ashamed to admit the emotions pulsing through her. Perhaps Prudence was right in removing the mirrors from the house. If the duke’s son could cause such affectation by a mere glance, Rose had fallen prey to vainness and the shallowest of effects.

  * * *

  The duke, seated in the carriage across from his son, waited for a few moments to speak. “A diverting day to be sure.”

  Colin shook his head. From his father’s slight smile and beaming gaze, Colin suspected the duke was up to his usual mischief. The fact that the duke had not sustained injuries from falling from his horse was a miracle. Colin would have been devastated if tragedy had befallen his father; he needed him. “I told you to take someone with you, but you insisted on riding the lands alone. Why?”

  “For the same reason you refuse to take someone along on your rides. I enjoy solitude—and none so much as when I am on the back of a horse. Besides, have you ever met a more charming young woman?”

  Colin smiled in disbelief. “You mean the younger Miss Grant?”

  Rose’s beauty was impossible to miss. Dark hair, paired with light skin and hazel eyes, was rare indeed. At first glance, she was breathtakingly handsome. Yet, beauty in and of itself was common enough. Colin had seen more than his fair share of pretty women, and each one seemed interested in only two things—title and fortune.

  “Tell me, Father, what makes Miss Grant different than the rest of the ladies we entertain?” Colin asked, stroking his chin.

  The duke chuckled. He leaned back against the carriage cushion and sighed. “When you get to be my age, son, you learn to notice the subtle. Rose is much like her mother—uncommonly kind and unaware of her own loveliness. Prudence has been hiding her away. I am sure of it.”

  The muscles along Colin’s jaw tightened. He well remembered the stories of Miss Prudence Grant. She had vied for his father’s affection as a young debutante. She had attempted to ensnare the duke on multiple occasions, and she exhibited every jealous inclination known to the ton. His father often spoke of her when warning Colin.

  “You have the tendency of putting too much faith in first impressions, Father. Miss Grant may well be as conniving and sinister as her aunt.” But even as he spoke the words, Colin did not believe them. Instinct favored Rose more than he wished to admit. There was something genuine about her gaze and expressions.

  “No.” The duke shook his head vehemently. His lips fell to a frown. “When I came upon Miss Grant, she did not know my identity. She quite ridiculously mistook me for a shepherd and apologized for trespassing—though she had only done so to save a poor bleating lamb.”

  The carriage swayed, and the sound of wheels against gravel filled the sudden silence.

  Colin was to marry; his father thought it time. At five and twenty, Colin even wished to find a suitable lady. Yet, finding a worthy woman proved difficult. He did not naively expect a love match; enduring friendship was the most Colin hoped for, considering his wealth and titles.

  The duke believed it his duty to assist Colin in the search for a proper wife, but so far, Colin had not felt the least inclination in his father’s suggestions. Rose, however, had sparked interest in their brief meeting.

  “Colin…” His father leaned forward in his seat, setting his hands against his knees. “I understand your hesitancy. I have been there. I do think you would get on with Miss Grant rather nicely. Do me the honor of calling upon her tomorrow. You may even use the horse as an excuse. Will you consider that much?”

 
“If that is your wish, Father.”

  The duke chuckled once more. His shoulders shook with the effort. “I see you are quick to appease me on this matter.”

  Colin’s lips tugged. He hardly needed to encourage his father’s teasing, but Colin could not resist adding, “Ever the dutiful son.”

  “Quite. Now, there is a lovely patch of gardens on the estate. Perhaps you will ask her for a ride—or a walk, if you are so inclined?”

  Goodness. His father was likely to plan the entire wedding if Colin did not say something. He cleared his throat and repressed a smile. “And what of discussion? Have you considered everything I should ask and say?”

  The duke’s eyes lit with amusement. “I see what you are getting at. I will refrain from directing your efforts further, so long as you do call on Miss Grant…?”

  Colin turned to look out the window. “Have I ever acted against your edicts?”

  “Not ever,” his father said in a serious tone. “Not ever, Colin.”

  Chapter 4

  The pail dropped into the well, splashing when it reached the bottom. Rose leaned over the ledge, staring into the hole. The sun bore down, and a glimmer of a reflection shone back at her.

  Aunt Prudence had gone to drastic measures to keep Rose from seeing her reflection, all under the guise of modesty. Rose hadn’t questioned the method, until the last two years. She had caught glimpses of herself in the reflection of silver pitchers, marbled glass, the pond beyond the flower garden, and the shadowed outline of her profile in the sunlight. But every attempt resulted in distorted images, each stretching and pulling her features into a picture that only a child might sketch.

  She ran her fingers across her cheeks and brows, endeavoring to see like her grandfather—with touch—but nothing satisfying resulted from the effort. She sighed, pulling back the bucket of water. She spun her fingers in the liquid, humming softly.

  Boots against the gravel caught her ears, and she straightened in an instant.