Her life was full. It was enough.
And maybe if she continued to remind herself of that fact every other minute, she could finally believe it.
And, if sometimes in the dark of night, she wept bitter tears over a certain man half a world away who might never see her, well, that was her cross to carry.
Catching Georgiana’s eye, Belle swept across the room, intent on greeting her hostess. Georgiana smiled and said something to the man before her and then took a step forward, greeting Belle with an affectionate kiss on the check.
“Belle, dear, how delightful you look this evening. You are always the epitome of fashion.”
“Georgiana, you are too kind, as ever.” Belle embraced her friend.
“I must apologize for not giving you advanced warning about my guests,” Georgiana whispered in her ear. “I owed my aunt a favor but was still selfish enough to want your company. As recompense, I have a small surprise for you.”
“You are too kind, Georgiana.”
Belle lifted her head and turned to greet the rest of the circle.
Finally getting a solid look at the man standing beside the vicar.
She froze.
No!
A few inches taller than herself, curling sun-kissed chestnut hair, golden skin, dancing blue eyes sparking with intelligence. Bottle green cutaway jacket over a beautiful silk-embroidered waistcoat.
Impossible! He was still in India.
Surely her memory was faulty. She wished to see him everywhere and so she saw him in this man.
She would have heard if he had returned. He would have written. Or, at the very least, set society abuzz. But . . . she had yet to visit London this year. If he had returned, she may not have heard . . .
Six months. She still had six months to plan.
Because, heaven knew, she was going to need a plan of Napoleonic proportions to deal with his return.
Blood thundered in her ears.
Wait. Georgiana was speaking.
“. . . so sorry to have caught you off guard. I am sure you assumed you would know all my guests, but this house party is somewhat different than usual. Lord Blake, may I present Miss Arabella Heartstone?”
Blake smiled, eyes crinkling. Teeth white against his tanned cheeks. “Miss Heartstone, a pleasure.” He bowed, precise and polite.
Not a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
Only a lifetime of training enabled Belle to dip a curtsy and murmur “Lord Blake” in reply.
“His lordship is newly returned from India.” Georgiana linked her arm through her husband’s. “We are all dying to hear of your adventures, my lord.”
Belle managed a nod. Swallowed. Reminded herself not to stare.
It was hard not to.
He was just so . . . him. The same, perhaps, but utterly changed. Older, obviously. Broader than her memory. More knowing in his eyes. An air of command clung to him. A confidence. A sureness. He wore authority like a second skin.
A leader. The kind of man who gave orders and others fell over themselves to follow him.
Laughter from the gaggle of girls across the room drifted over to them. Of course. They were here for him.
Belle turned her head away.
When she had asked him to marry her so many years ago, she had played every card in her hand. Laid them all out on the table. And he had still easily walked away.
In just a few words, he had altered the course of her life for the better. That pivotal fulcrum where everything had veered in a different direction. Her friendship with him evolving into the most precious thing in her life.
But for him . . .
He didn’t even remember her name.
Colin smiled at the woman before him. Miss Heartstone.
Pretty was his first assessment. Mature was his second. No fresh-from-the-schoolroom miss.
Thank goodness.
Miss Heartstone exuded the quiet confidence of a woman secure in herself and her surroundings. A welcome relief from the younger misses giggling in the room. Granted, the speculative gleam in Lady Stratton’s eye indicated she saw potential in the introduction.
Returning home was supposed to be easy. The reward after so many years spent toiling and working and fighting to restore the marquisate, to forge a solid place for himself.
Seeing the lush rolling hills of England, breathing the cool spring air, greeting his sisters. Most of all, hopefully finally meeting and personally thanking his good friend LTF—that was all certainly welcome.
But he had not anticipated the giddy rush of excitement his return would send through polite society. Like Agamemnon of old, the ton wasted no time in rolling out a red carpet in welcome. Invitations had poured in as soon as the knocker on his London townhouse had been affixed, indicating he was in residence.
How everyone had learned of his arrival was still a mystery. The marriage-age misses and their eager mamas had swarmed him almost immediately.
This country party was supposed to have been a respite, but judging by the number of unmarried ladies in attendance—eight at last count—his week would not be as relaxing as he had hoped.
“. . . trust you had an uneventful journey from India, my lord?” Miss Heartstone was saying.
“Yes. Quite placid, actually,” he replied. “We had feared to encounter pirates outside Cape Town, but remained unchallenged.”
“Pirates?” Lady Stratton’s expression brightened considerably. “How tragic you did not encounter any.”
“You are incorrigible, my love.” Lord Stratton leaned into his wife. “Pirates are not, as a general rule, a good thing. They tend to be quite bloodthirsty—”
“Oooh, do not tease me so. It has been ages since I had a proper adventure—”
“Georgiana!” Stratton’s reproof half serious, half laugh.
Colin caught Miss Heartstone’s eye. She looked almost wistfully at the earl and his wife.
She quickly smoothed her expression. “Lady Stratton has quite the vivid imagination.”
“Of course I do!” Lady Stratton looked at her friend. “It is why you so enjoy my company.”
“I am found out.” Miss Heartstone gave a soft laugh.
Lady Stratton leaned toward Colin, lifting her hand as if to impart a secret. “Miss Heartstone and I share a shocking love of dreadful gothic novels. We read them out loud to each other and shiver in delight when dastardly deeds are done.”
“You wrong me, Georgiana. What shall Lord Blake think of such behavior?”
Colin gave a warm chuckle. Here was a topic he knew well.
“Perhaps I share the ladies’ taste in novels,” he said with a lift of his eyebrows.
Lord Stratton groaned. “Say it isn’t so, Blake.”
“I hope it is no jest, my lord.” Lady Stratton quirked her lips. “Miss Heartstone and I would welcome a third party to our readings. We wish to read Ivanhoe again, and a male voice would be appreciated.”
Colin smiled as Miss Heartstone looked demurely away.
Miss Heartstone really was . . . elegant. Yes, that word best captured her. Graceful and poised in an icy blue dress he knew his sisters would collectively drool over. Hair artfully curled and studded with pearls. Her face held the sharper edges of true womanhood.
An eligible miss, perhaps, but the more sophisticated end of the species. She seemed vaguely familiar. But, then, most of the women ran together for him.
Was she as desperate for a husband as others seemed to be?
A few hours later, Colin resisted the urge to loosen his strangling cravat. Conversation hummed throughout the room.
He stood near one of the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, nursing a cup of after-dinner tea. Dinner had been pleasant, if somewhat unsettling. After dinner . . . well, he was catching a much needed respite from the swirl of eager voices.
Dinner had been a barrage of questions about India, which he happily discussed. But then there had been an equal number of questions about his future intentions, all not-so-
subtly asking if and when he intended to marry.
He felt like the mangy tiger in the Tower of London Menagerie. Lauded and admired while gazing wistfully out of an iron cage—utterly trapped.
“You can’t escape them entirely, you know.” The low voice at his elbow belonged to Lord Stratton. Stratton looked pointedly at the group of ladies tittering in a small huddle near the pianoforte. They shot the occasional hungry look in Colin’s direction.
He christened them the Desperate Debutantes.
“True,” Colin said, “but I can perhaps find a moment’s peace.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
Stratton was a tall man, not much older than Colin’s own thirty years, with kind, brown eyes and sharp wit. They had become almost instant friends after Colin’s presentation to the House of Lords two weeks before. They had bonded over shared stories of eager women trying to trap unsuspecting lords into marriage. Lord Stratton had come into his earldom unexpectedly and, like Colin, found himself in the middle of a whirlwind of eligible misses, all desperate to secure his money and title for themselves.
Before leaving for India, Colin had been too new to high society and too poor to garner such attention.
Well, not much.
There had been the one strange incident in Hyde Park with that heiress, hungry for his title. He had nearly forgotten about it. What had been her name? Miss Liverock? Miss Ironlung? He was truly terrible with names and faces.
But, now, with his fortunes restored tenfold, he was the prize of all prizes. So many fresh-faced girls had already been paraded before him, like cattle up for auction. It was nearly shameful.
It had been less than a month, and he was already infinitely weary of the whole mess.
“Did a young woman really hide herself in your carriage last week?” Stratton asked, amusement lacing his tone.
“Yes.” Colin sighed. “And then had the audacity to request I escort her home.”
“Did you?”
“Of course.” Another sigh. “After insisting my footmen sit in the carriage with us.”
“I heard Lady Tyson tried four times to leave you alone with one of her girls.”
“That, too. I was practically chased from room to room at her musicale.”
“But I would wager you still bowed politely on your way out the door.” Stratton chuckled.
“That is the ultimate problem here. They know I am a gentleman of honor. My life would be much simpler were I a scoundrel. I could simply toss them all aside without a care for their reputation or my own. But as it is . . .”
Colin sipped his tea.
“You do plan to marry at some point, however,” Stratton pointed out.
“Naturally. But I have this decidedly old-fashioned notion that I should be permitted to choose the bride myself.”
Stratton chuckled.
Marriage had actually been one of the reasons behind Colin’s return to England. The number of eligible women in Calcutta was small. And he wished to raise a family in his native land, on the estates he had inherited. He was ready to build a legacy. But he would never be interested in a young girl over a decade his junior. Just the thought . . .
No. If and when he married, it would be to someone closer his own age. A more mature sort of woman who matched him.
Now if he could only find the right woman . . .
He had written LTF. Colin had wondered—often and at length—if LTF had a sister or daughter of marriageable age. How convenient if his good friend had a close female relative who shared in their same interests.
Who was the dratted man? Obviously, LTF was wealthy and well-educated. They had corresponded on nearly every topic imaginable over the years. It seemed almost impossible that Colin could know the man down to his soul and yet remain ignorant of his name.
Why the secrecy?
He had asked himself that question with alarming frequency over the last seven years. Why did LTF insist on hiding behind a cloak of anonymity? It made no sense. He hoped it was merely distance and habit that formed the basis for the furtiveness.
A particularly loud burst of laughter came from a group of men around the fireplace.
Colin glanced at the women seated in the midst of them. Lady Stratton and Miss Heartstone. Given Lady Stratton’s blond vivacity, Colin could easily understand why Stratton’s face lit up every time he spoke of his wife.
“Pity Lady Stratton does not have a sister,” Colin said.
“Yes, but have you considered Miss Heartstone?”
Colin studied the lady in question. She was the only unmarried woman present who had not found an excuse to talk to him. Not to mention her intelligent comments during dinner. She left an impression. Lodged a sense of possible interest within him.
“Why should I consider Miss Heartstone?” Colin had to ask it.
“She is wealthy in her own right. You would not have to worry about her chasing you for your money or title. She has had her pick of the aristocracy for years now and has chosen not to marry.” Stratton gestured toward the men around her. “She attracts men like flies to honey, but year after year, she resists their advances. It has become something of a rite of passage for the restless bucks of the ton. They cannot move on to other pastures until Miss Heartstone has refused their suit.”
Interesting. A woman like himself. Feted and courted and, as a consequence, always suspicious of others and their true intentions.
Perhaps she did warrant further inspection.
Belle slowly fanned herself, only partially listening to the conversation buzzing around her. The Gold Miners were in fine form, jesting and jostling for position next to her. She wondered if one, or all, of them would offer for her hand—again—before the week was out.
The heat from the fire had gone from pleasant to stifling. Or was it her own sense of inner conflict that caused the walls to close in?
Blake was infinitely more attractive than her memory of their two brief meetings all those years ago. His confident charm during dinner, his polite manners . . . the goodness she knew lay within his soul . . .
She fanned herself a little harder.
Admiration and respect only required a warm smile and kind comment to push her feelings deeper into heart-stopping, soul-altering love.
That would not do.
How to proceed?
She had thought to have six months in which to plan. To decide how, or even if, to tell Blake the truth about LTF.
But now . . .
Why hadn’t he written to tell LTF of his arrival? Was their friendship not as deep on his end as it appeared?
The gentlemen surrounding her—and they always surrounded her, eager to make a bid for her enormous fortune—had gone off on a point-by-point recap of a curricle race from London to Brighton.
“You are quieter than usual this evening.” Lady Stratton leaned in closer.
Belle shot a glance at the men around them. “Just the usual fatigue of pleasantly keeping . . . people . . . at bay.”
“You and Lord Blake alike.”
Belle stiffened at the mention of Lord Blake on Georgiana’s lips, instantly shooting her friend a questioning look.
“Sebastian has been telling tale all week of the shocking lengths enterprising misses have gone to in order to trap him into marriage. The poor man can scarcely venture from his own home.”
“Indeed.” Belle hated the faintness of her voice.
“Blake has declared he will have none of them and rightly so. A woman who shows no reservation in trapping a man into marriage—what other things will she do once she is married? Such forward behavior is not to be tolerated. Blake is wise to steer clear of all of them.”
Belle swallowed. “Yes. Most wise.”
She risked a glance at Blake standing in the corner with Stratton.
Why hadn’t she realized Blake would be the target of every fortune-and-title hungry woman in Britain? Of course he would be. And knowing him as she did—his sense of honor, his innate kindness�
�he would instantly reject any woman he perceived as being dishonest with him.
Say . . . for example . . . a woman who proposed marriage, was refused and then allowed him to erroneously assume she was a man throughout seven years of lengthy correspondence.
Someone like that.
Belle swallowed.
She had never meant for their correspondence—their relationship, such as it was—to reach this point. She had just intended to send him the money as a thank-you and then go their separate ways.
But he had replied and she had replied and had found herself in the middle of their friendship before really meaning to.
And now . . .
Things had traveled too far.
It was like opening the shutters, flooding her with the light of understanding.
Blake could never know she was LTF.
If he found out, he would believe she had intended to dupe him. He would feel betrayed.
How could she betray her best friend?
So that was that, then.
There would be no six-month plan. No careful strategy. There was no graceful exit from this.
His indifference and ignorance she would bear.
Better to let his friendship with LTF drift away. After all, Blake hadn’t informed LTF of his arrival despite being in England for several weeks. Plenty of time for a letter to reach her solicitor in London and be forwarded on to her. Perhaps he, too, wished for some distance between them.
So that was her decision then. Wise. Cautious. Sound for both of them.
And if the thought of losing his friendship created large cracks in her heart threatening to drag her down into a sea of tears?
Well, that was just the price of her deception.
Chapter Four
THE BREAKFAST ROOM
STRATTON HALL, WARWICKSHIRE
MARCH 16, 1823
“Hurry. I am quite sure I saw him duck around the edge of the house.”
The young lady’s voice carried to Blake. Followed by a titter of girlish laughter.
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