Belle used the opportunity to glance up the path behind him.
No flutter of white anywhere.
Where had her letter gone? Though, thank the heavens, it wasn’t fluttering around here for Blake to see.
He was brushing his hat and fussing with his walking stick.
All his normally cool composure gone.
Belle figured now was not the time to mention he was adorable when he was flustered. Men didn’t appreciate being referred to as adorable. Or flustered, for that matter.
“I am quite fine, my lord.” Belle righted her bonnet, shook out her skirts. “See, no harm done.”
He paused and really studied her. Raked her from top to bottom with his blue gaze. Taking in her rose-colored pelisse with its row of pearl buttons and fashionably-ruffled edges. The matching bonnet perched on her head, curls escaping in an artful mass.
His eyes became wary. “Uh, you are quite alone, I see.” He glanced behind her. “Is Miss Rutger coming? She is practically your shadow.”
Ah. Of course.
“Never fear, my lord. The Mob of Marriageable Misses isn’t far behind.” She waved a hand up the path. “I am merely the initial scout. They sent me ahead to assess the lay of the land. Get a sense of how best to confound the enemy. Though be warned, you have rarely seen debutantes quite so desperate.”
He at least had the decency to blush. Again, looking adorable in the process.
Blushing also being top on the list of Things Never to Bring to a Gentleman’s Attention.
“Th-that is not what I meant.”
“Is it not?” She fixed him with her sauciest eyebrow.
His blush deepened. Still adorable. Drat the man.
He hadn’t asked why she was walking away from the party. And she most certainly couldn’t ask him to help her look for her lost letter.
The wind kicked up again, further ruffling his mussed hair, swirling his greatcoat around his legs. With a sigh, he settled his hat back atop his head.
“I promise to make no attempts upon your virtue,” she continued. “But once the Desperate Debutantes arrive, all promises become void.”
His shoulders relaxed. He gave a soft chuckle.
“Again, I apologize, Miss Heartstone. You could easily accuse me of being an eager Gold Miner. It has been a trying couple of weeks since my return to England.” He extended his gloved hand. “Truce?”
“Truce.”
With a smile, Belle took his hand, shaking firmly. Forcing herself not to shiver at the sensation of his fingers engulfing hers. At the strength of him. What wouldn’t she give for a lifetime of holding his hand?
To tell him that she adored him. Utterly. Completely. Wholly.
To hear him say those words in return.
But just like her letters, there would be no graceful exit. No easing away.
She swallowed. Tight and sharp.
He offered her his arm and gestured for them to continue up the path.
She wrapped her hand around his elbow. Slowly. Savoring every second of the movement.
Thinking it marked the first, and perhaps last, time she would ever touch him.
Fortunately, he looked forward. Not seeing the way her eyes briefly closed. The flicker of something that looked surprisingly like pain darting across her face.
Miss Heartstone walked calmly at Colin’s side. Her skirts brushing against his overcoat. The lovely smell of her lavender perfume hanging in the air.
Each step taking them closer to the rest of their party far ahead.
One of whom might be LTF.
A cool breeze kicked up in earnest. Miss Heartstone cleared her throat. “The weather has turned cool. Do you miss the heat of India, my lord?”
Polite.
“Ah. With a truce in place, have we decided to talk about the weather?”
He sensed, more than saw, her fleeting smile. “It seemed a safe topic.”
A beat.
“Yes. No . . . Sometimes.” He shrugged.
She said nothing. Her silence indicated she understood.
“On a gloomy winter day when everything is bare, I miss the humidity hung with the scent of spices, monkeys chattering in the trees, the never ending sea of green. Heat rising in an endless wave.”
He paused.
“But then the British countryside bursts into bloom and lambs drop in the fields. Wisteria hangs on vines and, well, it is impossible to miss India when faced with a full-blown English spring.”
More silence, comfortable and easy.
“My father used to say there is nothing as fine as a sunny day in April.”
They continued to talk as they walked.
Miss Heartstone adored Sir Walter Scott but was less partial to Mrs. Radcliffe.
“Come now. The castle scenes in The Mysteries of Udolpho are bone-chilling,” he protested.
“I will grant you that, but I prefer my heroines with a little more pluck. Mrs. Radcliffe has them cowering in terror far too often for my liking.”
Which comment devolved into them discussing the virtues of various literary characters.
Colin should have been panicking. He was so very alone with a well-bred, unmarried young lady.
But . . .
There was something comforting about her. She didn’t chatter on aimlessly. Didn’t giggle. Didn’t flirt or try to take advantage of the situation.
No. Miss Heartstone seemed almost kindred. Someone he might eventually call friend. Perhaps even more.
She was just . . . herself. Open. Honest.
They had not traveled far when Miss Rutger came up the path toward them. Conscientious of her charge’s reputation.
It wasn’t until much later—after the picnic, the oohing and ahhing over the field of snowdrops, the long walk back—that Blake finally asked the question that, really, he should have asked immediately:
Why was Miss Heartstone walking back along the path in the first place?
Chapter Six
THE BALLROOM
STRATTON HALL, WARWICKSHIRE
MARCH 20, 1823
Three days later and Colin had reached a stalemate.
The presence of the letter in Stratton’s wood was a mystery.
Not one of the guests had the initials LTF. But Colin had surmised long ago the initials were most likely an alias. He had reviewed what he knew about LTF from their letters over the years. Only once had the man described himself, and that description was decidedly lacking.
Brown hair, brown eyes, average, unremarkable.
Which, truth be told, characterized at least half the population of England.
Stratton himself seemed the most likely candidate. Brown hair, brown eyes and tall. Colin could see him in the role of LTF.
Of course, Stratton disavowed any involvement but was more than willing to help in finding the true LTF.
From there, Colin placed the matter before all the men over their after-dinner port. His correspondence with LTF was personal but hardly a secret.
To a man, the gentlemen pleaded innocence. Each more convincing than the last.
Which left Colin feeling unsettled.
No. Upset was the more accurate emotion.
If LTF were one of the gentlemen in the party, why lie? Was their friendship not what Colin had always thought it to be?
Part of his brain needled him, telling him that perhaps he should respect LTF’s wishes and let the man retain his privacy. But the longer their dance went on, the more concerned Colin became.
Was his lengthy correspondence with LTF some elaborate hoax? To what end . . . he couldn’t fathom. And why did that thought make Colin almost physically ill?
How he had valued LTF’s friendship over the years! The man felt almost like a father to him. A kind elder brother. Until this week, he never fully realized how much he had come to cherish LTF’s presence in his life.
With every passing day, he became more desperate to resolve the issue, studying each of the gentlemen intently, looking for
some small tell that would betray his hiding friend.
Fortunately, Stratton had joined in the hunt.
They had even stooped to looking through the day’s post before it was delivered to the guests, searching for letters from Mr. White, LTF’s solicitor. Anything to solve the mystery.
Which brought him to this evening.
Colin stood at the edge of the ballroom at Stratton Hall. It was the last evening of the house party, and Lady Stratton had gathered all her guests and other local gentry for a grand ball. The Desperate Debutantes and Gold Miners were in fine form, flirting and laughing. A small orchestra played diligently in one corner as couples moved through a quadrille.
Mrs. Jones-Button and two of her daughters accosted—ehr, stopped to chat—with him.
“Do you return to London then, my lord?” the girl asked breathlessly, curls bouncing.
Yes. “Perhaps. I have not yet decided how to spend my next few weeks.”
“Well, you must come for a visit, Lord Blake,” Mrs. Jones-Button said.
“Oh please!” That was the daughter, clasping her hands in delight. So young. Was she even eighteen? He hated to ask.
Colin fingered the letter in his pocket, scanning the crowd as Mrs. Jones-Button rambled on and on about the “fine hunting” on their estate in Somerset.
He was currently hunting a lost friend, not pheasants. Colin mentally noted each and every man who fit LTF’s brief description of himself. But who knew if even that much of his friend’s correspondence was true?
For the hundredth time, Colin tried to make sense of it all and came up empty-handed. LTF had always been honest with him. He had the financial ledgers to prove it. Everything added up from the beginning. The man’s brutal honesty had won him Colin’s respect and affection long ago.
Why hide?
The quadrille came to a close, Colin no closer to an answer.
He made his excuses to Mrs. Jones-Button and headed across the ballroom floor toward the Gold Miners. Miss Heartstone stood at their center, clad in a gown of rich green silk with a gossamer net overlay. Matching long gloves slouched above her elbows, pearls gleamed at her throat and wrist. She looked every inch the elegant, confident lady.
Colin shook his head. She assumed all men chased her for her money, but he had his doubts. The lady herself was a brilliant prize to be won. It was no wonder men hung around her like eager pups.
Himself included, it seemed.
She had reserved the first of the evening’s two waltzes for him—the supper dance.
A smile lit her face as she saw him approach.
Not the fake smile she had bestowed upon the Gold Miners. But a real smile. One that said she was delighted to see him.
Genuine. Kind. Here, at least, was someone who was as she seemed. Calm. Steady. Mature.
He bowed. She curtsied.
Yes. He would make a point of seeing more of her in London.
She kept that smile on her face as he led her onto the dance floor, wrapping her gloved hand in his, lilting into the familiar down-up-up pattern.
At least Miss Heartstone had proved a welcome surprise. Belle, he had heard Miss Rutger call her. Beautiful. It suited her.
She lifted her head, studying him.
“I must say, Lord Blake, you seem quite distracted this evening. Is everything all right?”
Colin forced a smile onto his face. “Nothing truly important. Just a small personal matter.”
“Ah. Those are sometimes the worst, I must admit.”
He sighed. “Indeed. Do you know a man with the initials LTF?”
Was it his imagination, or did Miss Heartstone stiffen a little?
“I cannot say I know a man by that name. Has this LTF person done you harm?”
“Not precisely. More like a friend who has been avoiding me.”
“I am sure this LTF values your friendship.”
One could hope. “That remains to be seen.”
Colin twirled her, pulling her perhaps a little closer than was strictly necessary. He liked the feel of Miss Belle Heartstone in his arms. She seemed . . . just right.
The perfect height. Not too tall, not too short. Clever without being overbearing. Forthright and honest.
“Do you return to London, Miss Heartstone?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. I should like to call upon you, if I may. Perhaps we may take a drive in Hyde Park together?”
Her eyes snapped to his. Wide.
“Of-of course, my lord. I would be honored.”
His brow furrowed. “You are surprised.” It wasn’t a question.
Miss Heartstone floundered for a moment. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“It is only . . . I thought . . .” She finally settled on a shrug. “You needn’t take pity upon me, my lord.”
Pity? Hardly.
“Though I am accounted quite a gracious fellow, I assure you, Miss Heartstone, I do not call upon a lady and take her driving out of mere pity. You give my altruism far too much credit and your own personal charms too little.”
That earned him a vivid blush and a duck of her head. “Well, then, I should be honored to accept your invitation, Lord Blake.”
He spun her around, his own head whirling.
Poor woman.
She was far too used to men only looking at her as a commodity. Something they hoped to purchase.
He almost snorted. Didn’t that heiress say something similar all those years ago in Hyde Park? That her money should purchase her a husband of her choice. The idea had stuck with him.
Had that girl ever found a husband? Had she taken his advice?
What had been her name? Miss Lovestruck? Something about love and hard . . .
A chill chased his spine.
He glanced down at the woman in his arms.
Something very much like Heartstone.
Was the entire world hell-bent on deceiving him?
The waltz came to an end, and Belle wrapped her gloved hand around Blake’s arm. Again. Letting him lead her to a small table as he went off to collect plates for both of them.
Her emotions flitted back and forth.
She had thought she would see less and less of him over the past several days, but instead, she had been seeing him more. And now, it appeared she would see him once they returned to London.
How long could she keep the stars out of her eyes when looking at him? How much more could her heart take?
And he had actually asked her about LTF? Was he concerned over the lack of a response to his last letter? She had sent off a return reply two days ago.
Not that she could ask if he had received it yet.
Has your good friend LTF written? I have it on good authority that you can expect a letter any day now . . .
Nor had she been able to find her own missing letter. She and Miss Rutger had scoured the woods but came up empty-handed. The wind had probably carried it into Shropshire by now.
Blake returned, setting a small plate in front of her and taking the other seat at the table, flipping the tails of his black evening coat out of the way as he sat so as to avoid wrinkles. Eyes sparkling with life above his immaculately tied cravat. Heavens, but he was a striking man.
He stared intently at her. That same fixed gaze he had adopted not long after inviting her to drive with him in Hyde Park.
As if he could see into her. Through her.
He cleared his throat.
“So, tell me a little more about yourself, Miss Heartstone. Have you always lived in London?”
The question seemed innocuous, causally dropped. But something inside Belle jumped to attention. Maybe it was the intensity of Blake’s gaze as he asked. As if the polite question were deadly important.
“Yes, my lord.” She settled a small napkin on her lap. “I have spent most of my time there. I own—or rather, my father owned—several country estates, as well.”
“Ah. Do you enjoy walks in Hyde Park?”
“Ye
s. I do.”
“Morning walks in Hyde Park?”
“From time to time.”
Belle’s mind churned. Had she offended him somehow? His words were polite, but a coolness had stolen over him.
They each took a couple bites of food. The silence between them stretched and strained.
“You manage your own fortune, Miss Heartstone?”
She had lifted a venison puff to her lips, but set it down at the question.
“Yes. I know it is unusual for a young lady to be involved in the management of her estate, but my father trusted my abilities.”
Blake took a bite of raspberry tart. Chewed deliberately. Dabbed his lips.
“What made you decide to undertake such a thing yourself? Certainly a husband would be better equipped to deal with the complexities of your estate?”
Again, perhaps a simply curious question, but something about his expression put her on edge.
Blake championed women who knew their own worth. Wasn’t she living proof of his encouragement to that end? So why the question that implied he felt the opposite?
What to say?
“A trusted friend gave me some excellent advice once, encouraging me to look beyond a husband.”
More intent staring.
Belle’s throat went dry.
“Miss Heartstone, if I ask you a question—”
“Any luck with your quest, Blake?” a loud voice asked. “Did the fellow reveal himself?” The vicar jostled Blake’s shoulder, nodding to them both.
Blake tore his eyes off of her and twisted to look at the elderly vicar. Somehow not appreciating the interruption. “Nothing at all, thank you.”
“Poor man. Keep at it. Your illusive friend shan’t hide forever.”
“I keep telling myself that.”
Blake touched a hand to his waistcoat pocket, as if something there concerned him.
“What is this?” Mr. Edger, a local MP, paused as he walked by. “Did Blake find an answer to his . . . problem?”
“Not yet,” the vicar said.
“Pity. Shame for a supposed friend to behave so abominably. Who has the initials LTF anyway?”
A chill chased Belle’s spine. Did Blake have everyone looking for LTF now? Why would he do that?
“Agreed.” Blake turned back to her, eyes focused. The two men took the hint and drifted off.
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