Seeing Miss Heartstone

by Nichole Van

  “I know.”

  “You don’t get to decide who I am with. I am not your possession.”

  “I know. You belong to yourself.”

  “Exactly. You don’t have the right to march in and out of my life at your will. I understand that I wronged you, but I have at least been consistent in my actions. I dislike this tug-o’-war that you seem to be playing with me.”

  “Belle—”

  “No! I have not remained unmarried this long because my emotions are an easy target.” Her eyes shone in the dark. She swiped a shaking hand across her cheekbone. “When I care for someone, I do not do it lightly.”

  Silence.

  The fire popped. Somewhere in the house, a lady screeched with laughter.

  Colin held very still. “Do you care about me then?”

  He had to ask it.

  Belle stiffened. “Of course, I care about you. You’re my business partner—”

  “No, Belle. You know what I meant by that question. Do you care for me as more than a business partner?”

  More silence.

  “You have been my close friend for seven years. I have remained unmarried for seven years. You are an intelligent man. Put the puzzle together,” her voice low.

  Colin froze. Her reply was mind-numbing.

  “But I refuse to be your plaything, Blake,” she continued. “True friends do not behave like this. You cannot run hot and cold.” She turned and listened at the door, ensuring the coast was clear.

  She turned her head back to him. “Figure yourself out, my lord.”

  And then she was gone.

  27

  . . . I must sincerely apologize for my behavior last night. I find myself helpless to resist you at sixes and sevens with regards to my deep-felt emotions for you . . .

  —letter from Lord Blake to Miss Heartstone, written but unsent

  Colin passed the next few days in a haze of his own making.

  First . . . that kiss.

  Had any other kiss ever rattled his composure to such a degree? He could feel her yet in his arms, her body rising to meet his, the lush softness of her pressed against him—

  Over and over, he shook the memory from his mind. But Belle’s words after the kiss were just as tenacious.

  I have been your close friend for seven years. I have remained unmarried for seven years. You are an intelligent man. Put the puzzle together.

  Did she really mean what he thought she did? That she had loved him for so long? She had waited for him?

  And why did the thought swell inside him?

  The smallest thing reminded him of Belle, from the ragged orphans begging in the streets to the swishing laughter of debutantes at an evening soiree.

  It was unbearable.

  He knew that she wasn’t lost to him, per se. He had yet to hear of her betrothal to Lord Odysseus.

  He was an eligible bachelor. He could woo her.

  But Sarah Forrester and her betrayal still loomed large in his mind’s eye. How could he trust Belle? It seemed the height of foolishness to cast off Sarah because of her lies, but then forgive Belle her trespasses.

  He found himself retreating more and more from society, preferring to spend his time at White’s, enjoying long evenings chatting with elderly members of parliament and drinking far too much brandy.

  Three days after seeing Belle at the ball, Colin sat at White’s staring into the fading fire when a voice stopped him.

  “Pleasure to see you here, Blake.”

  Colin turned, surprised to find Lord Halbert at his elbow. Aside from a heartfelt note of thanks, Colin hadn’t heard from the man since their meeting in Bath.

  “May I?” The older man gestured toward the empty chair beside Colin.

  “Please.”

  Lord Halbert settled himself down. “I really must thank you again for your assistance, my lord. You have set my mind to rest.”

  “I am happy to have been of help.”

  They spoke of other matters for several moments: Lord Halbert’s sudden trip to London, an outrageous bet in the betting book, the outlook of the corn trade.

  Colin thought he was answering adequately until Lord Halbert stopped and fixed him with a puzzled look.

  “If I may be so bold, Blake, you appear to be somewhat depressed of spirit.”

  Colin narrowly avoided a grimace.

  “I am as well as could be expected,” he replied, downing a large gulp of brandy.

  “Did you ever resolve the problem with that LHF?”

  “Yes, I solved it.” Colin nodded.

  “But it is not the cause of your current melancholy, I think.” Lord Halbert smiled knowingly. “In my experience, usually only a woman can cause such gloom.”

  “You are a man of wisdom.” Colin gave a mirthless chuckle.

  “No. A man of experience.” Lord Halbert sighed. “There is a difference, unfortunately.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Colin had thought of this man as LHF for so long, it was difficult in the moment to remember that he wasn’t LHF.

  So it felt only too natural to ask: “What should I do?”

  “Aside from apologize? Usually that is all a man needs do.”

  Colin snorted. “I am the wronged party.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Colin opened his mouth to reply and then frowned. A vision of Belle’s face right after their kiss. Her stricken gaze. I refuse to be your plaything. True friends do not behave like this.

  Seeing Colin’s hesitation, Lord Halbert nodded. “Regardless of fault, my lord, there are only two questions to answer. Do you love her? And is the pain of losing her greater than the humility required to forgive her?”

  Colin blinked, the air rushing out of his sails.

  Do you love her?

  Is the pain of losing her greater than the humility required to forgive her?

  The questions pummeled him.

  “I don’t know,” Colin replied. “It’s more than humility, I think. I fear to trust her again. I have been wronged and deceived in the past. It is . . . difficult . . . to move past those feelings of betrayal.”

  Lord Halbert tapped his hand on the arm of his chair, eyes too knowing. “That’s the rub, isn’t it? If you trust her, you leave yourself open to this lady hurting you again. But if you don’t trust her, you may lose her forever.”

  Colin nearly flinched over the bald statement. It was a serrated truth.

  “I find that dishonesty takes two forms,” Lord Halbert continued. “There are those who live and breathe dishonesty through to their inner core. And those who make a genuine mistake, apologize, and grow from their experiences. The first type you should root out of your life. But the second . . .”

  Lord Halbert waited until Colin met his gaze fully.

  “The second,” Lord Halbert repeated, “well . . . we’re all the second type from time to time. We all make mistakes. We all need forgiveness. We all deserve a chance to be trusted again. If you were ever to heed advice from an old man, take it now. Holding on to wounded pride is a cold comfort . . .” Lord Halbert drifted off with a shrug. “I wish you luck, my lord.”

  Lord Halbert’s words stuck with Colin for days afterward, refusing to be silenced.

  He found himself reading Belle’s letters to him over the years. Every missive from LHF, written in her distinctive, loopy script. Her words leapt off the page to snare him.

  I deeply appreciate your kindness in sharing your experiences with me through your words and drawings . . .

  I cannot express my abiding sympathy at the passing of your dear mother . . .

  I fear being left alone in the world, of losing the trust and friendship of those I hold most dear . . .

  How had he ever considered her handwriting to be that of a man? It appeared so clearly feminine to him now.

  We all make mistakes. We all need forgiveness. We all deserve a chance to be trusted again.

  Holding on to wounded pride is a cold comfort.

>   Was his pride the thing holding him back, in the end?

  And why had he not felt this conflicted over Sarah’s behavior? Once he learned of her deception, he couldn’t put distance between them fast enough.

  He had been angry and hurt, but never once had he regretted his decision. In fact, the more his pain and anger receded, the more grateful he was that he had not married Sarah.

  But with Belle . . .

  Is the pain of losing her greater than the humility required to forgive her?

  Her words came back to him, ones spoken as he rowed her across Stratton’s small lake.

  Some people pass through my life like a herd of elephants, stomping and trumpeting and thrilling to be sure, but they leave me much the same after they have passed through. Yet on occasion, I have met a person who reshapes me, who becomes essentially woven into the fabric of my life. The loss of such a person is catastrophic, as it tears away some fundamental part of yourself.

  In a moment of painful insight, he finally understood.

  Sarah had been an elephant, noisy but easily forgotten.

  Belle . . . Belle was nearly the air he breathed. She was the very fabric of his soul.

  The only answer left him was to decide how to act.

  28

  . . . It is three a.m. and I cannot sleep for thoughts of you. What am I ever to do, Blake? You have utterly ruined me for anyone else other than yourself . . .

  —letter from Miss Heartstone to Lord Blake, written, wept over, and then torn into tiny pieces

  After the incident at Lady Atterson’s ball, Belle had briefly considered retreating for the rest of the London Season. She could hide away in one of her country houses, maybe rent a hunting lodge deep in the Scottish Highlands.

  But running from this problem would not solve it. She needed to face her decisions rather than run from them.

  And so she soldiered on. She cried into her pillow at night and breakfasted with a heavy heart. She accepted callers each afternoon, greeting the pack of Gold Miners still hanging on as a form of penance before whittling away each evening at some ton entertainment or another.

  Everything bled together into a mass of gray nothingness.

  Flashes of sharp awareness occurred when someone mentioned Blake’s name. Or when she caught a reference to the charming Lord B— in the scandal sheets. He had been seen driving in Hyde Park. Attending the opera. Belle had even seen him once at a distance, standing next to Cecily’s carriage, enjoying flavored ice outside Gunther’s.

  She hated how her heart leaped every time his name escaped someone’s lips. Hated how she lived for even the smallest glimpse of him.

  The memory of his kiss seared her.

  Which is how she found herself poking at her eggs over breakfast one morning a week later, wondering how long hearts took to heal. Hers felt just as jagged and raw as it had after confronting him at Stratton Hall.

  At this rate, she would begin to feel better in perhaps a year’s time.

  “You need to eat more,” Anne murmured from behind her teacup.

  Belle suppressed a sigh. “We should both be grateful that I lose my appetite when I am upset, not the opposite. This year’s fashions will continue to fit me.”

  “Perhaps. But I think you will want a more solid breakfast in your stomach this morning.”

  “Anne, this morning will end like every other morning this week. I do not see—”

  A loud knock interrupted whatever scolding Anne was to have received. A moment later, the butler shuffled into the breakfast room. He presented her with a letter on a silver tray.

  Belle politely took the proffered letter and nodded in thanks. And then properly looked at the folded paper.

  Every thought scattered from her brain.

  There, in that bold, beloved handwriting she knew so well:

  To LHF

  The trembling started with her fingers, but quickly traveled up her arm and settled firmly within her thumping heart. She opened the note.

  My dear friend,

  Answer this riddle: When I blow up, I become more whole. What am I?

  Please meet me in one hour in Hyde Park in the open meadow just north of the Queen’s Temple.

  I await your answer there.

  Still your friend,

  Blake

  Belle stared at the letter for a solid two minutes, words jumping out at her.

  . . . my dear friend . . .

  . . . become more whole . . .

  . . . await your answer . . .

  Was this it then? Would Blake finally break with her entirely?

  But . . . he had included a riddle. The entire tone of the missive was playful. What did he mean by the riddle?

  Her mind might have urged caution, but her rapid pulse said otherwise.

  Belle finally shifted her gaze to Anne. “It appears I shall be going for a walk this morning.”

  Belle donned a pelisse, bonnet, and walking boots in record time. She did not wait for the coachman to hitch horses to her barouche or for a groom to saddle her mare. She barely waited for Anne to strap a bonnet on her own head.

  As they hurried down Upper Grosvenor Street, Belle mentally sorted through Blake’s motivations. Why reach out to her now? He wouldn’t request her company merely to publicly humiliate her.

  . . . still your friend . . .

  And what was the answer to the riddle? What was blown up yet became more whole?

  Once she and Anne reached the park gates and walked into the trees, Belle still hadn’t arrived at any conclusions. Surely if Blake intended to simply inform her of their business split, he could have asked her to meet at Mr. Sloan’s offices.

  By the time they reached the Serpentine, Belle was regretting not eating breakfast as Anne had urged. Her stomach twisted and churned. What did he want with her?

  Curse his riddle, too.

  She couldn’t think clearly enough to come up with the answer.

  Once they reached the Long Water and crossed over to the path leading to the Queen’s Temple, Belle had decided she was grateful for her missing breakfast after all. She surely would cast up her accounts from nerves alone.

  Morning dew clung to the grass, dampening her boots and the bottom six inches of her pelisse. The park was sparsely populated. Thank goodness. No witnesses to her hurried, nearly panicked, walk.

  She and Anne topped the final rise, an expansive meadow before them.

  Belle stopped, eyes flaring wide.

  She wasn’t sure what she had expected. But this . . .

  This was not it.

  “Good heavens!” Anne exclaimed at her elbow. “What a sight!”

  A flurry of activity hummed through the meadow. Men holding ropes, others calling instructions. Spectators gathering.

  Belle clapped a hand over her mouth, blinking through her tears.

  In the middle of it all, a giant balloon rose. Blue silk edged with gilt designs. A small basket sat underneath.

  Surely he hadn’t . . .

  Of all the extravagant gestures . . .

  But it appeared he had.

  When I blow up, I become more whole. What am I?

  Hah! A balloon.

  It didn’t necessarily mean anything, she firmly told her pounding, silly, hopeful heart. He probably merely remembered how much she had enjoyed the balloon exhibition all those weeks before. That was all.

  Or he thought himself clever with his riddle—very well, it was quite clever, she owned—and had to have a balloon to match it.

  Swallowing, Belle crossed the last few yards. Down the hill, into the meadow, weaving her way through the men tying off thick cords of rope.

  Until everyone parted and she saw him. Hatless and coatless, talking earnestly with another man. Dark green waistcoat pulled smartly down, chestnut hair catching glints of the morning sun. Shoulders broad and inviting.

  Oh my.

  And then he turned around.

  That first moment when their gazes tangled. How his eyes lit fr
om within. His warm, welcoming gaze.

  He instantly strode toward her, everything and everyone fading away to just him and her and this and now.

  Her stupid, optimistic heart gave another painful lurch. Surely this could only mean good things.

  More than just “good friend” things.

  “You came,” was all he said, stopping in front of her, grasping both her hands in his.

  “Of course. How could I not? I had to make sure that your balloon was blown up properly.”

  He smiled then. A slow grin that gradually expanded to overtake his face. Joy in his eyes.

  Belle was sure her own echoed his.

  And she knew.

  She knew . . .

  Something had changed within him.

  “Come.” He offered her his arm. “As you can see, I have a task for you.”

  With a smile far too large, Belle nestled her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow, allowing him to lead her under the large balloon. It was a wonder to view it close up.

  Belle peered into the wicker basket and then looked around at the gathered men.

  “Who will be ascending this morning?” she asked.

  Blake returned a slow spreading smile.

  “No!” Belle’s eyes flared wide. “Heavens, how shall we ever return to earth?” She remembered the balloon from April, how it had sailed away until it was nothing more than a speck on the horizon.

  “Not to worry.” Blake leaned closer to her. “See the gentlemen there and there. They will tie off the ropes once we climb over the rooftops. At my signal, they will pull us back down. So it is all quite safe.”

  “We won’t drift away?”

  He paused, staring down at her, eyes so very soft. “No, my dearest friend, we won’t drift off. Not now. Not ever.”

  Only his firm grip prevented Belle from melting on the spot.

  Fifteen minutes later, Belle found herself standing in a wicker basket, an enormous balloon over her head pulling them into the sky.

  Just her and Blake. Alone. Drifting toward the clouds.