The next morning, March rushed into the yellow salon to find a welcome sight. Hart sat in the gold settee surrounded by Faith, Julia, and Bennett.
As soon as he saw her, he stood. Not standing on ceremony, she rushed into his arms. “How we’ve missed you!”
He held her at arms length for a quick perusal and smiled. “I’d say London agrees with you. You’re the proper young woman I always knew existed under that attractive veneer of a sheep farmer.”
“Scratch the surface, and you’ll see she still exists,” March retorted. He always teased her about her abilities on managing the estate and the ever-increasing flock. Her merriment diminished when she stood close to him and noticed the thin lines etched around his eyes and the dark circles under them. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Later, my miss, when we’re alone.” He softly spoke the words for her ears only.
Bennett demanded his attention as he shared his adventures with the Duke of Langham and the museums that he’d attended since he was in town. Hart listened intently, but he looked tired, as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.
Faith shared her remarkable progress with Dr. Kennett and his daily calls. A pretty flush colored her cheeks as she compared how much they had in common. Hart smiled in sincere pleasure when she swept the length of the room, her limp barely noticeable this morning.
Julia was a little more subdued than usual, but she told Hart all about the handsome Earl of Queensgrace. She left out the posy tale, which was a blessing, but she surprised them all when she shared she wanted to introduce the young earl to Hart.
“I think he’s a good man, but I’d like your opinion.” She smiled at Hart, and his face softened at her request. “You’ve always been such a wonderful judge of character.”
“Jules”—Hart thinned his lips, a sign he fought for control—“that’s lovely. Of course, I want to meet this nonpareil of a man and make certain he’s worthy of your affections.” He leaned forward to ruffle Bennett’s hair. Her brother tried to swat his hand away, but Hart’s reach was too long. Soon he had Bennett giggling at their play.
March’s heart swooped and buzzed like a swallow at the familiar sight. The busy London Season lent little time for reflection, but with Hart’s visit, she discovered she missed their home, missed these exchanges, and missed the contentment she felt at Lawson Court. Even though the family faced incredible circumstances in Leyton, she missed Hart. He was part of their family, and she hated they all couldn’t be together.
Always astute, Faith caught March’s gaze and nodded. She urged Julia and Bennett to say their good-byes to Hart. She used the excuse they were late for an excursion to the circulating library.
Hart escorted them to the door. When they left, he closed it and came back to March’s side. Worry lined his face and creased his brow. She’d poured tea for them and let the heat of the cup warm her hands.
“Tell me what’s happened,” she said.
Hart sat next to her. As she waited for him to speak, disquiet vibrated between them like the strings of a pianoforte when someone unexpectedly struck a single key.
“It’s Lord Erlington. He’s sent for me.” He took a deep breath and exhaled, his pain evident. “March, he’s dying.”
“Oh, no.” She pressed her hand over her mouth to subdue the overwhelming stab of grief. “I’m so sorry.”
Hart reached with one large hand and grasped hers tightly. Erlington and Hart had been lovers for over thirty years.
When she’d first discovered the truth of their regard for each other, she’d been shocked. She would never have conceived two men could fall in love with each other. Nevertheless, just as her had parents had shared an undying love, so did Hart and Erlington. Somehow, they’d managed to build a life together. Though society ridiculed and punished such relationships, theirs was a thing of beauty, strong and pure.
She’d been in awe whenever she’d seen them together. Once a year, Erlington would come to Lawson Court for a visit. In return, Hart traveled to Erlington’s estate in Suffolk at least three times a year to “consult on his Lordship’s agricultural experiments.” Hart always came back from the visits renewed with a new vigor that was born from the intimacy the two men shared.
“What can I do?” Whatever he needed became her only concern. She’d help him through this grief as he’d done for her when she’d lost her parents. “Shall you and I go visit?”
“No. There’s nothing to be done, my miss. The family needs you here. I’m leaving for Suffolk this morning. I’ll stay with his Lordship until he passes. Mr. Garwyn will manage the farm with the help of a few others and Mrs. Oliver.” Hart rubbed his face with a hand as if he could wipe his grief away, but the strain was still visible. His knee bobbed up and down, and he fidgeted with the teacup handle. “I hate to be so far away from you.”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry for us. London is child’s play compared with the estate.”
He nodded, and the gesture broke her heart. Lost and alone in his thoughts, he hung his head in defeat. Her eyes burned for the loss he was facing, but she refused to allow any tears to fall in front of him. She had to be strong or he’d never have the peace of mind to leave for Suffolk, where he rightfully belonged.
Hart stood and she followed. She found herself in his embrace as he pulled her tight against him as if trying to take some of her strength with him. She tightened her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Write and tell me what you find.”
He nodded once. The letters would be cryptic as he never divulged Erlington’s name in correspondence. Hart would protect his love until the very end. How unfair they couldn’t celebrate their lives together in the open.
“One more thing,” he whispered. “Lawson came by the other day. I found him in Bennett’s study. Nothing was missing, but I’m not certain what he was doing. Mrs. Oliver hadn’t even heard him come into the house.”
“What could he have been looking for?” If he was looking for money, the man was a fool. There was no way she’d keep funds at the house without any of them there.
Hart shook his head. “I wish I knew. Be careful, March. I don’t trust him.”
“Don’t worry. We’re safe here in London.”
“Yes, you are. Lord McCalpin’s a good man and takes his responsibility for you and your siblings seriously. It’s the only reason I can leave.” He kissed her cheek once more. “Good-bye. I don’t know when I’ll return.”
She took a deep breath, hoping the air would help still the reeling emotions inside of her. Everything had changed with the uncertainty of his return, revealing how vulnerable they all were in this world.
“Tell his Lordship … I love you both,” she managed to choke out as the sorrow threatened to steal her breath.
With his anguish overcoming him, Hart gave her a final hug, then left without a word. The deep unsettling silence of the room felt like a weight holding in her place. How long she stood there alone, she didn’t know. Finally, she found herself curled into a tight ball hidden in a curtained window seat.
Maids came to dust and clean the room. Under-footmen prepared the fireplaces for the afternoon. If anyone saw her, they didn’t acknowledge her, nor she them. She was too transfixed with the heavy drops of rain that skated down the window. She stared off into the grayness of the day, hoping she’d be lost to the pain.
Her dearest friend was facing the ultimate heartache, and she couldn’t share his burden.
Because of that simple fact, London lost its allure and became nothing more than a tarnished and empty wasteland where she didn’t belong.
Yet she didn’t have any other place to call home.
Lawson Court promised to be just as barren without Hart or her siblings by her side.
Not to mention without the attentions of a certain marquess.
* * *
With the note from his brother still fresh in his mind, McCalpin entered Langham Hall. William had informed him of Victor Hart’s brief visit and the sudden malaise of the eldest Lawson sister.
As McCalpin handed his black greatcoat and beaver hat to a footman, the steadfast and ubiquitous Pitts waited for him on the other side of the large entry. In several steps, he stood before the loyal butler who volunteered the information without asking.
“Miss Lawson is in the yellow salon.” With a gentle smile, he continued, “She’s been in the window seat all morning.”
McCalpin nodded his thanks and proceeded down the carpeted hallway. His boots sunk into the plush pile as if he were battling against a particularly nasty bog on the Scottish moors. His exploding heart urged him to move faster and reach her.
What had caused Mr. Victor Hart to call upon her, and what had he said to leave her bereft and troubled? If that damn arse Rupert Lawson had anything to do with March’s current mood, he’d bloody every inch of his face.
He swung the door open, and silence was all that greeted his entrance. No expected cries of surprise or even sobs of sadness came from the room. Even the normally robust fire had quieted as if it didn’t dare intrude on March’s private domain while she was in this mood.
There were five window seats on the north wall of the salon. The rain had ceased falling, but the haunting gray of the skies leaked through the windows and cast a grim darkness on the warm gold colors of the furniture. He swept his gaze about the room and found her in the second window seat closest to the corner that bordered the west and north walls.
She slowly slid her feet past the curtain until completely hidden. He let out a sigh of relief at finding her and silently approached her hidden haven.
Four feet separated them, and his body hummed with awareness. This near, her presence behind the curtain seemed to shimmer with an aura he wanted to touch and lose himself in.
He had no idea what she was doing to him, and he was powerless to fight it. Somehow she’d become entwined in his life to such an extent that when he woke in the morning, his first thoughts were of her, not his family or his estate or his responsibilities.
Just her, March Lawson.
“What are you doing there?” He kept his tone low and quiet so not to startle her.
“I’m hiding,” she replied. Though muffled by the curtain, the clear, silvery words calmed his frantic worry. “But I failed miserably if you found me so easily. It’s hard to tuck such a large body into such a small recess.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” he asked, careful of where the conversation could lead. She was sorely conscious of her size, and not in a good way. He waited for her response, but she remained quiet as if ignoring him.
Moving slowly, he sat in the middle of the bench and leaned against the window. Without glancing at her, he surveyed the salon from his vantage point. Keenly aware how near she sat, he simply waited. The tips of her slippers peeked out from under her dress. Embroidered with delicate vines of ivory thread, the dark blue silk begged for his caress. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he rested his hand near her feet. Not touching, but close enough that her heat encouraged him closer. He purposely kept the small distance between them. A saint would be in awe of his mammoth restraint not to take her in his arms. However, he’d not push her until he knew what troubled her.
“Well, since you won’t tell me, I’ll answer my own question.”
The material of her dress rustled as she adjusted her position. When she tried to withdraw farther into the recess of the window seat, the sole of one shoe pushed against his thigh. Her touch burned through the leather of his doeskin breeches.
“When I look at you, I see an important, beautiful, resourceful, and not to mention capable, woman who takes care of the people she loves.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“What’s upset you?”
She swallowed and took a troubled breath. “Hart left us. His lo—friend is dying, and Hart’s gone to be with him. His friend is a lovely man who always has a kind word or thought for everyone. I offered to travel with Hart, but he refused. He wants me to stay here with you.”
“Those are good reasons to be in deep thought.” McCalpin turned, expecting to find tears staining her pink cheeks, but March hid her emotions well. Except that her warm, velvet-brown eyes shimmered with pain for her friend’s suffering and hers.
She gently waved a hand through the air indicating her surroundings. “I’m surrounded by people and family in this huge mansion, but I felt so alone after he left. He’s always been present in our lives.”
“Perhaps one of those people who surround you might take Hart’s place?” he asked. The questioning look on her face was so endearing, he smiled. “Would you ever consider me as a replacement for Hart?”
She scoffed. “He’s like an uncle, and I don’t consider you an uncle.”
Her answer caused his pulse to quicken. Just another nudge, and she might admit her true feelings. “Just exactly how do you consider me, March?”
She moved toward him as if involuntarily drawn by the sound of her name on his lips. “The guardian of my siblings.”
The words gutted him as no knife could. He drew in a jagged breath, but refused to turn away. The decision proved sound when her shoulders sank in defeat, and she shook her head. Her silky mahogany curls tumbled around her face. “That isn’t true. You’re my friend, a very dear one.”
The vise that had twisted every organ in his chest gradually released its hold. He reached for one of her coffee-colored curls and twisted it around his finger. Her hair was softer than the velvet she’d worn on her luscious body the other night.
“Spend the day with me,” he gently commanded. “Your sisters are out with my mother making the obligatory visits, and your brother is busy with his studies. Together let’s shove aside your worries for the afternoon.”
She chewed the corner of her bottom lip. Full and lush, her mouth demanded attention, and he groaned at the sight. He leaned close, and her scent drew him nearer as if embracing him. He brushed his lips against hers then pulled back. Dazed, she stared into his eyes. Her look made him feel ten feet tall and just as powerful.
“I’d like that very much,” she muttered shyly. “But will it be appropriate? You and me together? What if someone from The Midnight Cryer sees us?”
“No one will question it. Besides, I don’t care about the scandal sheets.” Even if society might frown, he wanted this time with her alone. They’d be discreet and no one would be the wiser. He stood and held out his hand to her. She hesitated a moment as if unsure what the gesture meant. As far as he was concerned, it could mean whatever she wanted.
For him, the touch of her hand in his meant the world.
* * *
After March had changed her slippers for her sturdy half boots and a warm wool pelisse, Michael had escorted her outside for a tour of Langham Park. He’d explained the design of the formal gardens was the forethought of the second Duchess of Langham. Their destination was a grove of trees of various species deep within the park’s center.
Every ducal offspring for generations had planted trees on their tenth birthday. Michael had chosen a mighty oak, William had planted a sturdy elm, and Emma’s choice was a flashy maple. The trio of trees reigned majestically above them. The slight fog that had developed didn’t hide the magnificence of the trees and the lasting impact they had on the park.
The siblings’ trees on the grounds were a testament to the strength of the family and their heritage. It reminded March of her own history and the ties she had. As if Michael sensed the visit to the park would bring her comfort, he continued to share his family’s history and encouraged her to do the same.
After the walk, he took her to his townhouse where they had a lovely tea. The respite lifted her spirits, and he charmed her throughout the meal with tales of his childhood and shared the trials and tribulations of being the Langham ducal heir. They discussed Bennett’s future education and the possible matches her sisters’ might make this year during the official Season. However, since Parliament had been in session since November, many important social events had already taken place.
After they left Michael’s home, they had taken his carriage to her family’s townhouse. After he’d shared so much of his life, she wanted to do the same with him. She drank in the comfort of his rich voice and his nearness as they discussed everything and nothing during the day. Slowly, her melancholy disappeared, and she found herself laughing and smiling as she led him through the front door.
Once inside, they headed to her father’s library. It was her favorite room in the townhouse as they’d spent many a night there as a family. Michael made quick work of lighting a fire, and soon the room was ablaze in comforting warmth.
“Where did your father get this?” He stood beside the desk where an ornate gold inkstand rested. Engraved with the Royal Arms of Great Britain in the center, each side of the base featured the royal arms of four Continental European powers—Austria, Prussia, Russia, and Denmark.
March smiled at the memory of her father’s pride as she discussed the piece. “My father was instrumental in creating an alliance with those countries against France. He was present at the signing of the treaties and given the inkstand in appreciation for all his hard work.”
Michael’s fingers stroked the intricate scrollwork. The gesture caused a tingling to erupt in her stomach, and goose bumps raced across her arms. She fought the overwhelming urge to close the distance between them. She wanted his strong fingers caressing her in the same manner. He strolled to a drum table next to a settee and picked up several etchings. They were from her father’s travels to Italy during his grand tour. His gaze captured hers, and her heart flipped as if trained to respond to his every glance.
Suddenly, his face beamed. “How did your father get all these portraits of me?”
The rumble of his deep voice and his teasing tone made her gasp in delightful outrage at such an audacious question. Offering such a handsome smile, she was powerless to resist him and moved to stand beside him. “What portraits?”
“Look for yourself,” he offered. In his large hands were three different etchings of David by Donatello, Verrocchio, and Michelangelo. Michael studied her with that fiery heat in his gaze that always caused her cheeks to flame. “Didn’t you call me David once?” he whispered. “Tell me again which one you think I favor?”
“Did I compare you to David? I’d forgotten,” she countered.
“Well, I didn’t,” he smirked. His grin gave her a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a young boy. His expression transformed him from a powerful lord to a playful imp, one who waited to torment her with his pranks.
“Donatello’s sculpture is a youth full of himself.” As she took the etchings from Michael, their fingers touched, and she immediately felt a shock of electricity. She snatched her hand away from the contact of his warm skin against hers. “As he should be, since he slayed the giant.”
“I see that,” he murmured. “But there’s more, don’t you agree?” He traced the length of David’s leg where the decorative wing on Goliath’s helmet wrapped around the youth until it touched his genitals. “In his conquest, David appears almost provocative in a sexual sense.”
His cadence had slowed, and his voice had grown deeper. She straightened her shoulders and regarded Michael as proof to him, but more importantly to herself, that she would control this conversation. His lips spread into a wider smile as if he recognized his effect on her.
March wrinkled her nose in a weak protest. “Andrea del Verrocchio’s sculpture makes David appear cocky, sure of himself and his abilities after he slayed his foe. Goliath’s head at his feet is proof of his prowess.” She hummed low in her throat. “Definitely, you resemble him. The pride and arrogance are unmistakable.” She gazed at the last etching, the one by Michelangelo, and her fingers traced the image of the strong line of his body. Immediately, she imagined caressing Michael in the same manner.
As if he could read her traitorous thoughts, his eyes blazed. She was intensely aware of the undeniable force building between them. She couldn’t tell what magic he weaved around them, but she didn’t want it to stop. Deep inside, she never wanted to leave the townhouse since she had his undivided attention—no one to intrude or interrupt what they shared.
“Michelangelo’s David is a beautiful young warrior who knows what he’s facing. Stoic and prepared for a battle to the death against Goliath, he is sure of his path. This David will not stop until he wins.” Her words trailed to nothing. She took a moment, then tilted her head as if examining him as carefully as she studied the etchings in her hand. “David holds a place of honor in the art of Florence. So many renderings of the youth to choose from, but there is no doubt in my mind now. You remind me of the brazen and overconfident David by Verrocchio.”
He arched an eyebrow and regarded her with disbelief. Then he tapped a finger against his square jaw as if deeply contemplating her answer.
She wanted to be that finger. Instead of tapping, she’d stroke his skin and memorize every line of his face. He’d be strong like Michelangelo’s sculpture, but hot and alive instead of the cool white marble the master had carved from the quarries of Carrara.
“I remember now,” Michael whispered. His fingers traced her cheeks, and his touch caused her to catch her breath at the intimate touch. “You told me it was Michelangelo’s David.” His hand fell to her chin, and he held her captive with the intensity of his gaze. “Are you going to deny it?”
Riveted and charmed at the same time, she stared at him. What was he doing to her? As if falling through the air, she knew the inevitable outcome. She’d either crash to the hard ground or soar to the bright heavens. She had to decide if he was a risk worth taking.
She forced herself out of the haze he’d created around her. He wanted to lessen her struggle with life. That was the reason he showered her with attention. “Come. There’s something else I’d like to show you.”